“The box?”
“Yes, boy, the box.”
Roark did as he was told. Between the bright lights and the pedestal he stood on, he felt uncomfortably exposed. He caught sight of his reflection in the long mirror across from him. Though his friends used to tease him for his vanity, Roark spent very little time in front of mirrors these days. He looked older. The last shreds of youth had left his cheeks. Stubble crawled across his sharp jaw. His eyes were quiet, steady. He looked like a soldier.
“Take off your sweater,” Quinton ordered breezily, sweeping over to him with a tape measure in hand. Roark yanked his knit sweater over his head and tossed it aside. Beneath it, he wore a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The tailor set about measuring him at once. He took down the length and width of his torso, the length of his arms, the circumference of his biceps. He eyed the white discoid scars on the boy’s forearms, but did not ask. Roark was certain he had seen worse.
“How long have you been with her?” the craftsman asked as he crouched to measure the distance from his hip to his knee.
“Uh,” Roark stumbled, careful not to look down at Quinton as he blushed. “Not long. We only met a few months ago, but it feels like longer.”
Quinton bobbed his head in understanding. “Love and war warp time,” he said as he wrapped the measuring tape around Roark’s thigh. “I bet the two of you have been through more in a few months than most couples go through in a lifetime.”
Roark chuckled despite himself. “I actually said the same thing, once.”
Quinton straightened up with a dour smile. He tossed the tape over his shoulder, then strode over to what appeared to be a stack of breastplates. They all looked relatively similar, the only significant variance being their size. His fingers fluttered over the pile for a moment; then he shoved the top three aside to access a dark plate not unlike the one he had given Ronja.
He approached Roark again, grasping it with both hands. “Hold out your arms.”
The Anthemite did as he was instructed, and the craftsman began strapping it to his chest. It was lighter than he had expected it to be. Anthemites rarely wore armor. Then again, they had never engaged in absolute warfare before.
“Your girlfriend doesn’t talk much,” Quinton commented as he tightened one of the straps.
“She does with the people she trusts.”
“Fair enough,” Quinton said with another bob of his head. He stepped back to examine the fit. Roark watched him in turn, curious. “That should do it,” he finally said. “You’re easy to fit.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Those boots should be fine,” he went on, gesturing at the lace ups the Kev Fairla had given him. “Hold on, I need to do some digging.”
Roark waited like an awkward statue as Quinton pawed through a haphazard hoard of arm guards, tossing them aside without care. “Do you make all of this stuff?” he asked as the man chucked aside what looked like a kneepad.
“Yes,” Quinton called over his shoulder. “You’re wondering why I treat it so roughly. My philosophy is if it can’t survive me, it shouldn’t be on the battlefield.”
“Makes sense,” Roark said.
“Here we are.” Quinton snatched something out of the pile with a clatter of metal and leather. He got to his feet and faced Roark. “Try these on,” he ordered, lobbing a pair of matching armguards at him.
By some miracle, he managed to catch them to his chest. While Quinton rummaged around for another piece of armor, Roark slipped the tough leather guards over the scars that dappled his forearms. Like the chest plate, they fit him perfectly.
“Can I give you some advice?” Quinton asked, his hunched back still to the Anthemite.
Roark shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
Quinton turned, a pair of tough knee pads in hand. “You’ll lose parts of yourself in war,” he said, tossing the armor at him. Roark caught both without looking, his eyes fixed to the older man. “But whatever you do, do not lose her.”
“I would rather lose my head.”
“Good,” Quinton said. “You’ll have something to hold onto.”
46: Bargaining
Evie
Evie had always like the dark. It was comfortable, safe. But it had been hours since she had seen a lick of light, and it was starting to get to her.
Only minutes after Terra was whisked away by Maxwell, a pair of Offs had come to collect her and Mouse. Neither of them put up a fight as they were carted back to their individual cells. They did not even try to say goodbye. Mouse was likely silent due to fear; Evie, pure exhaustion. The lights were already off when they shoved her back into her room and locked the door. She was not exactly sure what they were trying to accomplish by keeping her in the dark— clearly they had better methods of torture than solar deprivation.
Evie knew she should be planning an escape. She knew she should be doing something, anything. But every time she tried, she found herself curled into a ball on the cold floor, images of Iris seared to the backs of her lids. Even sleep eluded her.
That was why, when the lock on her cell door clanged, it was almost a relief. Almost. The door screeched open. Evie gasped as scalding light poured over her like hot oil. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking them with her forearm. Two sets of heavy footsteps approached. Then gloved hands wrapped around her arms, yanking her up. She let them lead her from the cell. There was nothing else to do.
Stumbling, shivering, she was dragged through the halls of the prison. The Offs—two young men not much older than she was—did not speak, nor did they slow down when she tripped. Eventually, they came to a stop and released her arms. She was only free for a split second before a hand grabbed her by the back of her neck and shoved her forward. Evie fell with a cry, landing on her hands and knees.
She struggled to her feet, still blind, as a door slammed shut behind her.
“Ms. Wick,” a familiar voice greeted her.
“Maxwell,” Evie growled. Grasping at the last threads of her strength, she forced her eyes open. Her pupils contracted painfully. She blinked and the room came into focus. Faint surprise pricked her. She was not in a torture chamber or prison, but an office. A modest desk sat against the far wall; a fire crackled merrily in the corner; and two chairs sat at the center of the room. One was short and made of metal, the other an overstuffed armchair upholstered in velvet.
That, of course, was where Maxwell sat. He had cleaned up since she last saw him, his black hair trimmed and patchy beard shaven. He wore a navy suit and shined leather boots. Not exactly the costume of a maniacal tyrant. “Please,” he said, gesturing at the hard chair as if it were a throne. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Evie stared at him, trembling visibly. She scraped the bottom of the barrel, hunting for a shred of adrenaline. She had him alone. He was not a fighter. She had killed men with her hands before, she could do it again. She could end it now. “I see,” Maxwell murmured, his eyes roving over her as if she were an abstract painting he was trying to work out. “You want to kill me.”
“What did you expect?” Evie spat.
The Conductor laughed a bit too hard, cracking his composed persona. “Yes, yes, I suppose that makes sense. I did torture your lover.”
Something like a growl ripped from her chest and her vision was shrouded in a rosy veil.
Maxwell clucked his tongue admonishingly. “My father was terribly prejudiced toward your kind. Ridiculous if you ask me. I have no problem with homosexuality.”
“No, you have a problem with love in general.”
“Love is weakness, Ms. Wick. Attachments only weigh you down.” He spread his arms wide, his spindly fingers uncommonly pale in the firelight. “I have freed myself from all attachments, and look where it has gotten me.”
“To a mediocre office in a leaky basement?” It might have been a trick of the light, but Evie thought she saw his eyes flash. “What do you want, Maxwell?”
“I want to
make a deal with you,” he said, leaning back in his armchair and crossing one leg over the other.
“A deal,” she repeated blankly.
“Yes, a deal.” Maxwell grinned broadly, revealing too many of his marble white teeth. The techi fought a shudder. “You see, there has been a slight hiccup in my plan. Your friend Terra has been rather naughty.”
Evie gave a tight smile. “Shocking.”
“I believed she was intelligent enough to take the deal I offered her, but it appears she has fled.”
Somehow, the techi managed to keep her neutral expression. Her thoughts rioted, her heartrate ratcheted up. Terra had done it. “Fled?”
“It appears so,” Maxwell answered solemnly. “She was more than happy to abandon you and your friends in order to save her own skin.”
“Typical,” Evie muttered. Her pulse was so loud in her ears, she wondered if he could hear it. Maybe his altered Singer gave him enhanced hearing. These days, anything was possible. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to tell me where Ms. Vahl might have gone,” Maxwell said, spreading his hands peaceably. “If you do, I can make your life and the lives of Mr. Constantine and Ms. Harte far more comfortable.”
Evie cocked her head the side. “What about Roark and Ronja?”
“Of course, of course,” Maxwell corrected himself hurriedly. “The Siren and Mr. Westervelt would also be provided with greater comforts.”
Evie weighed his words, scrutinizing his face. It was too strange to be handsome and too handsome to be ugly. There was something off about the way he was talking, even more than usual. It was not the words themselves, but the intonation. “What do you mean comfortable?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning back in her seat. “Do you mean The New Music?”
“Of course not,” Maxwell said smoothly. “I cannot let you go, of course, not after Terra walked out the door.”
“You mean after you let her walk out the door.”
Irritation flashed like oncoming headlights in his blue eyes. “Careful, Ms. Wick,” he warned her quietly. “I can retract this deal at any time.”
“I can tell you where she might be,” Evie said. “But like you said, she left us behind. Not like she told us where she was going.”
“Naturally.”
“She would have wanted to get out of the city as fast as possible,” Evie went on, her brain working in time with her mouth. “But she had no supplies, no weapons. She would have needed those.”
Maxwell inclined his head, watching her intently.
“There is a safe house,” Evie said. “A cottage outside the city, halfway between the wall and Red Bay. I can draw you a map. If she was trying to escape, she would have stopped there first.”
“A cottage,” Maxwell tested the theory on his tongue.
Evie nodded in confirmation. “That’s where I would have gone.” It was not a lie. If she were trying to flee Revinia, alone and unarmed, she would make a stop at the little cabin. There was a cache of weapons under the floorboards, dried goods in the cabinets, even a hatch where one could hide from invaders.
“I will send a team of agents to this cottage,” Maxwell said. “But understand, if do not find Terra, or evidence that she has been there—”
“The deal is off, I get it.”
“No, Ms. Wick,” Maxwell corrected her, his eyes glittering with black mirth. “No. If you are lying to me, the consequences will be far more severe.” He looked down to examine his fingernails. “So you understand how serious I am, know that I am speaking of Ms. Harte’s life.”
Evie sprang to her feet. “You . . . you . . . no,” she sputtered. “Ronja . . . ”
“You have benefitted from the deal I struck with the Siren for far too long, Ms. Wick,” Maxwell snapped. He climbed to his feet swiftly, then reached out to brush a knuckle across her cheekbone. She flinched, but did not move to knock his hand away. “I am a man of my word as long as it suits my interests, but I will not allow my vision to unravel as a result of sentimentality. If need be, I will find other ways to bend the Siren to my will.” Maxwell jerked back from her as if shocked, shaking his head.
Evie watched in horror as he crossed to the door and rapped on it with a solitary knuckle. It opened at once, revealing the two Offs that had dragged her to the office in the first place. They grabbed her by the arms, leading her from the room. The Conductor called as the door closed. “Not to worry. I am quite sure you are an honest girl.”
47: Severed
Terra
Terra stood at the bottom of the basement stairs, her throat tight and her skin prickling. In her slick hands she held a bulky recorder. It had taken her nearly an hour to dig it out of the storage closet and sneak into the humming wire-stitched surveillance room to get what she needed.
“Need some help?”
Terra rounded on the voice, hiding the recorder behind her. Theo was silhouetted at the top of the steps, his arms at his sides and his head cocked askance. “No,” she said shortly. “Thanks.”
“If you’re going to interrogate an Off, it might be useful to have someone who worked with them for years on your team.”
Skitz. She had forgotten that Theo had been a contractor for the Anthem. They had never interacted before—there had been no reason for them to. She only knew about him now because of Mouse, who talked about his boyfriend as much as he talked about their imminent deaths, which was constantly. “Fine,” she said, turning back to the door and flipping the lock. “But no killing the big one.”
“Might I ask why?” Theo inquired as he started down the steps to join her.
“He’s a friend.”
“Friend?”
“He was a friend,” Terra corrected herself. Theo arrived at her shoulder. He was considerably taller than she with a kind face and intense blue eyes. She could see why Mouse liked him. “Why the hell are you here, anyway?” she asked, taking her hand from the doorknob.
“Cicada is a friend of sorts,” he explained with a wince. “Nearly everyone in the underworld knows each other. That’s how I met Mouse.” His eyes misted over. He blinked several times to clear them. “When everything went to hell, I knew Cicada would find some way to weasel out of it. He owed me a favor, and I figured if anyone had any information on Mouse, it would be him.” He shrugged. “Plus, I know the Off’s patterns. I can help him fly under the radar.”
“Of course. He would never do anything that didn’t benefit him.”
Theo offered a thin smile. “Indeed.”
“Right,” she said, snapping back into focus. “The big one is Henry, he lives. The other one is Thomas. What happens, happens with him.”
The boy pushed a low whistle through his teeth. “Damn, you’re cold.”
“Hope so.”
Not keen to waste another second, Terra twisted the knob and kicked the door open. It banged against the wall, revealing the cellar. Cold and damp with stone walls and leaking pipes, it was the perfect setup for an interrogation. Henry sat in the middle of the room lashed to one of the dining table chairs. He raised his head as she and Theo entered, his expression blank. She glanced over at Thomas, who was slumped in a chair of his own nearby. He appeared to be unconscious, the ropes around his middle the only things holding him up.
“Glad you’re awake,” Terra said, turning her attention back to Henry. “My father has his stingers made special. They have a bit of a kick.”
“Vahl,” Henry spoke up in his monotone. “Torture is futile. You know we do not feel pain.” The Anthemite did not reply, pacing toward him with the recorder tucked behind her back. She heard Theo close and lock the door, his eyes burning curious holes in the back of her head. “Sooner or later, they’ll find you, and you’ll pay. Maxwell may want you alive, but he knows how to make you wish you were dead.”
Terra scraped to a halt a safe distance from him. His dark skin glistened in the light of the naked bulb dangling above. His mind might have been void
, but his body certainly registered the potential danger. “Who said anything about torturing you?” She held the recorder out for him to see. “Not long ago, Ronja recorded herself singing into one of these. She used it as a diversion to escape the Belly. Those recordings are long gone, of course, but it gave me an idea.”
She tossed the black box into the air and caught it in the same hand, not taking her eyes off her prisoner. “Cicada was always obsessed with monitoring The Music and recording its anomalies. He has been tapped into the signal for as long as I can remember.” Her lips curled into a sly smile. “So I figured he must have caught the Siren’s broadcast at the clock tower.” The blood drained from Henry’s face, his pupils shrinking to needlepoints. Terra was not sure if it was genuine fear bleeding through The New Music or pure instinct.
Either way, she had his attention.
It had not been difficult to locate the exact moment the Siren had tapped into the radio station among Cicada’s recordings. All she had to do was sort through the hanging files in the surveillance room. When she spotted the overstuffed folder marked with a red tab, she knew she had her ammunition, her antidote.
Now she stood before Henry, the loaded weapon in the palm of her hand. “If you think you can break me, you’re wrong,” he warned her. “I am loyal to The Conductor—nothing can change that.”
Terra began to prowl toward him like a stalking cat. “Your name is Henry James Romancheck,” she began, pacing around his chair. “You are the son of Peter and Beatrix Romancheck, brother to Charlotte Romancheck. You are nineteen years old, soon to be twenty.” She rocked her head from side to side considerately. “I think.”
The Anthemite paused when she wrapped around to the front of his chair, staring down at Henry. Her knuckles were white around the silent recorder.
“I know all this,” he said. “You are wasting your time. Whatever this is, it will not work.”
Siren Page 22
