Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  No one said a word, though several pairs of eyes flicked to the Anthemites. “You have been chosen for a mission of the highest priority,” Easton went on. “You were chosen for your courage, skill, and heart. I will not lie to you. This mission is dangerous, and different from anything we have faced before. The fate of our island—and perhaps our world—hinges on its success.”

  Easton gestured at Ronja, who stiffened. “Our top priority is protecting Ronja.”

  The Siren clung to her composure as every eye turned to her and did not waver. There was confusion there, apprehension, curiosity. Thankfully, she did not see much animosity, except from Larkin. She locked eyes with Jonah, who stood near the front with his arms at his sides. He gave her a subtle nod, which she returned.

  “We are going to the walled city of Revinia,” Easton said, reclaiming their focus. “There, a madman who calls himself The Conductor has brainwashed his people into fighting for his unjust cause. Men, women, and children. He intends to claim our minds as well and bring the rest of the world to its knees.”

  Silence. Ronja scanned the expressions of the Kev Fairlans, hunting for a shred of disbelief. She saw none, only trust and determination. They put their faith in Easton, and she knew it was not blind. It was earned. That, she supposed, was what it meant to be a leader. “This man, The Conductor, harbors a weapon no one should possess. A synthetic form of music that can bend minds to its will. He has armed thousands of soldiers and placed the whole of his people under the control of this technology. He intends to send legions of his army to our shores and others. I have seen what these soldiers can do,” Easton hesitated, drawing in a steadying breath. “Last night, one of them found his way into our temple and desecrated the Contrav.”

  Horrified whispers struck up like snares. Ronja winced internally, wondering if they would still be willing to help if they knew who really broke the bowl.

  “They do not feel pain, they do not listen to reason under the influence of the weapon. You will need to use deadly force if you encounter them.”

  Ronja felt her mouth go dry; the knives strapped to her back were suddenly impossibly heavy. So many innocents were caught in the grasp of The New Music. If they died, they would die without ever experiencing freedom.

  Easton held up a single zetha between his thumb and forefinger. “Paxton has modified our zethas after dissecting a device found on the Revinian insurgent. The zethas will now block the unique signal of the weapon instead of high decibels. You must wear them at all times. If you are exposed to this weapon, your mind will fall. The weapon’s signal emanates from multiple broadcasting hubs within the walled city. Thanks to King Alezandri, we now know the location of each hub.”

  “There are six of them in total. Each of your teams has been assigned one of the hubs. Your task is to destroy that hub on my command and get out as fast as possible. We will fly over the city and drop in. Paxton, Jonah, Larkin, and I will be with the Anthemites on a dual mission. Ronja holds within her an antidote to the weapon born of her bloodline, one that can break the hold the Conductor has on his people. If she cannot prepare the Revinians with this antidote before the hubs are destroyed, the majority of them will perish. Our team will get Ronja where she needs to be, then we can all blow the targets and get out.”

  Ronja fidgeted in the charged silence, staring at her feet.

  “You should know, Ronja is the daughter of Darius Alezandri and heir to the Revinian throne.”

  She snapped her head up, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open dumbly. Easton was pointing at her with a callused finger, his attention still on his soldiers. “For years, King Alezandri has funded our defense against Vinta and aided us in our struggle. We are indebted to both him and his family.”

  Rumblings of surprise and agreement rippled through the sprawling room. Ronja glanced at Roark sidelong. They nodded at each other silently agreeing that it was best the Kev Fairlans knew who she was.

  “Kev Fairlans,” Easton said, raising his voice to a shout. “Will you fight for your country?”

  “Ai!” came the rallying cry.

  “Will you fight to repay the Alezandri line?”

  “Ai!”

  “Will you fight for your freedom?”

  “Ai!”

  “Will you fight for Entalia, the goddess of rebirth?” Easton yelled.

  Ronja found herself looking up at the statue as the resounding ai echoed. Entalia stood with her arms spread wide, her bald head tilted toward the lofty ceiling. Ronja felt her hand twitch at her thigh, longing to reach out and touch the stone. But it felt wrong to disturb her peace.

  Easton raised his fist to his head and his heart. The Kev Fairlans responded in kind, a series of vibrant thumps resounding through the chamber. “Move out!” he ordered.

  The soldiers spun as a unit and began to jog toward the exit. Only Jonah remained behind. He hurried up to the Anthemites, grinning far too broadly for the situation at hand.

  “That went well,” he said slyly.

  “Thank you, Jonah,” Ronja replied, passing him a genuine smile. “You’ve given us a chance.”

  He laid his tattooed hand on his chest, feigning a gasp of shock. “Did you just thank me, princess?”

  Ronja shoved him back roughly. But her spark of humor faded seconds later, when a familiar voice pricked her ear: “Sorry, I got held up looking for the map.”

  The Siren turned around slowly, her spine creaking like clockwork. Darius strode toward them dressed in his freshly-cleaned armor and a worn coat that fell to his ankles. With a jolt, Ronja recognized it as the coat he had worn in the photograph with her mother. Twin pistols were sheathed at his sides, and a bag slung over his shoulder. He smiled at her tentatively as he arrived before them. “I told you, I am not letting you out of my sight.”

  Ronja tried to speak through her constricting throat. She searched his face for a wink of the fear he had looked at her with the previous night, when her Aura had smashed into her like a wrecking ball. She found nothing, only hope and determination. A slow smile spread across her mouth. “Good to see you,” she said.

  “We’re late,” he said, beckoning as he hurried after the disappearing Kev Fairlans. “No time to waste, Siren.”

  Ronja snorted. Still grinning stupidly, she started after him. Footsteps struck up behind her—Roark and the others falling in. She felt the eyes of Entalia watching her all the way across the temple, searing away her paralyzing fear.

  Entalia give me strength, she found herself thinking. Guide me home.

  50: Stitches

  Terra

  “I said hold him steady,” Terra snapped at Theo for the third time in five minutes.

  “I am trying,” he said, his slick red hands clasped around Henry’s lolling head. “You really did a number on him.”

  Terra grunted, her hazel eyes never straying from the needle and thread as she closed the wound she had left in his head. She had never been particularly good at stitching up wounds. Slicing people open was more her forte. If Henry survived, his scar would not be clean.

  She cut her eyes to his face, which was still, save for the sweat beading on his brow. Terra could feel his pulse thudding beneath her fingers, strong and steady. It did little to comfort her. Her entire plan had been a gamble from start to finish. It was entirely possible that the stress had fried his brains, or that the recording was not as powerful as Ronja herself. What if he never wakes up? She shoved the thought away.

  “That should do it,” Terra said, tying off the final sloppy stitch. She set the needle aside, trading it for a pair of kitchen scissors to snip off the end of the thin wire.

  “You did good,” Theo said, craning his neck to view her handiwork.

  “It looks like shit.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  Terra snorted. It felt like years since she had laughed. Theo smiled, perhaps sensing this. They had set Henry up in a chair at the dining room table. Blood, gauze, alcohol, and medical
supplies littered the kitchen. Cicada was going to have a fit.

  “Get me a rag,” Terra ordered. Theo nodded, crossing the kitchen to the set of drawers beneath the countertop. “Second one down,” she called when he did not return immediately. Moments later, Theo appeared at her shoulder, holding out a white cloth. “Thanks,” she said, taking the cloth without looking at him.

  “Sure.” Theo sank back into his chair at the table, watching as she uncorked a half-empty bottle of vodka and poured it onto the cloth. “I forgot how much people bleed after this.”

  Terra began to dab at Henry’s stitched wound. “Have you seen a lot of Singers cut off?”

  “Some,” Theo answered vaguely. He did not elaborate, and she did not push him. Some things were better left unsaid. “So what was that, exactly? That recording you played.”

  “Long story.” She continued to sponge at the puckered stiches, her cloth turning red. “Short version is, her voice can free people from The Music—old and new. I would have just cut off his Singer, but—”

  “That would have killed him.”

  “Right.” Terra felt a blip of affection for Theo. He was no-nonsense, the polar opposite of Mouse. She liked that. “I meant to ask, where the hell is everyone?”

  “You mean—?”

  “Everyone,” she confirmed. Henry twitched as she scraped away a trail of dried blood crusted under his jaw. “The Revinians.”

  “The city is pretty much shut down,” Theo said, crossing his arms and leaning up against the counter. “All the businesses are closed. Only the hospitals and Off stations are functioning. Off patrols come through every hour or so. Not sure what they’re up to, exactly. Not like anyone can disobey The New Music.”

  “What about food?”

  “The Conductor controls the rations now.”

  She rolled her eyes as she scrubbed at a splotch of blood on Henry’s exposed collar bone. “Of course he does.”

  “From what I can tell, people are only allowed to leave their houses for training and to collect their rations. They do it a block at a time.”

  Terra arched a brow at Theo, who grimaced in distaste. “Honestly, it’s creepy as hell. Offs show up with these big assault rifles and wait in the middle of the street. Then all the doors to the houses open up and they just march out.” He shuddered at the memory. “They move as a unit. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Target practice, mostly. Cleaning and assembling weapons. Basic hand-to-hand combat.”

  Terra frowned, pausing in her task to look up at Theo. “What are they shooting at?”

  Theo gulped, the lump in his throat bobbing. “Mutts.”

  The Anthemite, who had been reaching for the bottle of liquor on the table, nearly knocked it over. “Pitching hell,” she muttered. She snatched the bottle by its long neck. Rather than dumping it onto the soiled cloth, she took a generous swing. The liquid seared her throat. Unfortunately, it did nothing to burn away her memories.

  Her mother had died to keep Ronja from being turned into a mutt. Layla was already in labor when she was captured and taken to Red Bay. She had begged Terra’s mother to allow her to give birth to her daughter before being warped into a mutt, so that she would have a chance to be human, even if it was under the crushing hand of The Music. Her mother had allowed it, even going so far as to help them relocate to the outer ring under a false name.

  She had paid the ultimate price for it.

  “I heard what you said, about that guy, Samson.”

  Terra set the vodka down with a hollow thunk and refocused on her task. Henry had not moved an inch. “Yeah,” she said in a voice that was a shred too calm. She felt Theo watching her with pity she did not want.

  “I lost my first love to an Off. His name was Benjamin. We worked on the black market together. He was the reason I started working with the Anthem, actually.”

  “Sorry,” Terra muttered, still avoiding his blue gaze. She snatched up a roll of gauze and began to wrap it around Henry’s head.

  “It was a long time ago,” Theo replied with a weighty sigh. “It gets easier.”

  Terra did not respond, focusing acutely on her task. When she ran out of gauze, she grabbed another roll from the table and continued to swaddle the wound. Once that was done, she taped up the end and got to her feet. If she squinted, Henry almost looked like he was sleeping. “Help me carry him upstairs.”

  It took them a good ten minutes to maneuver Henry out of the kitchen, down the hall, and up the staircase. He was over six feet tall and weighed twice what Terra did. Two breaks and half a dozen curse words later, they managed to get him to the spare room and lay him out on the navy bedspread.

  “Well, at least the bedding will hide the stains,” Theo said as they peered down at Henry. His chest rose and fell steadily, his full lips parted slightly. He did not appear to be feverish, nor did he seem to be anywhere close to waking up. Terra turned her back on him and marched from the room. Theo followed her half a moment later.

  “Where are you going?” he asked as they made for the staircase.

  “To find Cicada. We need to have a chat.”

  “Can I ask what about?”

  “No.”

  Theo fell silent as they traipsed down the stairs, one after the other.

  Terra sighed. “Thanks for helping, Theo,” she said as they reached the first floor. “You did good.”

  The man smiled, his blue eyes glinting with mirth. “You aren’t fond of people, are you?”

  “No.”

  Theo chuckled under his breath, then jerked his chin down toward the front of the house. “I think Cicada is in his study. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

  Terra nodded her thanks and started down the familiar corridor. She approached the polished door on the balls of her feet, though she was not entirely sure why she was sneaking. She raised her fist to knock. Took it away.

  “Come in,” Cicada called. Cocky bastard. The Anthemite twisted the cool knob and entered the office with her head high.

  Cicada sat at his desk, his booted feet up on a stack of documents. He had removed his suit coat, which now hung over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled, and sweat stained his underarms. He was poring over what appeared to be a letter. “Terra,” he greeted her without looking up. “Are you finished using my kitchen as a hospital?”

  “For now.”

  He glanced at her over the edge of the paper, a faint smirk twisting his lips. “How is the boy?”

  “He’ll live,” she answered honestly. “No idea about his brain, though. Could be mush by now.”

  Cicada laughed coolly. He set the paper down with a flourish and swept his feet off the table. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can start by telling me what has been going on since I was taken,” Terra said, approaching his desk. She shook her freshly-clean hair over her shoulder, a challenge flashing in her eyes. He stared up at her with a lazy smile. “I know you have ears everywhere.”

  “I used to,” he corrected her, raising a manicured finger. “I am mostly crippled, these days. I never go out. Someone comes to bring me groceries and . . . company once a week.”

  “You’re Maxwell’s pet,” Terra inferred, disgust welling in her again. “You’re even slimier than I expected.”

  “I have just saved your life,” he reminded her, a sharp edge entering his tone. “Not to mention, you still owe me a debt, dear Terra.”

  “I’ve paid my debt in full by not gutting you right now.”

  Cicada got to his feet slowly, never taking his eyes off her hardened face. “I have never claimed to be anything but what I am, Terra,” he said. “You’re no better. When was the last time you did something for someone that did not benefit you personally?”

  “I risked everything to try to free this city,” she snapped. “You’re a coward, and I am ashamed to have called you a father.”

  Cicad
a was silent for a long moment. Terra found she was panting, as if she had just sprinted a mile.

  Finally, he blinked. “You can stay here for the night—then I want you gone. Take Theo with you. He’s starting to wear on me.”

  “No,” she snapped, slamming her palms into his desk. Cicada flinched as the inkpot rattled. “You are not shutting me out, you skitzer. Tell me what you know. Have you heard from the Anthem?”

  “Radio silence,” he muttered, looking anywhere but her thunderous face. “No signals coming in or going out from anywhere. This whole place is a ghost town.”

  Terra made a noise of irritation at the back of her throat, scanning the room with sharp eyes. Dusty books. Trinkets from his travels before the walls went up. Glittering bottles of alcohol, most of them half empty.

  Then the bulky machine sitting on a low shelf near the fire hooked her gaze. Her stomach clenched. “Does your transmitter still work?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cicada throw her a loathing glance. “Of course it does.”

  “I need to use it.”

  “Absolutely not, you’ll bring The Conductor to our doorstep.”

  “But it has a built-in scrambler, right? So it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Cicada flushed, his lips flapping uselessly. That was answer enough. Terra started toward the transmitter, her steps heavy with purpose. “No.” The man had finally found his voice and was hurrying out from behind his desk. “I will not—”

  Terra cranked back her arm and socked him in the nose.

  A howl tore from his throat as blood burst forth, staining his pressed white shirt. “You little—!”

  “Shut up.”

  While her mentor let out a string of curses and rummaged through his desk for something to staunch the bleeding, Terra knelt before the transmitter. She flicked the metal switch on the side of the machine. It hummed to life, its screen lighting up orange. She dusted off the thick headphones that sat beside the transmitter and crowned herself with them. Cicada’s grunts of pain were muffled. She checked on him over her shoulder. He was perched on the edge of his desk, a handkerchief pressed to his hemorrhaging nose, staring at her the way one might look at a rat found in a cupboard.