Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Right.”

  Silence grew between them. Ronja itched the bridge of her nose unconsciously.

  “We should talk about what happened with your Aura,” Darius said after a while.

  “No, thanks.”

  “We need to.”

  “The way you looked at me,” Ronja said, her voice ratcheting up a decibel. A Kev Fairlan she did not recognize raised his head across from her, watching the exchange curiously. The Siren drew a breath and continued in a softer tone. “You looked at me like you were afraid of me, like I was some sort of freak. It was just like how people used to look at me when I was under a mutt Singer.”

  “You misunderstood me,” Darius replied softly. “I was not afraid of you, I was afraid for you. I thought you might have injured yourself. I should have told you about the dangers of bending Auras, especially when you are just growing into your gift.”

  “Oh.” Relief washed over Ronja. She wanted to say something, anything, but nothing seemed appropriate. Instead, she offered Darius a tiny smile, which he returned without hesitation.

  “I told you that Auras exist without us, but I should have specified.” Darius twisted in his seat to get a better look at her. She copied him, hanging on his every word. “We can bend the Auras of other songs, be it from a recording or an instrument or a vocalist, but they do not belong to us. Your personal Aura, from your own voice, is wholly yours. It is a part of you as much as your hand or your brain.”

  “Okay,” Ronja said, bobbing her head slowly, though she only half understood.

  “When you reach for it, try not to think of it as calling it to you. Think of it as moving a limb.” Darius wet his lips, then let out a low whistle. Ronja sucked in an awestruck breath as a thin thread of rust colored light coiled in the air between them, casting its faint light across their faces. The king crooked his finger at it, and it fluttered toward him, spiraling around his finger once then fading into oblivion. “You try,” he said.

  Ronja swallowed, glancing around the cabin discreetly. No one was paying them any mind anymore, either asleep or absorbed in their own conversations. Rather than whistling, she began to hum a tune she had picked up from Iris, a lullaby. Before her eyes, her white Aura blossomed, a timid ball of light to match the gentle notes.

  “Now, don’t call it to you,” Darius said quietly. “It’s already with you. Just move it.”

  Ronja lifted a trembling hand and curled her fingers into a loose fist. The budding light shivered, then began to unfurl. It rolled over her knuckles, smooth as the belly of a snake, and wrapped around her wrist. Life pulsed in its luminous body, heating her skin. Or maybe the warmth was coming from her skin. She couldn’t tell anymore. Shocked laughter burst from her mouth as her Aura faded. She looked up at Darius, beaming. “Skitz,” she breathed. “That was . . . that was . . . ”

  “Well done,” the king said.

  “Tell me more about your gift,” Ronja pressed him eagerly. “You said you can bring the truth out of people—how does that work?”

  To her surprise, Darius winced. “I rarely use it, especially these days. It feels like an invasion of privacy.” He rocked his head from side to side. “It is an invasion of privacy.”

  “Okay, but how does it work?”

  “When you sing, it seems that you allow people to feel what they need to feel, if they’ve been bottling up their emotions on their own or if they’ve been under the influence of The Music,” Darius explained. “When I sing or play an instrument, people spill their secrets. Secrets they’re keeping from others and themselves.”

  “Why didn’t I start spilling my guts when I heard you sing the other night?”

  “I have learned to control my gift, so that it does not automatically affect everyone around me. Trust me, there is nothing worse than a room full of people straining to tell you a thousand things you did not need to know. ”

  “I see,” Ronja said. She looked down at her knees, her brows knitting. “I guess what I do is an invasion of privacy, too.” The thought made her skin crawl. Her fingers drifted up to the scar where her right ear used to be. Sometimes, if she listened hard enough, she thought she could still hear The Music pounding on her skull, begging to be let back in.

  “You’re not taking away their free will,” Darius said with a shake of his head. “You’re giving them the ability to make a choice, and to better understand themselves. In the case of the Revinians, you’re giving them the chance to be human.”

  The Siren made a noncommittal noise at the back of her throat, her head still tilted forward.

  “Ronja.” The shift in his tone caused her to look up at Darius. His eyes were too bright in the red glow around them. “We’re going into a war zone. One or both of us could die tonight.” She nodded slowly, wondering where he was going with this. “Last night, you expressed some interest in learning more about your mother. Now might be the only chance I have to tell you what I remember.”

  Ronja stared at Darius for a long moment, a thousand words on her tongue, a million moments clashing in her mind. She swallowed the words and laid the memories to rest. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  54: Ten Thousand Words

  Evie

  The bang of her cell door slamming against the wall broke Evie from sleep. She stayed where she was, curled in a ball in the center of the room, while multiple pairs of hands dragged her to her feet and into the painfully bright hallway.

  “What is this?” she demanded halfheartedly, blinking up at the Offs on either side of her. Neither of them paid her any mind, their dead eyes fixed straight ahead. “Where the hell are you taking me?” When it became clear that they were not going to answer her, Evie fell silent. They wove through the halls of the prison, past dozens of identical doors and gas lamps, past chemis in white coats and Offs in black uniforms. No one so much as glanced at her.

  Eventually, they arrived at an unmarked iron door. One of the Offs, the bigger one with a blond ponytail, held onto her while the other unlocked the door. Evie was shoved into the room. She crashed to her hands and knees. The door slammed behind her. She looked up as the echo faded.

  No.

  Evie scrambled to her feet, a silent scream tearing from her lips. She flew at the glass separating her from The Amp, pressing her palms to it desperately.

  No. No. No.

  Just beyond the glass, wearing nothing but a thin white shift, was Iris. Her fiery hair was wild, her hazel eyes were round as moons in her wan face. Dried blood turned brown was still crusted on her ears and neck. She trembled visibly.

  Maxwell stood at her side, his hand on her thin shoulder.

  “Ms. Wick,” he drawled, his voice crackling through the intercom. “I can hear you this time around, so you are welcome to speak.” He giggled like a child, giving Iris a little shake. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip until it bleached white. “In fact, I would prefer it if you did.”

  “Maxwell,” Evie said, her voice quavering. “We had a deal.”

  “That we did,” he replied with a somber nod. “But my men visited the cottage and found no sign that anyone had been there for months, much less Terra.” He clucked his tongue admonishingly. “You have been a naughty girl indeed, Ms. Wick.”

  “I—I was wrong,” she said. “I was wrong, but there are other places she could have gone! Safe houses, dozens of them, all over the city—”

  “No, my dear, I think not. You had your chance. Now I intend to hold up my end of the bargain.” He released Iris, prowling around her in a steady circle. “I was going to execute her with The Quiet Song, but that seemed too merciful. I thought I would go for something a little more old-fashioned.” Maxwell grinned at Evie over his shoulder. “There is nothing quite like feeling the life pass through your fingers, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Before she could respond, The Conductor wound and backhanded Iris across the cheekbone. She went flying, skidding across the concrete. Evie screamed, slam
ming her fist against the glass wall. “MAXWELL! PLEASE!”

  Iris got to her feet bleeding from a cut under her eye. She sprang into a fighting stance, breathing hard. Maxwell laughed, throwing his head back. The surgeon flew at him with a savage cry, delivering a solid sidekick to his chest. The breath went out of him with a whoosh, yet he continued to wheeze out a laugh.

  “You have no idea how pleased I am to have someone who fights back, Ms. Harte!” Maxwell shouted, shaking his head and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Iris ignored him, lunging again. This time, he was ready for her. His long fingers clamped around her neck lifting her from the floor with ease.

  “MAXWELL!” Evie shrieked, raking her fingers through her greasy, stiff hair. She slid to her knees before the glass, sobbing as Iris kicked helplessly. Her face had bled from white to pink to violet. Her eyes rolled back into her skull as Maxwell sneered up at her. “MAXWELL, I’LL DO ANYTHING, I’LL TELL YOU ANYTHING, I’LL—”

  Maxwell let the girl crash to the ground. Iris sucked in a great rattling breath, coughing and wheezing at his feet. He began to kick her again and again in the stomach, the ribs. She curled in on herself like a pill bug, sobbing and clutching at her head to protect it.

  Thousands of memories bloomed and shrank before Evie’s eyes, overwhelming the nightmare before her. Iris, singing at the jam while Roark played the violin. Iris, dancing with flowers in her hair. Iris, her eyes sharp with determination and her hands slick with blood as she removed another Singer from another patient, freeing them from The Music. Iris, her warm body pressed to hers in the deepest part of the night. Iris, screaming at her. Iris, laughing at some ridiculous joke.

  Iris.

  Maxwell ceased his barrage, stepping back and letting out a savage whoop. “NOW THAT IS WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT,” he cried, circling the girl at his feet with the grin of a wolf. Iris twitched, spitting up blood. One of her eyes was swollen shut, her mouth hung open as she struggled for breath. He squatted next to her, brushing a lock of sweaty hair from her forehead. “You’re beautiful, you know that? Especially like this. I almost wish I could keep you around.”

  Evie let out another savage cry, pounding on the unbreakable glass. “IRIS!”

  The girl shifted slightly to look at Evie with her one working eye. Ten thousand unsaid words passed between them. Ten thousand moments. Ten thousand memories not yet made.

  “I do have other business to attend to,” Maxwell drawled, getting to his feet. He reached into his sleek jacket and drew out a palm-sized revolver. “Shall I make it quick, Ms. Wick, or shall I make it hurt?”

  The shot went off before she could answer. Iris screamed in agony, clutching at her thigh. “Hurt, I think,” Maxwell said.

  “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!” Evie screamed, the words hitting the glass along with her spit. “I SWEAR I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!”

  “I think not,” The Conductor said sweetly. He raised his gun again, this time aiming at Iris’s temple.

  “Evie,” Iris cried out. “Evie, I love you!”

  “NO!” Evie screamed.

  “No . . . ” Maxwell said.

  Evie froze in confusion. Her streaming eyes flicked to Maxwell, who had gone abruptly rigid. His free hand was pressed to his altered Singer. He stared into oblivion, his mouth askew. “NO!” he howled.

  The gun slipped through his fingers. It clattered to the concrete. Without so much as a glance at his victim, he turned tail and raced from the room, slamming the iron door behind him.

  Iris and Evie were left alone with a glass wall and a loaded gun.

  55: Remnants

  The next few hours were a blur. Darius spilled story after story of Layla and the original Anthem, of Revinia and his childhood at the palace. Ronja clung to every word, rocking back and forth between elation and devastation. Once Roark woke from his fitful sleep, he listened too. He was discreet about it, but they both knew he was tuned in.

  “Let me get this straight,” Ronja said with a disbelieving laugh. “You’re telling me that my mother painted Atticus Bullon naked on the side of a building?”

  “I swear to Entalia,” Darius said, throwing up his hands. “She did it, and she spared absolutely no details.”

  “I wish I could have seen that.” Ronja sighed.

  “It was what she wrote that really took the cake, though.”

  “What?”

  Darius laughed, his stomach heaving and his eyes streaming. Then he dissolved into a fit of coughs that wracked his whole body. He doubled forward, waving her off as she leaned toward him, concerned. “Nothing to worry about,” he wheezed. “Just getting over a cold.”

  “Or the retch,” Ronja said, her brow cinching. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Yes,” he answered firmly, looking up at her through watery eyes. He righted his spine with a steadying breath. “I told you before, I owe it to you and I owe it to Layla.”

  “You really loved her.”

  “More than I can explain.” Darius scanned the planes of her face thoughtfully. “But I understand that she was gone long before she died.”

  “She was a nightmare,” Ronja said honestly. “She gave me half the scars on my body. But it wasn’t her fault. It was the procedure, and her mutt Singer. It was The Music.” Her fingers rolled into fists in her lap, her knuckles turning white. “I don’t miss her,” she said. “But I miss what she could have been. The Conductor, Victor Westervelt, they took that from me.” She glanced over at Darius. “They took you from me.”

  “And you from me.”

  Ronja swallowed, looking around at the Kev Fairlans, who were mostly asleep. Her gaze landed on Roark. He was watching her with a softness that could not be found anywhere else. She took his hand. She knew that behind his eyes, the remnants of his own fractured family were swimming through his brain.

  “We’ve all lost so much” she said, speaking to both of them. “We’ll never get it back, but maybe we can build something new.”

  Before either of them could respond, a commanding voice filled the buzzing cabin. “We’re approaching our first drop zone,” Easton shouted, jolting the soldiers from sleep. “Ronja, Roark, Jonah, Darius, Paxton, with me. Everyone else, strap in tight.”

  “Ai!” came the resounding cry.

  With one last look at Darius and Roark, Ronja undid her harness with trembling fingers and stood. Her legs groaned with relief. She rolled her shoulders and neck, shivering with pleasure as her stiff joints popped.

  “Here.”

  The Siren looked around in time to catch the parachute Jonah had lobbed at her. She glared at him, then slipped the pack over her shoulders. It was fairly self-explanatory. It clipped around her chest in several places and had two straps that circled the tops of her thighs. She had herself done up in less than a minute.

  “Here,” Roark said, moving to stand in front of her, and purposefully blocking Darius from view. He leaned down and pressed his soft lips to hers. She reached up to palm his cheek, electricity shooting through her veins. “I just had to do that one more time,” he breathed. “In case—”

  “Shut up,” Ronja cut him off sweetly, checking that his straps were locked in place properly. She tightened the one around his chest with a yank of the cord, chuckling when he let out a wheeze.

  “Your turn.” Roark tightened each of her buckles then planted one more kiss on her forehead.

  “If you two are done making out, we’re about to jump out of a plane,” Jonah drawled.

  “Skitz off,” Ronja said, drawing a ripple of chuckles from the Kev Fairlans nearby.

  “Anthemites, with me,” Easton called again. They picked their way back up the narrow aisle between the soldiers and the mound of parachutes. As they approached the commander and Paxton, all traces of good humor withered in Ronja. Her pulse spiked beneath her skin, thundering in her ear. “Zethas in, everyone.”

  Ronja dug into her pants pocket and twisted her solitary zetha to life.
Red light winked from its tip. She stuffed it in her ear, working her jaw as it settled against her cartilage.

  “Do you know how to open your chute?” the commander asked, coming to a halt beside the Anthemites. His voice had a slight echoey quality through the communicator.

  “I do,” Roark answered with a nod. Ronja shot him a disbelieving look, tucking away her questions for later. If there was a later.

  “Just pull this cord,” Easton explained to her, tapping the tab on the left strap of his pack. “Pull either strap to steer right or left. The button on the right retracts the chute once you land.”

  “Be sure to bend your knees when you’re about to hit the ground,” Roark suggested. “Trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

  Ronja nodded a bit too enthusiastically, her nerves threatening to make her teeth chatter.

  “I’ll jump first,” Easton said. “When I pull my chute, wait five seconds. Then pull yours.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice a few octaves higher than usual. Roark clapped a bracing hand to her shoulder. An alarm blared from somewhere inside the plane, making her skin crawl.

  Then the belly of the aeroplane opened like a gaping jaw, spilling red light into the night sky.

  Ronja ceased to breathe. She hooked her thumbs through the straps of her parachute as the frigid wind snapped at her curls. The engines rumbled beneath her feet, threatening to shatter her bones. Far below them, Revinia was laid out like the embers of a dying fire.

  Someone tapped her on her free shoulder. She looked up, squinting through the sting of the air. Jonah beamed down at her cheekily. “You all right, princess?” he shouted.

  “Shut up!” she screamed.

  “We’re approaching our drop zone,” Paxton called. His short dreadlocks flopped back and forth in the gale. His eyes, radiating total tranquility, fell on Ronja. “Are you ready?”

  “No!”

  “Come on, love, it’ll be fun,” Roark encouraged.

  She shot him a deathly glare.

  He winked at her. “If we’re going out, at least we’ll do it in style.”