Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Splattered on the sidewalk is not what I would call style,” she muttered, but the wind swept away her words.

  “Sixty seconds!” Easton barked, his words crackling in her zetha.

  “Ronja.”

  The Siren rounded on the voice, raking her hair out of her eyes. Darius stood before her. His goggles crowned his graying head, keeping his coarse hair from his eyes. Dressed in his black armor, two guns strapped to his thighs, he looked like an old solider.

  Or an Anthemite.

  “I have no idea what we’re getting into here,” he said, shouting over the roar of the wind. “But I want you to know that I—”

  Ronja raised one hand to silence him, digging into her breast pocket with the other. Confusion rippled across his face, quickly morphing into joy when he saw what she had produced. The tin of black charcoal. “Hold still,” she ordered, acutely aware of the seconds slipping through their grasp. “Close your eyes.” Darius did as he was told, bowing his head slightly.

  “Thirty seconds!” Easton shouted.

  Ronja paid him no mind, drawing three fingers down the creased face before her. Through his brow, over his shuttered left eye, across his cheekbone, to the edge of his jaw. “There,” she yelled. “Now you’re ready!”

  Darius opened his eyes, grinning ear to ear. Though the motion deepened the lines around his face, it made him look ten years younger. Ronja smiled back at him. Despite the unbearably cold air, despite the very real possibility that they could be dead in minutes, his impossibly broad grin widened.

  Before Ronja could mirror him, Roark grasped her by the arm, whipping her around to face the hatch. “Heart to hearts later!” he yelled.

  “Five!” Easton shouted from the edge of the sloping platform.

  Steeling herself, Ronja brought her goggles down, settling the soft leather over the bridge of her nose. Revinia spilled out beneath her, the great clock tower like molten gold in the midst of the core. Only the streetlamps were lit, the roads luminous veins between the dark mansions. Just beneath them, the sprawling town square, ringed with lights to guide them home.

  “GO!”

  Jonah, Paxton, Larkin, and Easton all rushed forward, springing off the platform with cries of adrenaline.

  “Come on!” Roark yelled, pulling Ronja toward the edge. Her brain was screaming at her to move, but her knees were frozen.

  Then a gray and black blur shot past her. Darius let out a reverberating whoop as he launched himself over the edge, tumbling down toward their target like a spider on a string.

  “RO!”

  The Siren shut her eyes, snatched Roark by the hand, and dove forward. The cold arms of the gale hoisted her, tearing the breath from her lungs. She was too stunned to scream, but she heard Roark laughing maniacally. She forced her eyes open. Revinia pressed toward them with stunning speed, brass and brick and gold with a million rooftops to turn her bones to paste. In the distance, the white palace glared like a feather in a pool of oil. The stars wheeled overhead, their warplane nothing more than a shadow with a winking red eye.

  Roark squeezed her frozen hand tighter as the atmosphere rushed past them. She looked at him and the world slowed. Somehow, through the wind and the dark, his face was perfectly clear. Brown eyes crinkled with blazing adrenaline, full lips laughing freely in the face of death. Endless tiny moments with him shot to the front of her mind, too many to focus on. She clung instead to the common thread between them.

  Limitless, unyielding love.

  “CHUTES!” Roark screamed over the roar of the wind. Ronja looked down. Beneath them, five black parachutes had popped open like full moons. She clutched at the cord on the left strap of her pack, zeroing in on the wide snowy target expanding below. “NOW!”

  Ronja yanked her cord, a gasp tearing from her chest as she was pulled up like a rag doll by its hair. The rush of cold air slowed as she reached for the straps on either side of her harness to steer.

  She focused on her target, the park several hundred feet below. Her chute fought her, dragging her toward the clock tower. Not yet. With a grunt of effort, Ronja tugged on the right strap and the chute begrudgingly began to glide back toward the open field. Come on, come on. The Tovairins and Darius had already landed, their chutes wilting on the frozen lawn. The blur of lights became individual lamp posts. The bare trees screamed into detail. She was level with the rooftops, with the windows. Ronja squeezed her eyes shut and . . .

  “Ooof!”

  She hit the ground hard, bending her knees to absorb the shock, then careening forward, but managing to stay on her feet. Swearing colorfully, she slammed the button on her strap. Her chute struck her back with such force she was launched face first into the snow. She heard a muted thump nearby, Roark hitting the ground. She looked up in time to see him stumble then fall forward like an axed tree.

  “Smooth,” Jonah chuckled from her left.

  Ronja ignored him, clambering to her feet and wiping snow from her front. It was disturbingly quiet in the blanketed park. The trees and gas lamps seemed to watch them from the edge of the field. Once the snow melted in the spring, white gravel paths would be revealed along with thousands of perennial flowers. She had never seen them herself—as if they would to allow a mutt into the core—but she had seen photographs in the library.

  “That was fun,” Roark said with a breathless laugh. Ronja looked at him sidelong shaking her head disparagingly. He clambered to his feet and slammed the button on his pack to retract his parachute. “One way to make an entrance, at least.”

  “Is everyone all right?” Easton called softly.

  Ronja rounded on him as Roark padded over to stand at her side. The commander was the picture of poise, even after dropping out of the sky into the maw of a foreign city. Paxton knelt before a bag nearby, focused on whatever he was doing. Jonah and Larkin were peering around with suspicious curiosity. Darius . . .

  Darius stood apart from the group facing the clock tower through the trees, his head tilted back. Passing Roark an uncertain glance, Ronja crossed to her father, her footfalls muffled by the snow. “You okay?” she asked. He jumped half a foot when he found her at his shoulder.

  “Yes, yes, fine,” he said, his voice as tight as the strings of a guitar. “I just . . . ” He gestured around at the park, the opulent houses ringing it, the glowing clock tower only a quarter mile away.

  Ronja nodded. “I know.”

  “Where is everyone?” Darius asked.

  “Thankfully, not here,” she replied. “The curfew must still be in effect.” Or they’re already on the ships. Or they’re just waiting to take us out. The Siren crushed the thought beneath her heel.

  “When I was a child, this park used to hold markets for the winter solstice. Everyone was welcome. They lasted late into the night. They sold popcorn and candies and . . . ” He trailed off his eyes glazing over. “They would play the most beautiful music. I can still hear it, if I listen.”

  “That sounds . . . beautiful.” Even if they succeeded tonight, could Revinia ever be like that again? Could it bloom after such damage?

  “Listen up,” Easton said. Ronja and Darius turned to face him, their boots squeaking in the icy snow. The group converged into a tight knot, their breath fogging between them. “We have thirty-seven minutes to get to the top of that tower, set the charges, and get the Siren set up at the station. We move fast and stick together, no stragglers. Understood?” The group nodded collectively. Easton mirrored them. “All right. Move out.”

  56: On Your Feet

  Terra

  When Terra opened the door to the guest bedroom, stinger in hand, she had expected Henry to attack her. The roar he had let out upon waking up was enough to shake even her to the core. But when she kicked it in and lunged inside, she found him on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest and his head bowed.

  “Henry,” she said cautiously, hovering near the door, still white knuckling the stinger. “Henry, do you know
who I am?”

  There was no response. He was so still he could have been carved from stone. Terra took a tiny step toward him. No response. The patter of lithe footsteps pricked her ear. She spun as Theo appeared in the doorway, shooing him away. He backed off, lingering in the hall with a small automatic in hand.

  Terra turned back to Henry. He had not moved an inch. “Henry,” she tried again. “I’m going to put my stinger down.” She crouched low, setting the metal rod down with a hollow clang on the hardwood. He flinched at the sound. That was the only reaction she got out of him. “Henry, my name is—”

  “Terra.”

  He said it so softly she thought for a second she might have imagined it. Then he lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his face wan and slick. His handsome features were warped into a mask of horror, the kind that never really left a person. But his eyes were full. Fatally human.

  “Henry,” Terra whispered, a slow smile spreading across her mouth. “You’re back.”

  “I—I killed him. I killed Samson,” Henry breathed. Terra tensed. The words sent chills down her spine. “I hurt Ronja, tortured Iris. Maxwell—” His voice cracked, his dark hands flying to cradle his head. “He made me kill so many people. That girl, Valorie, he raped her and I let him—”

  “Enough.”

  Henry dropped his trembling hands, looking up at her in shock. Terra got to her feet, advancing on the boy. He wilted in her shadow. “Nothing you did while under The New Music was your fault,” she told him, her voice steady as a mountain. “You are not responsible for any of it. Maxwell is.”

  “Maxwell,” Henry repeated. His swimming eyes hardened. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Get in line.” Terra stuck her hand out for him to take. “On your feet.”

  He stared at it for a long moment, then grasped it with weak fingers. She hauled him up. He swayed on the spot, clutching at his head.

  “Skitz,” he groaned. “My ear . . . I feel like my head is going to explode.”

  “That’ll pass,” Terra said dismissively. She looked over her shoulder at Theo. “Get him some water and food, something plain.” The boy nodded briskly, then rushed off down the steps. She turned back to Henry. “I know you’re hurting,” she said. “But I need you to get ahold of yourself. I need you to tell me everything you know about the Vintian ships.”

  “Ronja, Roark . . . ” Henry murmured. He sat back on the bed heavily, still holding his head as if it were going to burst. “They got out. Maxwell was furious, he was . . . ”

  “How did they get out? Where did they go?”

  The boy shook his head, groaning at the movement. “No one knows for sure. The Tovairin was with them—they might have gone back there.”

  There was little left in the world that could shock Terra Vahl, but it took everything she had not to balk at those words. “Tovairin? Are you talking about Jonah? Big guy with the white tattoos?”

  Henry nodded, his eyes squeezed shut as he massaged his temples through the gauze still wrapped around his head.

  “Here,” Theo called, hurrying back into the room. He leaned around Terra and offered Henry a tall glass of water and a fresh roll. He waved them off, but the girl snatched the cup up and forced him to take it.

  “Drink,” she commanded. “Ronja will murder me if you die under my watch.”

  Henry glared at her, then raised the glass to his lips. The water shivered as he did. One sip later, his instincts kicked in and he drained half the contents. He heaved a deep breath, allowing his head to droop forward again. “Ronja,” he murmured. “The Siren.”

  “Yeah, she sort of made a name for herself after you supposedly died.”

  “That was her singing on the recorder, she freed me.” Henry lifted his head again. “She must hate me. Roark must . . . ”

  “Shut up,” Terra growled. “You killed Samson, and I was falling for his stupid dead ass. Guess what? I don’t hate you. So shut up, stop wallowing, and eat your damn bread.”

  Henry opened and closed his mouth several times, gaping at her like a fish on deck. Then he raised the roll to his mouth and took a bite. Terra nodded approvingly as he chewed and swallowed, then took another sip of water.

  “Excellent,” she said briskly. She turned back to Theo. “Could you get him some painkillers? Cicada usually keeps them in the medicine cabinet.”

  Theo crossed his arms, his lips pressed into a pout. “You know, I came to help protect you, not be your butler.”

  Terra cocked her head to the side. “Did I ask for your protection, or did I ask for painkillers?”

  Theo blushed pink, puffed up his chest, then marched away with all the dignity he could manage.

  The girl turned back to Henry. The partially drained glass was trembling in his hand, the contents threatening to slosh over the brim. She snatched it back and set it on the nightstand. “Henry,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’m glad to see you.”

  Henry glowered up at her, his nostrils flaring. Good, Terra thought grimly. Get mad. “I am,” she insisted. “Believe it or not, I actually have a heart.”

  The briefest smile ghosted his lips. It faded so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. “Could have fooled me.”

  Terra huffed, sitting down on the springy mattress next to him. She left an inch of space between them, remembering how sensitive she was to touch after she was released from The Music. “We’re screwed, H,” she said, staring into the oblivion of the patterned rug at their feet. She felt him glance at her sidelong, surprise radiating from his every pore. “Ronja and Roark are gone; Evie, Iris, and Mouse are still in prison; the best the Anthem can do is escape through the sewer tunnels.” She shook her head. “We’re absolutely skitzed.”

  “I know my brain is a little fried,” Henry said after a loaded pause. “But that doesn’t sound like you.”

  Terra twisted her lips into a grim smile. “I said we were skitzed, not that we were giving up.”

  “Here.”

  Henry and Terra looked up to see Theo approaching with an amber jar of pills. She raised her hand, wiggling her fingers. He tossed it at her and she caught it single-handedly. “Take one now,” she ordered the boy at her side, passing him the vial. “Finish that bread or you’ll rot your stomach.”

  Something vaguely reminiscent of a laugh bubbled up on his cracked lips. Henry unscrewed the bottle and tapped a single white pill into his palm. “When did you turn into such a softy?” he asked. Before she could answer, he tipped the capsule into his mouth and swallowed it dry.

  “I am not a softy,” Terra shot back, glowering at him as he took a swig of water and tore into his roll again. “I just need you ready.”

  Henry swallowed, wincing as a too large lump of bread slid down his throat. “For what?”

  “For our last mission.”

  57: Running to Stand Still

  They sprinted through the park, silent as wraiths in the night. The powdered snow muffled their quick footsteps. Ronja knew it was working in their favor, but it made her feel as if she were in a nightmare, running to stand still. When they shot out of the bare trees lining the park, she remembered that this was a nightmare.

  The golden clock tower loomed above them, its northern face bright as the moons. The pools of light from the gas lamps scattered around the plaza like landmines. Everything was eerily still, from the mansions encircling the square to the tower itself. It was even quieter than it had been the first time they stormed it.

  “Eyes open,” Easton called softly as they approached the edge of the bright square. He drew the automatic at his hip, clicking the safety off.

  The others copied him, arming themselves with their various weapons. Ronja drew one of the blades at her back with a ringing hiss, wishing not for the first time that she could get her hands on a stinger or a gun.

  “Go,” Easton said.

  They started forward as a pack, their boots crunching through slush and ice. Their shadows
flickered in and out of existence in the forest of streetlights. Ronja glanced around, her nerves sparking. Roark was a comforting presence at her side, the hard lines of his face exaggerated by his war paint. He had been armed with a single curved blade wider than her own. Though she had never seen him use one, he held it with the confidence of someone who had been handling such blades all his life.

  “Fan out,” Easton ordered, gesturing left and right with his gun. Jonah and Larkin peeled off to one side, their footsteps lithe and sure. Paxton and the commander took the opposite direction. “You three, go for the alley,” he called over his shoulder. Darius and the Anthemites nodded, jogging toward the narrow aisle between two quiet mansions.

  “I thought there’d be Offs,” Ronja murmured as they pressed toward the back of the side street. It was lined with snowcapped trash bins and crates.

  “Last time we were here, we thought we were alone,” Roark said, scanning the deserted square from their hiding place. “We were wrong.”

  Ronja felt a chill slink down her spine. She gripped the hilt of her blade ever tighter.

  “I never thought I’d be back here,” Darius whispered. The Siren cut her eyes to her father, who was gazing at the tower again. “They’ve perverted it.”

  “What was it, before The Conductor took over?”

  The king pushed his salt and pepper hair out of his face, dropping his attention to his daughter. “It originally belonged to our family. It was a sacred space of sorts. Something about it allowed us to access our gifts with ease.” His gray brows scrunched together. “I wish I could tell you more. I was young and naïve, never paid attention to my lessons.”

  “I felt it pulling me, even when I was under The Music,” Ronja said, tipping her head back to scan the looming tower. “I saw it in my head the day we did the broadcast.”

  Darius dipped his chin, as if he had expected this. “Not long before I was sent away, my father turned the top floor into a radio station—the same one you used to broadcast to the Singers.” Nostalgia curved his lips into a vague smile. “The best musicians and poets in the world would come to share their work with the whole city.”