“Jonah, roll her on her side,” Paxton ordered. Still whispering to the wounded girl, Jonah did as he was told. Larkin let out a scream of agony, her fingers contorting into claws. Ronja took one of them, massaging the cramped muscles until she felt them give. “The bullet went through,” Paxton told them, gesturing for Jonah to set her down again. Larkin hissed in pain as she settled back onto the stone floor. Ronja fought a wince as Larkin’s vice-like grip tightened around her fingers.
“That’s good, right?” Jonah asked, desperation making his voice shake.
“Yes, but we need to cauterize it.”
“With what?”
Paxton dug into the pack at his side and produced a black medical kit. “Someone give me their belt,” he said, popping open the lid and pawing through the contents with nimble fingers. “Now,” he snapped.
Darius got to his feet and whipped his leather belt out from around his waist, holding it out for Paxton to take. The Sydonian snatched it at once and passed it to Jonah. “Have her bite down on this.”
Ronja inched closer to Roark as Jonah held the strip of leather taut before her. Larkin bit down hard, tears leaking from behind her eyelids. Paxton slammed the lid on the medical kit, looking down at his patient with a grim mouth. In his hand was a small metal tube. For a split second, she struggled to figure out what it was.
Then he flicked it on with the push of a button. A jet of white hot flame surged from its tip. “Hold her down,” Paxton ordered.
Swallowing her horror, Ronja gripped Larkin by the wrist and pinned it to the stone floor. Across from her, Jonah did the same. Darius and Roark took her legs while Easton gripped her head. He said something to her in Tovairin, something that transcended language. Ronja shut her eyes. There was a pause, filled only by the constant rumbling of the mainframe behind them.
Then Larkin let out a bloodcurdling scream through her leather bit. Her arm fought against Ronja, her fingers shivering beneath her grip.
“Flip her,” Paxton commanded. They did as they were told, working as a unit to turn the girl over with as much care as they could. Paxton did not skip a beat before pressing the searing flame to the wound in her back. Larkin screamed again, the horrible sound filling the entire tower. Then, Paxton snuffed the flame, tossing the miniature blowtorch aside.
Together, they eased Larkin onto her uninjured side. Her screams dissipated to sobs, then hiccupping gasps. Jonah eased her head onto his lap. She clung to him, her entire body wracked with chills.
“Jonah, stay with Larkin and set the charges,” Easton ordered, getting to his feet swiftly. “We’ve got no time to waste.”
Ronja was about to protest, but the mission overwhelmed her empathy.
Tonight, she was not Ronja. She was the Siren, and the Siren had a job to do. Sucking in a deep breath and forcing down her shame, she got to her feet and backed away from Larkin. Jonah looked up. His eyes were unusually bright in the glare of the lights above them. She gave him a slow nod. Thank you.
He mirrored her, a faint smile dusting his lips. Then, he returned his attention to Larkin, cupping her tear-slicked cheek with his callused palm.
“Come on,” the Siren said, directing the words at Roark and Darius. “We’re running out of time.”
60: Five Bullets
Evie
“Iris,” Evie said weakly. “Iris, come on, look at me.”
She was on her knees, her brow pressed to the thick glass that kept her from Iris. It was smeared with her sweat and tears. The intercom was still on; she could hear it buzzing above her. Iris could hear her, but she was not responding. Curled into a ball on the smooth floor of The Amp, she had not moved an inch since Maxwell stormed out. From this distance, Evie could not tell if she was breathing.
“Iris, please darling. Please, just look at me.” The surgeon twitched. Relief unfurled in Evie. “Come on, love, sit up, I know you can.”
Slowly, Iris began to move. Her fiery head lifted from the floor, revealing the awful mess Maxwell had made of her face. Her left eye was swallowed with a black bruise, her lip split in several places. The gash on her cheek was beginning to clot, but it would certainly scar. Groaning, Iris propped herself up on her elbow, raising herself into a sitting position. Her face contorted with agony as she caught sight of the oozing bullet wound in her thigh.
“Iris,” Evie said loudly. “Look at me.” Her solitary eye flashed to Evie, bloodshot and fevered. “You need to slow the bleeding,” she said, enunciating each word carefully.
But Iris was way ahead of her. She had already set about tearing off a thick strip of her white shift. Pride spread through Evie like a shot of whiskey as Iris began to wind the cloth around the top of her thigh, just above her wound. She hissed in pain as she pulled the knot tight. With a shuddering breath, she heaved herself to her feet, transferring her weight to her good leg.
“Evie,” Iris said, her voice crackling with pain and static. “What do we do?”
“The gun, behind you.”
The surgeon turned laboriously and began to hobble toward the revolver Maxwell had dropped. What had he heard? Evie wondered, her thoughts spinning a thousand miles an hour. What could have struck such fear into him that he would drop his own gun?
Iris leaned down to pick it up, groaning and clutching her ribs. Pain reared within Evie. “There are five bullets left,” she said, limping back over to stand before her. “What should we do?”
“I—”
Before she could get another word out, a piercing wail cut through the cell. Both girls clapped their hands to their ears, looking around wildly.
“What the hell is that?” Evie bellowed.
Iris just shook her head, her solitary eye wide with fear. She held the gun close to her breast, as if it were a child. Her ripped white shift was covered in her own blood. “Evie,” Iris shouted over the alarm, plugging one of her ears with her finger. “I think that might be an escape alarm—someone got out!”
“Terra got out a day ago,” Evie called back. “I think she has a plan!”
“Someone else, then.” Hope shone through the puffy bruises that dappled her face. “Who else would cause an uproar like this?”
Evie felt her lips split into a grin. “Ronja,” she and Iris said at the same time.
The door behind Iris banged open. Despite her wounds, the surgeon whipped around, her revolver held out before her precisely. Two burly Offs in rumbled black uniforms stormed in, brandishing crackling stingers. Before Evie could so much as blink, Iris had fired off two shots, dropping both Offs like great trees. The surgeon peeked back at her girlfriend over her shoulder, her expression neutral beneath her bruising.
Evie felt her mouth go dry. “I love you,” she managed to get out.
Iris smiled. “I know.” With that, twisted back around and began to limp toward the fallen Offs. Groaning, she sank to her knees next to the closest one, yanking the automatic out of the holster at his side and setting it next to her gently. Her blood slick hands began to rove across his chest, hunting for something beneath his uniform. When she found it, she popped the silver clasps, reached inside, and produced a bulky set of keys. She held them high above her head for Evie to see.
“I think I’d like to be done with this place,” Iris said. “What about you?”
61: Ambush
Riding the elevator to the top of the clock tower was a surreal experience. With each floor they slid past, a new memory slammed into Ronja, as solid as the men who stood around her.
Layla, dead at her feet. The Tovairin child, crushed by the hunk of debris. Revinia going dark in waves. Samson, a bullet in his brain on the white marble floor. Henry, his voice on the radio. Maybe the stars are alive after all.
In the end, it wasn’t Maxwell she feared seeing tonight. It was Henry. She wasn’t sure she could face him again, to meet his eyes with desperation and get nothing in return. The elevator ground to a halt. The Anthemites and Kev Fairlans drew their weapo
ns. She copied them, cocking the gun she had lifted from Darius. The doors slid open with a polite peal of chimes.
Utter stillness greeted them in the clock chamber that was home to the radio station. Ronja breathed a temporary sigh of relief, letting the gun fall to her side. The station was dark this time; the only light came from the winter moons shining through the four glass faces of the clock. It spilled across the white marble floors like milk. The solitary piece of furniture, the huge leather chair which stood like a throne before the dark dashboard.
“Do what you need to do,” Easton said, starting to pace the perimeter of the room, his gun still aloft. “We’re down to twelve minutes.”
Ronja nodded, determination sweeping away her relief. She hurried over to the chair, shrugging off her pack and letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thump. She slid the heavy armchair aside with a grunt of effort, then placed her hands on the cool dash. Dozens of buttons and dials winked at her in the moonlight, all shrouded in dust. Panic seized her. Nothing looked familiar. Without Evie and Terra, she wasn’t sure she could work it—she was just the voice.
“If you would . . . ”
She looked up. Darius stood behind her, a knowing smile on his weathered face. Understanding clicked into place in Ronja and a grin split her mouth. “Be my guest,” she said, motioning at the dash.
The king cracked his knuckles. “Could someone get the lights?” he called.
Almost as soon as he spoke, bright light flared around them. Ronja blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted. Darius’s fingers flew across the dashboard, bringing it to life. It hummed beneath his touch.
“How did you learn to do this?” Ronja asked, leaning over the board.
“I watched my father do it many times,” he replied, his eyes still latched to the machine. “And we used to have something similar in the original Kev Fairlan base. I worked it from time to time.” He jabbed a large button near the center of the board with his index finger, then stepped back with a triumphant grin. “There, that should do it.”
“Thank you,” Ronja said, slipping behind the dash to stand beside him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Sure you could. But I am glad to be here.”
The Siren opened her mouth to say something else, but just then a massive shudder lanced through the room. Ronja swore, falling forward onto the dash and narrowly missing an important looking dial. She was not the only one. Around her, Roark and the others were righting themselves, glancing around wildly.
“What the hell was—?” she started to ask.
The glass panes of the clocks rattled, the dashboard trembled. Ronja locked eyes first with Darius, then with Roark. Skitz. Abandoning the radio, she dashed to the northern window, pressing her brow to it in order to look straight down.
“Fiest,” she breathed. Bodies gathered around her, her comrades straining to see what she was looking at.
Hundreds of feet below them, the pack of empty citizens had scattered, making way for a hulking vehicle that Ronja had come to recognize during her stay in Tovaire. “Is that—a tank?”
“Yes,” Easton cut her off grimly.
She rounded on him, her brow still cool from the frigid glass. “What are we going to do?”
“You will do nothing, little bird,” came a disembodied voice.
Guns cocked. Blades hissed. The Anthemites and Tovairins pressed back to back, scanning the empty room for its owner. Ronja turned slowly, dread pooling in her middle. She knew they would find no one. “Maxwell,” she called striding to the center of the room. “I should have known you would be too much of a coward to come here yourself.”
“Ah, little bird, you’re the one who ran.” His creeping voice bled from the speaker on the dashboard. She approached it slowly, her lip curled in disgust. Chills born of adrenaline wracked her body. She set her blade down on the lip of the metal board and took a seat at the chair.
“What do you want, you bastard?” the Siren asked through her teeth.
“What do I want?” Maxwell hissed. “I want you to come home to me, little bird. I want you to sing for me.”
“Oh, I’ll sing,” Ronja threatened, glaring at the gridded speaker as if it were his face. “I have everything I need to take you down.”
The Conductor clicked his tongue admonishingly, the sound even more unnerving when laced with static. “Dear me, so confident,” he said with a giggle. Ronja swallowed, glancing up at her comrades. They had gathered on the opposite side of the dashboard. Most of their eyes were fixed to the speaker. Only Roark looked at her, his brown eyes shivering with rage in the joint light of the moons and the electric fixture above them.
“Of course, I had to leave the station intact,” Maxwell continued giddily. “How else would you inspire my loyal followers?”
“Loyal.” Ronja barked a laugh. “You cannot possibly be that ignorant.”
“I have earned their loyalty,” Maxwell shot back. Static cracked as the volume shot up. Ronja white knuckled the edge of the dashboard. “I am not like my father, cowering behind The New Music. I will lead them on the front lines, I will—”
“Just like you’re doing right now? You call this leadership?”
“Enough of this,” The Conductor snapped. “Sing all you want, little bird. I dare you to try to pry my people from their savior.”
“Are you sure you want to take that bet?” Ronja growled. She leaned toward the microphone, until it nearly brushed her lips. “I’ll free them and then . . . I’m coming for you.”
“That would be interesting,” Maxwell said, his calm reinstated. “But I think you’ll find it rather more difficult this time around.”
Chills whistled down her spine. Ronja shook them off stubbornly. “I’ll free them before your tank can put a dent in that door.”
“Oh, little bird, I am not speaking of that brutish instrument, but something far more elegant.” Ronja raised her eyes to Roark as understanding stirred within her. His jaw was clenched beneath his war paint, his dark eyes shivering. Her gaze snapped back to the humming dashboard. “While you were away, I had time to prepare. You see, when we patched you up after your little outburst, we collected some tissue samples.”
Cold dread flooded Ronja. Her memory of those days in the prison was so hazy. She did not even remember them taking her out of the cell after she had attempted to smash the mirrored walls.
“Your DNA is so unusual, little bird. It makes you exquisitely sensitive to The Music. It’s a wonder you were able to move, much less resist it all those years.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and knew what he was going to say before he said it. “So, I spent some time engineering a Song born of a unique signal especially for you. I call it The Birdsong.”
“You sick bastard!” Roark roared.
Ronja looked up through swimming eyes. Her stomach bottomed out. Wild desperation clashed with terror on his face, draining it of color.
“Mr. Westervelt, I thought you might be listening,” Maxwell drawled. “Do you really have the right to call me sick? You are, after all, the one who brought her into this war.”
Roark flinched.
“I have to go now, little bird,” The Conductor went on. “But I look forward to seeing you soon. Please note that the Birdsong will begin when you start your little broadcast. I think you will find it most riveting.”
Before Ronja could open her mouth, the line went dead.
62: Iridescent
For an endless moment, no one spoke. Ronja stared at the dashboard that sprawled before her. Her mind turned over and over like the gears of the clocks that pressed in around them.
“No, DAMMIT!” Ronja jumped as Roark aimed a kick at the metal dash, sending a shudder rippling through it. “We have to get you out of here, we have to . . . ”
“Roark,” she broke in gently.
“We have to . . . ” He raked a clawed hand through his jet black hair, staring at her with sparking eyes.
“The zethas may still help,” Paxton spoke up. Ronja looked to him. The cautious confidence in his words did not match his expression.
“Thank you,” she said. She switched her attention to Easton. Larkin’s blood was crusted on the exposed skin of his neck and hands. His expression was as still and calm as a glass lake. She passed him a subtle nod, which he returned.
“There is no way in hell I am letting you do this.”
Ronja turned to Roark slowly. “You can’t stop me.”
“Ro, please.” He grabbed her hands over the dashboard, squeezing so hard it was almost painful. His eyes never strayed from her face. She maintained a calm mask.
“Let me go, Roark.”
His teeth gnashed together. He gripped her harder, as if he could squeeze the resolve from her. “No.”
“Let me go!” Ronja snapped. She yanked back, trying to free her hands from his, but he would not budge. She was about to shout at him when Darius stepped up and clapped a hand to Roark’s shoulder.
“Let go of my daughter.” His voice was quiet, but the blaze in his eyes told another story. Ronja felt her throat constrict as something swelled in her, an emotion she did not recognize. Roark gaped at Darius sidelong. His grip loosened. She slipped her hands from his as gently as she could. His arms fell to his sides, limp. The once king nodded his approval and retreated.
“I need room,” Ronja said, casting her eyes around the room. “Everyone back up.”
“We’re down to nine minutes,” Easton warned her as he and the others backed toward the windows. “Can you do it?”
The Siren nodded though every fiber in her body screamed no. She fixated her attention on the dashboard, on the gleaming brass switch that would connect her to the Singers. And the Birdsong. She took a breath, then reached for it.
“Ronja.” The Siren looked up. Roark had joined the others on the outskirts of the room. The look on his face made her knees weak. Love and terror, the most desperate combination. “Please.”
She smiled, steady as the rising sun. “Freedom is a state of mind,” she reminded him. Tears bloomed in his eyes. She turned back to the dashboard. It seemed to expand before her, infinite as the stars above. “When I go in,” she said, raising her voice to speak to the group as a whole. “I might not come out. If I die, blow the mainframes.”
Siren Page 29
