Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Evie ended her speech with a decisive dip of her chin, then dug into her pocket and withdrew her lighter and another cigarette. Roark huffed quietly but had given up chastising her.

  “What she said,” Iris said with uncharacteristic brevity.

  “You’re all but my blood, Ro,” Henry said quietly. “That means Georgie, Cos, and Layla are too.”

  “I skitzed up, I owe you,” Roark said from behind her.

  Ronja felt the world dissolve around her. She tried to think of something to do or say that could pay them back for their generosity, but no word in her vocabulary suited her gratitude.

  They must have understood something in her expression, because Evie reached over and punched her in the shoulder, pinching her smoke in her free hand. Henry did not move to embrace her, but caught her gaze from the couch. It was just as good.

  Georgie, Cos, Layla, I’m coming, Ronja whispered silently.

  35: Morphed

  Cosmin

  The first night was the worst. Cosmin awoke from his coma on an unforgiving concrete floor in a pool of his own vomit and piss. He never quite rid himself of that stench in the following days. His head had felt unnaturally cool and light pressed against the stone. It took him an embarrassingly long time to discover that his hair had been sheered away.

  When he had collected his wits enough to stand, he’d paced the perimeter of his six-by-eight-foot cell, searching for a way out. There were no windows. There was a small air vent in the ceiling. Even if he could have reached it, he could not fit his shoulders through. The only viable exit was a steel door equipped with a small portal for food. The hatch had been opened only three times in the past five days. If they were trying to starve him, they would fail. Cosmin had been through worse. They all had.

  At first he tried to sleep, curling his bald head into the crook of his elbow. He quickly realized it was useless. The cold and the hunger he could handle. It was the screams that kept him awake.

  They were not screams of fear, anger, or even agony. It was as if the prisoners in the cells around him screamed for the sake of hearing their own voices, as if they were trying to drown something out.

  Now, lying on his side, Cosmin reached up and brushed his omnipotent Singer with filthy fingers. It was unnervingly quiet.

  He knew where he was, though he did not know why.

  They had been eating dinner. Layla was awake, but hardly cognizant. He and Georgie were talking about something irrelevant; then they were falling. Shattered glass. A hard floor. A barrage of keening notes. His last thought was to wonder what they had done wrong.

  Now he realized, his vision blurring as he stared at the scratches on the impregnable door, that he already knew the answer.

  They had done nothing wrong.

  A part of him had always known that mutt Singers were connected. When Georgie was upset, his Music swelled too. When Ronja was stressed, he felt the repercussions. It did not take a genius to figure out (though Cosmin knew he was one).

  Ronja had not returned for her dinner break the night they were taken. She rarely missed a meal. That meant something had happened to her. That meant something had gone wrong in her Singer. She had triggered something, whether she intended to or not. Was she here in the prison? Was that her screaming in the cell adjacent to his? Or did they kill her outright, as she was the catalyst?

  Cosmin knew what would happen soon. He and Georgie already had the Singers. Now it was time to get the genes.

  He was asleep when they came to his door. He leapt to his feet and pressed his back to the far wall as the guards fumbled with the lock. His Music flared, manifesting as searing lights in his vision. Fear clawed at his throat.

  He did not try to fight when the Offs barged through the door. He put his hands behind his head. Still, they stung him until he pissed himself, until his skin and voice were equally raw. They dragged him down an endless corridor, their stingers flashing in the electric lights. Finally, they dumped him in a room only slightly larger than the one from whence he came. Cosmin rose on quaking legs and found himself staring into a glass wall.

  He yelled and flew at the barrier, bombarding it with his fists until they were black and blue.

  Georgie was on the other side. Though he could not hear her, he knew she was screaming. She had been clawing at her Singer. Ribbons of blood ran down her face and neck.

  When Georige’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, The Day Song morphed in Cosmin’s ear. His screams were not nearly enough to drown it out.

  36: The Moor

  “Where did you get all this stuff?” Iris asked as she emerged from the washroom, struggling to loop the button at the back of her neck.

  She was laced into a starched cream corset and sweeping lace dress. Her chestnut boots rose past her knees, and her strawberry-blond hair was tugged into a severe knot at her crown. Her false Singer gleamed proudly from its perch, bitingly cold among her constellation of soft gold jewelry.

  Evie, dressed in heavy black gear, moved to help her with the clasp.

  Roark laughed from his place on the couch.

  “I try to keep my house stocked, in case there comes a time when a girl might desire some fresh clothes.”

  Iris darted over and swatted Roark on the shoulder. He feigned agony, clutching his arm and groaning. Ronja felt vaguely ill as she gazed at the elegant stack of garments folded in her hands.

  “Your turn,” Evie said, tapping her on the shoulder and nodding toward the bathroom.

  Ronja ducked into the warm, tiled washroom without a word and shut the door firmly. She jiggled the brass knob to make sure it was locked, then pressed her spine to the wood.

  She was not partial to wearing clothes Roark’s one-night stands had worn, but she forced the undesired thoughts away as she shed her gray dress and stockings.

  The new clothing fit her better than she could have hoped. Despite her initial qualms, Ronja had to admit she did not look half bad.

  She could have easily come from the core, if not for her gaunt features. She wore an intricate, high-necked cape embroidered with gold ivy. Her full-skirted dress, which ended above her knees, was woven of black silk to match the cloak. It shimmered and rustled when she moved. On her feet were a pair of high-heeled ankle boots studded with gold. A raven feathered hat angled to cover her wound was pinned to her curls.

  Ronja almost smiled at her reflection, then she remembered why she was garbed in such beautiful attire.

  “Okay, I’m all set,” she called. She turned her back on the mirror and exited the bathroom hastily, her heels clacking loudly.

  “Wow, Ro,” Henry breathed, his eyes widening. He got to his feet and worked his way around the couch. Ronja raised her eyebrows in surprise. Henry wore a black suit and matching tie and looked wildly different from the boy she had known in the outer ring. “You look—”

  “Perfect,” Roark finished for him, flicking the light switch as he exited his bedroom.

  Ronja turned to the boy, clasping her hands behind her back to still them. Roark was gazing at her with an odd expression. He wore a tailored, high-necked jacket studded with ornate bronze clasps and black slacks to match. He had combed his hair into a loose knot at the back of his head, and he looked startlingly handsome.

  Ronja looked down and away, fixating on a clump of dust peeking out from beneath the sofa.

  “If you two are done making bedroom eyes,” Evie quipped from the kitchen, where she was gnawing on a piece of jerky.

  Ronja nodded briskly, begging her face to regain its sallow hue.

  “I rang Dr. Berik while you were changing,” Roark said, abruptly businesslike. “He’ll open the side door to us at 1:00 this morning.”

  Ronja checked the clock that hung on the kitchen wall. “That’s two hours from now,” she noted accusingly.

  “We’ll leave in an hour to set Evie up on the perimeter,” Roark said, ignoring her impatience.

  “I can see a hair up a nose a hundred meters out with Lux,
” Evie bragged, gesturing proudly at her rifle, which leaned against the wall by the front door. “A bunch of fat Offs should be no problem.”

  Ronja swallowed dryly. It was not the idea of killing that bothered her—she had even more reason to hate the Offs than the average Anthemite. Still, the notion of Evie shooting someone unsettled her. Up until this moment, she had thought of their mission purely as a rescue operation. Now, she realized she had stumbled into a war.

  “Can’t we leave now?” Ronja begged, tugging at one of her curls anxiously.

  “The longer we’re in the vicinity of Red Bay, the better chance we have of being caught,” Iris said, plunking down on the couch next to Henry.

  “Should we go over the plan again?” Henry wondered aloud, picking a piece of lint off her shoulder.

  “I think we all know our parts,” Evie replied.

  “I have an idea,” Roark said suddenly.

  He held up a finger, signaling for them to wait, then disappeared back into his room. They waited in curious silence as they listened to him rummage about. With an audible grunt of effort, his weighted footfalls recommenced.

  Ronja cocked her head as Roark reentered the parlor, bearing a leather case in one hand and two slim parcels in the other.

  Iris and Evie exclaimed happily. Even Henry managed a weak smile at the sight of the box. Roark bowed low and passed the thin slabs to Evie. He placed the box near the hearth and knelt before it. Evie hurried over from the kitchen and plopped down on the free sofa. Ronja took a seat by her and observed Roark with growing curiosity.

  The walls themselves seemed to bate their breath as the heir opened the case, but Ronja’s confusion only waxed when she saw what was inside.

  The box housed some sort of machine with a large, smooth wheel at its center. Two dials labeled P WER and TONE orbited it. Ronja assumed P WER stood for POWER, but that the letter had been rubbed away by time and use. A metal arm jutted from the interior, tipped with a silver needle.

  “What is it?” Ronja asked, leaning forward slightly.

  “An old Anthemite tradition before battle. Technically speaking, a record player,” Roark told her with an offhand smile. “Actually, it’s the reason we met for a second time. It seems fate has a sense of humor.”

  “Or maybe death does,” Iris muttered.

  “I haven’t heard this one,” Evie said, holding up one of the slabs for Roark to see.

  Ronja craned her neck to view the thin package. It was painted, she noted with surprise. It depicted a girl standing atop a hill. Her hair and skirts were caught in the wind. She shaded her eyes from the damp glow of the sun beyond gathering anvil clouds. There was not another soul in sight, nor any sign of civilization. Two words were scrawled across the darkening sky in pale calligraphy.

  “The Moor,” Ronja tested the words on her tongue.

  Evie offered her the painted package, and she took it warily. Its weight and dimensions were familiar.

  “This is what I delivered to you,” Ronja realized with a start.

  It was not a question, but Roark answered anyway.

  “Yes,” he said, taking the parcel back with careful hands. “A record.”

  Roark pried the paper open carefully and drew out an obsidian disk lined with hundreds of faintly ridged rings.

  Ronja reached for it curiously, but he snatched it from her as if she were a child reaching for a delicate vase.

  “They’re fragile,” he apologized. “Never touch a record on its face, hold it by the edges, like this.” Roark showed her how to pinch the rim of the record with the very tips of her fingers.

  “What’s it made of?” Ronja asked as Roark placed the record on the wheel. “Stone?”

  “Vinyl,” Roark replied, twisting the P WER dial with the tips of his long fingers. There was a hollow pop, followed by a spray of static. To Ronja’s surprise, the record began to rotate steadily on its axis, rocking faintly as it spun. “Come here, love, I want you to drop the needle.”

  “What?”

  “Here, see this?” Roark pointed to the metal arm that brandished the thick needle.

  Ronja slipped from the couch onto the plush rug. She shuffled toward the machine on her knees, cautious.

  “Yeah,” she said uncertainly as she came to a halt next to Roark.

  “Raise it up right here, exactly. Now move it to the edge.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Now very carefully, I want you to drop the needle on the outermost ring.”

  “Won’t that hurt it? I thought you said they were fragile.”

  “Just trust me.”

  Cringing, Ronja let the arm fall.

  There was a mournful squeak, and for one horrible second Ronja thought she might have ruined it.

  Then music graced the air.

  37: Vinyl

  The song began slowly, the way a tired engine creaks to life after a long period of stasis. A drum was thudding between the fluid notes of a powerful instrument Ronja did not recognize. Beneath the rhythm, a piano was being played gently, as if the musician was afraid they might wake someone. The song was issued from the speakers on the sides of the box, but to Ronja it felt as though it was born of the air itself. It was so pure, unpolluted by the incongruous shouts and footsteps of the jam. It was more personal than that, which made her feel as though she was connected to every person around her.

  This music, this song, felt as though it was for her ears only.

  Chills scampered along her spine, erupting on her skin as gooseflesh. Her lungs felt as though they might burst, inhaling wave after wave of the intoxicating beat. When the rhythm accelerated, her pulse followed. She shut her eyes, allowed it to sweep her away.

  Then, a woman began to sing.

  First day you saw me I was way down low

  With my hands in my pockets and nowhere to go

  You were standing on my neck just to reach so high

  Sifting for those diamonds in the sky

  Blood in my veins and you say it’s cold

  But if you cut my skin it will come out gold

  The brain waves are crashing on the shores of my mind

  And if you stare too long then you may go blind

  I got little wars

  Little wars in my head

  Telling me wrong from right

  Out of mind, out of sight

  Little wars

  I am a warrior

  The voice wove through her mind, becoming a part of her before she could understand how or why. It seemed as if the song had always been with her, as if she already knew what the woman was going to say before she said it.

  Though it came from a machine, it did not flatten her emotions the way her Singer did. It heightened them, dredging up her rage, terror, and determination. She could see everything before her and everything behind, every possible outcome of their mission, but only one that was acceptable.

  Now I know I seem strange when I’m walking alone

  But I’m laced in my thoughts and I’m lost in my soul

  I got love for the rest and the best of you

  But I’m leaving in the morning for a different view

  I got words in my belly and they keep me high

  I got voices in my head and they never lie

  I got feathers in my ribs and I’m gonna fly

  I got two little words and they’re “good” and “bye”

  I got little wars

  Little wars in my head

  Telling me wrong from right

  Out of mind, out of sight

  Little wars

  I am a warrior

  The song faded out on the wings of the piano, and was replaced by the crack and hiss of the needle tracing its cyclical path. Ronja opened her eyes. The room felt unfamiliar, the dim lights too bright. Her skin was foreign, as if she had abandoned it for a spell.

  “Who was—?” Ronja started to ask.

  The ethereal voice stole her breath again. She leaned forward eagerly, entranced by the
way the whirling disk shed sound like a snake shedding skin.

  When the day shakes beneath the

  Hands of night

  When your page is ripped

  From the Book of Life

  When your knees crash

  Into the ground

  And your desperate lips

  Won’t make a sound

  When you’re all alone

  And the night is deep

  When you’re surrounded

  But you want to weep

  When the morning comes

  And it’s all but bleak

  When you want to scream

  But instead you’re meek

  Sing my friend

  Into the dark