“You better get out of here, you sick skitzers, or I swear I’ll bite your fingers clean off!” she screeched.
“My, my,” a humorless voice intoned over an intercom.
Ronja whipped around.
“Roark!” she exclaimed, a grin spreading across her face.
Her budding smile dissolved when she saw that Roark was lashed to the wall of the unfurnished room. His short chain prevented him from standing straight, so he stooped near the expressionless wall. He was barefoot, stripped down to his undershirt and slacks. A pair of massive headphones were strapped over his ears, connected to socket in the wall by a spiraling, black cord.
“Ronja,” Roark began, his voice rusty.
“Please do not speak to my subject, son. You cannot hear her replies anyway,” the voice continued over the loudspeaker.
Ronja turned toward the featureless room’s glass window, her breath wilting in her lungs.
A man stood in the semidarkness of the observation room, his hands tucked behind his back. He might have been handsome in his youth, but age was creeping into his sharp features. His black hair was crowned with gray, and deep crow’s-feet adorned his colorless eyes. He wore no Singer, but Ronja sensed this was a gesture of loyalty rather than rebellion.
“Victor Westervelt II,” Ronja said flatly.
“Ms. Zipse. I wondered if I might meet you one day. Cosmin and Georgie were so certain you would come for them.”
Ronja snarled, blood spraying from her mouth. “What have you done to them?” she roared. “Cosmin is barely breathing.”
“But not a mutt,” Westervelt said, raising a manicured finger warningly. “You might thank me.”
“Forgive me if I don’t.”
“Forgiven.”
“Pitch you.”
“Roark, I do believe we will have to teach this one manners.”
Roark looked at his father, panic flaring like a match in his eyes. Evidently his headphones were linked to the intercom.
Victor nodded toward the Offs behind Ronja. She spun and started to back away, but they made no move toward her. In fact, they did not even look at her. Instead, they withdrew identical pairs of black headphones, similar to the ones Roark wore.
The girl felt a chill settle in her bones.
Roark could not hear her through the headphones. If the devices were intended to block out sound that meant . . .
Ronja glanced over her shoulder at Roark. He was watching her helplessly. She had never seen him look anything but fierce and arrogant. The way he flinched each time his father spoke, despite the barrier that separated them. She could see the constellation of discoid burns on his forearms even across the room.
The girl gnashed her teeth together.
“Father, I already gave you the information you asked for,” Roark pleaded, speaking much louder than he had to. “You promised you would leave them alone.”
No.
“Ah yes, but your information was full of holes,” Victor replied. He clicked his tongue scoldingly and shook his head. “It appears you may need a bit more persuasion.”
“Don’t—”
Westervelt pressed a button on the dashboard.
Ronja did not even scream when The Music burst from the speakers. She collapsed to her knees, then folded onto her back. Her spine arched in agony. Her vision scattered. Her fingers contorted into jagged claws. The Music ripped the air from her lungs, tore at her muscles, hammered on her skull.
Somewhere far away, Roark was screaming.
It was over as quickly as it began.
Her pupils gathered sight and her lungs oxygen. Her fingers relaxed, the angles softened. She tried to climb to her feet, but her limbs failed.
“Impressive—you managed to remain silent.”
Ronja rolled over on her side and glowered at Victor through the glare of the glass. She could only see his silhouette from this angle, but she could hear the patronizing smirk in his voice.
“Are you ready to answer my questions honestly, son?”
“I—” Roark began.
“No!” Ronja shouted.
She climbed to her knees gracelessly, ignoring the ballistics that popped in her vision. She disregarded the senior Westervelt’s loathing stare, and held Roark’s terrified gaze in her own. She shook her head fiercely.
“Don’t give him anything else,” Ronja implored, hoping her intentions would reach him through the headphones. “He’s already—”
This time Ronja could not hold back a shriek of agony. The Music was louder now. It felt like someone was jamming shards of glass into her brain.
Victor halted The Music again.
Ronja lay on the floor. She did not remember falling, nor did she know how long the Song had been playing. Something warm and wet dripped from her working ear, splashing to the tiles in a symphony of nauseating plops. Through the dense fog in her eyes, she could see the horror plastered across Roark’s face.
“It’s a new form of The Music we’ve been working on,” Westervelt explained over the intercom.
He spoke as though they were discussing the weather. Each word felt like the tip of a needle on her eardrum. Ronja attempted to press her palm to her ear, but her arms were leaden.
“Obviously, it does not require a Singer to be transmitted. In the past we have used The Music as a salve for troublesome emotions, but recently I realized that if we can pinpoint the emotional sectors of the brain, why not control the pain receptors? Like so.”
Ronja braced herself, slamming her eyelids shut on the white room. She choked on her screams as the high-pitched keening again ruptured her brain.
Westervelt stopped it quickly.
“I was thinking of calling it The Lost Song in honor of the lost souls it will help tame. What do you think?”
“Pitch . . . you,” Ronja wheezed from the floor.
“Victor . . . Father,” Roark pleaded. “Enough. I’ll tell the truth, anything you want.”
No.
Ronja opened her eyes, her pupils retracting painfully.
Roark would tell him everything. He would give up the Anthem, give it up for her. She could see the words collecting on his lips like rainwater in a gutter. He was terrified of his father, the boy who feared nothing.
He was afraid for her.
Something blossomed in Ronja’s chest, uprooting the pain. A wisp of a smile dusted her cracked lips. Somehow, someway, Roark Westervelt had come to care for her. He was about to give up the Anthem, his family, his cause, to save her life.
She could not allow it.
Ronja rose on legs that should not have worked. The sounds drained from the space as she wavered on the spot, then took a step toward Roark. Her guards trailed her. Their footsteps and the hiss of their stingers could not crack her tranquil bubble. Her vision was abruptly sharp. Blood still gushed from her ear, but she did not feel it.
There was only Roark and his terror-struck face.
He was beautiful, she thought as she drew nearer. Ronja had noticed it before, but never stopped to appreciate it. She wanted the time to count each of his freckles, each odd gold fleck in his brown eyes. She knew she would never have it.
For a moment at least, she could pretend.
Ronja reached up with a bloodied hand and cupped his cheek. His skin was hot and soft beneath her rough palm.
“Save. Them.” she mouthed.
Ronja stretched up on tiptoe and kissed Roark full on the mouth. For a moment his lips were still against hers. Then he kissed her back, and it was enough.
The Offs were at her back, she could feel their disgusting breath on the nape of her neck.
They were exactly where she needed them.
She whirled, grabbed a crackling stinger by its charged end, and drove it straight into her heart. Roark screamed. Victor swore. She heard neither of them.
Ronja died smiling, her lips still tingling from her first and last kiss.
45: Linger
Roark
Ro
nja was dead.
Her blood was cooling on his cheek. Her body was limp. Her upturned palms were raw where she had seized the stinger. He could smell her burnt flesh. He could see the lower rim of her pale green irises peeking through her thick lashes.
The Offs were staring at her in vague shock. The one with the ponytail nudged her shoulder with the toe of his boot. Her head lolled to the side.
“DON’T TOUCH HER!” Roark roared.
The Offs scuttled backward, unnerved by his ferocity. Both sheathed their stingers, as if that could take back what had just occurred.
“Shame,” Victor sighed from behind the window. “You were about to tell me everything. Smart girl, she knew.”
A shard of grief lodged itself into Roark’s numb soul. His father was right. If he had been stronger, more resolute, Ronja would still be alive. They could have found a way out together.
Anything but this.
Roark sank to his knees. He shuffled forward and bent toward her shell, his manacles pulling fresh blood from his wrists.
Beaten, shaved, tortured, she was still beautiful. He could see the ghost of bravery on her angular face. He could still feel her lips against his and knew he would for the rest of his life, however short it might be.
He would have found a way to make her stay in Revinia. Even as he promised to help her find a way out of the city, he knew he could not lose her. He would have found a way. Convinced Wilcox to make an exception for her mother, hidden the woman in the tunnels if he had needed to.
“Take her to the ovens,” Victor ordered lazily.
“No!” Roark cried.
The guards advanced. Roark strained against his chains, but could not reach her body. The Offs snorted at him disdainfully. Each grabbed one of her limp wrists and dragged her across the tiles still slick with her blood. Roark watched her until she was tugged around the corner, her heels screeching against the floor.
“I’ll leave you here to think about what you’ve done,” Victor said.
He flipped the light switch as he exited, plunging the room into absolute blackness.
Roark did not notice.
46: Scorched
Evie
“If we survive this, I’m going to kill you.”
Terra looked over her shoulder to glare at Evie, but the motion was lost in the utter darkness of the sewage tunnel. “Not if I do myself in first,” she replied, recommencing the crawl up the claustrophobic shoot.
They were both on their stomachs, wriggling their way toward Red Bay through a thick film of feces and piss. They had been lucky so far. No new additions had been made to the concoction.
When Terra ambushed Evie on the hilltop, she thought for certain the blond girl was there to drag her back to the Anthem.
As it turned out, she was.
“Where are the others? I’m here to bring you back,” Terra demanded, her automatic trained unflinchingly on Evie’s chest.
“Even Ronja?” Evie asked, batting the weapon away. “How did you find us?”
“She’ll be sent away immediately,” Terra replied coldly, ignoring the second question and refocusing her aim on Evie.
“She isn’t a mutt, you’ve gotta know that.”
“If her mother has the gene, so does she.”
“You can’t seriously believe . . . hang on. How did you know it was her mother that was the mutt?”
The crickets whirred in the space after the question. Even in the dense shadows, Evie saw the color drain from her fellow Anthemite’s cheeks.
“It’s not important,” Terra finally snapped, steadying her weapon with her other hand. She advanced on Evie and pressed the barrel of the gun to her sternum. “Where is everyone? Please don’t tell me they’ve already gone in.”
Evie looked at the ground as if it might speak for her. The brush whispered in the breeze, but said nothing of any consequence.
“Where are they?” Terra demanded again, enunciating each word with devastating precision.
“I don’t know,” Evie finally replied, keeping her voice low so that it did not shake. “They went in to get Ronja’s family and never came out.”
Almost an hour later, in the bowels of the sewage system, Terra had yet to cut Ronja any slack.
“If that stupid pitcher hadn’t shown up with those skitzing doe eyes and that sob story, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” she huffed.
“If you want to blame somebody, blame Roark,” Evie shot back, grunting as she plunged her elbow into a particularly large lump of excrement. “He was never one to turn down a pretty face.”
“Is that what you call that half-starved squirrel?” Terra huffed.
“What is your problem?” Evie asked, the gears of her mind spinning in the stagnant, putrid air. “This is personal,” she realized slowly. “You wanted Ronja gone for good—why?”
“We’re getting close, shut up,” Terra replied.
Evie opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it. If they survived, she would force whatever Terra was hiding into the open.
They crawled on in silence.
Evie tried to hold Iris’s face in her mind, to smell her perfumed hair rather than the nauseating odor of the sewer. The exercise failed. Each time she pictured her smile, Iris’s countenance twisted into a mask of agony and terror.
“Almost there,” Terra whispered from several feet ahead.
Evie nodded mutely, more to herself than her companion.
Terra struggled toward the gray light peeking through the thick slats in the sewer grate. Evie followed suit frantically, latching on to the threads of fresh air.
“I need to push off your shoulders,” Terra said.
“Wha—?”
Terra slammed her booted feet into her shoulders with a wet slap. Evie grunted, but swallowed her complaints.
“Ready?”
Evie nodded again, her teeth slammed together.
“Three . . . two . . . ”
“Ugh!”
Terra shot forward, her rubber soles digging into Evie’s muscled shoulders. Metal shrieked against concrete as Terra dislodged the grate from its recess. A wreath of light poured into the tube, followed by a surge of fresh air. The blonde squirmed the rest of the way out, then turned to offer Evie a crud-slick hand. She grasped it firmly and was yanked from the tunnel.
“That was disgusting,” Evie moaned quietly, wiping her hands on the seat of her pants.
Terra ignored her, scanning the room with her keen hazel eyes.
“Where are we?” Evie asked, glancing around.
They had emerged in a vast, dim room caked in concrete. Crates and boxes were stacked to the low ceiling, which was crisscrossed with leaking copper pipes.
“Under the prison wing, I think,” Terra replied, drawing her sidearm from the holster on her thigh and cocking it resolutely.
“You think?” Evie breathed disbelievingly. “We can’t go off assumptions here, Terra.”
“I know more about this place than you do,” Terra shot back darkly.
Evie paused, her eyebrows knit together as she regarded the other girl. Terra was in the process of twisting her hair into a knot at the top of her head. She drew her two red rods from her jacket and jammed them into her locks with expert fingers. Without so much as a glance toward Evie, she took off across the expanse at a slow jog. Evie followed without a word.
The basement seemed to stretch on for miles. By the time they reached the stairwell to the surface, Evie was ready to accept a life of wandering the dank cellar.
They mounted the stone steps in silence, highly attuned to their echoing footfalls and breaths. They eventually came to a rust-eaten door. Waves of heat poured through the cracks in the portal, accompanied by the ferocious glow of an inferno.
Terra paused and turned to Evie.
“We’re coming out near the ovens. No one can have the time to raise an alarm, do you understand?”
Evie nodded.
“I’ve killed before,” she assured Terra.
They had been on a raid at a WI warehouse on the west side of the city. Evie was posted as a sniper on the rooftop across the street. It was bitterly cold, and sleeting. She had wanted nothing more than to go home to her bed, but forced herself to remain alert. Iris was with the team on the ground. She had been brought along as part of her medical training, but was left without a guard. She did not even notice the Off sneaking up behind her, his automatic aimed at her head.
Evie had shot him clear through his left eye from two hundred meters out and not felt a thing.
Terra wrenched open the door with a screech of its corroded hinges. She poked her head through, looking left and right. Terra nodded once, then slipped through the entrance. Evie followed cautiously. She choked as she drank in the polluted air. She felt she might wilt in the scorching heat. Evie blinked the smoke from her eyes and peered around.
She wished she had not.
Evie gagged again, but this time it was not from the smoke. She pressed her stained hands to her mouth, smothering a scream.
The room was dominated by a hulking, wide mouthed oven that issued gusts of unbearable heat and hungry, orange flames. An immobile conveyor belt was poised to feed the ravenous fire.
Bodies were stacked two deep on the broad platform, bald, naked, and sallow.
Evie made a noise close to a squeak and began to back toward the basement door.
“Focus, Evie,” Terra commanded sharply, moving toward the door that led to the rest of the prison. “Don’t think about it.”
“How can I—?” Evie gulped, shaking her head violently.
“Close your eyes. Follow my voice.”
Evie slammed her eyelids shut and began to walk toward Terra.
“Almost there,” the blond girl called softly.
Evie felt her muscles seize.
If we aren’t back in a few hours, we’re probably dead.
Evie’s eyes flashed open and she whirled on the spot.
“Terra!” she breathed. “What if they’re here?”
Terra was at the doorway, her hand on the knob. “Then we can’t help them.”
Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy Page 26
