Ronja shrugged off her pack. It landed with a ringing thunk, shaking a plume of dust from the ceiling. The debris coated her hair and shoulders. A neuron snapped in the hollows of her mind. Moving erratically, Ronja ripped off her black wig and coat, chucking both across the room. She shrugged off her top, cursing when it caught on her chin, then kicked off her boots and pants. Naked except for her underwear, she crossed to the sink.
She spun the knob labeled H, found it was busted, then turned to C. The faucet sputtered, the pipes rumbled. “Come on,” she ordered crossly. Icy water spouted from the tap. “See,” she muttered, running her hands under the stream. “Magic voice.”
Ronja made a basin with her palms, allowing water to pool there, then bent toward the sink and splashed her face. Her makeup sloughed off, the peach ribbons spiraling down the drain. She raked her wet fingers through her short hair, teasing out the knots that had formed under the wig. Shivering, she locked eyes with her reflection.
Her pallor had returned along with her freckles. The water made her curls appear longer, darker. They dripped down to her cheekbones. She took a step back to examine her body. It was a battlefield. Or maybe it was a universe. Her freckles could be distant constellations, the white scars on her chest, planets. The branching burn over her heart could be the sun.
Maybe.
“Siren,” she tested the word on her tongue, watching to see if it matched the curve of her lips. “Siren.”
Mutt.
Ronja gasped, whirling around and bracing herself against the porcelain. The water continued to run, unfazed. She glanced around wildly, terror clawing at her throat. The voice was so close, she had felt a gust of breath at her ear. A reply formed in her mouth. She swallowed it. Speaking to a figment of her imagination was as good as admitting she was losing her mind. She could not afford to do that.
Ronja turned off the faucet and hurried over to her bag. With quaking hands, she dug through her belongings until she found her favorite sweater, the red one that fell to her knees. Tugging the roomy gray socks Georgie had knit for her over her feet, she stumbled to the nearest bunk and curled into a ball on the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut against the room, against the world, against her own mind. It was too much. She could not handle it, but she had to.
The walls sang her to sleep. They spoke a single line, repeated over and over like a chant, a mantra. Maybe the stars are alive after all.
22: Caterpillar
Terra
“What does a man have to do to get some food around here, blondie?”
Terra rolled her eyes, shifting against the metal door. They had only escaped the Belly a couple hours ago and she was already back on guard duty underground. While the basement was considerably less pungent than the sewers, the maze of corridors was no less depressing. Half of the lights were busted. The bulbs that did work cast a sickly green glow. And it was cold. Damn cold. The hallways were lined with scores of identical locked doors. She never would have found the storeroom were it not labeled accordingly.
“I could go for some pastries,” the prisoner went on, his request muffled by the thick panel between them. Terra breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. The rogue had entered his cell without a fuss, but once the boredom set in, he refused to shut up. “You still out there?” he inquired after a long pause.
Terra did not answer. She was good at keeping quiet. It was a skill she had acquired early in life.
“When the doctor comes, I need you to keep quiet,” her mother used to say, stroking her blonde hair with a tender hand. Then she would smile, deepening the crow’s feet that branched from her warm hazel eyes. “Can you do that for me, caterpillar?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
Then she would crawl into the closet, cocoon herself in towels and quilts while the sound of bedsprings shrieking twined with The Music. She would wait in the blackness and the noise, listening for that final creak and groan, waiting for her mother to open the door. “All done, butterfly. How about some tea?”
“Oi, blondie!” Jonah bellowed, slamming on the door with a large fist. Terra flinched as the shock ripped through her spine.
“Keep calling me blondie, see how far that gets you,” she shot back.
His laugh dusted her remaining ear through the sheet of metal. Her skin prickled uncomfortably. “Well you never did give me your name, sugar.”
“No need to talk to me at all, then.”
“Terra.”
The agent jumped at the sound of her own name, her hand flying instinctively to the blade at her hip. “Evie,” she sighed, unable to keep the relief from her voice. The techi was the one person in the warehouse she could stand to talk to. Terra climbed to her feet, wincing as her stiff muscles creaked. “What are you doing down here?”
Evie smiled vaguely as she approached. She had shed her wig along with her coat and weapons and now wore a loose green sweater and leggings. The curved edge of her Anthem brand peeked over the lip of the fabric. “Just looking around,” she answered, coming to a halt before Terra. She jerked her chin at the storeroom. “He giving you any trouble?”
Terra gave a bitter smile. “About as much as you would expect.”
“I can hear you,” Jonah grumbled.
Evie nodded, ignoring the Tovairin. She appeared to be wrestling with her words. “Actually, I came to see if you needed any help.”
Terra cocked an eyebrow at her. “Watching the locked door? No, not really.”
The techi huffed. Her shoulders sagged with an intangible burden. “Look, can I just stay awhile?” She glanced down at her boots, at a loss for words. That was a first. “No one really wants me around right now.”
Terra could not resist. She grinned. Her jaw ached at the foreign motion. “Join the club. What did you do?” Evie grimaced. “Come on, Wick. Spit it out.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, Terra noted the novelty of the situation. She could not remember the last time someone her own age had confided in her about something other than tactical plans. It was a good feeling.
“I was a bit of a skitzer,” Evie answered, shutting her eyes and kneading them with her palms. “This place brings out the worst in me.” She let her hands fall limp at her sides. “Last time I was here I was a kid. Sixteen, I think. We came on the anniversary of the day … you know.”
Terra nodded. She remembered the day the Romancheck party left for a mission and never returned. It was the same day Roark arrived in the Belly. “Yeah, I know.”
Evie reached out and clapped Terra on the shoulder. The agent strove not to flinch at the gesture. She had not realized how long it had been since someone had touched her in a friendly manner.
Jonah shattered the moment. “Evie, huh? You the Arexian or the cute redhead?”
“Shut it!” the techi barked.
Jonah fell silent. It was the satisfied sort of quiet that oozed through the walls. Terra and Evie copied him for a while, each sifting through their own thoughts.
The techi finally broke the hush. “What do you think of him?” she asked, jerking her head toward the storeroom.
Terra shrugged.
“He has to be Tovairin,” Evie went on, speaking more to herself than to her comrade. “He called me … ” She bit down on her lip until it turned white. “He speaks the language. He looks Tovairin.”
Terra glanced at the stockroom. Jonah was keeping his silence, but that did little to comfort her. Motioning for Evie to follow, she took off down the corridor. The techi fell into step beside her. They did not speak until they were a good dozen paces from the makeshift cell. “His story seems off,” Terra said in a low voice. “Usually when something is too good to be true, it is.”
Evie nodded. “My mum always told me, never trust a Tovairin.”
Terra skated over the comment with a question. “What do you know about the Kev Fairla?”
“Not much,” she admitted, scratching her head. “But what he said matches up with what my parents told me. They overthrew their leader
, they run the nation now.” She gave a considerate tilt of her head. “At least, they did when we left Arexis.”
“Do they have any identifying marks?”
Evie cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
Terra crossed her arms, peeking back at the storeroom suspiciously. “I searched him before I locked him up,” she murmured. “I had to lift up his shirt to check for weapons. He’s covered in tattoos, looks like head to toe.”
Evie sucked in a shocked breath that did not match her gruff exterior. Terra lifted a single brow. “Skitz,” the techi breathed. She spread her fingers before her, examining them in the sickly light. Terra followed her gaze. She had never paid much attention to Evie’s tattoos before. Every Anthemite was branded with the symbol of the revolution, and many chose to decorate their skin with artistic ink. Still, there was something unique about the whirling symbols that spiraled from the tips of her fingers to her wrists. “Well,” Evie said. “He has to be Tovairin.”
“What are they?”
“Reshkas,” the techi answered. “I should have thought to check for them before. Tovaire and Arexis have some common traditions.” She winced at the admission. “When kids turn fifteen they get their ancestry tattooed on their bodies. My dad is an artist, so I had my ceremony here. I … “ She cut herself off, plunging her hands into her pockets as if to hide them. “Jonah was right. I never learned to read mine.”
Terra gave a terse bob of her head. She could tell it was a sensitive subject for Evie, but now was not the time to be gentle. Not that she had much capacity for tenderness in the first place. “His are a lot bigger than yours,” she noted.
“Yeah, they’re probably in white ink too, right?”
“Yes.”
“I remember hearing about this,” the techi mumbled, massaging her chin and gazing into oblivion. “The white ink represents … pitch … my mum explained this … ”
“Wick, focus.” Terra snapped her fingers twice before her vacant face. “Do the Kev Fairla have any specific markings?”
“Not that I know of. Anyway, reshkas are mostly just words, not pictures.”
An idea sparked in Terra. “How similar are Arexian and Tovairin? The languages, I mean.”
The techi eyed her reproachfully. “Not similar at all,” she ground out.
Ignoring the disappointment taking root in her stomach, Terra spun back toward the storeroom, her hands resting on her knives. She imagined Jonah pressing his ear to the face of the door, straining to hear them. That was what she would be doing if she were in his position. She did not care if he heard her next words. In fact, she hoped he did. “Guess we’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.”
“Terra,” Evie warned.
The agent rolled her eyes at the low ceiling, groaning so the techi knew. “Get off your high horse, Wick, you almost turned his brains to pudding an hour ago.”
“Whatever. Trip said to wait.”
“Do you always do what Trip tells you?” Evie did not respond, so Terra pounced. She turned back around, her fingers knit pleadingly. “Come on Wick, just stall them for a few hours, tell them I have the watch covered. I can figure out who he is and what he wants. Just give me a chance.”
Evie squinted at her, her jaw bulging in her cheek. Terra swallowed her heart as it attempted to climb into her throat. Finally, the techi groaned and raked a hand through her jaw length hair. “Fine. Just keep him alive. If you kill him, everyone is gonna think I egged you on.”
Terra grinned darkly. At this rate, she was going to develop a downright sunny disposition. She made a fist, then smashed it into her open palm. “Excellent.”
Evie chuckled. “I thought I was supposed to be the pitched one.”
“Two can wear that crown, Wick.”
23: Answer
Jonah
Jonah smiled bitterly, his ear pressed to the door. The girls had moved off down the corridor. Their exchange was a ghost. He could make out the rise and fall of their conversation, but could not tease apart the words. He peeled away from the panel and turned back to his cell.
It was small but not claustrophobic. He had been in far worse. The only door was the one through which he had entered. No windows, of course. There was a vent in the ceiling. It was scarcely the width of his thigh. There would be no escaping through there.
Not that he was looking to run.
The only furniture was a folding chair blanketed in dust. He crossed to it with grace that did not match his bulky form and sat. He shoved back his long hair and probed his right ear with his pointer finger. Rather than cartilage, he hit metal. He smothered a wince when the communicator shifted in its bed of scar tissue. He had not been pleased when his client insisted the device be placed, but had to admit the little bug was useful.
Static crunched as the communicator came to life. The metal warmed against his skin. He did not wait for his employer to speak; he knew he was listening. “They took me prisoner, just as you expected,” Jonah whispered in Tovairin, his gaze locked to the door. “You can trace my location as soon as the strike team is ready.”
“Nis,” came the mechanical whisper. Though Jonah would never admit it, he found the closeness of the voice unsettling. “Verta telesk.” The line went dead. He reached up and shut the device down with a touch. He leaned forward, his fingers steepled in contemplation. His employer’s Tovairin was flawed, but his command was clear.
Wait.
Jonah was about to get back to doing just that when the door banged open, spilling greenish light over him. He barked a curse in his native tongue and vaulted out of the chair. He had not even heard the key stir the tumblers. Somewhere in the back of his rattled mind, he kicked himself for letting his guard down. He could not remember the last time he had been so startled.
“Still feel like talking, sugar?”
The girl, the one with the half-buzzed head and long nose, stood in the doorway. She held two slender throwing knives and wore a smile reminiscent of a wolf drooling over its prey.
Jonah felt his lips curl upward of their own volition. “How about those pastries?” he replied dryly.
She stepped through the door and kicked it shut with her booted heel. She twirled the knives between her fingertips. A pretty trick, but that did not mean she knew how to use them. “Wrong answer,” she growled.
“Well … ”
All he felt was the piercing kiss of the blade whistling past his temple. Jonah tried and failed not to flinch when it embedded itself in the far wall with a ringing thud. He peeked over his shoulder, his eyebrows high on his forehead. The blade shuddered in the drywall, trembling like a frightened child. A shocked chuckle pulled itself from his chest as he swung back around to look at the girl.
“Well fiest me, what did you want to talk about?”
“How about we start with what you are really doing here.”
24: Flare
Iris
A tentative knock at the door broke her concentration. Iris glanced up from her book, her nostrils flaring. The knob jiggled noisily, then stilled. She had locked it the moment she was inside. Evie knew which room she would choose, the same one they slept in last time they were at the warehouse.
“Come on, darling, open up,” the techi begged through the panel. Iris creased the page to mark her place and set aside her paperback. It was collection of poetry called Silence and Noise her mother had given her on her eleventh birthday. The poor little book was so worn she had twice been forced to reinforce its binding. The paper was the color of butter and smelled like home.
“Can you just open the door?” Evie pleaded.
Iris crossed her arms, her impatience waxing as the girl struggled to find the right words.
“I know I was a pitcher,” she finally managed. Iris imagined her resting her brow against the door. The taut threads of her heart loosened. “Please just let me in so I can apologize.”
Iris shot to her feet, fuming. White lights cracked in her vision at the sud
den change in pressure. “I am not the one you need to be apologizing to!” she yelled.
“Ronja is asleep, or just really good at keeping quiet. I already tried knocking.” Iris bit her lip. “Come on, darling,” Evie pleaded, an exhausted edge creeping into her tone. “Let me in.”
Iris took a breath, forcing out her anger and inviting in composure. She crossed to the door, flipped the lock and yanked it open. Evie stumbled in with a black curse. Rather than catching her, the surgeon stepped back, watching with narrowed eyes as her girlfriend resealed the door.
“Right,” Evie sighed, spinning around to face her.
Her muscular form sagged, even her thick hair seemed limp. Bluish circles ringed her eyes. Any other time her appearance would have instilled pity in Iris, but not now.
“Out with it,” Evie said.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Iris exploded, throwing her hands into the air. “You could have killed that man, and I know he was Tovairin, but that does not make it okay!”
Evie made a cyclical motion with her wrist, her eyes on the whitewashed ceiling as she waited for her to finish her tirade.
The surgeon felt heat blossom in her cheeks. Her small frame began to quiver with rage. “You could have killed Ronja,” she said in a soft voice.
Evie tensed visibly. “Her jacket protected her.”
“You could have killed her!” Iris shrieked again, jabbing a finger at the techi. “Then where would we be?”
Evie opened her mouth, then shut it with a snap. She shifted her gaze to the floorboards as shame flooded her features.
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