“Six.”
For Iris and Evie, so their love could see the light of day.
“Five.”
For Roark and the burns on his arms. For Sigrun.
“Four.”
For herself.
“Three.”
Ronja opened her eyes.
“Two.”
She gripped the microphone with both hands, stepped so close that her lips brushed the grated metal.
“One.”
Ronja began to sing.
The walls of the warehouse did not crumble. The air did not flee the room, nor did the planet tilt on its axis. The shift within Ronja, however, was immediate. Immense.
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
The familiar song ignited before her eyes, swallowing the faces of her friends, the wires, the machine, the arching ceiling of the warehouse. The visual manifestation of her voice was different than any instrument she had ever seen. At first glance, the writhing knots of sound were black as smokestacks. But the harder she stared, the more light she saw within. With each note the masses grew larger, fraying at the edges, spilling like water.
It was not beauty. It was power.
Blood in my veins and you say it’s cold
But if you cut my skin it will come out gold
The brainwaves are crashing on the shores of my mind
And if you stare too long then you may go blind
Ronja’s brain split, one half stumbling into the past, the other vaulting into the future. She saw where she had come from. A childhood marked by loneliness. An adolescence marred by prejudice and fear. She saw where she might go. A world without borders. A world full of possibility and song.
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 spun itself shut. No one needed to tell her she was out of time. Her internal clock still remembered the length of the gap. As the final seconds flickered out, her lips parted of their own volition. “This is Siren,” Ronja said, her voice sharp as honed metal. “May your song guide you home.”
The static fell flat in her ear as the line went dead. The thunderheads built from her song evaporated. Ronja removed the headphones, running her fingers through her hair. She was surprised to find she was not shaking. It felt as though hours had passed, though she knew it was barely more than a minute. “How was … ”
Iris reached her first, throwing her arms around her neck and kissing her on both cheeks. Evie hit her a split second later, slamming into her like a freight train. Ronja felt her eyes pop as the breath went out of her.
Just as the girls released her, Roark swooped in and lifted her from the ground. He spun her once, then planted her on her feet and kissed her full on the mouth. Evie crowed and Iris let out a shriek that could have shaken dust from the ceiling.
When the boy pulled back after what seemed like an infinity, Ronja was beet red. “Did it work?” she asked breathlessly. She looked to Mouse and Evie, who both shrugged helplessly. “How do we know if it worked?”
Static crunched as if in response, the telltale signature of a communicator coming to life. Ronja traced the sound to Evie, who dug a handheld radio out of her pocket and held it out for them to hear. Everyone froze, their breath suspended as they waited for an answer. “This is Medusa,” came a familiar female voice, gravelly from the poor connection. “It’s working.”
30: The Shift
Terra
The last time she was in the slums, Terra was ten. She had passed through them since, but never stayed. There was no reason for anyone to visit the sprawling shantytown, unless they were looking to make a buck in the fighting rings.
The odor of human waste was only overpowered by the stench of garbage. There was no electricity, no plumbing and not a trustworthy soul for miles. Even the Offs steered clear. The Music kept the residents from revolting against The Conductor, but did nothing to protect them from one another.
Terra crouched low in a mud-slick alley between two dilapidated huts. She had tied her blonde braids into a knot under her hood. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself. The radio Evie had given her was warm in her chest pocket. It was raining. Sleeting, really. Any other time she might have cursed her luck, but the rain felt incredible after weeks stuck underground.
The Revinians trudging along the main road did not seem to agree with her. They walked with their heads bowed, their spines bent. But then, that could have been The Music. It withered the soul. The body followed.
Terra stifled a yawn, rocking back and forth in a vain attempt to create a bit of heat. After they laid out the basic parameters of their plan, Samson had insisted on taking her watch. Disgruntled, she had retreated to one of the attic bedrooms to get some shut-eye. Then Evie was shaking her awake, asking her to sneak into the slums to observe the test broadcast.
She sincerely hoped she was not about to watch an accidental massacre. Though it might be a skitzing mercy, she thought dryly, watching as a girl a few years younger than her rooted around in a pile of trash for something to eat.
“Oi, you!”
Terra stiffened, slipping her hand inside her coat to brush the cool hilt of her closest blade. She stood fluidly and rounded on the voice, squinting through the sheets of icy precipitation.
Three hulking men barred the mouth of the alley. They were clothed in varying shades of gray and brown. The only bright things about them were their Singers. Even their eyes were as dull as paper. The largest of the trio, clearly the leader, stood at the front of the pack. He carried a knobby club as thick as his massive forearms. His seconds carried rusted blades.
“Nice coat you got there,” the leader drawled, grinning to expose rotting teeth. His beady eyes raked up and down her body. “Would like ta see what’s under it.”
Terra smirked. “You’ll have a hard time seeing without your head.”
His depraved smile faltered. He whistled through the gap in his front teeth and jabbed a sausage finger at her. “Get her.”
“Any other day I would gladly put you out of your misery,” Terra said, not budging an inch as the knife wielders prowled toward her. “But now is actually a bad time.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.” Terra drew the knives at her hips with a ringing hiss. The honed metal glinted in the silver light.
The thugs stopped in their tracks, glancing back at their boss uncertainly. Clearly they had not expected her to put up a fight. He jerked his head at her again and they advanced with caution.
The Anthemite heaved a sigh. “Can we put this off for … ” She squinted at her rain speckled watch. “Ten seconds?”
The boss stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues. His goons froze again, peering back at him over their hunched shoulders. “Sorry?”
“Five.”
“Shut her up, would ya?” The order fell on deaf ears. The thugs dropped their weapons. Terra hissed in disgust and surprise when muck sprayed across her boots. The two men reached up to touch their Singers, confusion warping their expressions. Behind them, their boss had let his club slip from his fingers. He was clutching his head as if it were about to burst.
Here we go, Terra thought tensely. She offered a lazy salute, then whipped around and sprinted out onto the main road. Her breath snagged in her ribs. She skidded to a halt, sending up a spray of mud.
Nothing moved but the driving sleet and the burgeoning storm clouds. Never in her twenty-three years had Terra seen such utter stillness. Never had she heard such silence. Hundreds of bodies crowded the slick road, their limbs and faces stiff as iron. She searched their paralyzed features for traces of panic or agony. Not daring to breathe, she took a tentative
step toward the closest Revinian, a young man about her age in a heavily patched coat. He stared into oblivion, his lips parted.
It was not fear in his eyes, she realized with a jolt. It was focus. They were not afraid. They were enraptured. It was working.
Terra pulled out her radio, her frigid hands trembling with cold and unchecked adrenaline. “This is Medusa,” she said into the speaker, dusting off the code name she had not used in months. “It’s working.”
31: Synesthesia
“To Ronja, the Siren!”
Glasses clinked as Ronja drained her fourth shot of whiskey. She winced as the burning liquid slid down her throat, grateful to whoever thought to bring alcohol on a suicide mission. Then again, almost two hours had passed since the broadcast and the Offs had yet to bust down the door.
It took ten minutes for the party to migrate upstairs to Ronja’s room, twenty for the whiskey to appear, and sixty for Iris to get entirely too drunk for her own good. She hung off Evie like a rag doll, her cheeks as bright as her hair, her mouth churning out stories none of them could follow. Ronja and Roark sat shoulder to shoulder on one of the lower bunks, watching as Iris tried to convince Mouse to dance with her to a beat that did not exist.
“This feels … ” Ronja started to say. Roark passed her a curious glance, waiting for her to continue. Instead, she just smiled and shook her head. The moment was too lovely to weigh down with words. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?” He leaned toward her and brushed his lips against the curve of her ear. Ronja shivered. His breath was sharp with alcohol, but his voice was steady. Controlled. “I was thinking maybe we could slip over to my room later, if you like.”
“I … ”
“You two are so cute I could just … ” Iris cut herself off with a hiccup. She giggled. Her hands were braced against Mouse, who was only mildly less intoxicated than she. “Eat you up.”
“Huh.” Mouse eyed Ronja and Roark with a wrinkled nose. “I just … nah.”
“Seriously?” Roark muttered under his breath.
“Please, like we were going to take it easy on you two,” Iris scoffed. Mouse agreed with a fervent shake of his head. “Not after all of that.” She puckered her lips in a poor interpretation of their kiss. Roark muttered unintelligibly under his breath as Ronja fought a blush.
“We should get some food in you two,” Evie said, wedging herself between Mouse and Iris. She grabbed them both by their shoulders and steered them toward the door. “Lightweights,” she sighed.
Just before they reached the exit, the techi shot Ronja a knowing glance. The singer could not help but grin. The door clicked shut, muffling the drunken protests of the trader and surgeon. Roark wasted no time pulling Ronja into a tight embrace. She laughed as he peppered kisses across her face, one for every freckle. “You.” He kissed her left cheek. “Were.” Her right. “Incredible.” His mouth found hers and she sank into the bliss.
“It feels too good to be true,” Ronja admitted when they finally pulled apart. “When was the last time something went our way?”
Roark chuckled darkly. “I think maybe we’re due.”
Ronja flopped back onto the mattress. “Maybe,” she conceded doubtfully.
“It’ll be a process.” Roark wedged himself between her body and the wall. She scooted over a few inches to accommodate him. “We knew from the start one broadcast was not going to be enough to undo a lifetime of The Music. We’ll know more once Terra gets back, but she said they felt something, and that in my humble opinion, is worth celebrating.”
Ronja snorted, rolling her eyes at the underside of the bunk bed. “You. Humble. Right.”
“Oi,” the boy growled, clutching her closer. She let out a short laugh, marveling again at the ease with which they fit together, body and soul.
“Count your victories, yeah?” she said.
“Every last one.”
They fell silent, their breathing settling into a magnetic rhythm. Ronja let her eyelids fall shut. She was not tired. In fact, she could not remember the last time she felt so well rested. She was simply content.
“I have a question,” Roark admitted after a while.
Ronja opened her eyes, her stomach tightening. There was a hesitant ring to his voice she did not like.
“Shoot,” she said.
“When you sing, you get this look on your face, almost like … ” He paused, his arm tightening around her torso, to restrain or to protect. She tensed, waiting for the inevitable. “Like you are seeing something.”
Ronja felt her heart sink through the mattress, landing with a dull thwack on the dusty floor. She knew she was going to have to tell him eventually, but had hoped to put it off for as long as possible. With a heavy sigh, she rolled over onto her side, facing away from Roark. She did not think she would be able to look him in the eye when she admitted it.
“It started at Red Bay,” she began, keeping her eyes locked on the whitewashed wall. Roark was still against her, listening. For the first time, she found herself wishing he was not so damn attentive. “When I sang to you, I saw something. I thought it was The Lost Song still messing with my head, but when we got back to the Belly, it was still there.”
“What was?”
Ronja licked her lips, which were dry as a crust of bread. “It only happens when I hear music, or when I sing. Especially when I sing.” She swallowed a wad of nonexistent saliva. “I see colors, shapes. Everywhere. Not just in my head, they look real, like I could touch them. They move with the music.”
She waited for Roark to say something, to tell her she was insane or imagining things. Instead, he maintained his silence. Somehow, that was worse. “They … they go away as soon as the song is over,” she babbled, attempting to fill the void. “I … ”
“Synesthesia.”
“Sorry?” Ronja flipped over, wondering if perhaps she had misheard him. Perplexed relief washed over her when she found Roark was grinning at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling with wonder.
“I think,” he continued, stressing the second syllable. “You might be a synesthete.”
“A syne — ?”
“A synesthete,” he explained through his radiant smile. “It means some of your senses cross over. Some people can taste colors or sounds. Some people see colors when they hear sounds, or in your case music. You said it started at Red Bay, right?” The girl nodded mutely. “I’ll bet you anything it was triggered by The Lost Song.” Roark itched his shadowed jaw thoughtfully. “You were probably predisposed; a lot of artists are.”
“Artists?” Ronja asked with a snort. “I thought I was a weapon.”
Roark shrugged against the mattress. “Sirens are both.” The girl rolled her eyes again and gave him a slight shove. He threw his hands up in defense. “Hey, you said it, not me.”
“Good point. Thought it had a nice ring, though,” she muttered, itching the bridge of her nose.
“It does,” he agreed, adopting a somber tone. “You needed a code name, anyway.” Ronja cocked her head to the side in askance. “We all have code names, just in case,” Roark explained. “Actually, yours fits perfectly. Most of ours are from mythos.”
“What’s yours?”
“Drakon. It’s a dragon,” he answered with an embarrassed twitch of his lips. “We all picked ours from the book of myths my sister gave me. Evie is Chimera, Iris is Nymph, Terra is Medusa, Samson is Griffin.”
“Huh, it does fit,” Ronja realized with a little laugh. A thought struck the humor from her. Her brow furrowed. “Who do you think started calling me Siren? And how did word get to the Kev Fairla?”
Roark mirrored her troubled expression. “I wish I could tell you.” He sighed. “No one under The Music could have coined it; myths are outlawed.”
Ronja nodded. Since being severed from her Singer, she had gotten her hands on multiple books hoarded by the Anthem filled with magical creatures and impossible worlds. They kept her up at night almost as much as her nightmares.
“It had to be someone who knows about your voice, obviously,” Roark went on. Suspicion crept into his eyes. He shifted anxiously, the springs of the mattress groaning under his weight. “Maybe it’s a warning, someone trying to tell us they know who you are.”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “Or maybe they are trying to tell us they stand with us.”
Roark chuckled, laying a hand on her waist. Her stomach fluttered. She fought to keep her mind from wandering. “When did you get so bloody optimistic?”
“Hard not to be when we keep kicking ass.” They grinned at each other and fell into another easy silence. Eventually, Ronja looped back to the inception of the conversation. “So,” she began tentatively. “I am not going crazy?”
“No more than usual.”
“Hilarious.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me?” he asked curiously. Ronja shrugged, breaking eye contact with him. She spotted a bit of lint on the sleeve of his sweater and picked it off absently. “Synesthesia is nothing to be afraid of,” he told her, blanketing her hand with his. “Just another thing that makes you so rare.”
Ronja felt her throat tighten, her eyes fill. Roark tensed against her, his fingers tightening around hers. She waved him off frantically. “Sorry,” she grumbled, wiping her cheeks. “Just the shots.”
“I have seen you throw back twice that much without breaking a sweat, love,” the boy said dryly. “Come on, what is it?”
I never thought I deserved to be loved. I never thought I was capable of loving someone back.
“Nothing.” An unexpected wave of exhaustion rolled over her, weighing down her eyelids. She took a slow breath and tucked her head into his neck. “Can we go to sleep?”
“Of course,” Roark said quickly. “Do you want me to go?”
Ronja shook her head. He pulled her close, curling around her to press a kiss on top of her curls. “I love you,” she mumbled, sleep sweeping over her like a curtain across a stage.
“I love you, Siren.” The words stood guard over her, wardens to her nightmares.
Radio Page 18
