“They have been acting off, now that I think about it,” Evie interjected, folding her muscular arms over her chest. “Were they friends before all this? They spend an awful lot of time together, now.”
“Terra doesn’t have any friends,” Iris answered, regret shading her voice.
“Only one way to figure this out,” Ronja said. She locked eyes with the surgeon, who nodded in return. “We talk to the Tovairin.”
42: Good Will
In the end, it was decided that Ronja and Roark would speak to Jonah alone. Evie was still working out her personal issues with the Tovairin. Iris was too anxious to do anything but fret. Mouse was just Mouse. As soon as they hit the narrow staircase to the basement, Roark put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “About before,” he began.
Ronja waved him off. “Forget it.”
“Ronja … ”
“No need to apologize,” she muttered, shrugging him off.
“There is,” he asserted, seeking her gaze. She glared down the wooden steps. They reminded her of the stairs to her bedroom at her old row house aboveground. “You know I trust you, right?”
Ronja looked up at Roark, her eyes hard and her lips pursed. Normally, the genuine flicker in his gaze would have melted her heart. Not today.
“I need you to understand something,” he said, taking her stiff hands in his own. She did not pull away, nor did she return the gentle squeeze he gave them. “Before I met you, there was nothing more important to me than taking down The Conductor and my father.”
“What about Evie and the others?” Ronja asked, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead.
“Of course,” he agreed. “But they were part of that goal. We all agreed a long time ago that we were willing to die in order to free ourselves and the city.”
“I am too,” Ronja reminded him, her voice dipping low. She tightened her fingers around his, but it was not a loving gesture. “I did die.”
Roark gave a ghost of a smile. “I know, love. I know. But listen to me. I love you because you are so much more than a weapon. You are music. You remind me of everything I am fighting for, and I know how selfish it sounds but every time I think about losing you I … ” He trailed off, swallowing his words. Ronja waited in silence for him to continue. “Your plan,” he finally said, “is incredibly stupid, and dangerous.”
Ronja opened her mouth, wrath bubbling up on her lips. Roark shushed her gently. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting.
“It is also a good plan,” he continued earnestly. “Stupid, but good. My kind of plan.”
“So you are with me?” she asked after a while.
Roark grinned, the volatile energy she loved rushing back into his eyes. She could not help but mirror his expression. “There and back,” he said.
“Then come on,” she said, taking her hands back from his and jerking her head toward the basement. “We have an interview.”
By the time they arrived at the iron door to the storeroom, they had settled back into their usual rhythm. “No torture,” Ronja muttered as they regarded the makeshift cell.
“Have a little faith, love,” Roark replied, fishing his key ring out of his pocket and selecting a small brass one. “Besides, I doubt it’ll be necessary.” He inserted the key into the lock and twisted. The tumblers clicked and he nudged open the door with the tip of his boot, drawing his revolver and aiming it around the corner. It creaked open on a dimly lit room. Ronja winced as the smell of body odor leaked out. Three times a day someone escorted Jonah to the bathroom after his meals. Apparently, those trips did not include time for showers.
“Ah, freckles and pretty boy, what can I do for you?”
Jonah sat in the shadow-drenched corner of the room, ignoring the folding chair only a few feet from him. The pillow and wool blanket they had given him were folded into a neat pile. His dishes sat nearby, scraped clean and stacked into a small cairn.
“Jonah,” Roark greeted him politely. He opened the door further and stepped back. Ronja shot him a disbelieving look, but said nothing. “You smell like you could use a shower.”
“I usually prefer to take my dates to dinner first,” Jonah answered, climbing to his feet with a grunt.
Ronja swallowed the stone in her throat. He was even taller than she remembered. His long hair was tied into a loose knot at his crown. He had stripped off his shirt, exposing his impressive muscles and …
“Wow,” Ronja murmured.
Jonah smirked at her, sliding his hands into his pockets. Roark, on the other hand, looked like he was about to punch him.
“Well … ” she defended herself as color flooded her face. “It is interesting.”
Winding around his arms and torso like creeping vines were dozens of intricate white tattoos. They reminded her of soaring flocks of birds against a dark sky.
“Reshkas,” Roark said aloud.
“Very good,” Jonah purred. “Unlike the Arexian, I can read mine.”
“She has a name,” Ronja snapped, her fascination evaporating.
“Most do,” Jonah answered with a solemn dip of his chin.
The girl bristled. Roark tapped her between the shoulder blades, reminding her to keep a level head.
The prisoner bent down to collect his clothes, then straightened up with a coy smile. “What about that shower, huh?”
“Surely I don’t need to tell you that if you try to run, I’ll shoot you,” Roark said breezily, opening the door a shred further.
Jonah grinned, exposing an unexpected dimple on his right cheek. “Not at all.”
“All right, then.” Roark took Ronja by the hand firmly. She arched an eyebrow at him as he pulled her aside to allow Jonah out. The Tovairin groaned with relief, stretching his long arms over his head, his bundle of clothes still in his big hands. His fingertips almost brushed the low hanging ceiling. Ronja struggled heroically not to look at his straining muscles.
“Get going,” Roark ordered, a hint of a warning in his voice. Jonah smirked at him, but dropped his arms and started toward the exit, his bare feet whispering across the concrete.
Ronja did not notice how uncomfortable she had been underground until they surfaced on the factory floor. She breathed in the vast space, her fingers loosening and her shoulders dropping. Roark did not seem to notice, his attention trained on their prisoner, who was looking around with mild interest.
“What do you have in all these boxes?” he asked.
“None of your concern,” Roark said. Ronja glanced up at him. His tone was calm, but the muscle in his jaw was bulging as it did when he was stressed. She cut her gaze toward the winding aisle of crates, a frown tugging on the corners of her mouth. They could not hold Singers anymore, could they?
She released his hand. He glanced at her questioningly, but did not protest.
They marched up the stairs, one after the other. Jonah led the way, clearly taking his time. He hummed under his breath as he trudged along. Roark went after him. Ronja brought up the rear. When they reached the attic, Roark gestured with his revolver down the hall to the bathroom. “You have five minutes, we’ll wait outside.”
“Sure you don’t want to join me, freckles?” Jonah inquired, glancing back at Ronja. Roark tightened his grip on his gun. Neither of them cracked a smile, stony faced. “Tough crowd,” the Tovairin muttered, then turned on his heel and padded down the hall to the showers.
“What are you doing?” Ronja asked out of the side of her mouth as Jonah shut the door. A moment later, the muffled hum of the pipes warming up graced their ears, followed by the gentle patter of falling water.
“Earning some good will,” Roark replied without taking his eyes off the bathroom door.
“We don’t have time to get him to like us,” she replied in a clipped tone. “Sam and Terra could be in danger.”
“It’ll go a lot faster than breaking him.”
As he said this, a door creaked open on the right side of the hall and a fiery head poked out. Iris
looked first at the bathroom door, then twisted around to glare at them. “Did I just hear Jonah?”
“You did,” Roark replied lightly.
“And you thought this was a good time to let him clean up?”
Ronja shot Roark a pointed look, signaling her agreement with Iris. The boy sighed heavily, reaching up to knead the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Just — trust me, would you?”
Iris and Ronja rolled their eyes at the same time, then the surgeon ducked back into her bedroom and shut the door. The whisper of a tense conversation seeped through the wooden panel. Evie, most likely.
Five minutes felt like fifty as Roark and Ronja paced back and forth along the hallway. Finally, the water turned off beyond the bathroom door. Roark stilled, as did she. He checked his watch. “Five minutes, on the dot,” he muttered. Ronja narrowed her eyes at the door. She could not remember if Jonah had been wearing a watch or not.
The door banged open as if in response to her thoughts. Steam ballooned into the corridor and Jonah parted it with his large body. He was fully clothed, even wearing his shoes and canvas jacket. Weighed down with water, his black hair fell past his shoulders. He was grinning ear-to-ear.
“That,” he said, kicking the door shut with his heel. The steam rushed away from the sudden slap. “Was incredible.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Roark said with a half-smile.
“So what is it you want?” he asked. The two Anthemites shared a quick look. “Oh, come on,” Jonah snorted, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I know what this is about. Something has changed, you need my help. So out with it.”
“Two of our own have gone missing,” Roark answered honestly. “We were wondering if you had spoken to them.”
Jonah stuck his little finger in his ear, then wiped a bit of earwax on his pants. “The Blondie Twins, right?” Ronja bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah, we talk occasionally on my bathroom excursions. Sometimes they even say ‘hi’ when they bring me my food.” He smiled a bit too wide. “We’re the best of friends.”
“Ever talk any more than just the occasional greeting?”
Jonah stroked his stubbly chin thoughtfully, making a contemplative noise at the back of his throat. “Well,” he said slowly. “There was the one time she busted into the storeroom and lobbed a knife at my head.”
“That sounds like Terra,” Ronja muttered darkly.
“Ah, Terra,” Jonah sighed melodramatically.
“She likes it when you call her blondie, actually,” Ronja piped up.
Roark elbowed her in the ribs. She blinked up at him innocently.
“Did you give her any information?” the shiny pressed. “Something that might have prompted her to leave?”
Jonah smiled, a slow creeping twist of his lips that gave Ronja chills. “Well,” he said. “She did leave me this.” He reached into his coat and drew out something silver and narrow.
Several things happened at once. Roark shoved Ronja backward, whipping his revolver out of the waistband of his pants. The door to Evie and Iris’s room banged open and a dark blur shot out and crashed into Jonah. The pair went flying into the far wall, slamming into the plaster with a crack. The Tovairin swore profusely as Evie twisted his arm behind his back, pressing his head into the wall with her free hand.
“DROP IT!” she roared in his ear.
“Dropping it,” Jonah said, wincing as he let the little blade fall from his fingers. It landed on the hardwood floor with a ringing crack. Ronja darted forward to retrieve it. It was heavier than she had expected.
“How did you get that?” Evie growled, twisting his arm with increased ferocity. Ronja glanced to the right as movement caught her eye. Iris was peeking out into the hallway with eyes flown wide.
“I told you,” Jonah grunted. “Terra left it behind when she came in to question me.”
“That doesn’t sound like Terra,” Ronja commented uncertainly. Evie glanced up from her prisoner. Her eyes were partially obscured by her raven hair. The singer felt her gut twist. She had never seen her friend look so unhinged.
“She freaked about something I said,” Jonah answered, his voice straining. A droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead, which was pressed to the wall.
“What?” Evie hissed, leaning forward
“Let me up and I’ll tell you.”
The techi released a puff of breath to blow her hair out of her eyes. She glanced over at Roark and Ronja, who were watching the scene unfold with equally stony expressions. Evie released the Tovairin, moving to stand in front of Iris protectively.
“Damn,” Jonah groaned, peeling away from the wall and massaging his shoulder. “What was that, Kenv Likan?”
It might have been her imagination, but Ronja was fairly sure Evie cracked a half smile. It disappeared quickly, if it had been there at all. “Kenv Mekan, actually,” the Arexian corrected him. “My mother taught me.”
“You know Kenv Likan is more powerful,” Jonah said, crossing his arms and observing the techi with an amused expression.
“Maybe for someone your size,” Evie shot back. Her eyes settled on his injured shoulder. “And I would not be so sure of that.”
“All right,” Ronja said, exasperation breaking into her tone. “You two can talk about this another time.” She held up the little blade and rounded on Jonah. “Why did Terra give this to you?”
The Tovairin shook his head, his wet hair flopping against his shoulders. “She lobbed it at my head and it got stuck in the wall.”
“Terra doesn’t miss,” Evie said accusatorially.
“Then she was just trying to scare me. Go check the storeroom,” Jonah suggested, nodding at the floor. “You’ll see the mark on the wall.”
“What did you say to her that caused her to leave one of her knives behind?” Roark pressed.
“A name,” Jonah said. “Cicada.”
A soft yelp from the bedroom Iris and Evie shared made them all jump. Half a moment later, Mouse stuck his brilliant head out into the hall. He looked as if someone had just slapped him. “Cicada? I know him!”
43: Seven Years
Terra
Terra woke up seven years in the past. It was the smell that gave it away. Fresh laundry and mothballs. Soft white sheets were pulled up around her shoulders. She squinted at the ceiling. It was painted deep purple. She remembered when she picked that color.
The Anthemite sat up slowly, the covers slumping around her. She was fully clothed save for her heavy winter coat, which was folded neatly in the upholstered armchair next to her bed.
Her bed.
Terra shivered, though the bedroom was just as cozy as it was in her memories. She took a few steadying breaths, then ripped off the white sheets and got to her feet. The ceiling traded places with the floor. She swayed, gripping the top of the armchair with a labor-hardened hand.
The vertigo faded. Terra looked around, drinking in her past.
A large queen bed sprawled beneath the window. The drapes were drawn, shutting out all but a sliver of light. If she were to pull them open, they would reveal a snowy lane. The picture of tranquility. Three small paintings hung above the headboard, each featuring a slightly different image of the ocean. A white vanity stood next to the closet. Terra crossed to it carefully. Her booted feet were silent against the pillowy carpet.
The mirror grasped her reflection. Her black clothes were rumpled from sleep, her long hair mussed. Her mascara ran down her cheeks in rivets. She must have landed face first in the snow when the drugs overwhelmed her system. The Anthemite smirked at herself in the looking glass. She would have been less out of place at an opera house.
A distant thump pricked her ear. Her eyes darted toward the white door. It was not locked; she did not have to try it to know that. That was not how Cicada did things.
She snatched her coat off the armchair, tugging it on as she stalked to the exit. Sure enough, when she twisted the brass knob the door creaked open on a familiar corridor. P
ristine white carpet, electric lamps mounted on the beige walls between the rows of closed doors.
Without giving herself time to wallow in nostalgia, Terra plunged into the hallway and marched toward the stairway at the end. She knew where her father would be waiting. Down the staircase, silent as a wraith even on the oak steps. Past the study and the dining room with its long table and hulking marble fireplace. Around the corner, past the bathroom and … Terra scuffed to a stop. The door to the parlor was cracked. Warm light tumbled across her boots.
“Come in,” a gravelly voice called.
Terra tensed, her hands flying to the blades still strapped to her hips. Of course, he had heard her. She pushed open the door and stepped through, leaving it open behind her.
“Cicada,” she said flatly.
“My daughter.” The parlor was just as she remembered. High-ceilinged with evergreen walls and a semicircle of armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. Built-in shelves overflowing with priceless artifacts from distant lands, and books so dangerous the Anthem would think twice before including them in their collection. The drapes were drawn across the arching window. The only source of light came from the electric lamps scattered about the room. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Terra zeroed in on the source of the voice. Her stomach hit the carpet. Cicada sat in his favorite armchair, one ankle resting on his knee, a glass of wine in his hand. He had aged since they last saw one another. Of course he had. His cropped brown hair was streaked with silver. Deep crow’s feet decorated the corners of his gray eyes. Yet he held himself with the confidence of a younger man.
“Where is my friend?” Terra inquired tonelessly.
“Safe,” Cicada answered. He gazed up toward the ceiling. “In the guest bedroom. The door is unlocked.”
“What did you dose us with?”
“A variation of the sap. One of my contacts gave it to me as a gift. Perfectly safe, I assure you.”
Terra grunted. “Did you dart us, or was it one of your students?”
“You mean to ask if I have a new you,” Cicada said with tilt of his head. Terra pursed her lips. He took a sip of his wine, watching her over the lip of the crystal glass. “Adulthood suits you,” he said. “That hairstyle does not.”
Radio Page 23
