“Jonah,” Maxwell said, ignoring her. “Where are they?”
The Tovairin stepped aside and motioned for the pair of Officers to do the same. They parted ways, pressing their backs to the walls of the corridor. Ronja felt her knees buckle. Somehow, she maintained her balance. Evie, Iris, and Mouse stood in the gap, hands cuffed behind their backs and headphones clamped over their ears.
51: Muzzle
“So glad you all could make it,” Maxwell said smoothly, beckoning the three Anthemites. When none of them moved, the Offs grabbed them and half-led, half-dragged them inside. “Put them with young Mr. Westervelt and the other one,” he continued, gesturing at Roark and Samson. He locked eyes with Ronja, who snarled at him like a feral dog. “I want the Siren to have a good view of her friends.”
Ronja quivered with rage as Evie and the others were forced to their knees next to Roark and the captain. Evie was bleeding from a nasty gash on her forehead. Iris was sporting a split lip and Mouse a black eye.
“We are still waiting for a few guests,” Maxwell said, glancing around at them all as if they were an audience waiting for a play to begin. “I do hope they are on time. I would rather not delay.”
“Delay?” Ronja asked through gritted teeth.
Maxwell sighed, casting his eyes to the gilded ceiling. “Yes, dear girl, delay. Delay the launch of The New Music. It has been finished for weeks, I have only to apply the final piece. ”
“And what is that?” Ronja growled.
She tried not to flinch when Maxwell let out a laugh that could shatter glass. “My dear little bird, what do you think? You are the final piece. The Siren. The weapon. You did what my father tried and failed to do for decades, you united the people organically.”
The room slipped from focus. Ronja steadied herself against the back of the leather chair.
“You,” she breathed. “You were the one who named me.” Her gaze darted to Jonah, who stood at the edge of the room between two Offs. He refused to meet her eyes.
“Yes,” Maxwell answered with a smirk. “I am.”
“Why wait?” Ronja demanded. She jabbed a finger at Jonah, who shifted awkwardly under the spotlight of her gesture. “You knew where we were. What the hell have you been waiting for?”
Maxwell giggled behind his hand, waiting for her to put the pieces together. A moment later, she did.
“You were playing with us,” she murmured. “You wanted us to believe we had won.”
Maxwell grinned, his eyes flashing like broken bottles in sunlight. He strode over to her swiftly. Roark swore and began to struggle against his captor. Ronja kept her eyes on the enemy. All traces of his awkwardness were gone. He was still erratic, but was pulsing with power and authority. He stopped a breath from her. She lifted her chin defiantly as he peered down at her.
“Yes, little bird,” he breathed, lifting a large hand to her face. Ronja tightened her jaw as he ran his thumb across her lips. “I was playing with you. I wanted to see how far you could take it, and look!”
He jerked her head to the side, toward the inferno leaking through the glass. Roark swore, elbowing his guard in the gut to no avail. Maxwell pressed his lips to her ear. “Look how far you have come. Truly, you are the best opponent I could have asked for. More than I could have dared to hope. Your father would be proud.”
Ronja snatched his wrist and bit down on his thumb with all her strength. Hot blood spurted in her mouth as Maxwell roared in agony. The Offs flew forward, struggling in vain to restrain her. She lashed out blindly with her feet as one Off lifted her from the ground. She released her jaw and spat at Maxwell, spraying his own flesh and blood across his contorted features.
“YOU BITCH!” he howled, cradling his hemorrhaging hand to his chest. He rounded on the nearest Off, snarling. “You,” he commanded. “Bring me what I asked for. This girl needs to keep her mouth shut.”
Ronja twisted in the grip of the Off. Rather than trying to still her, he lifted her higher then smashed her into the ground. She landed on her back, her head ricocheting off the marble. Her vision fled along with her breath. Before she could collect herself, she was dragged to her knees, her skull held in place by two massive hands. She struggled feebly as something metallic was slipped under her tongue, then locked around the back of her head.
“Much better,” Maxwell hissed. The Offs supporting Ronja retreated and she sagged toward the ground. “Stay with me, little bird,” he hissed, snatching her by her hair and dragging her upward. “Look at me. Look at me.”
Ronja blinked up at the madman. Her vision was spotted with gray and black. “Useless,” Maxwell spat, releasing her. She collapsed to the ground, limp as a rag doll. Her own blood was pooling beneath her head. Her mouth tasted like rust. She raised her trembling fingers to her lips but struck metal. Her frayed neurons struggled to connect, to understand what was happening.
Then it slammed into her with the force of a subtrain.
Maxwell had muzzled her.
Rage ignited in her chest, sending adrenaline singing through her veins. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her palms to the marble. The blood pooling in her mouth dripped from her lips, oozing through the bars of her muzzle. She rose to one knee, then two, then clambered to her feet. The tower swayed. “Good, good,” Maxwell murmured from far away. “I want you to see this. Our final guests have arrived.”
Ronja blinked, her eyes drifting toward her family. Iris was crying through her gag, her shoulders trembling with soundless sobs. Roark was shaking, his eyes flown wide with horror and rage. The eyes she loved.
The elevator chimed. The doors rolled open, spilling golden light.
Ronja stumbled, catching herself on the back of the leather armchair. “No,” she tried to say through her muzzle. All that came out was a broken wail.
Two men were inside the compartment. One sat hunched in a wheelchair, his balding head bowed. An oxygen mask was strapped to his sagging face. An IV bag dangled above him from a metal rod. He was dressed in a fine bathrobe and matching slippers. He seemed to be asleep, or comatose.
The other man was young. Tall and handsome with dark eyes and skin to match. He was dressed in a elegant suit with a high collar and intricate gold clasps running down the front. His gaze was set dead ahead, as if he were not really seeing the room. A gold-trimmed Singer clung to his right ear.
Maxwell smiled. “Thank you for bringing my father to me, Henry. Well done.”
52: Alezandri
Atticus Bullon. The Conductor. The orchestrator of her nightmares. The tyrant that had drained the life from her city was only feet from her. Ronja barely noticed him. He was a speck of dust caught in her eye. All she could see was Henry. The longer she stared, the more she expected him to fade away, a figment of her rattled imagination.
She had heard him die over the radio. The Offs pounding on the door. His resolve to take his own life before they reached him. His last words ushering in the gunshot.
“Come in, Henry, bring my father to me.”
Ronja snapped her attention back to Maxwell, who radiated glee. Henry did as he was told. He moved mechanically, wheeling The Conductor toward his son with dead eyes.
Henry, Ronja tried to call. It came out as a mangled groan.
Maxwell shot her an amused look. “Sorry, were you saying something?” he asked, tittering slightly. He pointed down at his father, who was still slouched in the wheelchair, his eyes on the floor. His breath rattled through the oxygen mask. “Not what you were expecting, hmmm? You probably thought he looked like his portraits, even after all these years. Do you know how old he is? Ninety. Can you believe it?” He let out a harsh laugh, then squatted down next to The Conductor.
“Hey,” Maxwell whispered. He reached up a hand and patted his creased face. “Hey,” he said more forcefully. The Conductor stirred feebly, his drooping eyelids flickering. Maxwell rolled his eyes, as if this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He reached up and rolled a dial attached to the IV bag that
dangled above the wheelchair like a lantern. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then The Conductor sucked in a shuddering breath, rising up in his seat, then crashing back down. His bloodshot eyes darted around the room, landing on Ronja. They widened as he drank her in. His lips parted. For a moment, only his ragged breathing could be heard. Then he spoke, a single word.
“Alezandri.”
Confusion ruptured the fear swelling in Ronja.
“Yes, Father,” Maxwell said quietly. “A story for another time.” He switched his attention back to Ronja. “You don’t understand, little bird, I see it on your face.” He got to his feet and patted The Conductor on the shoulder. The old man squirmed, wheezing as adrenaline barreled through his veins. “My father has not been active for years. The voice you heard through your Singers was just a recording. Certainly, in his prime he was an adequate dictator,” Maxwell sneered, his white teeth dripping with malevolence. “Now, the only thing keeping him in power is the suggestion of The Music.” He reached down and tugged the oxygen mask over his head. “And this.”
The Conductor went rigid. His hands curled toward his throat in a vain attempt to coax more air into his lungs. Henry stood over him, detached. “Your days as The Conductor are over, Father,” Maxwell hissed, bending down toward the old man, who was twitching erratically. “You hid me away, called me a freak, put a Singer on me. You should have known Singers only work on those weighed down by emotion.”
The Conductor convulsed, his eyes darting over to where Ronja stood, then back to his son.
Maxwell shook his head. “You set your sights too low, Father. You were a coward, locking yourself inside these walls, hidden from the outside world. I will do so much more. I will be a conqueror.”
He glanced at his watch, as if he were checking the time on his way to dinner plans. “Excellent timing,” he cooed, patting The Conductor on the top of his bald head. The old man was growing quiet in his seat, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath. “The New Music will go live any second. Look out the window, Siren. I want you to see your revolution die.”
Ronja gritted her teeth behind her bit, kept her shivering eyes on Maxwell. “Do it,” he ordered quietly. “Or I will have Henry here kill your friends, one by one.”
The Siren slid her gaze toward her brother. Her pulse stumbled. He was looking at her. His eyes were black holes. He was not angry. He was not afraid. He was nothing. Ronja forced herself into motion, crossing to the north window with leaden feet. She felt the eyes of her family on her as she moved. She could not look at them. If she did, she would crumble.
Ronja came to a stop before the glass wall. The resistance was still approaching, marching up the central avenue, their torches aloft. The city was still shining. For a split second, hope flared in her chest. Then the first wave of lights winked out in the core. Ronja pressed her hand to the glass as if she could call it back. The darkness spread, engulfing the neighborhoods in devastating waves. The revolutionaries stopped in their tracks.
They put out their lights. They bled apart, drifting back to their homes without a sound.
Behind her, it was absolutely silent. The Conductor was dead.
“What a show,” Maxwell said. “Now, little bird. Where were we? Yes. Your voice. I will be needing it.”
53: Choose
Ronja turned around slowly. The Conductor’s haggard form was slumped in his wheelchair. Maxwell still held his oxygen mask in his hand like a trophy. Her eyes shifted up to Henry. His expression remained unchanged, cold and indifferent.
“Look at me, little bird.”
Ronja flashed her gaze to Maxwell. Her blood roared in her skull. She could barely hear him over the sound.
“I want you to know that I have learned from listening to you,” he said.
Ronja coughed, all she could manage through her metal bit.
“Oh, but I have,” Maxwell assured her. “You have taught me that there is power in emotion, as much as I hate to admit it. Those people out there,” he said, gesturing to the nearest window. “Right now, they feel nothing. And they will stay that way for as long as I want them to. But soon they will need to feel. Can you guess why?”
Ronja glared at him, quivering with rage.
Maxwell sighed. “You know, this would be more interesting if you could speak.”
Take this off me and I’ll destroy you, Ronja thought.
“But no,” he said, waving a dismissive finger. “Better safe than sorry. Little bird, I am done hiding from the world. Down below, I now have an army three million strong. Beyond this city is a world ripe for the taking.” He gave a considerate tilt of his head. “I could always just order them to do it, but you have shown me that when people burn for a cause, they are far more effective.
“Very soon, a fleet of ships will be delivered to me. I will fill them with my subjects to lead a conquest across the ocean. I will take this world for all it is worth. And you.” He smiled. “You will sing to them until their veins are burning with the fire of a thousand suns, until they want only to kill in my service.”
Never, Ronja screamed in her mind, but she was silent. She just shook her head, slow and sure.
“You will,” Maxwell said. “I promise, by the time I am done with you, you will. Henry.” The boy snapped to attention. “Kill one of her friends.”
Ronja screamed through her bit as Henry turned his back on her, drawing a gilded automatic from his hip. She launched forward before the guards could restrain her and leapt onto his broad back, throwing her one good arm around his neck. He drove an elbow into her stomach and shook her off, unfazed. She crumpled to the floor, trembling and sobbing.
She looked up, her eyes roving across the faces of her friends. Evie had moved in front of Iris, using her body to shield her from the barrel of the gun. Mouse was cowering in a ball on the floor, crying silently. Samson was motionless, his eyes trained on Terra, who still lay limp on the floor.
Roark stared at Ronja as she wept, heaving sobs tearing themselves from her chest. He smiled through the blood and the war paint. “I love you,” he mouthed. “I love you.” He closed his eyes, tranquility washing over his features.
No, no, no.
“Henry,” Maxwell snapped. “Choose.”
Ronja let out a piercing wail as a single shot ripped through the room.
His body struck the floor. His blood spread across the marble, blazing bright against the pale surface. Iris and Evie were screaming. Mouse was still tucked into a ball, shaking. Roark let out a roar of agony, his head tipped back toward the ceiling.
Samson was dead, his blue eyes open, a perfect entrance wound at the center of his brow.
Ronja was no longer crying. She was empty, the bottom of her soul scraped clean. Maxwell dragged her to her knees by her hair. She looked up at him with glassy eyes. “The next time you say no to me,” he shouted over the cries of her family. “Another one will die. Do you understand?”
Ronja nodded.
“Are you ready to come with me?”
Another nod.
“Good. Sedate her.”
Pain pricked the back of her neck. Maxwell released her and she slumped forward. She blinked, clinging to the last shreds of her sight. Roark was screaming her name, struggling to reach her. His voice followed her as she descended into blackness.
54: In the Glass
It was the cold that woke Ronja, not the ache in her jaw or the searing pain in her head. She lay on the floor of a room that stretched for miles. There was another girl on the slab of concrete next to her. She took a breath. The girl breathed with her. Ronja sat up slowly, blinking through the drug-induced haze that veiled her brain.
Looking around blearily, she realized the room was not massive at all. It was claustrophobic, barely four paces in every direction. A hole in the concrete floor served as a toilet; it was the only real landmark. There were no windows, no visible door. The walls were sealed with floor to ceiling mirrors, cocooning her in
a false infinity. A million versions of herself regarded her from the looking glasses. They all seemed to have different expressions.
Her face was a war zone of black and red. Blood and war paint. Cuts and bruises. Her curls were matted, her eyelids swollen with salt. The muzzle still clung to her mouth, wrapping around her skull. Her overcoat, shoes, and weapons had been stripped. She was left with only her tank top and ripped pants.
She did not search for an exit. She did not try to pick the lock at the back of her bit. She simply tucked herself into a ball and let oblivion wrap around her. When she closed her eyes, she felt her many reflections watching her.
Sometime later, a tiny portal opened in one of the mirrors. Harsh white light poured inside. Ronja scrambled over to it, leaving logic in the dust. As soon as she reached the opening, a crackling stinger shot through and snapped at her fingers. She cried out, cradling her burnt hand to her chest. The stinger disappeared. A moment later, a gloved hand appeared and set a small tin and straw on the concrete. The hand retracted and the portal sealed.
Ronja scooted the dish closer. It was filled with cloudy broth. With trembling fingers, she peeled the paper from the straw and poked it through the bars of her muzzle. She drank the broth without tasting it, then set the dish aside and tucked herself into a ball.
Time bled out of existence. There was no way to track it. The guards brought her food at irregular intervals. She slept as much as she could. There were no dreams, no nightmares, only the endless black of her withering brain. When she could not sleep, she alternated between pacing and watching the girls in the glass. There were so many of them.
It was not long before they started to talk to her.
First Layla and now Samson too. And Henry, look what you did to poor Henry. Sweet Henry. You knew he loved you and you pretended not to. And now look where he is, a slave, just like you. No. Slave! Mutt! Shut up! Useless! Freak! SHUT UP! You are alone, no one is coming for you. Roark and the others are dead. Dead. Dead! The Belly will become a tomb because of you, because you were not strong enough. NO! You are nothing. STOP! Nothing! Nothing! NOTHING!
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