Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Iris!” Evie repeated. “Are you okay?”

  “She cannot hear you,” Henry reminded her over the intercom. He looked down at Iris, tilting his head to the side in mock consideration. “Can you, Ms. Harte?”

  The surgeon raised her head, her hazel eyes round as full moons. Evie exhaled with relief. She did not appear to be injured. The Offs shoved her forward unceremoniously. She landed on her hands and knees without a sound. Pride swelled in Evie when she sprang to her feet and spun to face her guards.

  “Do you know why you are here, Ms. Harte?” Henry inquired. He paused while Iris responded, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Very good,” he said after a moment. “You are certainly more intelligent than your friends.”

  Iris peeked back at them over her shoulder. A bolt of terror shot through Evie as they locked eyes. There was too much there, too much fear and too much love. Iris turned back around. She took a challenging step toward Henry, clearly shouting at him.

  “Yes, very good,” he replied. He snapped his fingers and the Offs retreated, leaving the door open in their wake. Henry refocused on Iris, slipping his hands into the pockets of his crisp white slacks. The surgeon was breathing hard; even across the room, Evie could see the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders. “Do you know what this place is, Ms. Harte? We call it The Amp. The late Victor Westervelt II designed it—we discovered the plans in his office after his untimely death. It is designed to maximize the effects of The New Music.”

  Panic seized Evie. She slammed her fist into the thick window. “Henry!” she bellowed, her voice cracking. “Ronja will never work with Maxwell if she finds out you took her mind!”

  “Who said anything about taking her mind?” Henry asked smoothly.

  For a beat, Evie stared dumbly at the shade of her friend. Then realization snapped into place. Her knees nearly buckled. “No,” she whispered, but no sound came out.

  “I’ll return in fifteen minutes,” Henry said briskly, starting toward the door. “I am sure by then you’ll have reconsidered.” Without another word he passed through the exit and slammed the door behind him.

  Silence reigned.

  Slowly, Iris turned to face them. She looked even smaller than usual, her short curls sticking out at all angles, her hazel eyes too large for her bloodless face. For a long moment, no one moved. Then Iris flew at the window, pressing her palms to it desperately. Her terrified breaths fogged on the glass. Evie aligned her hands with hers. The inch between them was haunting. It would have been easier if it were a mile.

  “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Evie whispered. Iris held her gaze unsteadily. There was no room for tears in her eyes, they were filled to the brim with panic. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re o—”

  Iris jerked back from the glass as if stung. She stumbled, looking around wildly for something she could not see. Her hands flew to her ears. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

  “NO!” Evie wailed. She rammed her shoulder into the glass, ignoring the pain that exploded under her skin.

  Iris crashed to her knees and folded forward, covering her head as if to protect it from a blast.

  “NO!” Evie shoved Terra and Mouse out of the way and slammed her bare heel into the barrier. The shock radiated from her foot to her hip. She barely felt it. She leapt back and delivered another powerful sidekick to the wall. Iris had gone limp on the floor. Her hands slid from her ears, revealing ribbons of blood. She slumped to the side like a rag doll. Her eyes rolled back as convulsions wracked her body.

  Evie lunged at the wall again, pounding bruises into her knuckles and knees. Then she was on the floor, a strong arm locked around her neck. “ENOUGH, WICK!” Terra roared.

  The techi ignored her, writhing and sobbing. She could not see. Her whole body throbbed with agony. Her hands were hot and slick. Blood, she realized dimly. Mouse sat on her legs, pinning her.

  “Evie,” Terra said again, her mouth pressed to her ear. “Enough.”

  The fight drained from Evie. Mouse scooted off her legs and knelt beside her head. Slowly, Terra relaxed her choke hold. “Iris . . . ” Evie murmured, her eyelids fluttering.

  No one said a word. There was nothing to say. Instead, shockingly tender hands cradled her head, lifting it from the hard concrete. Terra laid her head on her thighs, gently turning her face inward to shield her from the horrors beyond the glass.

  13: Old Wounds

  The air was heavy with sweat and pleasure. Ronja and Roark lay side by side on the bed, the sheets tangled between their legs. Their hair had dried a while ago, but their pillows were still cool and damp. “What about this one?” she asked, tracing the raised white scar that curled around his hip bone. Roark raised his head to see what she was referring to, then flopped back down with a chuckle.

  “Training accident with Terra, though I always wondered if it was really an accident.”

  Ronja smiled. They had been playing this game for the better part of an hour, telling the stories behind their scars. It should have been more difficult than it was. It was not cathartic, not exactly. It was a distraction. Ronja let her hand drift across his abdomen to a knot of scar tissue the size of a small coin. “What about this?”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Roark chastised her. “My turn.”

  Ronja rolled her eyes. Her annoyance faded when his fingers found the thin scar beneath her left breast. “How did you get this?”

  She winced. “I was ten, maybe eleven. Some kid gave it to me during our lunch break, not sure I remember how.”

  “I wish I could have been there. I wish I had known you a long time ago.”

  Warmth blossomed in Ronja. She inched closer to him, hooking her leg around his. He smiled absently, and the pads of his fingers drifted over to the scar directly above her heart. It was no longer swollen, and most of the color had faded. With its ragged edges it looked like a blazing star. “I meant to ask,” Roark spoke up after a time. “When you saw the wolf . . . ”

  He trailed off as Ronja blushed scarlet. She buried her face in the pillow with a groan. “Leave me alone,” she mumbled.

  “Never.”

  Ronja turned her head to the side, glaring at Roark with one eye. “Okay, so maybe I get a little freaked out around dogs.”

  “A little,” he repeated dryly.

  She huffed.

  “Oi.” He put his hand on her naked shoulder, rocking it back and forth gently. “I’m not here to judge you. I have plenty things I’m afraid of for no good reason.”

  Ronja sat up quickly, lights popping in her vision. She twisted to look at Roark, who still lay on his side. “No reason?” she hissed. The boy remained still, his lips parted in shock. “No reason? Can you really not think of a single reason I might not like dogs?”

  “I—”

  “Where do you think the word mutt comes from, Roark?”

  “Ro—”

  “Because mutts look like dogs,” she cut him off brutally. “They act like them. They pant, they drool. The ones like Layla can attack at any moment. People used to bark at me when I walked past them because their Singers told them to, and I know it wasn’t their fault but—”

  Roark sat up and grabbed her hand. “I know, love,” he murmured, squeezing her fingers. “I understand.”

  Ronja pursed her lips, biting back a scathing comment. “Sorry,” she said, forcing the word out through her teeth. The bitterness she had tried to swallow was creeping back up her throat. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I should have guessed.” His brow knit with concern and he gave her hand a quick squeeze. His warm breath played on her face as he tucked a curl over her remaining ear. “You went through hell. If I could take it away, I would.”

  “No.” Ronja shook her head with a bit too much ferocity, flinging the carefully placed curl of hair out of place. “It’s not your fault. These days I guess I’m just . . . ” Angry. Terrified. Bloodthirsty. “On ed
ge.”

  “We all are,” he reminded her. “You’re not alone.”

  “I—I know.”

  They fell silent, tension growing between them like moss on a stone.

  “Ronja?” Roark tried again, her name a tentative question. Her throat tightened. She knew where this was going. “We should talk about your fath . . . about the king.”

  “Jonah said he wasn’t sure,” she replied in a deceptively even tone.

  “The Conductor saw the resemblance” Roark reminded her. His voice was achingly tender. It would have been easier if he had yelled at her. “He called you by name.”

  “He was skitzed,” Ronja shot back through clenched teeth.

  “But Easton—”

  “Hasn’t said anything, Roark,” she snapped. “We know nothing, and until we do I’d appreciate it if you would skitz off.” More silence, even heavier than the first. Ronja felt her insides curdle with shame. Roark looked as if she had slapped him.

  “We should sleep,” he said curtly. He flopped down onto his pillow and rolled over, tugging the quilts up around his shoulders. Ronja watched him for a long time, drinking in the steady rhythm of his body. She could not see his eyes from this angle, but she knew they were open. Full of hurt.

  She sighed, then reached over and flicked off the lamp on her nightstand. Blackness engulfed them, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. She lay down blind and pulled the covers up to her nose, tucking into a ball.

  She was still cold.

  14: The Visitor

  Roark

  Roark slept fitfully, weaving in and out of uncertain dreams. He gave up around five a.m. and sat up, flipping on the lamp at his bedside. Ronja was sleeping like the dead, so he did not fear waking her. He could see her eyes roving beneath her nearly translucent lids. Her curls were bunched around her face, her lips parted as her steady breaths came and went. Roark leaned over and tugged the quilt up higher around her shoulders.

  This close, he could still see the marks Maxwell’s torture had left around her. They were healing well; in the low light, they were scarcely visible. The scars left on her mind were far more enduring. He did not know exactly what had been done to her over the course of their imprisonment. Whatever it was, it clung to her, stubborn as a shadow. It was as if everything that made her her had been scrambled, leaving her scattered and unstable.

  No amount of affection would bring Ronja back to him. He knew that. She needed closure, justice. It was hypocritical of him to try to soothe her rage when the same fire burned in him. Still, he tried. She twitched in her sleep, her nose wrinkling. The sight knocked a smile onto Roark’s face. It disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  The Siren. The girl with a voice like thunder. His heart. His home. He did not know where her powers came from, if they were supernatural or a simple matter of clashing frequencies. All he knew was that they were rooted in emotion. He was not even sure if her voice would work if she kept choking down her feelings.

  Soft knocking broke Roark from his thoughts. He rose quickly, glancing over at Ronja. She was still fast asleep. Pulling on his pants, he strode over to the door and unlocked it. Cracking it warily he peered out into the hallway.

  A stranger stood before him. He was of average height with silver-brushed hair, a square jaw, and white skin. He was dressed casually, a worn leather bag slung over his shoulder. “Can I help you?” Roark asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Ah—yes,” the man said, tripping over his answer. “I am here to take you on a tour of the temple. Roark Westervelt III, I presume?”

  Roark narrowed his eyes as the strange accent pricked his eardrums. There was a hint of Tovairin there, and something else. Something familiar. He opened the door a bit wider, his nerves humming anxiously. “Tour?”

  “Yes.” The older man offered a wavering smile. His skin shimmered dully as the muscles of his face moved. Sweat. “I also have some fresh clothes for you.” He dug into the bag at his side. Roark tightened his grip on the doorknob, then relaxed when he withdrew a bundle of garments.

  “Thank you,” he said, opening the door all the way to accept the offering. “Is this tour required? My partner could use the sleep.”

  “Your partner?” the stranger asked. He leaned to the side a bit, trying to get a look over his shoulder.

  Roark stepped in front of him pointedly. “Yes, my partner.”

  Realizing his error, the man took a generous step back. “No matter,” he said briskly, adjusting the strap of his leather bag. “Commander Easton requested your tours be conducted separately. She can sleep as much as she needs.”

  “Of course,” Roark muttered. It was a common tactic, splitting prisoners up to interview them separately. The idea was to see if their stories lined up. Generally, there was a cell involved and not a walking tour, but the result was the same. He would have preferred Easton dispensed with the pleasantries and cut to the chase. “How generous of him.”

  The man smiled knowingly. “Change if you like, I’ll wait.”

  Roark shut the door without comment. He cast his eyes to Ronja, listening to the music of her breath. If he woke her, she would insist on accompanying him. He would not put it past her to punch the man aiming to divide them. The last thing they needed was another scuffle.

  Making up his mind with a groan, he peeled off his pants and dressed in the Tovairin clothes: relaxed black leggings, a thick woolen sweater, soft undershirt, and fresh socks and underwear. Tugging on his boots, he took one last look at Ronja. Leaving her alone felt like a mistake. Staying would mean disobeying an order from Commander Easton. Neither option ensured her safety. He slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  “Good choice,” the man commended him.

  “Do you have a name?” Roark asked.

  “Darren,” he replied, saluting him in the customary format.

  “All right. Lead the way, Darren.”

  They started off down the corridor in silence, their footfalls rebounding off the curved walls. The temple was all but deserted at this early hour, though they passed the occasional Kev Fairlan. Some were dressed in black leather armor, others in relaxed clothing similar to his own. They gawked openly as the two men passed. They were not just looking at him, Roark realized, but at Darren.

  “What do you do around here?” Roark asked as they moved past a battle-ready woman with a penetrating stare.

  “I am an advisor of sorts to Commander Easton,” Darren answered, keeping his eyes straight ahead. They were an odd blend of green and grey, made brighter by the electric lights threaded through the catacombs.

  “Of sorts?”

  “I help him run this place. He spends quite a bit of time at the front, you know.” They reached a fork in the path. Darren jerked his thumb to the right. Roark followed him into another hallway identical to the last. It seemed to roll on for miles. There was not a soul in sight.

  “Where are we going?” Roark asked, prickling with suspicion.

  Darren glanced over at him, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You ask too many questions.”

  “Forgive me, I thought tours were supposed to be educational, unless this is more than a tour.”

  “Talkative and astute.”

  “I do what I can,” Roark replied in a flat voice.

  “I thought you might be interested to see the hub of our operation,” Darren said.

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Intuition.” When Roark did not reply, the older man asked a question of his own. “How did you find your journey?”

  “Fine, given the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances?”

  The Anthemite cut his sharp eyes to Darren. “I would expect an advisor to the commander to be better informed of our situation. Were you not debriefed?”

  Darren cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, gesturing at a narrow staircase off the hall. Roark did as he was told, mounting the steps t
wo at a time. The older man struggled to keep pace with him. The passage was not well lit. Still, squinting into the dimness, he could see an iron door ahead. By the time they reached it, Darren was breathing hard and trying desperately to hide it. Roark observed him as he rummaged through his bag, presumably hunting for a key. He appeared to be in decent shape, but his lungs rattled like a freight train.

  “Not as young as I once was,” he wheezed. “Ah, here we are.” Darren pulled a brass key from his satchel and tossed it to the Anthemite, who caught it single-handedly. “Go on.”

  Roark complied. The lock stuck for a moment, then gave with a screech. He pushed the door open slowly, his instincts on high alert. Warm light and the hum of machinery spilled over him. He relaxed slightly. They had arrived at what appeared to be a control room, free of guards and interrogators. Various pieces of tech Evie could have identified whirred away hypnotically, and a large window took up most of the far wall. He could not see beyond it from his low vantage point.

  “After you,” Darren said.

  Roark stepped over the threshold cautiously. His guide trailed him, shutting the door. He did not lock it.

  “Have a look,” Darren implored him, clearly indicating the window.

  Roark approached slowly, unsure of what to expect and keenly aware of the eyes glued to the back of his head. His eyebrows lifted as he arrived at the window. “Impressive.”

  It was. Beyond the thick glass was a massive, multi-story hangar packed with scores of vehicles—everything from autos and motorbikes to armored tanks. There were even a few moderately large aeroplanes. Kev Fairlans the size of ants hurried between the transports. Sparks burst from power tools as mechanics tweaked the metal beasts. Twin doors at least three stories high stood at the far end of the hangar, ready to unleash wrath upon the Vintian invaders.

  “Jonah told us you were struggling to make ends meet,” Roark commented without turning back to Darren. “This seems like a pretty high end operation.”

  “Half those tanks are out of commission,” Darren admitted, sidling up to stand beside him. “We’re down to nineteen fighter planes. The Vintians have hundreds. The only place we dominate them is on the water.”