Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Unless she had a preexisting tolerance. Unless her mind was so strong, her emotions so potent, that nothing could kill them completely. Unless she was an Anthemite.

  Ronja.

  “Stay away from me!” she cried, lashing out blindly.

  Ronja, let me help you.

  “You abandoned her,” Ronja rasped. She was not sure if her eyes were open or closed. Everything was black and blue, like bruises over her corneas. “She was pregnant with me, you abandoned us.” Her eyes felt hot, her face damp and sticky. “You let her become a mutt. You took my mother from me.”

  The world came screaming back into focus. Ronja found herself on her knees next to the door. Darius crouched before her, concern plastered across his face. She reached up and grasped the cool doorknob, pulling herself to her feet. “Never speak to me again,” she said softly. “Do you understand?”

  Darius did not reply, his head bowing beneath the weight of her words. His daughter turned around and wrenched open the door, storming away and leaving it wide open. She wanted him to see her go. She wanted him to know she did not look back.

  24: Peace, Protection, Perfection

  Terra

  The Off secured Terra to a metal folding chair opposite Maxwell, who was seated in an ostentatious armchair upholstered in black silk. Once her ankles and wrists were chained, the guard bowed low to him and stepped out into the corridor. He locked it with a jarring clang.

  Silence rang out, buffered only by the faint tick of the clock above the door. Terra checked it discreetly. 2:53. In the morning or the evening, she had no idea. She was starting to lose track of time. Focus, she commanded herself. She took stock of the room. It was surprisingly small, bordering on cramped, with an oak desk and matching chair like a small throne. The walls were undecorated, but a lush patterned rug blanketed the stone floor.

  Then there was Maxwell.

  He observed Terra with his chin in his hand, his lips twisted into a smile like curling smoke. He had cleaned up since their last encounter in the clock tower. His black hair had been cut short, exposing his severe bone structure. His watery blue eyes glittered with interest as he drank her in. His altered Singer perched proudly on his right ear. He wore a tailored suit with a high collar and silver clasps. His emblem—the three red pillars—glared at Terra from his lapel.

  “Why the lines?” she asked.

  Maxwell beamed. He straightened up, touching the button fondly. “I am pleased you noticed,” he purred. His voice was oddly disjointed, as if it did not belong to him. “My father’s sigil represented the three rings of the city. I always found that rather silly, as he left out the slums.”

  “How thoughtful of you to consider the needy.”

  Maxwell adjusted his jacket, stretching his pale neck with a luxuriating groan. Terra tucked her fingers into fists. The desire to rip out his exposed jugular was overwhelming. “I consider each and every citizen in this city, Ms. Vahl. Every citizen in this world, for that matter. The pillars represent the foundation of my new order: peace, protection, and perfection.”

  “I used to see that all over the place,” Terra commented. She settled back into her chair with a mocking smile, her chains clinking softly. “Stealing from daddy, are we?”

  The Conductor smiled, but his eyes tightened. “My father was a coward. Even before his body went, he was hiding behind The Music, using it to keep the great people of Revinia devoted to him.”

  “As opposed to what you’re doing.”

  “He did not deserve their reverence. I intend to.” Before Terra could whip up a response, he moved on. “Despite his innumerable shortcomings, my father was an excellent speechwriter and a master of propaganda. Peace, protection, perfection. Why build from scratch when a perfectly good foundation already exists?”

  “I assume that philosophy also applies to The New Music,” she drawled. Satisfaction erupted in her chest when Maxwell did not answer immediately. He sat back, crossing one leg over the other. The silver buckles of his leather boot glinted in the firelight.

  “You have information for me,” he finally said in a flat tone.

  “I do,” Terra confirmed. “But it comes at a price.”

  “How predictable,” Maxwell scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess, you want me to let Ms. Alezandri and the rest of your friends go free.”

  Confusion pricked Terra. She struggled to keep it off her face. Alezandri? “Yes, that would be preferable.”

  Cold laughter tumbled from Maxwell’s lips. He waggled his finger admonishingly. “Come now, Ms. Vahl, did you really think that was going to work?”

  “That depends.” Terra flexed her fingers, examining her dirt crusted nails. “How badly do you want to get to the Anthem?”

  “I could expose you to The New Music at any time,” he reminded her. “There would be no more lies.”

  Terra clucked her tongue, chastising. “And risk the amnesia? How good is the truth when we can’t remember it? No. I don’t think you will.” Maxwell’s jaw bulged, his nostrils flared. Terra grinned wickedly, her suspicions confirmed. “So there is a glitch.”

  “Growing pains,” The Conductor said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. But it was too late. The damage had been done, and he damn well knew it. For the briefest of moments, Terra had the high ground. “Certain members of my staff have suffered mild, selective amnesia. This will soon be amended.”

  “How soon is soon?” Terra asked with an innocent tilt of her head. “In time for your best warriors to suffocate in the Belly?”

  Maxwell got to his feet swiftly, striding across the room to stand above her. Terra held eye contact with him in the wash of his shadow. “Not bad, Ms. Vahl,” he murmured, reaching out to trace the sharp curve of her jaw with his forefinger. Her upper lip curled, but she did not flinch away. “You must know that I cannot free your friends, especially my little bird.”

  “I said it would be preferable,” Terra reminded him. “Not that I expected it.” Maxwell pulled his hand back, catching her chin with the edge of his nail. She had caught him off guard. “Do you remember when we spoke on the airship leaving Red Bay?”

  “Vividly,” he replied in a voice like velvet.

  “You said you thought I was being groomed for command. You were right.” Finally, Terra tore her eyes from his, glowering at her knees. She could feel his gaze resting atop her head. He was hanging on her every word. “But everything changed that day. I risked everything to rescue those stupid pitchers and lost. I was stripped of my status, humiliated.” She raised her eyes to him slowly, deliberately. “The Anthem betrayed me. Wilcox can rot for all I care.”

  “Yet you care for your comrades,” Maxwell interjected smoothly.

  Terra gave a nod. The more truth she could work into her story, the more likely he was to buy it. “Yeah, I suppose I do. Which is why I am willing to make another deal with you.”

  Maxwell slipped his hands into his pockets, observing her hungrily. “I’m listening.”

  “Keep my friends alive and free of all forms of The Music, and I’ll show you the back entrance into the Belly.”

  “Do you think me a fool?” The Conductor hissed. Terra raised her eyebrows. “You cannot expect me to believe you would leave your friends behind.”

  “I would if it saved their lives. Speaking of, I’ll need proof that Ronja, Roark, and Iris are still breathing.”

  “The Siren and Mr. Westervelt are occupied with other matters. Ms. Harte is recovering from her interrogation.”

  “You’re going to need to give me more than that.”

  Maxwell narrowed his eyes a fraction of an inch. “I am a man of my word.”

  “I know my value, Mr. Bullon,” Terra said, leaning toward him challengingly. “You can bet none of them will deliver the way I will. They would rather die than give up the Anthem. I’m not so sentimental. Show me my friends, keep them alive, and I’ll get you into the Belly.”

  “And after that?”


  Terra twisted her chapped lips into a smile. “You’ll never see me again.”

  Maxwell laughed, a sound like a plate shattering against the floor. “You are ruthless, Ms. Vahl. Is there no way I can convince you to fight for me?”

  “I fight for myself,” she answered flatly. “But my offer stands.”

  “Truth from the lips of a deceiver,” Maxwell murmured. “You have yourself a deal, little fighter.” He stepped toward her again, leaning in so that their noses almost brushed. His breath was cold, stained with mint. “If you make me regret this, you and your friends will die slowly, do you understand?”

  Terra showed her teeth, something between a growl and a smirk. “I would expect nothing less.”

  25: Breaking

  Roark

  Roark did not ask what had happened when Ronja stormed into their room after a mere 40 minutes. She was glowing with agony, a barrier against the softest touch. She refused to make eye contact with him, keeping her face tilted toward the floor to hide the fact that she had been crying. She shut herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. Roark sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the murmur of the stream. Waiting.

  Ten minutes limped by, then twenty. Steam crawled through the gap between the door and the floor. Thirty minutes. Roark got to his feet.

  “Ronja,” he called, tapping a knuckle against the wood.

  “Go away, Roark.”

  “Come on, love. Let me in.” The shower continued to run stubbornly. He was just about to raise his hand again when it ceased. The rustle of the shower curtain and the sound of bare feet on the tiles pricked his ears. He stepped back just as Ronja peeled open the door. She had wrapped herself in a towel, hugging it to her chest like a life preserver. Her sopping curls fell to her jaw, the skin around her eyes red and raw.

  “Ronja,” he began softly.

  “Stop.” She cut him off, lifting her exhausted gaze to meet his. His heart seized. What he would give to kiss the pain from her. “Just hold me.”

  He took her in his arms in less time than it took her to request it. He used one hand to cradle the back of her head, the other to pull her chest to his. Lukewarm water began to soak into his clothes. “I’m here,” he whispered, laying his cheek on her crown. “I will never leave you.”

  Ronja gripped the back of his sweater as if to wring the words from him. “I can’t lose anyone else, Roark,” she whispered. Her voice shuddered like the strings of a violin. Her green gray eyes flooded with fresh tears. “But I will. We will. Layla. Henry. Samson. They’re all gone. The Belly is compromised. For all we know, Evie and the others are dead.”

  “No,” Roark countered sharply. He released her waist and took her by the shoulders instead. “They’re alive.”

  “He was only keeping them alive to keep me in line, and I ran.” She raised her hands to clutch her skull. Her towel slipped to her feet. Her pale skin glistened, her scars like beacons.

  “Ronja,” Roark said softly. She did not answer, her eyes staring past him into oblivion. His hands moved to cup her face, drawing her attention back to him. “Ronja, you are the Siren. You freed Revinia with one song. You can do it again. We’ll get them out, everyone, even Henry.”

  “The New Music is so much stronger than the original. Roark . . . ” She paused, swallowing hard. “I can see it,” she breathed.

  Roark stared at her for a long moment. She shivered, pulsing with life and impossibility in his hands. “You beat it before, when my father used it on me.”

  “What if my voice stops working? What if—what if Maxwell broke me?”

  Roark felt his throat tighten, temporarily restricting his words. “Maxwell could never break you. No one can.”

  She shook her head, flinging droplets of water across the room. The whites of her eyes were threaded with red. “He—he kept me in that cell for so long. Too long. I hate him so much it hurts. Everything was so loud, so bright. I never slept, I just passed out. I couldn’t scream, I could barely eat. He—he took everything from me and I broke, Roark. I was going to do it, I was going to sing for him.”

  Ronja dissolved into heaving sobs, her hot tears spilling over his fingers. Roark saw her through a rose sheen. He was going to kill Maxwell, slowly. Painfully.

  “He broke your body, Ronja,” he finally managed to say. She squeezed her eyes shut against his words, shaking her head again. “Your mind, your soul, they belong to you. No one can take them from you. Ronja Zipse, you have always been and will always be the Siren.”

  He pressed his brow to hers fiercely. “I love you. You are worth more to me than all of Revinia, more than the stars and the air we breathe. I want to take you away from all this. I want to find some quiet corner of the world and grow old with you. But I know we would never forgive ourselves if we turned our back on the Anthem.”

  Ronja did not respond, but her sobs dissipated to sniffles. Her breath was hot in his face, but he did not pull away. “You’re the Siren,” Roark said. “We need you. I need you.”

  “Alezandri,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  Ronja took a trembling breath and pulled back to look at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, exhausted, but steady. “My name is Ronja Alezandri.”

  Roark nodded slowly, letting his hands slip from her damp cheeks. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Darius found me when we first arrived. When I told you I was touring the temple, I was talking to him,” Roark admitted, looking sheepish.

  “You lied to me?” she hissed, curling away from him as if stung.

  “He begged me not to tell you. He wanted to get to know you on his own terms, and I thought it was best not to interfere.”

  Roark held his breath as her mouth opened and shut several times, her expression blank. Then she scoffed. “Of course he did,” she muttered. “Bloody liar.”

  “What happened in there?”

  “I’m tired, Roark,” Ronja said, shaking her head. “And I want nothing to do with that royal asshole.”

  Royal. The thought was still such a shock. It made him sway on the spot. He had not even known Revinia was a monarchy before The Conductor seized power. Yet here she stood. The last princess of Revinia—a rebel, a mutt, a victim, a weapon—and a girl. The girl he loved. His vision blurred, then snapped back into sharp focus when he noticed she was shivering.

  “Here,” he said, darting around her to grab her clothes from the bathroom floor. “Time to get dressed.” Despite her protests, he helped her into her woolen sweater. He tried to do the same with her leggings, but she snatched them away and put them on herself, grumbling about being coddled.

  “I can get my socks,” she said, plopping down on the edge of the bed. He knelt before her, taking her ankle in hand. She rolled her eyes. “Is this because I told you I’m a princess?”

  “No,” Roark replied levelly, sliding a sock onto her left foot. “This is because I love you.” She flushed as he tugged the other sock on and got to his feet. Her stomach growled audibly. She placed her hand on it as if to quiet it. Clearly, she and Darius had not gotten around to finishing their dinner. “I’m going to go get us some food, unless you want me to stay.”

  “No, you can go,” Ronja said, waving him off. Fatigue washed over her face. “I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

  “Good.” He nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll be right back—you better stay here.”

  “Like you did this morning?” she shot back with a halfhearted smirk.

  Roark winked and started toward the door. He feigned nonchalance, but in truth he was loathe to leave her.

  “Roark?”

  He froze with his hand on the knob, looking back at her over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  Ronja smiled, just a slight curve of her pink mouth. “Thank you.”

  “Always.”

  26: Aftershock

  Ito

  Silence echoed through the Belly in the wake of the gunshot. Stillness claimed the Anthemit
es gathered around the burst of violence. All that moved was the blood running from the eye socket of the fallen commander. Her oldest friend. Dead. Metal rang against stone, breaking Ito from her stupor. Charlotte was backing away from the body, her hands clapped over her mouth. Tears leaked down her face as she stared at the smoking gun.

  Charlotte had killed Wilcox.

  “Get her!” a male voice bellowed.

  Chaos erupted. Screams rushed to fill the silence. Ito launched herself at Charlotte, but was immediately buffeted back by the mob.

  “Ito!” the girl wailed, her voice arching over the babel. “Help!”

  Instinct seized the lieutenant. She whipped out her gun, aimed at the ceiling, and fired three times. The screams crescendoed, then ceased. All eyes turned to her.

  “Let me through!” Ito shouted, her weapon still aloft. “Now!” The crowd parted like a zipper. In the middle of the aisle was Charlotte, restrained by two young men. Ito recognized them immediately as James Mason and his friend Mark Shepard. The girl was silent in their grip, paralyzed with shock and fear.

  Ito lowered her aim and started forward. Mark shuffled back, attempting to use Charlotte as a shield. James held his ground, his mouth contorted into his usual snarl.

  “Release her,” Ito ordered, halting several paces from them. “Or I’ll shoot.”

  “You didn’t have the guts to kill Wilcox.” James sneered. “What makes you—”

  Ito aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. James swore, but it was drowned out by the shot. He too moved to stand behind Charlotte, which was rather ineffectual given that he was twice her size.

  “Let her go,” Ito commanded again, her tone even and patient. “Or the next one goes between your eyes.”

  James blanched. He looked to his friend uncertainly. Mark locked eyes with him, then released Charlotte and scuttled back into the crowd.