Ronja folded to her knees, coughing and gasping. Her senses slammed back into her. She scrambled to her feet backing up to crouch behind the altar, her breath rattling painfully in her throat. Peering out, she scrutinized her assailant. He was garbed in baggy Tovairin clothes. His blond hair was cropped short, his blue eyes deep set and vacant as boarded windows. Just as she had thought, a silver Singer clung to his ear.
If The New Music flowed through his veins, nothing short of death would stop him. Unless . . .
“How did you find me?” Ronja snarled. It came out as more of a rasp.
“The Conductor compels you to return to Revinia immediately,” the Off replied in a monotone. His eyes did not quite meet hers, as if he were not seeing her clearly.
“The Conductor is dead.”
“The Conductor compels you to return—”
Ronja laughed bitterly. “Maxwell.” She coughed again, shaking her head at his vanity. “Figures.”
“The Conductor will not tolerate your absence any longer,” he said as if she had not spoken. “If you do not return, your comrades will pay for your recklessness.”
Ronja felt her eyes widen. “They’re alive,” she breathed.
“They will remain so as long as you return—”
“Shut it,” Ronja barked. To her surprise, the Off fell silent, observing her from the edge of the altar. He can’t kill me, she realized with a jolt. They need me alive. “What happens if I don’t come with you?”
The man blinked twice, as if he had misheard her. “This is not an option. I am authorized to use whatever force necessary to bring you home.”
“My home,” Ronja answered, inching subtly to the right, “is not with Maxwell.”
Before the Off could respond, she sprang and slammed her palms into the basin of flames. It groaned as it tilted on its dais. She lunged as it fell, darting past it down the steps. A deafening crash rang out, stone hitting stone. Her foot struck the bottom step and she was yanked back by her hair. She cried out, struggling against the unyielding grip.
“The Conductor—” The man pulled up short, as if someone had slapped a hand over his mouth. Ronja looked around wildly, squinting through the sharp pain at her scalp. Her heart ground to a halt.
Standing between the seething canals, fur raised and teeth barred, was the wolf. Pascal. Ronja squirmed in the grasp of her attacker, attempting both to free herself and to twist away from the animal. The Off drew her closer, taking a step back. The wolf snarled, saliva dripping from its powerful jaws.
“Call off your animal,” the Off ordered in her ear. There was no fear in his voice, of course, but there was something there. The understanding that the beast could tear him limb from limb. That no amount of numbing could help him escape its jaws.
“He’s not mine,” Ronja choked out. Pascal growled again, long and low as rolling thunder. He began to prowl forward, the firelight dancing on his silver coat. The Off began to retreat up the flight of steps, picking his way through the remains of the basin and dragging the Siren with him.
“Stop.”
Ronja raised her head and felt her attacker do the same. Easton filled the doorway, a pistol clasped firmly in his hands. He wore nothing but a loose pair of pants, displaying the breathtaking white reshkas snaking across his chest. His hooded eyes flicked from Ronja to the man who held her hostage.
“Easton!” she shouted. “Shoot him!”
The commander ignored her. “Let her go,” he said, his voice perfectly level. “This can end without further violence.”
“Violence is valor,” the Off replied. “If it means the Siren returns to Revinia with me.”
Easton glanced at Ronja, a cloud of uncertainty passing over his face. “I am going to count to five,” he said, his gaze switching back to the Off. “If you have not released her by then, I’m an excellent shot.” Pascal growled to underscore the ultimatum. “One.”
Ronja squirmed, fighting the iron grasp.
“Two.”
Pascal barked, a guttural sound that shot chills down her spine.
“Three.”
Easton curled his finger around the trigger, aiming between the Off’s eyes.
“Four.”
Ronja squeezed her eyes shut.
“Five.”
The Off shoved Ronja aside. She landed on her shoulder, hissing in pain as she rolled down the stairs along with clumps of rubble. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her arm as the Off flew down the staircase. Pascal shot up to meet him his jaws locking around the Off’s calf until it spurted blood.
Still, the Off kept moving.
“Shoot him!” Ronja bellowed at Easton, who was watching the scene unfold with a blank expression. Movement behind the commander. Relief flooded her when she saw it was Jonah, Paxton, and Larkin. All three of them were armed and clad in pajamas. Even across the room, she could see their eyes pop as they drank in the stranger who continued to struggle toward them with a wolf clamped around his leg.
“You have to kill him!” Ronja shouted. “Jonah, you know you have to kill him!” The captain locked eyes with her, wavering in the door frame.
“In the name of The Exalted Conductor, Maxwell Sebastian Bullon, you will surrender the Siren to me,” the Off said over the muffled snarling of the wolf. He stumbled as a tendon in his leg split, but continued to limp forward. “Cooperate and you and your people may be spared.”
Easton aimed low and fired. The bullet struck the Off in the knee. He crashed to the floor unceremoniously. Pascal yelped, releasing his calf. His silver muzzle stained red. The Off began to crawl forward, trailing blood. “In the name of The Exalted Conductor, Maxwell Sebastian Bullon . . . ”
“Easton! Shoot!” Ronja begged. She sprinted down the steps and leapt onto the Off’s back. She pinned his head as he struggled to throw her off. “Jonah, get over here and help me, you pitcher!”
“In the name of The Exalted Conductor . . . ”
They don’t get it. She squeezed her eyes shut, shutting out the chanting of the Off beneath her. She could still feel the words vibrating in his chest. She drew a deep breath through her nose, full of smoke and the tang of blood and exhaled a song.
When the day shakes
Beneath the hands of night
The Off stilled beneath her. She could feel the Kev Fairlans watching her across the Contrav and wondered what she looked like. They must think I’m insane. She forced the thought from her mind, focusing on the lyrics.
When your page is ripped
From the Book of Life
Her white Aura began to bloom. The light of the fires stained it pink and orange. She wanted to flinch away from it, but she refused. She would not be afraid. Not anymore. Go to him, she urged her Aura to action. Free him.
“Ronja!”
The Siren lifted her head in time to see Darius stumble into the Contrav, still wearing his filthy armor. She opened her mouth to shout at him, but her hold on the Off shattered. He bucked beneath her, throwing her off with a grunt of effort. She went flying, hitting the floor and skidding to a stop inches from the lava’s edge. “Easton! Shoot him!” she screamed.
“In the name of The Exalted—”
The shot reverberated through the Contrav, dragging a deafening silence in its wake.
Ronja clambered to her hands and knees. Her neck and shoulder throbbed, her knees were drenched with blood. When a whine pricked her ear, she looked around. Pascal sat on his haunches a few feet way. Their gazes locked. There was more in his eyes than there had been in the eyes of the Off. Slowly, she lifted her hand from the floor, offering him her palm. He hesitated for a moment, then approached to nuzzle her hand with his leathery nose. It was shockingly warm and soft.
“Here.”
Ronja raised her head. Darius stood over her, his pale hand stuck out for her to take. She recoiled internally, remembering the fear in his eyes as he crouched before her in the library. Despite herself she gra
bbed his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
“I—” he began.
“Thank you.” Ronja ignored his attempt to explain and turned to face the others.
Easton, Jonah, Paxton, and Larkin gathered around the body of the fallen Off. Pascal loped over to sit beside the commander, licking at the blood on his muzzle. Ronja dropped her eyes to the Revinian.
It was a clean shot. Dead center between the eyes. Evie would have been impressed. His eyes were open, as cloudy as they had been while he was breathing. His Singer glinted maliciously in the orange light. Easton squatted before the body on the balls of his feet, his gun loose in his fingers. Pascal snuffled at the body, more curious than anything. “How the hell did he get in?” the commander asked in a low voice.
“He must have snuck in with the refugees,” Jonah surmised.
Ronja looked Jonah up and down. His hair was loose at his shoulders and his pants rumpled, as if he had pulled them off the floor. He held one of his dual blades in a tattooed hand. Larkin carried the other bare-legged. Ronja could not help but notice her shirt was much too large for her.
“We’ll double the guards at every entrance and screen the refugees,” Paxton said firmly. “Gather everyone in the trié, make sure everyone’s accounted for.” He placed a gentle hand on the commander’s shoulder. Easton did not respond vocally, but reached up to take it. Faint surprise rippled through Ronja, which was quickly doused when Jonah spoke.
“Easton,” he said, squatting down next to his superior. “This is exactly what I was trying to tell you. These people with Singers are unstoppable.”
“Unless you’re Ronja, apparently.” Easton lifted his nearly black eyes to the Siren, who stood her ground. “When you sang to him, he stopped. Only an Alezandri could do that.”
She nodded. “I think I could have freed him, if my concentration hadn’t been broken.” She had not intended it as a jab at Darius, but she saw him shift awkwardly in her peripheral vision.
“I saw his face when you sang. His expression changed completely, like he was waking up.” Jonah confirmed.
“Very impressive,” Paxton chimed in, gazing at Ronja with newfound respect. He turned to Larkin, who was fingering the hilt of her borrowed sword, her expression brooding. “Larkin, vin se ka?”
“I do not know what I saw,” she said, flipping her jet black hair over her shoulder.
Jonah and Ronja rolled their eyes in synchronization. The Kev Fairlan girl passed them both withering looks, which they pretended not to see. “These men,” Easton went on, getting to his feet with quiet grace. “How many of them are there?”
“Not just men,” Ronja corrected him. “Women and children, too. Three million, at least.”
“None of them feel pain?”
Ronja gave another somber shake of her head.
“How many can fight?” Paxton asked.
“Does it matter?” Easton crossed his muscular arms, gazing down at the lifeless body of the Off. “You say this Maxwell is planning to invade us?”
“Not just Tovaire,” Jonah cut in. “Any nation he thinks he can get his hands on, except maybe Vinta. Like I said in my report, they have something of an alliance. It might prove deadly to us.” He spat at the Off, missing by an inch and hitting the stone.
“Three million people like this and we don’t stand a chance. Unless . . . ” Easton’s eyes fell on Ronja. “You can free them.”
“I think I can, but it’s complicated. See that thing on his ear?” Ronja crouched down to point out the silver device. “That’s a Singer. It acts like a receiver for The Music. In the past, the Anthem were protected since we don’t have Singers. But now, The New Music can reach anyone in the city. It broadcasts over the air. We would need a way to block the signal.” Ronja rounded on Paxton. “I was thinking about the zethas, how many do you have?”
“A few dozen, but they’re just prototypes.” He reached up to itch his brow, eyeing her pensively. “You think the zethas might help?”
“You tell me,” Ronja replied.
“It’s possible. I don’t have much to go on but, if I could isolate the signal from his Singer, I should be able to come up with something.”
“Assuming the zethas would protect us, do you have a plan beyond that?” Easton inquired.
“We do.” Ronja stiffened as Darius spoke up.
Easton looked to Paxton, who gave a subtle nod. He turned back to Ronja and Darius. “All right then. What do you need?”
40: Blueprints and Dominos
“How the hell did you all show up at the Contrav at the same time?” Ronja asked.
Jonah snorted, cracking the knuckle of his index finger with his thumb. “Apparently Pascal started growling and woke up Easton and Paxton. Easton radioed me. Larkin overheard. Like dominos.”
“Convenient.” She adjusted the bag of crushed ice Jonah had given her for her bruised shoulder. “I had no idea you and Larkin were together.”
They sat across from each other at his kitchen table. His apartment was surprisingly well kept. It was just one room, two counting the bathroom, but spacious and furnished. The sheets of his double bed were rumpled and several pillows were on the floor. The other Kev Fairlans had run off on various errands. Ronja wanted to join them, but Darius insisted she needed rest. “Take care of her,” he had said, passing Jonah a sharp look.
“Why do people keep forgetting I was the one who sprang her from prison?” Jonah had replied under his breath.
At first, Ronja had been loath to be left behind. Now, she found she was relieved to talk about something other than ancient magic and war. “We’ve been together off and on for a few years,” Jonah now replied. “It works for us.”
“How do you stand her?”
“Mmm . . . well, she is a hell of a lot nicer to me than she is to you.” He rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy. The Siren snorted, switching her ice pack to the lump at the back of her head. Jonah had performed a rudimentary concussion test on her, making sure she could follow his finger with her eyes and that she knew where she was. It appeared she was lucky, but it still hurt.
Jonah leaned back in his chair, which groaned beneath the added pressure. “Well princess, you do keep things interesting, I’ll give you that. I think that is the first time we’ve had a Revinian bounty hunter on the premises.”
“I do what I can,” Ronja replied with a dark laugh.
“Maybe you do have a concussion.”
“Huh?”
“I called you princess. That usually makes your head spin.”
“Yeah, well, we have better things to worry about,” she muttered, her face flushing in the lamplight. “Like how did that Off track us across the ocean and how did he get in?”
Jonah ran a tattooed hand down his face. He looked as tired as she felt. “Wish I could tell you,” he said. He reclined further in his chair, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back. The wood gave another pitiful moan as its front legs lifted from the rug. “We haven’t had a breach in years. Most people are turned off by the smoking volcano.”
“Fake smoking volcano,” Ronja corrected him.
He held up a finger, his eyes still closed. “Real volcano, fake smoke.”
“True.”
Jonah heaved a sigh and righted himself. “I have no idea how he followed us, and now he’s too dead to tell us.”
“I was getting through to him until Darius distracted me,” Ronja said, a hint of resentment shading her tone.
“Daddy issues, huh?”
“Leave it alone,” she mumbled, her fingers tightening around the bag of ice.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I am not in the mood to talk about it, skitzer.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Yep, definitely a royal.”
Ronja opened her mouth to retort, but the energy fled her bones. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I guess so.”
“Darius is actually a good guy—go easy
on him,” Jonah suggested.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Then why are you—”
“Jonah,” Ronja snapped, shooting him a deathly glare. “Leave it alone.”
Loud knocking saved her from having to explain further. Jonah got up and crossed to the door. He checked through the peephole, flipped the lock, and pulled it open. “Larkin,” he greeted her. “Kel est va?”
The Kev Fairlan girl shouldered past the boy twice her size and swept into the apartment. Shooting the Anthemite a dirty look, she collapsed onto the green couch in the far corner. She said something to Jonah in Tovairin, her lids shut and her strong arms slung over the back of the couch. The boy rolled his eyes, then translated for Ronja. “She was helping Paxton dispose of the body.”
The Siren nodded. “Good.”
Jonah took a seat next to Larkin, leaving Ronja alone at the dining table. They began to converse softly in their native tongue. Ronja gave up trying to pick out familiar words after a few sentences. When another knock came at the door, she popped to her feet. “Got it,” she said, already halfway there. She rose up on her tiptoes to check the peephole. The warped image of Easton greeted her, nose hooked and left eye bulging. She opened the door, standing aside.
The commander had donned a jacket and boots, his gun and radio now holstered at his sides. He hovered in the frame for a moment, his eyes falling to her neck. It was only then Ronja realized she was probably sporting a wreath of bruises. “I’ll send for Elise,” he said, pulling out the radio at his hip. “She can take a look at those.”
“No, thank you,” Ronja replied coldly.
Easton gave her a perplexed look, then holstered the communicator. “As you wish,” he said, stepping past her and striding to the center of the room. Ronja started to shut the door behind him but a scarred tawny arm shot through to block her.
“Roark!” she exclaimed. He rushed forward and enveloped her in a bone-crushing embrace.
“Roark,” she wheezed, patting him on the back.
“Ouch. Let me go.” He pulled back, holding her by the shoulders. His black hair was mussed with sleep, his dark eyes flickering fearfully. He reached up with tender fingers to touch the marks on her neck, then pulled them back.
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