Syphon's Song

by Anise Rae

  “Bronte?” Allison’s loud holler carried through the car’s windows. Heck, the woman’s shout probably carried to the big house.

  Bronte stopped the car as the other woman bent over to peer in the passenger window. “What are you doing? Are you leaving?” Allison asked.

  A man came up behind Allison. The light inside the gatehouse kept his face in darkness, but Bronte could guess who it was.

  She stepped out of the car and stood in the doorway. It was easier than cranking down the passenger window. Her bare feet made contact with the driveway. They couldn’t get any colder.

  “I was just looking for a little bit of space to clear my head.” That was a lie. She’d remembered too late that she shouldn’t lie to a mage. She’d spent too much of her life lying. It was a habit.

  Allison didn’t seem to notice. She nodded. “I get that. This clan can be rather ‘do this, don’t do that, shame on you.’ I escape from here on a regular basis. I’ll open the gates for you. I’ll be here for another hour if you want back in. After that, you’re on your own.” Allison turned her head toward the gates, and they silently opened in.

  Lonely freedom yawned on the other side. She turned to Allison, but a shout from outside the gates grabbed her attention.

  “Freeze!” A clatter of footsteps from the road drummed toward her and onto the driveway.

  Bronte obeyed, as did Allison. Her date did not. His shadow disappeared.

  Mage lights blinked into existence, blinding her with their brightness. A small army of enforcers stood in front of her. Guns and blasters targeted her.

  Bronte’s mind splintered, too stunned to catch a single thought of the jumble spinning through it.

  “Step away from the car! Hands up!” The mage lights glittered against their metal vests formed of connected tuning circles. They were ready to channel as much energy as possible to handle her. Bronte had seen the vests in newspaper photos, worn by enforcers when capturing deadly mage criminals.

  “Great,” Allison muttered. “Now I’ll really be in trouble.”

  Bronte moved away from the car as ordered. The strength in her legs disappeared and left her with enough energy for only a few steps. She locked her knees to keep from falling.

  “Turn around.” The man’s voice was softer this time but no less deadly. Disdain dripped from each word. “Arms on the car.”

  She knew what was coming. Cold handcuffs girdled her wrists one by one, the kind of restraints used for mages. The hard metal squeezed tightly and bruised her thin wrists. The cuff’s sharp square angles prevented a mage from channeling extra energy into his sixth sense. They would have no effect on her. Not that they’d believe her if she told them.

  “Why are you doing this?” Adrenaline coursed through her and awakened every sense to the max. It was all too intense for her mind to process.

  “Shut up.” The man shook her hard and then yanked her from the car. His rough gloves scratched her bare arms, exposed by her short sleeves. Vincent’s short sleeves. The enforcer marched her down the driveway. His hard shoes kicked against the back of her bare feet. Rocks cut at her soles as he shoved her toward the road. The mage lights floated with them.

  She walked out through the Rallis gates. This wasn’t freedom.

  “Thank you, officers,” a man called from the down the road.

  The guns and blasters came out anew, pointed into the darkness.

  The unknown man, shrouded from her view by the night, seemed to ignore them. “General Wilen is grateful for your assistance. I’ll be sure to give him all the details about how helpful you were. We’ll take her from here.”

  Her captor whispered a string of foul words. “ID,” he demanded.

  “Of course.” Two men came into range of the mage lights—one dark-haired and bearded, the other clean-shaven and blond. Their black army uniforms were instantly recognizable, though this wasn’t the formal one Vincent had worn tonight. No, these uniforms sported an array of pockets and sheaths loaded with a dozen weapons.

  The bearded soldier lifted a card from around his neck and threw it to the ground in front of the officer. “Miss Casteel.” He beckoned her with a quick bend of two fingers. “If you would?”

  She grasped at the possibilities their politeness might hold. “Could I contact Vincent—”

  He cut her off. “Colonel Rallis? The man you were leaving in the middle of the night? You looked like you were done with him.”

  The sarcastic words loosened a flood of pain through her heart.

  He shrugged. “You can call him later. Maybe. General Wilen has a few questions for you.”

  The enforcers abandoned their quarry without another word. Wilen was too great a power to battle against. Defeated, they stomped to their cars. The mage engines powered up, a low hum in the otherwise silent night. They disappeared into the darkness as the gates to the Rallis estate closed, quietly shutting her out of their protective embrace.

  Alone. Defenseless.

  The blond soldier strode forward.

  She dropped her gaze. Goddess, she couldn’t even look him in the eye. “Could I…” Her voice failed. She tried again. “Could I get my papers?” The words stuttered, caught on her tongue. They might have been a whisper. She could barely hear them over the utter loneliness ringing in her ears.

  He took her arm. “This is a terrible idea, Dane. She doesn’t even have shoes on.” His reluctance didn’t stop him from escorting her to their vehicle. “Vincent is going to blast our asses to specks when he hears about this.”

  “Please. I’m a Non. I need my papers. They’re in my car.”

  “Naw.” The bearded man shook his head but not at her. “They’ll be bigger than specks when he hears we kept her from being arrested by Masset’s men. Probably more like chunks.”

  “I don’t know about that. Guess it all depends on what Wilen plans to do with her.”

  Bronte swayed. Her legs fell out from under her, but her new captor pushed her into the car without missing a beat and shut the door.

  She leaned forward to take the pressure off her bound hands. Her chest rose and fell, but there was no air inside this vehicle. Only fear.

  The blond got in on the other side, sitting in the back with her. Two others took their places in the front.

  She kept the Rallis gates in sight for as long as she could as the vehicle sped her away.

  * * * *

  Moonlight, not headlights, lit the road. Another benefit of a being a mage—they could use their sixth sense to see in the dark as easily as their eyes saw light. For Bronte, the darkness added another layer to this nightmare. They were on the road that followed the Olentangy River. The twists and curves of the vehicle crushed her back against her hands.

  “Why the hell haven’t you shut her down already?” The words burst from driver as if he could no longer hold them in.

  Bronte jerked at the sudden shattering of the silence.

  “Why should we? She’s not doing anything.” The calm statement of the warrior next to her was a sharp contrast to the driver.

  “She’s a syphon. Don’t you know what they do? We ought to pull over and drown her in the Olentangy.”

  The bearded man turned around to face his colleague. “Why do we always get stuck with him?”

  Bronte could feel the blond man staring at her like he was looking through a microscope. “Her energy is like the space between stars in the sky.”

  “Oh blasted hells, Gregor. Don’t start with the poetry crap.”

  She turned away from the uncomfortable inspection and looked out the window. The darkness passed them by. She had no clue where they were taking her. They weren’t heading into the city. She was sure of that. Empty fields, shorn of various crops, quilted the land.

  She was lost.

  Whoever and whatever she had been before, Bronte knew with a certainty there would be no going back. Why hadn’t she fled the country instead of obeying her mother’s orders? Her family was completely capable of negot
iating with the Rallises without her. They’d taken the easiest way out by sending her. Her anger built, melting away the blanket of fear that wrapped around her mind. She sat up straighter, taking the pressure off her wrists.

  She caught the wide-eye gleam of the driver in the rearview mirror. He yanked the car into a turn. The unexpected move slammed her into the door. Her head banged painfully against the metal seat belt hanging from the wall of the car.

  “Damn it, McIssac!” Dane shouted. “If you can’t drive, stop the fucking car and get out.”

  “It’s a straight shot from here. Surely the corporal can handle that.” Sarcasm from Gregor to her right. “As soon as he’s done, he can take his pig-ass back to his own base.” Another minute and they came up beside an old white farmhouse. McIssac stopped the car and made to get out.

  “No, thanks, McIssac,” Gregor said. “We’ll take her from here. You stay there.”

  McIssac froze halfway out of the car, an unnatural position. The soldier beside her had iced him there. Fear bubbled at the amount of mage power and control that man must have. Ice someone too much and his heart would stop. She shivered.

  Bronte’s door opened. Her handler pulled her out. They walked around to the back of the house. Dozens of buildings sprawled among the fields, dark blotches against the night. A helicopter sat off to the left in an empty field, its rotor circling slowly, each blade visible. Two men walked away from it as if they’d just landed.

  Despite the quaint house, this was no farm.

  The blond mage guided her inside and then straight down a set of stairs that lined the interior wall of the house. The musty smell of a basement filled each breath. She felt her way into the pitch-black one foot at a time. For all she knew, there was a pit ahead of her ready to swallow her up for good.

  The soldier stayed with her and plunked her down into a metal chair. The gap between the back of the chair and the seat gave her space for her cuffed hands. Bronte gave a small sigh of relief. No pit.

  “You can’t see, can you?” he called.

  She shook her head. “No.” The word was hardly more than a puff of air.

  His shoes whispered against the steps. He was leaving. He didn’t care that she couldn’t see. She bit back a cry and converted it to a whimper instead.

  Non-mages were at a complete disadvantage in the dark compared to their so-called betters. No Non trusted the dark.

  A quiet thought flickered in her mind. She wasn’t a Non. But it made no difference here. Her mage power was useless.

  Bronte nearly wept when the light over the stairs flicked on. Metal clacked to the floor as her cuffs released without a physical touch. She slumped, let her shoulders droop forward and dragged her numb arms forward until they hung free of the chair. Feeling returned slowly and brought painful pins and needles. She wrapped the cold appendages around her body.

  Despite the light, there was nothing to see, no other furniture, just plain, gray walls. She rocked back and forth, trying to comfort herself in the stark surroundings. Her chair wobbled against the uneven concrete floor.

  She should do something, she thought. Fight for freedom. But she was too afraid to move. They weren’t going to let her simply walk out. A sob burst from her throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. She wasn’t sure. She waited, as if another sound might take the initiative and pop out as well. But no. She was empty. As empty as this room.

  Her mind crept back to Vincent, like scared prey sneaking to safety. Was he still asleep? Maybe the absence of his energy was why the gauge of her soul was on E. Maybe it had nothing to do with being captured.

  Syphons were always captured. And killed.

  Footsteps drummed down the stairs. A pair of legs appeared. She turned her head away before she could see his face. What did it matter?

  Somewhere inside her she’d always known this was bound to happen—that she would be revealed as a syphon and punished accordingly. Maybe that was why she’d never found the courage to leave the Republic. Since she couldn’t escape fate, she’d stayed and waited for it.

  The man walked over to her, dragging a metal chair behind him. He put it directly in front of her, but remained standing. She glanced up at him. It was the bald man from the symphony.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Casteel.” He smiled at her. “Do you know who I am?”

  Bronte dropped her eyes and stared straight ahead. “General Wilen, I presume.” Her dry, scratchy voice fell flat, barely reaching past her ears.

  He sat down. Their eyes met. A scuffle of shoes came from deep in the gloom to her left. Another person hid in the shadows. Either he’d been down here all along or the darkness concealed another entrance.

  “I understand you like music, Bronte,” the general said.

  She nodded.

  He didn’t say anything else. She shifted her gaze back and forth from his eyes to the floor. He stared. She squirmed.

  Finally, she blurted it out. “I’m a syphon.”

  His expression stayed frozen, unmoved by her confession. His dark stare stabbed at her mind.

  She hated his eyes.

  “Your friend, Claude, likes music, too.” He crossed his legs. “You know what else Claude likes? Newspaper clippings.” He smiled. “You don’t get any newspapers though. You’re not known to read them. We asked your friends. They seemed to find that as odd as we do. Everyone likes newspapers…gossip, scandal, comics.” He paused.

  Bronte had nothing to add to the silence. She’d long since stopped caring about the doings of mages, avoiding even the written accounts of their lives.

  Finally, he began again. “Claude has scrapbooks full of clipped articles. We found them when we searched his trailer. Someone mails the articles to him. He saves the envelopes and glues them into the scrapbook too. According to Claude’s mailman, he never mails anything back. Each newspaper clipping focuses on a particular event or location, for instance a mage school or hospital, a shopping center. Within one week of the articles appearing in the newspaper, the location was bombed by Double-Wide.” The general paused. “You startin’ to see the problem here?” He raised his eyebrows high. They looked like they might climb onto his bald scalp.

  If Claude had newspaper articles about places that were bombed, there might be a problem. She just wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

  He didn’t wait for her answer. “Also. Claude has a lot of maps. You know anything about those?” At the shake of her head, he continued, “Well that’s a darn shame. Because you’re pretty much the only person we know who Claude talks to. You show up there every now and then, right?”

  “Yes.” Her hoarse voice barely carried the word. She cleared her throat. “I go there to pick up copies of his music. Sheet music. His compositions.”

  “Right, right. That’s what we heard too. You go into his bedroom?”

  “No! Never.” She shook her head. “Claude and I are…friends…though I wouldn’t call him that anymore.”

  “The maps are marked up with the longitude and latitude of specific places in the Republic. Is Claude some kind of explorer or cartographer? That a hobby of his?”

  Her stomach dropped with every bit of information the general revealed. “Not that I know of. He doesn’t leave his house anymore.”

  “Yeah. That beating he took must have done him some mental damage.”

  Bronte scrunched her brow. “Beating?”

  The general feigned surprise.

  She didn’t need to be a mage to recognize the expression was a lie.

  “You don’t know about this? He got beat up outside Tremont Tavern by a couple of mages. You really don’t read the papers, huh? And he didn’t tell you?” The general kept going as she shook her head. “Probably too embarrassed to admit to his best girl that he got beat up. As far as we can tell, that’s when he started hunkering down in the craphole trailer he lives in. November 11 of last year. Sound about right?”

  Bronte could hardly think straight, but the timing was possible.

&nb
sp; “The only thing that goes out of his house is the sheet music he gives to you. You play it. And then you know what happens?” His voice got softer and softer.

  Bronte shook her head, swallowing hard.

  “Things go boom,” he whispered.

  12

  “The Double-Wide terrorists set off a bomb every two days after you play one of Claude’s new songs.”

  Bronte’s heart stuttered and stopped, cycling through the pattern again as the general’s words rebounded through her head.

  He continued, “We have the music. Confiscated it from Claude’s house along with the scrapbooks and the maps. One of the code guys played the songs on the piano. Sounded pretty weird to me. But what do I know about music? The code guys are the smarties, not me.”

  She didn’t believe that for a minute.

  “According to the smart guys, it’s a pretty simple code once you know what to look for. A specific note corresponds to a specific number. Play the notes in order and you can decipher the coordinates of the location for the bomb. Best we can figure it, you stand on stage and play the music, and, if our Double-Wide agent can recognize notes by hearing them, he knows where to set off the bomb. Now, I can’t recognize one note from the next. But I’m told there are people who can do this.” He stilled. “Can you?”

  She nodded, her neck muscles almost too tight to move.

  “The notes of the chorus represent the longitude and latitude of the bomb sites. It’s possible the verses hold the code to the staging areas for the explosives. We’re still working on that part. You know anything about this?”

  Bronte shook her head vigorously, feeling sick to her stomach.

  “Four bombs. Four. In the last eight weeks. Not gone as planned. The code guys say the music we got from Claude’s house contains the coordinates for logical targets for Double-Wide’s bombs. A school, a hospital, a playground and a market. But none of them were bombed. The explosives were planted off target. One by less than a mile. One by over fifty miles. What I want to know is this: what happened to make the bombs go off in the wrong places? And who comes to listen to you play when Claude gives you new music?”