by Mary Weber
Sofi leaned down and threw up as other images began flickering in front of her eyes. Faster recollections.
Memories.
As the realization finally dawned that, oh gad, this wasn’t just about Shilo.
She had been here before.
Seven years ago.
52
MIGUEL
MIGUEL SLIPPED IN BEHIND SOFI AND TOOK IN THE ROOM, THE vomit, the expressions of grief and horror and dawning on her face as his handscreen continued its display. Revealing a different scene, from years past, that had taken place in this same room. The sound suddenly clicked on the vid, and the entire space echoed with the happenings.
Every hum. Every sob. Every scream.
Sofi blinked and turned around, her hand sliding up to grip the owl at her throat. And looked into his eyes.
As the vid in his hand kept playing . . .
53
SOFI
TEN-YEAR-OLD SOFI CAME TO, LYING FLAT ON HER BACK in some type of white shower stall, with a headache the size of World War III. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the blaring light overhead, and when they did, the Delonese medic in a white suit was standing over her smelling like sanitizer. And she was completely and awkwardly naked.
“Where’s my brother?” she snarled.
The medic said nothing, just turned and strode out of the stall. Sofi twisted her neck about, jerking against the metal straps, straining to glimpse him. “Where is he?” she screamed. “What’s happening? I want—” Her voice squelched off as her asthmatic lungs issued a swift kick to her throat.
Calm down before you can’t breathe. Use your brain, Sofi. Look around. What can you see?
Closing her eyes, she forced her mind to cool and focus, and block out the sanitized smell burning her nose. So what do they want with us? And where’s Shilo?
Sofi turned to assess the plastic curtains surrounding her. She could see through to what looked like rows of more shower stalls matching her own. They were filled with the other kids, all strapped down like her. Her lungs twisted.
Then the little boy to the right looked up and met her gaze. Shilo.
“Sofi?” his small, five-year-old voice asked.
Before she could answer, a buzzer blew so deafening she thought her eardrums might burst. It was followed by a wall of scalding water flooding their bodies—the intensity beyond brutal as it slammed her bones.
Sofi lay there unable to move, whimpering like a baby as her skin bubbled and boiled in the most excruciating pain. Certain the spray was peeling chunks from her flesh as the aliens melted their bodies.
Maybe they’ve decided we’re not worth keeping alive, Sofi thought as from the stall next to her Shilo was screaming.
“Shi, are you okay?” she yelled.
Either way, she was going to kill every last one of them.
Just as quickly as it turned on, the water shut off and the pain evaporated in seconds. “Shilo, answer me!” Sofi demanded in hysterics. Her arms were bruising from fighting the straps keeping her down.
He didn’t answer, but after a moment Sofi could see him moving. Gasping like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him. But alive and his skin appeared whole and unharmed. Tears filled her eyes. It’s okay. He’s okay.
“I’m all right,” he finally mumbled, and a million relieved breaths escaped her chest.
“Are you, Sofi?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. She had to be fine when it came to him. But she peered down at her body anyhow cuz she wasn’t actually sure she was fine. She scrunched up her fingers and toes—they still existed—and was shocked to find that, like Shilo’s, her skin was still magically intact. As brown as ever. “Like good farming soil,” as Papa used to say. And weirdly smooth. Shiny.
Hairless.
A rustling from Shilo’s section. “Sofi, I’m scared.”
Her heart broke and filled with fury all at once. “Oh, buddy. Hold on,” she said, and then began yelling for the Delonese man, wherever he was. From outside her stall, he uttered a string of words and the buzzer went off again.
The next shower blast was so cold it brought bone-wrenching coughs up from her chest and throat. As if someone were yanking the tissue from her lungs and slicing out the asthmatic cells. Over her heaving and hacking up of who-knows-what, the sound of the other kids’ shrieking carried into her stall, Shilo’s the loudest of all. When Sofi’s coughing finally subsided, she was still thrashing against the straps, trying to escape and reach Shi.
The water clicked off and another spigot turned on. This one shut out all noise as it pumped forth a whirlwind of dry air. The heat drowned out her shivers, and when it stopped she was completely dry and her body felt more alive than ever before. Like someone breathed inside of her and filled Sofi’s lungs to the brim with life and cleanness.
She heard the shower curtain shift behind her, and then the Delonese man loomed his giant forehead over Sofi’s face. Suddenly a sharp sting hit her chest, and she realized he’d injected her with something.
Sofi’s screech of surprise and anger was met by matching ones down the rows of stalls. She tried to lift her head to butt it against the alien’s face, but her neck muscles refused to move. Her limbs had turned to gummy worms. She couldn’t even look over at Shilo.
A shudder of cold enveloped her. Like the winter breezes come too early on the farm. The kind threatening deadly frost for the harvest. Except, this breeze was inside of her.
She stared up at the Delonese, wondering what the heck he’d just done to her.
And then she felt it. The click.
Terrifying. Exhilarating.
Like a button just got pushed.
Slowing her cells. Her blood. Her core.
Freezing.
Her lungs, her asthma, her mind . . . It just shut off.
Like a switch.
MY PLAYLIST OF THANK-YOUS
I’VE NEVER WRITTEN TO MUSIC BEFORE! NO MATTER HOW HARD I’ve wished to do so, my brain simply found it too distracting. Until this story. This book was inked out with headphones on, melodies blaring—as if the words refused to come unless the bass was dropping them into place. And oh man, I hope you can feel that in these pages, friend. That soul. The artists I love whose chaos of songs helped weave this idea into an adventure.
I hope their subtle refrains drive the beat of this book.
And just like the soundtrack for this story, I firmly believe there’s a soundtrack for this life. Songs that exist and breathe in the forms of people—soul harmonies to which our world spins, and without whom none of our writings or life stories would be possible or whole.
So this is for them. The people whose melodic selves ignite the world.
Peter, my husband of nineteen years, you are my cure. And I’m in love with you.
Rilian, Avalon, and Korbin. You sprinkle stardust on everything.
Bex, Daisy, Amanda, Jodi, Paul, and the rest of my Thomas Nelson/HarperCollins family. I’m so grateful to be by your side. Thanks for giving me wings to fly.
Danielle Smith, brilliant agent, precious friend, and one who brings cookies when I’m under pressure.
Jeanette, for always having the final edit. And for reminding me that walking the great unknown only increases faith.
Lee Hough. Still rocking the free world, man.
Mom and Dad, for making this a wonderful world.
Kati, Dave, Jon, Daniel, James, and your families, as well as my in-laws and relatives. For the laughter and conversations that promise, at the soul of it, we aren’t ever really getting older.
Lori Barrow. For continually awakening my soul to the reality that I was made to meet my Maker.
Jay Asher, for the family-friendship and unforgettable Thirteen Reasons Why movie adventures. And for keeping the hysteria at bay.
Marissa Meyer, Nadine Brandes, Courtney Stevens, Katie Ganshert, CJ Redwine, Wendy Higgins, Jonathan Maberry, Sara Jo West, Sara Ella, Kristy Cambron, Katherine Reay, Jennie and Manders of FYA, y�
�all move in mysterious ways that make me better.
Allen Arnold, Jim Rubart, and my Wildly Unbalanced Writers. Innagaddadavida, babies.
My Father’s House family, youth, and leaders. Highs and lows, we won’t let go.
Every reader, blogger, publicist, bookstagrammer, person who’s written or e-mailed or commented or come to signings or conferences or school visits or simply just shared a piece of your soul with me. THANK YOU. You are the world.
Jesus. Because you are all this heart exists for. <3
I love you guys.
~m
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!
1.Sofi and her mom have a complicated relationship. From Sofi’s perspective, her mother has put herself and career above Sofi and Shilo. But from her mom’s viewpoint, everything she’s done has been to help her corporation save her children and others. How would you feel if you were Sofi? How would you feel if you were her mother? What do you think Sofi needs from her mom as they move forward from here—and vice versa?
2.Even though Sofi’s mom hasn’t handled every decision as a parent should, do you think she tried? Are there things your parents have done (or haven’t) that influence the way you see yourself? Are there things that their parents did that influenced them? What are some of the positive perspectives you’ve developed due to a parent in your life? What are some of the negatives that you could turn into a positive?
3.What backgrounds and cultural factors may have influenced the characters’ choices and personalities? For instance—Miguel and his family of origin, Inola’s feminine strength from her heritage, Sofi’s strength from her mom, etc.?
4.Was Sofi really picking up on visions from Shilo, or were they flashbacks of her own past with the Delonese? Either way, where do you think Shilo is (and is he alive)?
5.The idea of life beyond our galaxy has fueled fantastic books, movies, and scientific theories. What do you believe—is there life out there? And if so, will we ever meet it?
6.Sofi’s kind heart and innocence unknowingly helped Miguel find himself (by changing the way he viewed himself). Do you think that’s possible—that encountering others who believe the best of us can impact our view of ourselves? Do you think Miguel was wise to pull away for a time—to figure himself out? Do you think either of them ultimately needs the other, or can they become whole on their own?
7.In the space shuttle Miguel tells Sofi, “Real relationships are a death trap only because they force you to die daily to shallowness. To care about the person more than your pride.” What do you think of that statement? Is true love a daily dying to selfishness? Is dying to selfishness different from giving up yourself (your soul, identity, and self)?
8.One of the book’s themes is the evaporation of Sofi. Or rather, what feels like the evaporation of things she thought she knew about herself, her past, and (by the end of the book) her beliefs about others. Have you ever felt like that—as if everything you have is being stripped away? Can this ever be a good thing? What benefit can come from it? Do you think the person Sofi truly is will rise from the process, or will she disappear completely? Who is Sofi ultimately? Who are you?
9.Miguel’s life has been strongly influenced by the guilt of shirking his duty of protecting his family. How did this belief play out in shaping his opinions about himself? How did that impact his choices and behaviors? How did it impact the way he treated others? Why are our own beliefs about ourselves so important—and what should shape them?
10.If the idea of Miguel or the Delonese harming kids in this book made you uncomfortable, it was for a reason. A large part of this story is centered around human trafficking, which is a very real crisis across our globe today. And while Miguel was in fact rescuing children (yay, Miguel!), we need more heroes like him in real life. At the time of this writing, 27,000 humans are enslaved and oppressed—and they need voices to speak up for them. To learn more about human trafficking and how you can (1) protect yourself, (2) protect others, and (3) help bring freedom to those who desperately need it, visit A21.org/. And if you are currently one of those 27,000—then please know this: This book is for you. It is your voice being raised for the world to hear, because you are not alone. We’re here fighting for you. And we will not stop.
AN EXCERPT FROM
STORM SIREN BY MARY WEBER
CHAPTER 1
“FOURTEEN CIRCLES FOR FOURTEEN OWNERS.”
I shade my eyes to block the sun’s reflection off the distant mountains currently doused in snow and smoke and flesh-eating birds. The yellow flags above me snap sharp and loud in the breeze as if to emphasize my owner’s words that yes, she’s quite aware such a high count is utterly ridiculous.
Waiting for it . . .
“Fourteen?” the sweaty merchant says.
Ha! There it is. Eleven years of repeatedly being sold, and it’s sad, really, how familiar I’ve become with this conversation.
Today, if Brea has her way, I will meet my fifteenth, which I suppose should actually bother me. But it doesn’t.
Brea nods. “Fourteen.”
I smirk and turn to watch a gimpy minstrel roaming through the marketplace, which is the closest I’ve ever been to Faelen’s High Court. The poor guy is singing so wretchedly off-key, I want to giggle, except he might be newly returned from the war front, so I don’t. Besides, his odd version of the old ballad “The Monster and the Sea of Elisedd’s Sadness” reminds me of my home up in the Fendres. Have you been there? I want to ask him.
Instead, I look over as the enormous merchant grunts his nervousness and retreats from me, giving the ground a superstitious spit. He eyes Brea. “Fourteen owners says either yer lyin’ or she’s got the dark-death disease. Whichever it is, you best get her out of my way. I got a money business to run.” He makes to hurry off toward the selling stand, almost tripping in his fur-trimmed shoes.
I grin. Yes, run away in your too-little boots.
“Wait!” Brea grabs his arm. “Nym doesn’t have the disease. She’s just . . .”
The merchant scowls at her grip on his sleeve.
She releases it, but her roundish face turns stony with determination. “She’s just too uppity for the poorer folk, that’s all. There’s only so much a master can take of a servant who thinks
she’s made of better than the rest.”
What in hulls? Is she off her chump? My laugh bubbles up and I choke it back, waiting for her to choke on her lie. He creeps closer and slides a look of dislike down my partially hooded face,
my chin, my half-cloaked body. “She don’t look uppity. She don’t even look decent enough for the favor houses.”
Whoa. I bite back a prickly remark about his mum birthing him in one of those dung havens and look away. Neither of them deserves a reaction. Using my practiced haughty pose, I face the lively crowd gathered like giddy children in front of the selling platform. Five, ten, fifty people. They’re all smiling as if the circus with its panther monkeys and manic dwarves were performing instead of a fat guy in little boots exploiting children. Seems even decent women are desperate for extra hands while the men are off fighting a war we’ve no hope of winning.
The merchant chews his puffy lip and studies me, like he expects me to help coerce him. Is he jesting? I raise an eyebrow and glare at him until, finally, he grunts again and pulls up the cuff on my right arm.
I stiffen.
His gloved fingers run over each thread tattooed around my wrist like tiny bracelets. “One. Two. Three . . .” He numbers the circles slowly, fourteen in a row inked into my skin with the juice of the black mugplant. I almost feel like I should clap for him.
Good job, I mouth. You know how to count.
The merchant’s face twists into a snarl. He gives me a vicious pinch below my elbow and pushes my sleeve higher up my arm onto my shoulder. I shiver and, narrowing my eyes, start to pull away, but Brea leans into me.
“You hold yourself together,” she sputters close to my ear. “And for foo
l’s sake, keep your hair covered, or so help me, Nymia, I’ll break your fingers again.”
I bite my tongue but refuse her the satisfaction of dipping my gaze to my slightly misshapen left hand, which I’m now curling into a fist.
“How old are you?” the dealer growls in my face.
“Seventeen,” I growl back.
“When was she first sold?” This question is for Brea, but I feel his bristly glove squeeze my skin as if he expects me to alert him if she’s dishonest.
“Age six. Her parents died when she was five and then she lived a short time with a midwife who had no use for her.” She says this last part with a slice of disgust in her voice that’s directed at me. And as much as I try to force it down, the hateful shame swells up to eat holes in my chest. She’s got me on that one. Two parents, one midwife, and fourteen owners I’ve ruined, the latest being Brea’s own husband. And it doesn’t matter that I tried to warn every single one of them.
The merchant’s eyes constrict. “There somethin’ else wrong with her yer not tellin’ me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s perfectly fine. Just give me three draghts and she’s yours.”
“Three draghts?” I murmur. “How generous.”
Either she doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore me as the merchant rubs his huge, stubbled jowls and considers the offer. Although I can already sense he’ll take it. Three is cheap. Beyond cheap. It’s pathetic. I consider feeling insulted.
The minstrel limps by, practically giddy as he continues his fabulously bad recount of the Monster and the Sea. “’Twas the night compassion forsooooook us.” He’s singing, referring to the night an agreement was struck between Faelen’s past king and the great, flesh-eating Draewulf. The price of which had been Faelen’s children. “And the big sea, she roared and spit up her foam at the shape-shifter’s trickery and our foooooolish king.”
I swallow and feel my amusement over how much he’s enjoying himself catch in my throat at what I know comes next. “The ocean, she’s begging for our salvation. Begging for blood that will set our children free.”