Good. Iris scoffed. Her head felt fuzzy, as if it were filled with static. She stalked back to the bunk bed and sat heavily. “Did you even stop to think about what you sound like when you talk about Tovairins?” Iris asked. The sharpness had fled her voice. She sounded tired, weak. “Did you think about how that must make Ronja feel?”
Evie swallowed, the skin of her throat glistening in the low light. Still, she refused to look up at her girlfriend.
“She grew up with a mutt Singer. For all intents and purposes, she was a mutt. Do you get what that means?”
“I know what it means,” the techi barked, finally lifting her gaze from the floor. The whites of her eyes were tinted pink.
“It means she was hated for something she couldn’t control,” Iris pressed. “Just like you hate Jonah for a war he didn’t start. Just like … just like The Conductor hates people like you and me.”
Evie stiffened. Iris bowed her head as her eyes filled with unwanted tears. She missed the feeling of her hair sweeping forward over her shoulders. Her red curls were her favorite thing about her appearance. She had been awake when they shaved her head at Red Bay. Ronja was barely conscious, Henry already had a buzz cut. But Iris fought tooth and nail against the razor. Three Offs had had to hold her down like a terrorized animal while they sheared away her locks.
All at once Evie was next to her on the bed, her arm curled around her frail shoulders. Evie was so warm, so full of life. She was her own sun. She was her sun. All the rage rushed from Iris like a great exhalation and she wilted. Evie eased Iris’s head onto her thighs.
“I am so sorry,” Evie murmured, brushing her finger over the curve of Iris’s ear, ignoring the piercings that studded her cartilage. “I never thought about it like that.”
“Just … promise me you’ll do better.”
“I will, I swear.”
Iris nodded against her legs, then shifted so she could look Evie in the eye.
The techi smiled ruefully, the corners of her eyes crinkling like paper. “Guess what?” she asked, poking Iris in the shoulder.
Iris sniffed, her lips twitching into an involuntary smile. She was familiar with this game. “What?”
Evie bent down and planted a kiss on her brow. “I love you,” she whispered against her skin. Iris blushed as quick as a lighter igniting. How was it that after all this time those three simple words still made her heart sing?
“I certainly hope so,” she replied offhandedly. Before Evie could pout, Iris sat up and gave her a proper kiss, just to remind her that the feeling was mutual.
25: Human
She waited in the center of the room, her knees raw against the rough concrete. The nightmare was becoming familiar, almost mundane. The expressionless walls. The stiff prison gown. The impenetrable cell door. Ronja reached to her shoulder absently, feeling for her long hair. Her hand cut through air.
She reached up to her scalp. Her stomach vaulted when her fingers caught her brief mess of curls. Her fingers flashed to the side of her head, hunting for her right ear. There was nothing but a puckered scar.
No.
“Help,” Ronja rasped, scrambling to her feet. Her knees knocked. She stumbled to the back wall to steady herself, pressing her burning forehead to the concrete. She was back at Red Bay. Only moments ago she had been at the warehouse with her friends.
Roark. Evie. Iris. Samson. Their names formed on her lips, then wasted away to panicked breaths. Where were they?
“Your friends are here.”
Ronja whirled, her fists raised to protect herself. She froze as shock ripped through her. Her jaw dropped, her hands followed. “Henry,” she breathed.
The boy stood with his back to the cell door, his arms crossed, his handsome face expressionless. He was dressed in a white suit, the bleached fabric blazing against his dark skin.
“They are waiting for you,” he went on. Ronja felt her pulse atrophy. His voice was all wrong. It was mechanical, like his tongue was acting without the consent of his brain.
“Who is?” she asked carefully.
Henry gave a sinister smile, then pushed open the heavy door with ease. Blistering light crept into the room. Ronja squinted, taking a tentative step forward. There was something on the floor behind him. She could not make it out. Reading her mind, Henry stepped out of her line of sight.
There was no moment of realization, no wave of horror that engulfed her. She simply collapsed, her hands pressed to her mouth to hold back a scream that was never there in the first place. Their bodies were piled on the white tiles, their limbs twisted, their eyes glazed. There were no bullet holes, no knife wounds, no stinger burns. Only the trails of blood that leaked from their ears, forming little rivers in the cracks between the tiles.
A thick arm snaked around her waist and a hand gripped her throat. Ronja flinched. The stench of death leaked from Henry’s mouth. She could feel his eyes on her, so close, but she refused to look away from the bodies of her family.
Georgie. Cosmin. Iris. Evie. Samson.
Roark.
“You cannot save them, mutt,” Henry sneered. The words were not his own. “How can you possibly, when you cannot even save yourself?”
When Ronja screamed, it was too loud for her eardrums to contain. It ruptured the cell, stormed the halls, burned away the hands on her body.
“Ronja!” Her name slammed into her, fracturing the prison. She shot up, fists flying. Two hands caught her wrists, stilling them with ease. Panic ripped through her and she lashed out blindly with her feet, but they were tangled in something soft. A blanket. “Come back to me, love.”
Ronja blinked. Roark leaned over her, his face an inch from hers, his hands holding hers aloft. Genuine fear wracked his angular features. The girl relaxed enough to be embarrassed. “Uh, could you … ” She flicked her eyes up to her trapped wrists.
“Oh, sorry.” Roark released her. Without his support, she flopped back onto the mattress, staring blankly at the bunk above her. Someone had carved their initials into the box spring. S.L.P.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked.
“I heard you scream,” Roark answered, as if it were entirely obvious. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him scratch the back of his head anxiously.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Nearly 6:00.”
“In the morning?”
Roark chuckled under his breath. “Guess again.”
Ronja sat up far too quickly, her brain lurching against the walls of her skull. “What?” she cried, blinking rapidly to reclaim her sight. “Why the hell did you let me sleep so long?”
The boy shrugged helplessly. “We needed to set up the radio station anyway, and to be honest you looked pretty rough.”
“Yeah, well, I still could have helped,” she mumbled, lying back down on the hard mattress. It was only in the aftermath of her shock that Ronja realized how cold she was. Her sweater with damp with sweat, her freckled legs studded with goosebumps.
“Here.” As if her thoughts were being broadcast, Roark tugged the gray blanket trapped around her knees up to her chest, leaving her hands free. She moved to tuck them under the covers, but he cocooned them in his own.
“Th—thank you,” she stuttered. Her eyes darted down to the soft quilt, then returned to his face. “Did you do this?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Roark apologized hastily. He grimaced when she shot him a dubious look. “I would have given it to you downstairs if I knew you were going to sleep so quickly. I just figured … ” He trailed off as it became clear she was not angry. The worry in his gaze gave way to tenderness. “What happened?”
Ronja rolled her head to the side, fixed her gaze on the whitewashed wall. The lumps and divots in the plaster read like the patterns in the stars, but she was blind to them. “Nothing.”
“Liar,” he growled.
“Kidnapper,” she quipped weakly.
Roark shook his head in disbelief. His hands were vividly present w
rapped around hers. “Did you forget that I am the master of deflection?” he joked. Ronja frowned. Her warning was clear, but Roark barreled on obliviously. “You can tell me, whatever it is. You can trust me.”
“I know,” she replied, keeping her voice low so it did not shake. “I do trust you.” It was true, she realized. She did trust him. With her life. “I just … I am so tired of being weak.”
Roark maintained his silence for a long time, regarding her with unflinching eyes. He lifted one hand from hers to cup her cheek. His touch was as gentle as a whisper, as firm as the ground. “How can you not see that you’re the strongest of all of us?”
Ronja jerked away and sat bolt upright. “No, I am not!” She ripped her hands away from his, curling them to her chest. Hurt flashed across his face, but he did not protest. “I am angry all the time. I have nightmares every night. I wake up screaming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” She took a rattling breath. The oxygen in the room was suddenly thin. “I’ll never be free of it.”
“Free of what?”
“Roark,” she choked out. “It’s—it’s my fault. We all blamed Terra. It was easy, but Henry and Layla died because of me. Cos can barely speak because of me. Georgie almost died. You—you were tortured because of me.”
“No,” Roark said. “If you need to blame someone, blame me. I’m the one who took you from the station that night.”
“He still talks to me,” Ronja rasped. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, landing on her blanketed knees without a sound. Somewhere in the depths of her mind she realized how she must look. “I can still hear his voice, his last words, over and over.”
“I know.” Roark took her face in his hands. This time she did not pull away. His dark eyes tethered her to her bones. He pressed his brow to hers and warmth spread between them. Ronja clutched at his shoulders, digging into him with her fingernails. If it hurt him he did not say as much. “I hear him, too.”
“How am I supposed to do this?” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut to rid them of the sting. “How am I supposed to save this city if I can’t even save myself?”
“You’re not alone.”
“You can’t fix me, Roark.”
“You don’t need fixing. Fear, pain, guilt … they don’t make you weak, Ronja. They make you human.”
Human. The word lodged itself in her brain, stanching her tears. She had been called so many names throughout her life. Mutt. Anthemite. Singer. Savior. Traitor. Weapon. Siren. But not once had she been called human. It filled her to the brim, flushing out her terror and her doubt, her guilt and her regret.
Without thinking, without wondering if it was too soon, Ronja leaned forward and kissed Roark.
Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her soul cracked to the core. His mouth was still for a split second, then he moved against her, slow and sure. She kicked off the blanket and buried her fingers in his long hair. His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer. Their heartbeats twined, their breathing sped. Roark leaned back. Ronja panicked, thinking she had done something wrong. Then he pulled her into his lap. He locked eyes with her. “Is this okay?”
Ronja answered him with another kiss, wrapping her slender legs around him. She wanted nothing between them. No space. No secrets. No separation.
He must have felt the frantic flutter of her thoughts, because he yanked off his shirt in a swift motion. He palmed the curve of her cheek, silently asking. She nodded, her eyes glued to the muscular planes of his chest, the proud brand of the Anthem over his heart. His skin was stitched with scars, just like her own. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her vision flooded. Roark tensed. “Hey,” he murmured, dipping his forehead to touch hers again. “We can stop.”
Ronja tugged her thick sweater over her head and threw it aside. Roark stared openly, his lips parted. His glazed eyes hardened when they landed on the knot of scar tissue above her breast. “You did this to save me,” he murmured, shame creeping across his features.
“I would do it again,” she replied. There was not a trace of doubt in her voice.
Roark reached out tentatively and covered the scar with his hand. She copied him, splaying her cold fingers across his tattoo.
“I love you, Ronja,” he whispered. “There and back.”
She smiled through her sheen of tears. Her hand slipped from his chest. She curled both arms around him, clinging to him as if he might vanish into the night. He held her with equal ferocity.
“I love you, too,” she whispered into his neck. “There and back.”
26: Cicada
Terra
“How about we sit down,” Jonah suggested, gesturing to the metal folding chair with a large hand. Rather than waiting for Terra to agree, he plopped down in the seat, which groaned beneath the sudden burden. He tossed her a coy smile. “We only have one seat but … ” He patted his thigh and waggled his eyebrows. “Surely we can work something out.”
Terra smirked, balancing her throwing knife on the tip of her index finger. Her calluses protected her; she scarcely felt the blip of pain. “Talk to me like that again and I’ll put this through your eye.”
Jonah laughed, a low rumbling that filled the cramped space. “I believe you,” he said. He leaned forward, his eyes at once calculating and amused. “You have a short fuse. I doubt it serves you well.”
“And how does your ego serve you?” she asked.
The Tovairin grinned, his white teeth blazing against his skin. “Well enough.” Terra narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing Jonah through her lashes. He shared some basic features with Evie, straight black hair and dark hooded eyes. He was taller than Roark, stronger than Samson with biceps as thick as tree branches. She hated to admit it, but he was also something of a looker.
“We know you’re Tovairin,” Terra said, letting her blade tumble from her fingertip and catching it in her free hand.
“How astute.”
“The rest of your story is up for debate.”
“Oh?”
“How about you try telling it again,” Terra suggested, leaning up against the metal door. She circled her finger in the air, like a record spinning backward. “From the top.”
The Tovairin sighed deeply, reclining in his chair. It moaned again, threatening to cave. Jonah laced his fingers together, then bent them backward. His joints cracked like thin ice under a boot. “Right. My name is Jonah … ”
“Jonah what?”
“Just Jonah. We give up our last names when we enter the Kev Fairla. It reminds us that our cause is more important than our blood.”
Terra folded her arms over her chest. If Jonah was offended, he did an excellent job hiding it. “What exactly is your cause?” she asked. “Evie seems to think you’re just out for power.”
Jonah barked a humorless laugh. “The Arexian would say that. Truth is, sugar, everyone is out for power, the trick is to use it properly once you have it.” He crossed his thick arms to match her pose. “The Kev Fairla has been around for decades. Our goal has always been the same, to protect our country from internal and external threats by whatever means necessary.”
“Nice party line,” Terra commented blandly. “Do you practice that in the mirror before bedtime?”
“Only on weeknights. Can I go on?”
Terra huffed, then motioned for him to continue with a flick of her fingers.
The man smiled, his eyes glinting. He clearly knew he was wearing on her nerves. “Tovaire is small, we only have one port and one major city, but we do have one thing that every other country wants: coal. A fiesting ton of it.”
Terra fought to keep her expression level. She did not like being surprised.
“Judging by the smokestacks I saw on my way in here, you lot have plenty of black diamonds stored up.” Disdain dripped from his voice. Terra kept her arms locked to her chest in a heroic effort not to sock him in the jaw. “But most of the world used up their coal during The War of the Ages. Tovaire didn’t even come close to runni
ng out. After the dust settled, everyone was out for us, trying to get control of our supply, especially Vinta.” He grimaced, flashing an unexpected dimple on his stubbled cheek. “Your Arexian friend will tell you different, but our war with them had nothing to do with nationalism. They were coming for our coal.”
“Move it along,” Terra commanded, ignoring the acute sense of discomfort the words instilled in her.
“Like I said in the truck, Vinta is at our shores,” Jonah explained. His tone shifted, his arrogance shrinking. Exhaustion crept into his eyes, the kind that was difficult to fake. “They wasted most of their coal winning The War of the Ages. They rule most of the east now. We are the last independent eastern nation.”
“So Vinta is a vulture,” Terra summarized with a curt nod. “Feeding off the remains of its neighbors.”
Jonah laughed hollowly. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Get on with it.”
“Patience, blondie.”
“Fresh out,” she replied through gritted teeth. She raised her blade, allowing the light to collect on its edge. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I told you in the truck.”
“Tell me again,” Terra ground out. She crossed to him in a single stride and jammed the tip of her knife under his chin. He craned back his neck, the thick tendons straining like the lines of a ship. A droplet of blood bubbled up around the point. He just smirked at her. “I need to see your face when you say it,” Terra said. “I am very good at weeding out liars.”
“Are you now?”
“Yes.”
“You know I could snap your neck like a twig,” Jonah said softly. It was not a threat. It was a fact.
“I know,” Terra breathed, bringing her face close to his so their noses almost brushed. Were she not so close, she might never have noticed the hitch in his breathing. “Your first chance to kill me was when I was standing in that door like a pitcher. Your next is right now.”
Jonah gave a strained chuckle. A sheen of sweat built on his skin. His pulse was visible in the hollow of his throat, his blood hot as it slithered over her knuckles. “I was wondering why you were taking so long to shut it.”
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