Sophia Elaine Hanson - The Vinyl Trilogy Boxed Set

THE VINYL TRILOGY

BOXSET

SOPHIA ELAINE HANSON

Copyright 2018 Sophia Elaine Hanson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VINYL: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

ISBN 13 978-0-692-57969-5

ISBN 10 0-692-57969-9

Editor: Katherine Catmull

Cover Design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

eBook Formatting: Ebook Launch

Front Cover Photography: Marta Bevacqua

Author Photography: Docshot

Copyright 2015 Calida Lux Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.

For my Parents

PROLOGUE: THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS

Roark

H eads. Tails. Heads. Tails.

The two familiar faces flared in the rain-soaked sun as the boy rolled them between his fingertips. The alloy was slick with his anxiety, yet their haughty expressions remained unsympathetic.

Are you listening to me, boy?

Roark started, his tailored suit coat squeaking against the leather seat of the auto. Victor Westervelt II glowered at him from across the compartment, his wolfish head backlit by the window.

Yes, Roark replied, hastily pocketing the coin.

Repeat it back to me.

Passion is perilous. Emotion is treacherous.

I have allowed you to grow up without the crutch of a Singer because I believe you are better than these people, his father said, gesturing at the dilapidated houses slinking by. Nevertheless, you must learn to govern your emotions. If you cannot control these outbursts, I may need to reconsider.

Roark cast his eyes down to his forearms, sheathed by the silk-threaded jacket. Beneath the finery was a growing constellation of cigarette burns.

The auto lurched to a halt. Roark rocked in his seat, peered out at the dingy avenue.

His father reached forward with his oak walking stick and rapped the sealed privacy partition. Why are we stopping? he demanded loudly. The shipment is due in less than an hour.

There was no response. Roark shuddered internally, reached for the talisman in his pocket. There would be harsh repercussions for the driver if he did not answer soon.

Go have a word with the driver, Victor ordered.

But the rain Roark began, disguising his reach for the coin as an itch at his thigh.

Victor gave his son a blistering look.

Restraining a sigh, the boy donned his bowler hat and opened the door on the driving rain. It was colder than he expected, and he wrinkled his nose at the pungent blend of fish and sewage characteristic of the outer ring. Slamming the door as hard as he dared, Roark started toward the front of the auto.

He had not taken half a step when a pair of monstrously large arms wrapped around his chest, lifting him from the soaked cobblestones.

Roark screamed, kicking wildly. His foot connected with the door at an angle, and a bolt of pain shot through him. His hat fell and rolled away down the street.

Dad! DAD!

The towering assailant hardly seemed fazed by his writhing as he pitched Roark over his shoulder and hurtled down the street. The boy continued to scream for help, his voice cracking, but the avenue was empty. The boarded windows of the houses looked on with vacant eyes; the gas lamps regarded him somberly.

Roark reached back desperately as the auto grew smaller behind them. He could see his fathers silhouette through the rivulets of water slithering down the glass. The man was utterly still.

The kidnapper rounded a corner into an alleyway and skidded to a halt, reaching into his jacket. Roark squirmed, trying to see what he was doing.

Hold still, the man hissed.

Before Roark could tell him to pitch off, a needle was jammed into his leg and a dose of searing fluid flooded the boys bloodstream.

Roark gave a final, defiant twist and went limp.

The man dipped again into his coat and withdrew a black, palm-sized radio. He extended the spindly antenna, then clicked a button with his meaty thumb. Static spouted forth.

This is Sphinx. The devil is in the details.

He waited in the fog of the static that returned. The freezing rain darkened his gray brushed hair and soaked his stolen Off uniform. He might have been shivering were it not for the adrenaline charging through his veins.

Three words shattered the white noise.

This is Harpy, a female voice replied, losing its clarity somewhere over the waves. The crows are flying.

A brief smile dusted the lips of the phony Off. He jabbed the button again and brought the radio to his mouth.

Understood. I have the package and am bringing it home.

The man let the radio slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground. Hefting the boy higher on his shoulder, he slammed his booted heel into the device. It splintered, revealing copper entrails. He swept it into the gutter with his leather boot, then tore off down the alley, his prisoner thumping against his back.

Roark did not know if it was the throbbing ache in his head or the harsh words that awoke him. He had been propped up in a hard-backed chair. He did not try to move. He could feel the cold bite of manacles at his wrists and kept his eyes screwed shut, listened.

he cant be more than twelve, Wilcox, a woman was saying in a thick, rusty voice. She sounded as if she had been crying. We cant just kill a child.

Roark felt the blood drain from his face as he struggled heroically not to move, to scream.

What use is he to us now? a man demanded.

A shudder ripped through the boy as he recognized the voice of his kidnapper.

What good will killing him do? the woman asked.

His father massacred twelve of ours, we will eliminate his heir.

There was a jarring clang as the woman slammed something against a metal surface.

No! she bellowed. There has been enough death today!

Wait, the man said, his voice abruptly lowered.

No! I will not!

Hes listening.

Roarks muscles seized. He ceased breathing, hoping he could somehow bleed into his surroundings.

The man advanced on him, his steady footfalls thudding across damp stones. He leaned in close to Roark, who kept his eyes closed, struggling not to inhale the hot, foul breath of his warden.

I want you to hear me, boy, the man hissed. Roark twitched, but managed to keep his eyes locked shut. We were banking that your father would send the Offs guarding the shipment after you and leave the warehouse ripe for the taking.

Wilcox the woman warned.

When our team arrived Every. Single. Off. Remained. Your father couldnt even spare one man to save you.

Thats enough, Tristen.

He couldnt even be bothered to take one of our agents prisoner. He had them all beheaded, left their heads sitting real polite-like next to their bodies. Right now, Ill bet you anything hes sleeping sound, knowing his fresh Singers are safe. He must despise you.

Roark smashed his teeth together. His eyes flew open. Wilcoxs slate eyes were narrowed, rimmed with red. His mouth was twisted into a snarl born of agony, not true malevolence.