Page 107 of Desecrated Saints
“Are those reporters still outside?”
Eli nods uncertainly.
“Good. We’re going to give Incendia a taste of their own medicine.”
Throwing my leather jacket on to cover my heavily scarred arms, I retake Eli’s hand. My heartbeat is roaring in my ears, but I don’t allow myself to stop and consider if this is a bad idea. All I know is that I can’t stand the fucking injustice any longer.
The grand foyer we departed from hours ago is a hubbub of frenetic energy. There’s an even heavier security presence than earlier, blocking every entrance and exit while checking employees’ badges and fingerprints for good measure. They aren’t taking any chances.
At one of the glass entrance doors, a scowling, bald-headed agent studies the reception. He looks like a terminator, his hand resting on a visible gun in its holster. I wait for him to recognise me and let us pass, but he refuses to budge.
“Carl, step aside.”
Theo appears at our side, dressed down in blood-speckled sweats and a tight muscle shirt. Damn, he’s hiding some firm pectorals under his usual goofy clothes. His face is marred by a row of stitches and his sprained arm is in a sling.
“Theo?”
Meeting my eyes, exhaustion and grief stare back at me in shades of Antarctic blue. The gentle, caring soul within him has been broken and imprisoned in a cage. He looks done with the world and everything in it.
“Alyssa shouldn’t have died like that,” he offers bleakly. “We let her down. Now, we don’t even have a body to mourn. They’ve taken that from us too.”
“I’m so sorry, Theo.”
“The truth doesn’t matter to them, but it does to the world.”
“What do you want us to do?”
Theo’s grimace hardens. “Tell it.”
At his order, the reluctant agent scans his thumbprint and opens the huge glass door for us to step outside. Eli moves tentatively, his hand bunched in the material of my leather jacket. We descend the steps until he digs his heels in, rubbing at an invisible pain in his chest.
“What is it?”
“C-Can’t… hate m-me…”
Wrapping my arms around his trembling body, I feel his face bury in the crook of my neck. We embrace in the chilly wind, caught between safety and retaking our lives. One misstep and we’ll crash into the chasm of death waiting to devour us whole.
“Nobody could ever hate you, Eli,” I whisper into his soft, lemon shampoo-scented curls. “The world just doesn’t understand people like us. I’ll still keep you safe.”
“P-Promise?” Eli stutters.
“I promise. Just keep talking to me.”
His lips caress my ear. “Anything f-for you… baby girl.”
Hearing his raw voice return more every day will never get old. His sweet little smile spears me right in the heart. Hand in hand, wrapped in each other’s strength and determination, we approach the horde of reporters. The minute they spot us, the shouts for attention begin.
Our identities are hardly a matter of secrecy after recent events. Every dark and sordid detail of our lives have been printed for the country to read. We’re the monsters that burned down Blackwood Institute. That’s all the world will ever see when they look at us.
But not today.
This is our chance to take control back.
Eli’s grip on my hand becomes crushing as we stop metres from the barrier keeping the crowd of reporters back. Flashing cameras blind us as the shouts and calls for attention grow more frantic. For the first time in so long, we hold the power. They want to hear our voices.
“Brooklyn West!”
“Did you bomb the church?”
