Chapter 26 #2
"Formation!" Anders barked.
They closed ranks.
It was instantaneous and instinctive.
Anders was the prow of the ship, cutting through the sea of lenses. He walked with a lethal, predatory grace, shoving a microphone out of his face without breaking stride.
Simon fell in on my left flank. He was manic, kinetic energy, his head on a swivel.
He made himself wide, using his elbows, his body, his very presence to block the sightlines.
His scent of burnt sugar and graphite was sharp, acrid with protective fury.
He was shouting things I couldn't hear, snarling at anyone who dared to lift a lens.
Daniel was the fortress behind me. He was so close that every time I took a step, my heel brushed the toe of his boot. His massive presence blocked out the sky, the drones, the world behind me. He emanated a low, continuous rumble in his chest, a sub-vocal growl that vibrated against my spine.
I was in the center. The soft, beating heart of the machine.
"Keep walking," Anders yelled over the din. "Don't look at them. Look at my back."
I fixed my eyes on his wet shirt. I focused on the seam running down the center.
Flash. Flash.
"Tessa! Did you fake the heat?"
"Why did you hide?"
"Is it true you're on stabilizers?"
The questions were hooks, barbed and cruel, trying to snag a reaction. Trying to get me to cry. Trying to get me to cover my face so they could capture the shame.
I wanted to cover my face. My hands twitched, desperate to fly up and shield myself.
"Don't," Simon said, appearing in my peripheral vision. He grabbed my left hand, interlacing his fingers with mine. His grip was bone-crushing. "Don't give them the shame, Tess. Give them nothing."
On my right, pure heat. Daniel didn't take my hand; he wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side, turning us into a three-legged beast.
"I've got you," Daniel breathed. "I'm the wall. Nothing gets through."
We moved through the gauntlet.
It was a sensory overload of the worst kind. The smell of wet asphalt, unwashed bodies, and ozone. The blinding lights. The screaming. And over it all, my own voice wailing from the van speakers.
"...please help me..."
"Shut that off!" Anders roared, not stopping, just bellowing the command at the universe.
A photographer knelt in front of us, trying to get a low angle shot of my muddy legs.
Anders didn't break stride. He walked right through the man's space, forcing him to scramble backward into a puddle or get trampled.
"Liability!" Anders snapped. "Move or I step on you."
We were ten feet from the SUV. It felt like ten miles.
The drone buzzed violently close, hovering right above Anders’ head.
"Simon," Anders said, calm and deadly.
Simon let go of my hand for one second. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out a rock. A heavy, jagged piece of slate from the garden border.
He didn't hesitate. He threw it.
It was a pitcher's throw. Fast. Violent.
Crack.
The rock clipped the drone rotor. The machine whined, spun out of control, and crashed into the gravel with a satisfying crunch of plastic.
"Oops," Simon snarled. "Artistic difference."
He grabbed my hand again instantly.
We reached the car.
Anders yanked the rear passenger door open. He didn't get in. He stood by the door, holding it open, using it as a final shield, his body blocking the gap.
"Get in," he ordered.
Daniel practically lifted me into the backseat. I scrambled across the leather, sliding to the middle. Simon dove in after me on the left. Daniel climbed in on the right.
Sandwiched. Safe.
Anders slammed the door. The sound was a heavy, final thunk that severed the connection to the outside world.
The noise dropped by fifty decibels. The screaming was muffled. The recording was just a dull vibration.
I sat there, shaking, mud smearing the expensive leather seats.
The driver's door ripped open and Anders slid in. He locked the doors instantly.
"Everyone intact?" he demanded, looking in the rearview mirror. His eyes were wild, chest heaving.
"Clear," Daniel rumbled, leaning his head back against the seat, his hand finding my knee and squeezing.
"I think I broke a paparazzi's lens hood," Simon said, breathless, wiping rain from his face. He looked exhilaratingly alive, terrifyingly pleased with himself.
I looked at them.
My pack.
They were wet. They were disheveled. They were violent.
And they were beautiful.
"You blocked them," I whispered, the adrenaline crash starting to make my teeth chatter. "You really blocked them."
"Standard procedure," Anders said, though his voice shook slightly as he put the car in gear. He looked back at me, his eyes softening. "We told you, Tessa. We don't watch from the bleachers anymore."
He floored the gas.
The SUV lunched forward, engine roaring. We didn't wait for the photographers to clear a path. Anders drove with the aggression of a tank commander, forcing the sea of bodies to part.
We tore out of the driveway, past the van still blasting my trauma, past the broken drone, and onto the main road.
As we picked up speed, putting distance between us and the fortress, Daniel reached across me and took Simon’s hand. I was in the middle, wrapped in their arms, smelling of rain, mud, and pack.
"Where are we going?" Simon asked, staring out the back window at the shrinking house.
Anders adjusted the mirror, catching my eye.
"We're going to the city," he said. "And then, we're going to war."
I leaned my head on Daniel’s shoulder, closed my eyes, and for the first time in ten years, I didn't feel like running.
I felt like fighting.