CHAPTER 22
SKYFALL
POV: Elodie Fray
Location: Hallowed Halls Gardens -> The Night Sky -> The City (Penthouse)
Track: Iron – Woodkid
Sensory: The deafening scream of a turbine engine, the smell of aviation fuel and copper, the vibration of the joystick in a blood-slicked hand.
Mood: Adrenaline Overload & Lethal Synergy.
The snow is not soft.
When we hit the drift beneath the second-story window, it feels like hitting a wall of wet cement. The impact knocks the wind out of me, driving the air from my lungs in a sharp, agonizing wheeze. Cold packs into my collar, my sleeves, shocking my skin, but I don't have time to feel it.
"Move," Alaric grunts beside me.
He is already scrambling up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
The fall has jarred his wounded shoulder.
I see him grit his teeth, his face a rictus of pure, unadulterated pain, but he forces his body to obey through sheer force of will.
He grabs my arm with his good hand, hauling me out of the snowbank.
"Run," he commands. "The perimeter alarms triggered the floodlights."
We sprint. The gardens of Hallowed Halls, once a manicured labyrinth of peace designed for the wealthy insane, are now a war zone.
Behind us, the administrative wing is vomiting black smoke into the night sky.
The fire Sterling started has caught the curtains, the wood paneling, the history.
Flames lick up the stone facade, casting long, dancing shadows across the snow.
Sirens wail in the distance—local police, fire, maybe the Syndicate’s reinforcements.
The sound is a chaotic symphony of disaster.
We weave through the topiaries. The frozen bushes scratch at my face, tearing at my clothes. My feet slip on the icy path, but Alaric keeps me upright. He is a locomotive, momentum carrying him forward even as his engine fails.
"South Pad," he pants, pointing ahead. "Through the... rose garden."
We burst through a trellis covered in dead, thorny vines. There it is. The South Helipad. Sitting in the center of a cleared circle of concrete is the Medevac chopper. It is white, with a red cross on the side. Sleek. Modern. A Eurocopter EC135. It looks like salvation. It looks like a trap.
"Is it fueled?" I yell over the wind.
"Always," Alaric rasps. "Standard protocol... ready for immediate transport."
We reach the tarmac. The floodlights snap on—blinding banks of halogen that turn the night into a harsh, unforgiving noon. "They see us!" I scream.
"Get in!" Alaric shoves me toward the passenger side. "Copilot seat! Don't touch the pedals!"
He runs to the pilot's side. He wrenches the door open and climbs in, dragging his injured leg.
I scramble into the left seat. The cockpit smells of leather, ozone, and kerosene.
It is a tight glass bubble of complexity.
Dials, screens, switches—a terrifying array of controls.
I buckle in. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely click the latch.
Alaric is already flipping switches. His hands are flying—well, his left hand is flying.
His right hand, the bandaged one, hangs uselessly at his side, blood dripping onto the floor mat.
Click. Click. Whirrrrr. The engine whines to life.
A high-pitched scream that builds rapidly.
The rotor blades above us begin to turn. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
"Alaric, you can't fly this," I say, staring at him. He is grey. His eyes are losing focus. "You need two hands for the collective and the cyclic!"
"I don't have two hands," he snarls, flipping the avionics master switch. "I have you."
He looks at me. "You are my right hand, Elodie. Do you understand? I fly the stick. You fly the collective. The lever on your left."
I look down. A heavy black lever with a twist grip. "I don't know how!"
"It’s just pitch," he yells over the rising roar of the turbine. "Pull up to go up. Push down to go down. Twist for throttle. It’s like the pedals on the piano. Sensitivity, Elodie! Feel the machine!"
CRACK. A spiderweb fracture appears on the windshield right in front of Alaric. A bullet.
I look out. Three men are running across the tarmac. They are firing as they run. Muzzle flashes sparkle in the floodlights. "They're shooting at us!"
"Pull!" Alaric roars. "Pull the collective! NOW!"
I grab the lever with both hands. I yank it up. Too hard. The helicopter lurches into the air violently, jumping twenty feet in a second. My stomach drops into my shoes. The G-force slams me into the seat. The machine screams, the low-RPM warning horn blaring.
"Gently!" Alaric corrects, fighting the cyclic stick with his left hand to keep us stable. "Smoothly! You're strangling it! Ease off!"
I lower the lever slightly. The ascent slows. Alaric banks the chopper hard to the right, swinging the tail around. Bullets ping off the fuselage beneath us. Ping. Ping. Thud. We are a massive, white target in the spotlight.
"Go! Go! Go!" I scream.
Alaric pushes the stick forward. The nose dips. The helicopter bites into the air and surges forward. We skim over the rose garden. The landing skids clip the top of a stone statue, shattering its head. We clear the perimeter wall by inches.
And then we are out. The ground drops away. The trees become a black carpet beneath us. The sirens fade. The fire becomes a small orange dot in the rearview mirror.
We are flying. But it isn't smooth. The helicopter shudders in the wind. Alaric is slumped to the side, his head resting against the glass, his left hand white-knuckled on the control stick. He is flying on instinct alone.
"Altitude?" he whispers.
I look at the screens. Numbers are flashing everywhere. "Three thousand feet!" I guess.
"Good. heading... one-eight-zero. South."
"Where are we going?"
"The Eyrie," he breathes. "City center. Thorne won't... expect us... to come to him."
He coughs. Blood splatters the inside of the windshield. The stick jerks in his hand. The helicopter dips sharply to the left. "Alaric!" I grab his arm. "Stay with me! You have to fly!"
"I'm slipping," he admits, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The blood loss... I’m losing the horizon."
I look out the window. Ahead of us, the glow of the city is rising like a false dawn. Skyscrapers piercing the clouds. Millions of lights. It looks like a galaxy of electric stars. And somewhere in that grid is the man who bought me.
"I can't land this," I say, panic clawing at my throat. "Alaric, if you pass out, we crash. We die."
"Then don't let me pass out," he says. "Talk to me. Keep me... anchored."
"Talk about what?"
" The music," he murmurs. His eyes are closing. "Tell me... about the cadence."
I reach out and place my hand over his on the control stick. My skin on his skin. "We are playing a duet," I say, my voice steadying. "You provide the structure. I provide the soul. Remember?"
"I remember."
"We are in the Adagio," I lie. We are in the Presto Agitato, chaotic and fast, but I need him calm. "Slow. Steady. We are floating."
I modulate my voice. I make it soft, hypnotic. I use the tone I used on Charon the horse. "Focus on the lights, Alaric. They are notes. Follow the melody line. Don't rush the tempo."
He breathes in. Shudder. He breathes out. His hand steadies on the stick. "You have... a beautiful voice," he whispers. "I always hated... that you didn't sing."
"I'm singing now," I say. "I'm singing you home."
We fly toward the city. The lights get brighter. The buildings get taller. We are entering the belly of the beast. And for the first time in my life, I am not afraid of the height. I am afraid of the landing.
The city is a canyon of glass and steel. We fly between the towers. The wind buffets the helicopter, throwing us side to side. Alaric is sweating, his face a mask of concentration and agony. "Which one?" I ask.
"The black one," he says. "The Obsidian Tower. Tallest in the district. There is... a private pad on the roof."
I see it. A monolith of black glass rising above the others. It looks like a tombstone. On the roof, a circle of red lights outlines the landing zone.
"It's marked," I say.
"Private asset," Alaric grunts. "Shell company. No one knows... it's mine."
He initiates the descent. This is the hardest part. "Collective down," he orders. "Slowly. Like a feather."
I lower the lever. The helicopter drops. Too fast. "Too fast!" Alaric yells. "Power! Give it power!"
I twist the throttle. I pull up. The engine screams. The descent checks. We hover over the pad. The wind swirling around the building is vicious. We are drifting sideways toward the edge. toward a hundred-story drop.
"Right pedal!" I scream, seeing the tail swing.
Alaric stomps on the pedal. The nose snaps back. We drop. Ten feet. Five. THUD.
We hit the concrete hard. The skids groan. The helicopter bounces once, then settles. Alaric kills the engine instantly. The whine dies down. The rotors slow. Silence returns. High-altitude, wind-swept silence.
We sit there for a moment. Alive. Alaric unbuckles his harness. He tries to open the door, but his arm fails him. He falls back into the seat, his head hitting the headrest. "Landing... complete," he whispers. "Score... six out of ten."
I unbuckle. I scramble out of my side and run around the nose of the chopper. The wind up here is brutal, freezing. The city sprawls below us, indifferent to our survival. I open Alaric’s door. "Come on," I say, grabbing his jacket. "We're not done."
I help him out. He is barely walking. We stumble across the helipad toward the roof access door. "Code," he gasps. "One... nine... eight... four."
"Original," I mutter, punching it into the keypad. Green light. The door opens.
We spill into a penthouse. It is massive. Dark. Empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. Modern furniture covered in dust sheets. It smells of stale air and money. It is cold, but not freezing.
I drag Alaric to the nearest sofa—a long, white leather sectional. I dump him onto it. He groans, clutching his shoulder. Blood is seeping through the layers of bandages, through his clothes, staining the white leather crimson. He is pale. So pale.
"Water," he whispers.
I run to the kitchen. The tap works. I fill a glass. I run back. He drinks greedily, spilling half of it down his chin. "We need... to stop the bleeding," he says, his eyes finding mine. "The sutures... tore."
"I don't have the kit. We left it in the tunnel."
"There is... a supply cache. Master bathroom. Under the vanity."
I run. The bathroom is black marble. Huge. I find the cache. It’s better than the car kit. It has IV fluids. Saline. Blood bags? No. Just saline. I grab everything. I run back.
I cut his shirt open. The wound is a mess. My neat stitching from the cabin has ripped open. The flesh is angry, swollen. He needs a surgeon. A real one. He needs a transfusion.
"I can't fix this," I say, my voice trembling. "Alaric, you need blood. You've lost too much."
He looks at me. He looks at my arm—the one the dog bit. "You're O Negative," he whispers.
I freeze. "How do you know?" "I read your file. I know... everything... about you." He reaches out with a shaking hand. "I'm A Positive. Universal recipient. You can... give to me."
"A direct transfusion?" I ask, horrified. "Here? On a couch?"
"Field transfusion," he nods. "There are kits in the bag. Tubing. Needles. Gravity does the rest." He stares at me, his eyes burning with that last reserve of will. "Feed me, Elodie. Give me your life."
It is monstrous. It is vampiric. It is the most intimate thing he has ever asked of me. And I don't hesitate.
I rip open the transfusion kit. I find the tubing.
I tie the tourniquet around my own arm. I find the vein in the crook of my elbow.
It’s easy. I have pianist’s veins—prominent, strong.
I shove the needle in. I hiss at the pinch.
Dark red blood fills the tube. I tie the other tourniquet around Alaric’s good arm. I find his vein. I insert the needle.
The connection is made. My blood flows through the plastic tube.
Into him. I lie down next to him on the couch, elevating my arm, letting gravity do the work.
We are tethered together by a plastic umbilical cord.
I watch the red line move. I feel a strange lightheadedness.
Not from the blood loss—not yet—but from the symbolism. I am literally pouring myself into him.
"You really are a monster," I whisper, watching the color slowly, very slowly, return to his lips.
"And you," he murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut, "are the fuel."
We lie there in the dark penthouse, high above the city that wants to kill us. "Thorne," Alaric says suddenly, his voice stronger.
"What about him?"
"He thinks we're running," Alaric says. "He thinks we are looking for a hole to hide in. He thinks he won."
"He owns the police. He owns the Syndicate. He did win."
"No," Alaric corrects. "He made a mistake. He attacked the Wolf in his den. But now..." He opens his eyes. The silver is back. Sharp. Cold. "Now the Wolf is in the city."
He turns his head to look at me. "Tomorrow, Elodie... we don't hide. We hunt."
"We?"
"You," he says. "I can't walk. I can't fight. But you..." He smiles. A terrifying, proud smile. "You are the Asset. You are the face they want. We are going to give them exactly what they want."
"I don't understand."
"Thorne is holding a gala tomorrow night," Alaric says. "At the Opera House. A fundraiser for his re-election campaign." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "You are going to attend."
"I'm legally dead."
"Exactly," he whispers. "Imagine the terror... when a ghost walks onto the stage."
He squeezes my hand. "You're going to play for him, Elodie. You're going to play the performance of your life. And while they are watching you..." His grip tightens. "I am going to burn his world down."
I stare at him. The plan is insanity. It is suicide. But as I feel my blood flowing into him, I realize something. I was born for this performance. I practiced my whole life for this stage.
"What do I play?" I ask.
Alaric smiles, and this time, it reaches his eyes. "Danse Macabre," he whispers. "The Dance of Death."
I close my eyes. I can hear the music already. It sounds like vengeance.