For a second, we are flying. Then we hit the snow. It’s cold. It’s hard. But we are out.
We scramble up from the drift. The alarm is blaring now. Sirens wail in the distance. "The South Pad," Alaric gasps, clutching his shoulder. "Half a mile. Through the gardens."
We run. Behind us, Hallowed Halls burns with the light of the fire Sterling started. We are battered. Bleeding. Hunted. But we have a name.Thorne.
And as we run into the frozen night, I know one thing for certain. We aren't running away anymore. We are running toward the war.
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 façade, 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!"
