The Darkest Legacy (The Darkest Minds 4)

I fired first.

I pulled the charge from the humming currents in the air, distilling it into a single thread of electricity that jumped from my skin. I aimed for his chest, to give him just enough of a nudge to knock him off his feet, but—

“No!” someone shouted. The voice rang out through the air just as the Defender—whoever he was—raised his baton to catch the charge. It was wood, it should have only been wood, but the thread of light exploded into a crackling halo that surrounded the baton, flashing up to capture the man in a cage of furious power.

“What did you do?” Mel screamed. “Oh God, what did you—?”

But even her voice was lost to the roar of the speakers blowing out in a wave of fire and thunder.

AT FIRST, THERE WAS NOTHING but silence. Smoke.

It sank deep into my lungs, driving out every last ounce of air. The heat was trapped inside me, bubbling up until I was sure it would separate my skin from my muscles and my muscles from my bones.

The pain came next.

Panic trilled inside my skull. The white-hot air and pressure had lifted me up off my feet just as the Defender disappeared into the torrent of scorched plastic and metal. The fire had caught his uniform and hair, coating him like a second skin before devouring him entirely. And I’d flown—My head hurt, and it was so dark, it was so dark—

My chest wouldn’t expand to take in the breath it desperately wanted. I couldn’t move. My nerves sang and screamed and stung, but the pressure, the pressure that ground me harder against the sharp, uneven stone—it was going to crush me.

Smoke rose everywhere. Ribbons of it spilled over me, stroking the open gashes on my arms and chest. My right arm was caught under a sheet of metal that had fallen over me. I tried to draw it back to my side, but my wrist caught on something jagged. I bit back a low sob of pain.

Think—think—

Mel. Where was Mel?

I twisted as much as I could, feeling the metal edge bite into my skin. Can’t stay down here—Can’t stay—

Someone is here to kill you.

Someone is here to kill you.

Bomb.

“Stop it,” I choked out. “Stop.”

It ran against every instinct, every single voice in my head screaming at me to get out, to move, to breathe, but I forced myself to stop struggling against the metal sheet. I forced myself to take in the burning air, every acrid gasp of it I could manage. Calm down.

It didn’t work. The Defenders, Mel, the boy, the teleprompter, the green, green grass, it all spun together in my mind. I tried to use my broken nails to claw through the sheet that was pinning me in place. I was breathing, I was alive—all those times the darkness had tried to catch me, I’d slipped through it. I’d escaped. This wasn’t it for me. I was alive.

I have to help them.

With a heaving groan, I arched my back, wedging my knees up under whatever had fallen on me to try to shove it off.

It wasn’t until I felt the rough carpeting rub against my cheek that I realized what it was: part of the temporary stage they’d built for my speech.

I shoved at it again, and this time it skidded against the nearby steps, giving me just enough room to slip both of my arms in toward my chest before the metal collapsed back onto me.

Then, all at once, the pressure, the weight, the darkness—it was gone.

The metal sheeting trembled as a silhouetted figure struggled to lift it. But when the sunlight momentarily dimmed, I could make out his face clearly.

It was the dark-haired boy.

The second the weight was off me, I crawled as far away from it as I could. With a look of intense relief, the boy dropped the piece of the stage back onto the steps, sending another cloud of dust into the air.

Blood suddenly rushed through me, pounding in my ears, sending knives through my numbed legs. I swiped a hand over my stinging eyes. The ash swirled in the air like a fierce snowstorm, and, for a second, I wasn’t there at all—I was somewhere else, my skin freezing, my body small.

A scream lodged itself in my throat.

The boy, his eyes bright, wrapped his hands around my upper arms and pulled me onto my feet before they’d even had a chance to feel again. He held firm, even as my ankles buckled and I dipped forward. The boy gave me a faint shake, trying, I thought, to draw my attention back to his face.

But I was looking past him.

Mel.

They looked like doll parts scattered across the ground in the wake of a child’s temper tantrum. One of her heels stood upright on the step below me, as if she’d simply slipped it off the instant before the explosion’s heat overtook her. The Defenders—the woman who had led us along, the man who’d had the gun—were dead, the gray fabric of their uniforms still smoldering.

The blast had scalped the grass, leaving a halo of overturned soil and brick. A few members of the university staff and reporters were gravely injured nearby and were trying to crawl away from the burning ground. Their skin and clothes were charred almost beyond recognition.

I jumped as the first figure tore through the heavy veil of smoke, smashing through the mangled security fencing. A woman stumbled after him, her sundress torn and stained by the blood running down her shins. Her expression was blank, as if the blast had incinerated every thought in her mind. It didn’t waver, not even as she looked down at the severed arm she held in her other hand.

People fled in a thrashing mass of chaos, trampling the shattered cameras, narrowly avoiding the injured and the dead and those who were trying to tend to them. The ones on their knees on the ground screamed silently into the chaos. Kids. Parents. Grandparents. Police. Defenders. Blood, everywhere. Smoke—so much smoke.

It was just one spark.

It was just one jolt of power. It couldn’t have expanded like that, or jumped to the speakers. I had too much control. I turned again, this time toward the place where the tech booth should have been. Where Agent Martinez should have been.

The pressure on my arms increased again. My eyes were raw, streaming with tears, as the boy adjusted his stance to block the destruction. His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t make out more than a few of the words—they were pops of muted sound, like he was shouting at me underwater.

“—go—back—hear—?”

He realized I couldn’t hear him at the same moment I did. I flinched, trying to shove myself away. My heartbeat kicked so high, so fast, my vision went black. He held on tighter, this time clasping my face in one hand, forcing my gaze back toward him again.

The storm of panic and fear swirling in my mind abated, just for a moment. He kept talking. One word. I couldn’t tell if I was actually hearing him, or if I had imagined his voice, deep and gravelly: “Okay? Okay?”

My hearing wasn’t totally gone, but nearly everything was being drowned out by a keening whine that came from everywhere and nowhere.

“Okay?” he shouted, inches from my ear. “Okay?”

I nodded, because I was alive. I nodded, because it was the only movement my body seemed capable of making in that moment. It wasn’t okay—none of this was okay—

I couldn’t even cry: My eyes were already streaming hot tears to clear out the dust and smoke. My brain couldn’t sink into the grief.

He reached for my arm again, pulling me forward down the remaining steps. Toward the bodies.

I tried to pull back, to head into the safety of Old Main. None of this made sense. The explosion. The Defenders. This stranger—I hadn’t made a habit out of following strangers since I was a child, so why was I doing it now? He could be involved. He could have…he could have rigged the explosion.

You did it, a voice whispered. You lost control.

I shook my head, trying to wrench myself free. I didn’t. I knew my power.

The thought steadied me, echoing through my mind. I know my power.

It wasn’t me. Dissolving into panic, getting caught in the snare of that horrifying possibility, wasn’t going to do me any

good. I clenched my jaw, willing my hands to stop shaking.

Plan: Get to the car. Find Cooper. Drive myself, and anyone else who needed help, away.

Focus.

The boy released me when he felt me tug against his hold. I straightened, looking up to meet his gaze.

“Not safe!” he shouted.

“No shit!” I shouted back. I pointed in the direction of where we’d left the SUV. “Car!”

His face changed beneath the streaks of grit, the intense gaze slipping into a look of surprise. Recovering quickly, the steely look of determination returned. He nodded and gestured for me to take the lead.

I turned. The girl I’d seen with him before appeared without warning, her yellow dress bright in the haze of smoke. There was a burn on her right forearm, as if she’d thrown it up to shield herself from the heat of the blast. She shouted something to the boy, who swung back around to see what was happening.

A rush of uniformed police and clusters of horrified spectators came toward the wreckage. Some of the survivors fell to their knees, putting their hands behind their heads; others ran blindly forward, toward the rifles in the police officers’ hands. The Defenders among them had taken out their batons, but most broke away to tend to the wounded.