The Darkest Legacy (Darkest Min - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,8
waiting for the chat bubble to appear with a response. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the reflection of Agent Cooper’s mirrored sunglasses as he looked up into the rearview mirror, watching me. His already white skin looked a little bloodless as the sign’s message sank in.
Agent Cooper didn’t have to worry. There would be no crying. No emotional mess to mop up. Half the poison these people churned out with their signs, their radio shows, on their news programs was lies, and the rest of it was nonsensical. Freak was an old insult—sometimes you heard a nasty word so often it lost its fangs. That, or I guess your skin eventually could grow too strong, too thick to cut. My heart didn’t bruise the way it used to—they were way too late to get in that particular blow.
I swallowed the thickness in my throat, squeezing the phone’s case in my hand.
If they’re human…
I cleared my throat again, looking out my window. The group of protestors was thinner on the ground, but growing in number again as we left the construction zone. “Everyone’s entitled to stupidity, but they really abuse the privilege, don’t they?”
Mel gave a weak laugh at that, reaching over to smooth back a strand of my hair that had come loose from its twist.
“Still, better call it in,” Agent Cooper said, taking his hand off the wheel to nudge Agent Martinez. “It’s not a direct threat, but they need to know they’re one step away from taking it too far.”
“Agreed,” Agent Martinez said. “We need to start documenting everything, no matter how small. Build a case.”
“Actually,” Mel cut in, now reaching back to adjust the pins she’d used to help secure her locs into a bun, “it’s probably best not to give that fire any air. It’s what they want—we shut them down and they’ll jump on a narrative about us violating their right to free speech. Our job is to tell the truth about the Psi, and the polls show that we’ve been hitting that ball out of the park. The people are on our side.”
That was a small comfort, but it did help. Sometimes it felt like I was talking to everyone and no one at the same time. I never saw the words leaving my mouth reflected on the audience’s faces, good or bad. They just absorbed them. Whether or not they internalized them was another question.
I glanced down at my phone again.
No response.
“I should tell you before we get to the venue,” Mel said, turning more fully toward me. A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek, glinting on her dark skin. She reached down to adjust the air-conditioning vent toward her. “I received an e-mail from Interim President Cruz’s chief of staff this morning saying that they’re going to be sending along some new language for your speech. I’m not sure when it’s going to come in, so I might need to add it directly to the teleprompter.”
I didn’t care if my sigh sounded petulant. They had to realize how annoying it was.
“Aren’t they done tweaking it yet?” I hated not having time to practice new material and straighten out my delivery. “What kind of new language is it anyway?”
Mel slid her laptop back into her satchel. The battered leather case tried to spit up a few of the overstuffed folders inside it to make room. “Just some finessed points, from the sound of it. I know you could recite the speech backward and half-asleep at this point, but just keep an eye on the teleprompter.”
I’d repeated different versions of the same speech a hundred times, in a hundred places, about the nature of fear, and how the Psi had reentered society with only a few ripples. But the added responsibility was a good sign that they trusted me more and more. Maybe they’d even add dates and use me again in the fall, for the big election.
“All right,” I said. “But—”
It was the suddenness of the movement that caught my eye, more than the woman herself. She pulled away from the cluster of sign-wavers and bullhorn-shouters lined up along the shoulder to our left. Long, stringy gray hair, a faded floral shirt, a blue scrap of fabric decorated with white stars tied to her bone-white arm. She could have been anyone’s grandmother—if it hadn’t been for the flaming bottle she clutched in her hand.
I knew we were speeding, that there was no way it could be happening, but