Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(68)
Linc is quiet for a moment. I don’t know if he’s caught up for the same reasons I am or it’s something else. “Crawford, come on,” Obadiah hisses. “They’re looking this way.”
That gets my attention. I follow where he points and spot a few of the men in black jackets and earpieces conferring with each other down the hall. They’re all watching the three of us intently.
“Linc,” I begin.
“They’re going to switch her out,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it. I glance at him. His mouth hardens and he doesn’t look thrilled with his own answer as he adds, “Let’s go.”
He extends a hand and I take it, letting him guide me back down the hall along the edges of the crowd. Here and there, we pass an entryway that leads back to the party. It exposes me for a few seconds at a time, a second Raven in a world where there’s only ever been one. But no one notices. They’re all too hung up on the mark being displayed by the lovely Raven onstage. Their ticket to completely freeing themselves of the threat posed by half of their city. The half they’d rather stomp on than lift out of the depths of poverty once and for all.
Even without a mark, they make me sick. I know with every ounce of artificially-created life inside of me, I’d rather die an Imitation than live as an Authentic.
I hear Titus opening the floor for questions as we wind our way along. I don’t turn. Linc’s hand pulls me forward and I concentrate on not getting separated from him. His touch is like a lifeline.
“Where did our shadows go?” Obadiah asks in a low voice.
I sweep the room, but I don’t see the men anywhere either. We’re surrounded on all sides by champagne-buzzed partygoers. Somewhere behind us, there is a commotion. Voices are raised and feet shuffle. The crowd surges forward, pressing in around me. Panic spikes. I’m terrified the suited men have caught us. I can’t go back to Twig City. I can’t be replaced. My stomach threatens to twist inside out again. I press my lips together and keep my head down. It would be very bad to vomit on someone’s nice shoes.
Linc grunts and stops abruptly. I look up to see what’s in his way—hopefully the way out—but he’s not facing the exit. He’s turned back to look at the commotion behind us. The look on his face makes my blood run cold. “Linc?”
He doesn’t answer. I refuse to turn and see for myself. It’ll only add to the panic I’m fighting—and barely keeping at bay. “Uh, Ven, you might want to see this.” Obadiah’s voice is strained.
I exhale and do as he says.
Chapter Eighteen
I scan for the reason for Linc’s frozen state. The press conference drones on. People are getting over the thrill of the initial announcement and are starting to sound concerned about body placement and discomfort. Understandable. This crowd doesn’t like anything that resembles pain and god forbid some of them think it’s gaudy. Mental images of gold-encrusted tattoo lines fill my head.
My eyes flicker over the muted monitor to the right of the stage and move on but then swivel back as the image displayed catches my eye. In the bottom left corner, beside the constant stream of news running like a ribbon across the bottom of the screen, Daniel’s face is displayed in vivid color.
The pointy-nosed news anchor whose face fills most of the screen is animated but muted. Titus wanted a news presence here but nothing capable of stealing the spotlight from his big show.
I squint and read the ticking headline as it rolls by next to Daniel’s smiling face. “… Received an anonymous tip on the whereabouts of Daniel Ryan, son of Senator Ryan. Daniel Ryan was reported missing over three months ago. Police had no leads until now. According to the tip received, Daniel has been aiding and abetting a terrorist sect living within the city and is, in fact, alive. A raid is being organized on the location and police are hoping Daniel will lead them to the rest of the group. More details to come.”
I go still and no longer feel Linc’s hand in mine. I feel nothing beyond the beating pulse of panic in my chest.
I check to see if anyone else noticed the headline but the crowd is fixated on the stage where Titus is demonstrating the tool that will be used to ink the mark onto their flesh. Alton is still standing next to him, acting as his assistant and fetching props. Neither one seem to have noticed the news monitor or the three of us winding toward the exit.
The news ticker moves on to the next story: a poodle named as a million-dollar heir set to appear in probate court. I turn back to Linc. He’s already watching me, waiting.
“We have to get home,” I say. “Now.”
He doesn’t waste any more time. We’re moving again, faster this time. Linc bumps a few people out of the way and I hear a couple of surprised exclamations about rudeness and personal space. We ignore them and reach the doors. The lobby is mostly empty. A few people mill about. They look official in their just-short-of-formal black jackets and discreet ear pieces.
“Shit,” Linc mutters, confirming my suspicions. “Keep moving.” He drops my hand and Obadiah picks up my other one, tucking it into the crook of his arm.
“Headed out?” the man closest to us asks, wandering closer.
“The young lady isn’t feeling well,” Linc explains.
“Shall I call for your car?” the man asks.
“No, thank you. I’ve got it handled,” Linc says.