The splintering of the door was not the violent crash of a battering ram; it was the persistent, terrifying pressure of dozens of hands pushing in unison. The "Loyalists" didn't scream or shout. They hummed. A low, rhythmic drone that vibrated in the floorboards, a sound of collective devotion that made my skin crawl.
"Julian, take her!" I shoved the bundle containing Florence into Julian’s arms. He didn't argue. His face was a mask of grim determination as he scrambled toward the small bathroom window, the only exit that didn't lead into the sea of flickering candles.
The drone in the center of the room pulsed a rhythmic red light, its lens tracking my every movement. "Grace Sterling is the heartbeat," it chirped, the synthesized version of my own voice sounding hollow and metallic. "Re
