Free Inquest by DelSheree Gladden Page A

every one of their faces.
    They start
calling my name, yelling it as if I weren’t ten feet away from them
and perfectly capable of hearing their calls. They slide to a
scrambled stop inches away from my face.
    “Libitina
Sparks! Libitina, is it true that you’re the Destroyer?”
    “Libitina! Can
we see your diktats?”
    “Was there an
attempt on your life last night? Have there been any more attempts
on your life? Rumors are flying that Vice President Lazaro does not
support President Howe’s decision to let you live. Is that true?
Has he made any threats against you?”
    “What? Who did
you hear that from?” There’s no way Howe let that part slip. Lazaro
must be running his own campaign against me. Fabulous.
    “Do you have
any plans as of yet?”
    That last one
makes me flinch. “Plans?” I ask. The gaggle of reporters falls
silent. “Plans for what?”
    “For the
destruction of our society,” one of the reporters says frankly. His
wind tossed hair looks out of place among the rest of the polished
members of the press staring at me. A quick glance down at his
microphone clues me in. The blocky letters of the local news
station out in Grants, where my cousins live, tags him as newbie
trying to work his way up.
    “I’m not going
to destroy anything,” I say to him.
    “That’s not
what your classmate Lance Parsons said, or your own mother, for
that matter. They both spoke to me on the phone and confirmed
President Howe’s announcement that last night you were named
Cassia, the Destroyer, by the Inquisitor who was training your
father to take his place before his untimely death.”
    Wow. He’s
quick for an underling. How on earth did he already get interviews
with my mom and Lance? The other reporters glance at him with the
same question. His handsome face turns smug under their gaze. My
own hardens to steel.
    “I don’t care
what any of them say, I’m not going to hurt anyone.” A dozen more
questions spring up and I lose it. “This is all just a big
mistake,” I shout over the din. “I’m not going to harm anyone or
anything. I’m just a teenage girl, for crying out loud! I couldn’t
do anything even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m just a kid.
Now, leave me alone, please.”
    A striking
brunette pushes her way to the front of the pack and thrusts her
microphone in my face. “Are you calling Inquisitor Moore a liar?
Are you saying he somehow lied during an Inquest, something we all
know is physically impossible? Are you saying you do not have the
diktats proclaiming who you really are?”
    “No. No, I’m
not calling Inquisitor Moore a liar. He’s a good person. He’s
honest,” I argue. Even if he could have lied he wouldn’t have.
    “Then what are you saying, Libitina?” she asks.
    “I’m just
saying this is all a big misunderstanding. I’m not the Destroyer.
I’m not going to hurt people. I want to be an artist.” I’m pleading
for them to understand, but none of them are really listening to
what I say. They’re just trying to keep me talking as long as
possible to get some good sound bites for the evening news.
    “Show us your
diktats,” a blonde man yells from the middle of the crowd. “If you
want us to believe you aren’t the Destroyer, show us you’re
not!”
    “Yeah, prove
it to us,” shouts another man.
    Hands start
grasping for me, the fear I would have expected from them
overpowered by competition to get the best story. Someone grabs
hold of my wrist and I slap it away and yank my hand back. “Stop
it! Leave me alone!”
    They press
closer.
    “Get away from
me!”
    “Just show us
your wrist,” the same blonde man says.
    I snap my left
hand behind my back. These people are worse than the football
players. I try to make myself look as threatening as possible. He
freezes for a second, probably reminding himself of who I am, then
greed proves the winner and he lunges for me. My right hand balls
into a fist and rushes forward to meet him. The crack of