“Trick or treat,” he says.
“Treat.” I give him a peck on the cheek, duck under his arm, and lift the nearly empty bowl of mini chocolate bars sitting on the kitchen chair I dragged to the front door. “Happy Halloween.” I hold the bowl out to him.
“I was hoping for something sweeter. Say . . . your lips on mine . . .”
“You’ll have to settle for chocolate. Luka’s waiting. Are we picking him up?”
“He’s meeting us there. He’s picking up Sarah and Amy on his way.” Jackson pokes through the bars and chooses one. “All the peanut-butter ones are gone?”
“I don’t do peanut butter. Too many kids have allergies.”
There’s a crinkle of paper and he downs the candy in a single bite. He tosses the wrapper back in the bowl. I hold out my hand, palm up. With a faint smile, he fishes out the wrapper, deposits it in my hand, and helps himself to another bar.
“Planning to hand out any more candy?”
“I think all the little kids came through earlier.” I reach across him to turn off the outside light. “It’s pretty late for them now.”
“Then I can eat the rest.” He takes another chocolate bar.
I surreptitiously check him out while I put the bowl back on the chair. “I’m a little surprised you’re so into this whole Halloween thing.”
He turns to me and tips his glasses up, his silvery eyes preternaturally bright against his dark, spiky lashes. “You’re into it, so I’m into it.” Leaning in, he whispers against my ear, “I want it to be good for you, Miki.”
I do a fair imitation of Carly’s arched-brow thing. “Behave.”
“Not gonna happen.”
I know. And I kind of like that. And I definitely like the fact that he never pushes too far.
“So what’s with you and the love of Halloween?” he asks.
“I loved dressing up as a kid. Mom used to make a big deal out of it every year. We’d carve pumpkins together and plan my costume for weeks and she’d buy tons of candy. Give it out by the handful instead of just one or two at a time.”
I remember the Halloween after Mom died. I didn’t dress up. I didn’t even give out candy. And just a few weeks ago, I was standing by the giant oak, listening to my friends talk about the dance. I felt flat and broken, wishing I could feel as excited as they did. But I didn’t.
And now I do.
I’m not sure what that means.
Jackson tugs at one of the buckles on my vest. “You okay with this now? Our costumes?”
When he and Luka first came up with the idea of the three of us dressing like characters in a game, I balked. Jackson pointed out that it was pretty much the only way he was going to wear anything close to a costume. I still wasn’t convinced. Then Amy and Sarah joined in, and it actually started to sound like it might be fun.
“Yeah. I’m okay with it. And it’d be kind of late to back out if I wasn’t.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “You look good.” Better than good. “Where did you get those boots?” They’re black, knee high, with a bunch of buckles and snaps.
“Made ’em.” He opens the front door, bends to grab something from the porch, and holds it—them—out to me. I gasp. He has another pair of boots just like his, and they appear suspiciously close to my size.
“You made these for me?”
“Better than chocolate or roses, right?”
“Hey, I gave you chocolate.”
“That doesn’t count. I had to scavenge the remnants. And I’m giving you boots.”
I laugh, then throw my arms around him and hug him because, yeah, thinking of the hours he must have put into creating these, they are way better than chocolate or roses.
“How did you know what size . . . ?” I take the boots from him and take a closer look. My jaw drops as I notice the color of the lining and the logo stamped inside. “These are my red rain boots.”
“They’re black now.”
“How?”
“Automotive spray paint. Made the buckles from belts I found at the secondhand store.”
I shake my head, not sure whether I’m supposed to feel awed or annoyed.
“Did you have to use my rain boots?”
“How else would I be sure they’d fit?” He has a point.
“Did you make some for Luka?”
“He made his own. Mine are better.”
Of course they are.
I slip my feet into the boots and Jackson hands me one of the paintball visors. I pull it on and glance at myself in the hallway mirror, Jackson’s reflected image a little behind and to my left. He looks good in black. I can’t see his eyes, but I know he’s studying me in the mirror, and the faint curve of his lips tells me he likes what he sees.
“You look badass,” he says. “Let’s go.”
We climb into the Jeep. I’m snapping my seat belt in place when color explodes, hurting my eyes, the candles in the jack-o’-lanterns next door too bright, the streetlamps singeing my retinas. The cool air on my skin feels like a thousand needles.
The whole world tips and tilts around me, under me, the seat falling away.
No, no, no. Not now.
“Jackson!” My cry’s distorted and slow, like I’m caught in a slo-mo movie. I reach for him, the movement taking forever. My hand passes right through where he used to be. He’s gone. He made the jump.
My fingers fumble at my seat belt, numb and clumsy.
The thrum of my pulse beats in my ears. My head pounds.
The world drops out from under me, leaving me spinning end over end.
I respawn flat on my ass.
Trees.
Grass.
The two familiar boulders.
The lobby. I can see other teams gearing up.
“Jackson?”
“Right here.” My heart does a little flip when I hear his voice. I didn’t know if the Committee would put us back on the same team. I thought they might, given my inexperience. At the same time, I thought they might not, since putting two leaders on one team doesn’t immediately appear to be the best plan of action.
I hear the crunch of boots on grass; then he holds out a hand to me. I grab it and he pulls me to my feet. He’s wearing his sunglasses, and his paintball visor is clipped to his vest. Only then do I realize I’m still wearing mine. I pull it off.
“Should we take these off? The vests? Leave them here?” I’m not sure how we’re going to wear our harnesses over them, or if the vests will be a risk in the game.
Jackson shakes his head. “Can’t leave anything here. They go in with us.”
I almost reach out and touch him, then hesitate at the last second. He’s not the Jackson who backed me up against my front door to steal a kiss. This Jackson is alert and focused, watching every corner, every shadow.
This is game Jackson. Untouchable. Unchallengeable.
That’s okay. It’s this Jackson who knows how to keep us alive.
“Incoming,” he says.
It takes me a second to catch on. He heard them—the Committee—and I didn’t.
“You’re team leader again.”
“Disappointed?”
“Relieved. Glad I’m not going into yet another mission with my team’s lives on my shoulders.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how you ever get used to being responsible for someone else’s life.”
“You don’t.” His expression is savage, his tone controlled. The combination makes me shiver. “Every man for himself.”
“I’m not a man.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a girl, my kick-ass warrior girl. I want you to watch your own back and no one else’s. Tonight’s going to be—”
I tense. What? What does he know? What doesn’t he want to tell me?