My next exhalation is a shuddering sigh, but the one after that is smoother. I nod.
We stop at the ticket table and Jackson somehow manages to smile at Maylene like the world isn’t about to come apart, like the Drau aren’t about to ramp up their game. Like my heart isn’t slamming against my ribs, my palms damp. He chats with her. Gets our tickets.
And despite the mission jitters, I can’t help but notice the way Marcy’s looking at him. I glance at Jackson. His head’s turned toward her. His expression gives nothing away. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. And it doesn’t matter. Marcy ogling Jackson is so far down my list of issues right now, it barely ranks high enough to scrape mud off my boots.
So why is it giving me the creeps?
My gaze slides to Kathy, sitting at Marcy’s side. Her head’s down as she counts bills from the cashbox, then slips a paper clip on to hold a small stack of them. She’s a shadow eclipsed by Marcy’s light.
I stare at them both, considering impossible things. That Marcy’s a shell. That she scouted the school in advance for her Drau masters.
No time to tell Jackson what I’m thinking as we head into the dance. I’m not even sure I would tell him if we weren’t overwhelmed by sound and the crush of bodies. The whole idea’s so out-there. So crazy. And right now, we need to be dealing with facts and tangible threats rather than wild suspicions.
The music’s loud. The dance floor’s packed. People are clumped in groups, the space limited not just by bodies, but by costumes.
I see faces I recognize and some I don’t because they’re hidden behind makeup or masks. We push our way through the throng, searching for Luka. When we find him, Jackson points to a relatively uncrowded corner. He takes my hand, tucks me behind him, and starts pushing his way through the mass of bodies. I let him take point mostly because he’s bigger and broader and something about him makes people move aside.
I hear a familiar laugh and turn. There’s Carly with Kelley and Dee. They’re dressed in identical skintight bodysuits and coordinating wigs—Carly’s in yellow, Dee’s in red, and Kelley’s in green. They each have a hand-drawn label stuck on their stomachs: Carly’s is Dijon mustard, Dee’s ketchup, and Kelley’s sweet relish. When they told me what they planned to wear, I thought colored spandex didn’t exactly scream condiments. I was right. They look like three girls in spandex bodysuits with cardboard cutouts stuck on their bellies. But they seem happy.
I’m about to lift a hand and wave when I realize I don’t want to get their attention. I don’t want any of them anywhere near me when the Drau attack goes down. I want to tell them to get out, go home, be safe. But I can’t.
The rules.
I don’t know what the Committee will do if I break them. I can’t risk telling my friends information they aren’t allowed to have—as if they’d even believe me—and I can’t imagine they’ll leave just because I tell them to, if I don’t provide one hell of an incentive.
I turn away and follow Jackson deeper onto the dance floor. There’s a cry that carries above the music, awe and wonder and excitement. Jackson stops dead in front of me. People turn and shift, the crowd moving like a wave.
Through the spaces between bodies, I catch a glimpse of a streak of light, impossibly bright, tearing through the dance floor.
In my mind, the whole world slows down, like I’m watching separate frames in a stop-motion movie.
The single streak of light is beautiful and terrifying, a single Drau, a portent of the attack to come.
Three girls, obviously tipsy, squeal in delight. From their gestures, I can tell they think the glowing shape in humanoid form is someone dressed in a fabulous costume. They reach for the Drau, miss, stumble. One girl falls to her knees. They all laugh, and even though I can’t hear the sound over the music, I can see their faces, lips curving, teeth flashing, eyes crinkling up at the corners. With the strobe lights of the dance highlighting their expressions, altering shadows and nuance, they could be caught either in an instant of hilarity, or terror.
Another Drau darts between the dancers. And a third. They zigzag through the crowd: right, left, right. One person stops dancing, looks at the light, frowning. Then another and another.
I reach for my weapon cylinder. Jackson stills my hand. He’s right. There are too many people, too much potential for collateral damage. We need to figure out a way to draw the Drau off.
The crowd surges, a tide of bodies, pushing everyone as close as packed sardines.
Jackson pulls his knife from the pocket of his vest and, under the cover of the crowd, gets the Drau in the gut. It stumbles but doesn’t go down; then it breaks away and streaks off, the tide parting to let it through. Jackson holds his knife flat against his thigh, the black blade barely visible against his black pants.
Another Drau zips among them, not even trying to avoid the crush of bodies. Someone cries out, but I can’t see who, or why. People step back, clearing a path, sensing now that there’s a threat here, that the streak of light isn’t a cool show or an amazeballs costume.
It’s something else. Something frightening.
“They’re heading for the back,” Jackson says against my ear.
I nod and follow as he starts to move, our way blocked by bodies, some dancing, some frozen as they start to clue in that something’s terribly wrong.
A few people yell as another Drau tears through, cutting the crowd in two. It lifts its hand, its jellylike weapon smooth and sleek. A spray of bright droplets arcs down like fireworks on everyone in a five-foot radius.
I try to push through, to get to the Drau. Too many bodies block my way.
The Drau fires again.
Mouth rounding in shock, a girl stumbles, hands pressed to her chest. She pulls her hands away and stares at her palms, blood from her wounds dark against her pale skin. She screams, pulls in a breath, screams again.
I can hear her over the music.
She needs to get out of here. They all do.
Jackson’s a step ahead of me. He pockets his knife. He points to the left, the direction the Drau went, indicating that I should follow.
There are doors at the back of the auditorium that open to the hallway that leads to the gym. That’s where they seem to be heading. I have no idea why, and no chance to ask.
Jackson turns and pushes back the way we came, through the crowd to the double doors. He anchors them open with the little rubber wedges. Then he grabs the closest girl and yells something at her that I’m too far away to hear, but whatever it is, she listens and grabs a couple of other girls. Jackson shoves them through the open doors and moves to the next group. He’s organizing, leading. Of course. That’s what he does.
I’m torn between going after the Drau and helping get people out. I decide to do both, guiding people toward the doors as I move in the direction Jackson sent me. If we don’t get these people out, there’s going to be a massacre.
I grab a boy’s arm, yelling to make myself heard. I don’t even know what I say, but he gets the general message and heads for the doors.
People are pushing and stumbling, some trying to get to the doors, some in the far corners still dancing, oblivious to the danger.
The music turns off and there’s a second of comparative silence before Ms. Smith comes on the loudspeaker and tells everyone to leave, stay calm, fire drill–style. Then voices fill the void, footsteps, cries, shouts. The teachers start guiding people out, funneling students toward the exits.
I clamber up on a table that’s against the wall, searching for the Drau. They’re gone. Vanished. Then . . . there . . . a flash of light near another set of exit doors, the ones that lead to the corridor that leads to the gym, exactly the direction Jackson pointed me in.