Glowing forms fill my field of vision, too many of them, all firing at me. All wanting me dead.
I wish I had a shield. I wish—
A Drau comes at me, a blur of light. I feint left, right, surge forward, and duck.
I cry out in rage and desperation, forcing all my strength into a tsuki thrust, sending my sword through the Drau’s chest, through its back, impaling it. I hold the squirming body before me as a shield, bracing my elbow against the arc of my hip bone to help me bear the weight. Adrenaline and terror make me strong.
Them or me.
My mantra.
Grunting and gasping under the weight of the Drau pinned at the end of my sword, I back up step by step. It stops struggling. The tops of its feet drag along the floor. The shots of the other Drau fall on their comrade, making his corpse jerk and twist as I shoot a stream of black death that swallows them whole.
My arm and shoulder are on fire, screaming under the weight. Nausea curls in my belly at the horror of what I’ve become. I push it down, lock it away.
There are fewer Drau now. I lower my sword and let the body slide off as I back into another corridor. They follow. I cut them down with my weapon cylinder, shooting anything that moves, sweat trickling down my spine.
I’ve lost any sense of orientation. I don’t know where my team is or if they’re okay. There’s no chance to look at my con and see if there are still five green triangles in place.
Please, I whisper silently. Please.
Opportunity presents itself in the form of a door. I shove it open and slam it behind me, panting, shaking. A lock. I turn it, nearly sobbing with relief. They’ll get through it. I know that. But at least I’ve bought myself some time.
Minutes.
Seconds.
I glance at my con. Two green triangles somewhere to the left of me, so close together they almost overlap. Two more triangles a bit to the left and behind, touching at a single vertex. My team’s alive and still paired up. The frame of my screen’s dark yellow edging to orange. My health bar’s not looking so healthy.
Tears drip down my right cheek. I lift my hand to swipe at them and it comes away red. Not tears. Blood.
I jump as something slams against the door. It shakes on its frame, but holds. For how long? I hear a sizzling sound, like bacon in a hot pan, and I figure they’re trying to fry the lock. I need to find a place to make a stand.
The room is massive. Rows of metal shelves stacked with black barrels run a grid with aisles in between. I run down the first, stop, turn left, keep running, turn right. My one thought is to get as far from the door and the Drau as I can. Is there another exit? I try to picture the corridor and fail. But I do remember that when we first left the elevator, I noticed that there weren’t many doors along the hallways.
I’m almost at the far wall. The sound of Drau bodies slamming against the door carries to me.
I dart right again.
Hide? Keep going?
Terror clouds my thoughts.
I keep running and at the last second veer left.
Good choice.
There’s a door on the opposite wall, one with no Drau slamming against it. Chest heaving, I skid to a stop, press my ear to the metal. I don’t hear anything on the other side.
I grab the handle . . . slowly . . . turning . . .
Sounds of battle carry to me, muffled, distant. I dart into the empty corridor and quietly shut the door behind me. No lock on this side, but maybe they won’t find this exit right away.
Run, or hide?
I glance up. There’s ductwork running along the ceiling, and vents. I can’t reach them, and even if I could, they’re too small for me to fit through. I try to remember which way I moved when I was cut from the rest of my team, which corridors I took in the heat of the fight.
Two options: right or left. Only one will take me back to Luka, Tyrone, Kendra, and Lien. It should be an easy choice: pick the one that runs in the direction of the green triangles on my con. But it isn’t that easy because all the corridors here branch and angle, so even if I run left now, I might end up running right in a few turns.
I’m alone. And I’m lost.
I’m no fricking leader. I don’t even have eyes on my team.
“Pull it together, Miki,” I mutter.
A crash echoes from behind me, the slam and rebound of the first door against the wall. They’re through. They’ll find me.
I run.
Straight into a Drau.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I SKID TO A STOP MAYBE THREE FEET FROM THE DRAU. INSTINCT sends my head jerking back. Our gazes collide. Eyes of endless, swirling gray. I’m drowning in a silvery lake, the eternity of a storm, beads of mercury swelling and coalescing to swallow me, take me.
Pain.
My existence pulled out through my eyes.
My knees go weak, but I lock them, refusing to fall.
Don’t. Look. Jackson’s voice inside my head. But he’s not here. He’s just a memory, and if I let go, just let go, let the cool mercury glide over me, through me—
There’s a thud against my abdomen, like I’ve been kicked. I tear my gaze away. My breath rushes out. I gasp for air, pressing my hand to the wound. My sword clatters to the floor, falling not from my hand but from the Drau’s.
How . . . ?
The Drau looks up, over my shoulder, somewhere behind me. I turn my head . . . except . . . I don’t.
I can’t.
My ears are ringing, my head buzzing with the drone of a thousand wasps. I feel like a pricked balloon, deflating, sagging.
I’m cold.
Shaking.
I look down and everything’s red. My hand. My sleeve. The front of my shirt. Glossy red. The air smells of copper. Of blood. My blood.
I wish I had a shield. I wish—
A Drau comes at me, a blur of light. I feint left, right, surge forward, and duck.
I cry out in rage and desperation, forcing all my strength into a tsuki thrust, sending my sword through the Drau’s chest, through its back, impaling it. I hold the squirming body before me as a shield, bracing my elbow against the arc of my hip bone to help me bear the weight. Adrenaline and terror make me strong.
Them or me.
My mantra.
Grunting and gasping under the weight of the Drau pinned at the end of my sword, I back up step by step. It stops struggling. The tops of its feet drag along the floor. The shots of the other Drau fall on their comrade, making his corpse jerk and twist as I shoot a stream of black death that swallows them whole.
My arm and shoulder are on fire, screaming under the weight. Nausea curls in my belly at the horror of what I’ve become. I push it down, lock it away.
There are fewer Drau now. I lower my sword and let the body slide off as I back into another corridor. They follow. I cut them down with my weapon cylinder, shooting anything that moves, sweat trickling down my spine.
I’ve lost any sense of orientation. I don’t know where my team is or if they’re okay. There’s no chance to look at my con and see if there are still five green triangles in place.
Please, I whisper silently. Please.
Opportunity presents itself in the form of a door. I shove it open and slam it behind me, panting, shaking. A lock. I turn it, nearly sobbing with relief. They’ll get through it. I know that. But at least I’ve bought myself some time.
Minutes.
Seconds.
I glance at my con. Two green triangles somewhere to the left of me, so close together they almost overlap. Two more triangles a bit to the left and behind, touching at a single vertex. My team’s alive and still paired up. The frame of my screen’s dark yellow edging to orange. My health bar’s not looking so healthy.
Tears drip down my right cheek. I lift my hand to swipe at them and it comes away red. Not tears. Blood.
I jump as something slams against the door. It shakes on its frame, but holds. For how long? I hear a sizzling sound, like bacon in a hot pan, and I figure they’re trying to fry the lock. I need to find a place to make a stand.
The room is massive. Rows of metal shelves stacked with black barrels run a grid with aisles in between. I run down the first, stop, turn left, keep running, turn right. My one thought is to get as far from the door and the Drau as I can. Is there another exit? I try to picture the corridor and fail. But I do remember that when we first left the elevator, I noticed that there weren’t many doors along the hallways.
I’m almost at the far wall. The sound of Drau bodies slamming against the door carries to me.
I dart right again.
Hide? Keep going?
Terror clouds my thoughts.
I keep running and at the last second veer left.
Good choice.
There’s a door on the opposite wall, one with no Drau slamming against it. Chest heaving, I skid to a stop, press my ear to the metal. I don’t hear anything on the other side.
I grab the handle . . . slowly . . . turning . . .
Sounds of battle carry to me, muffled, distant. I dart into the empty corridor and quietly shut the door behind me. No lock on this side, but maybe they won’t find this exit right away.
Run, or hide?
I glance up. There’s ductwork running along the ceiling, and vents. I can’t reach them, and even if I could, they’re too small for me to fit through. I try to remember which way I moved when I was cut from the rest of my team, which corridors I took in the heat of the fight.
Two options: right or left. Only one will take me back to Luka, Tyrone, Kendra, and Lien. It should be an easy choice: pick the one that runs in the direction of the green triangles on my con. But it isn’t that easy because all the corridors here branch and angle, so even if I run left now, I might end up running right in a few turns.
I’m alone. And I’m lost.
I’m no fricking leader. I don’t even have eyes on my team.
“Pull it together, Miki,” I mutter.
A crash echoes from behind me, the slam and rebound of the first door against the wall. They’re through. They’ll find me.
I run.
Straight into a Drau.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I SKID TO A STOP MAYBE THREE FEET FROM THE DRAU. INSTINCT sends my head jerking back. Our gazes collide. Eyes of endless, swirling gray. I’m drowning in a silvery lake, the eternity of a storm, beads of mercury swelling and coalescing to swallow me, take me.
Pain.
My existence pulled out through my eyes.
My knees go weak, but I lock them, refusing to fall.
Don’t. Look. Jackson’s voice inside my head. But he’s not here. He’s just a memory, and if I let go, just let go, let the cool mercury glide over me, through me—
There’s a thud against my abdomen, like I’ve been kicked. I tear my gaze away. My breath rushes out. I gasp for air, pressing my hand to the wound. My sword clatters to the floor, falling not from my hand but from the Drau’s.
How . . . ?
The Drau looks up, over my shoulder, somewhere behind me. I turn my head . . . except . . . I don’t.
I can’t.
My ears are ringing, my head buzzing with the drone of a thousand wasps. I feel like a pricked balloon, deflating, sagging.
I’m cold.
Shaking.
I look down and everything’s red. My hand. My sleeve. The front of my shirt. Glossy red. The air smells of copper. Of blood. My blood.
