Their mercury eyes.
They’re poison.
They will kill me.
I want to move. I want to blink. But my will is not my own. I’m drowning in a silver lake. Drowning . . .
Something tangles in my hair and yanks my head so my face turns to the side. I gasp. Jackson lets go, his fingers sliding through my hair.
“Don’t. Look,” he snarls, and I realize that he just saved my ass and that what had felt like hours had been only seconds.
The aliens pour through the open doorway, fluid and terrifying. I can’t tell how many there are. They’re everywhere, moving wraithlike and impossibly fast between us: divide and conquer. My pulse races. I spin, and spin again, backpedaling, tripping, almost falling, trying to keep them in sight. I point my weapon, but have no clue what to do with it.
Jackson leaps in front of me, the metal cylinder in one hand, a long-bladed, black knife in the other. Why don’t I have a knife? At least that I might be able to use. Light streaks toward us. Jackson slashes down and misses as the light retreats. Then it comes at us again. He slashes at it again. Misses.
I know nothing about the Drau, but instinct tells me they’re toying with us.
My chest moves with shallow, panting breaths. I want to help. I want to fight. I have no idea what to do. Tiny bursts of blinding light come at us. Jackson jumps in front of me again, spinning in midair, taking the brunt of those lights full on his back. Taking the hit for me. His face twists with pain.
I grab the front of his shirt and yank him aside. I’m still pointing my weapon. I’m still wishing it would work.
A weird, high-pitched hum hits my ears. Something surges from Jackson’s weapon like black oil forced out under immense pressure. Time seems to slow as I watch. I know the battle is unfolding in fractions of seconds, but I feel like I can see everything in freeze-frame clarity. As I watch, that darkness becomes a black mass that swells and contracts, oily and slick, moving with speed and power that defies my understanding.
The mass exerts an incredible pull. I feel drawn to it, sucked toward it, like matter to a black hole.
The streak of light stops abruptly and flickers in and out of human form so fast I can barely see the transitions. It cringes back, away from the dark surge, even as it is dragged inexorably along the floor. Then the light is snuffed out; the human form is gone, just gone, and the darkness retracts into Jackson’s metal cylinder. The whole thing makes me think of a frog flicking out its tongue to snatch a fly and drag it into its waiting maw.
For an instant, I can’t breathe. And then I can. A sharp inhalation that inflates my lungs and sends my blood zipping through my veins.
Jackson killed it.
And I stood beside him and watched.
I don’t get the chance to figure out how that makes me feel. All around me, there’s chaos. These things—the Drau—are fast, like blurs of light zipping throughout the room. Behind me, beside me, there are sounds and movements and surges of darkness that tell me the others are shooting. Hunting.
Something comes at me, light and speed, and then it’s solid, taking the shape of a man directly in front of me. I can’t help it. I look at it, right in its eyes, mercury smooth and silvery and bright. Terrifying and beautiful.
Pain explodes, eating my organs, my limbs, my brain. I feel like my insides are being ripped away, pulled out through my eyes. My legs turn to rubber. I fall to my knees.
The Drau’s lips peel back, revealing rows of jagged teeth. Not human at all.
In my terror, I can’t force myself to look away.
The need to fight, to defend myself, is overwhelming, stronger even than the magnetism of those eyes.
I raise my hand, the one holding my weapon.
Fire. Shoot. Do something.
Please.
My hand shakes. My pulse races. But my will isn’t strong enough to get the stupid cylinder to spray out a black acid cloud. There’s a sick feeling of helplessness and terror sitting like lead in the pit of my gut.
Again I will the weapon to fire.
Nothing happens.
The Drau lifts his hand. He’s holding something metallic and smooth. It doesn’t look solid. It appears fluid, jellylike. It’s some sort of weapon. A million lights come at me, like the lights that made Jackson snarl in pain. Then all I know is agony, bright and deep.
I’m locked in the horrific compulsion of the alien’s stare. I need to look away. I can’t look away.
More shards of light disgorge from its shimmering weapon. As they hit, pain bursts on my skin, piercing me like the stingers of a hundred hornets. An invisible band tightens around my torso, constricting my ribs. Crack. The sensation of my rib snapping is sharp and pure and agonizing. I can’t catch my breath. My vision goes gray at the edges. The bitter taste of my fear scrapes my tongue.
I think I cry out. Then I think that maybe my scream is locked in my mind. It takes me a second to realize that the sound I hear is actually coming from behind me, an inhuman cry followed by a human one, desperate and terrified.
“Tyrone!” Richelle’s voice. There’s a beat of silence, then a high, tortured scream.
Someone’s hit. Someone’s hurt. I want to look. I want to help. I can’t. The alien holds my gaze, a predator mesmerizing its prey.
Miki! Jackson’s voice is inside my head, shooting past the pain, both sharpening and shredding my focus.
From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of movement: a black-booted foot at the end of a khaki-clad leg. Then the alien’s weapon flies up in an arc, spinning end over end, and the devastating pressure on my lungs eases. Dragging in a breath, I wrench my gaze away.
They’re poison.
They will kill me.
I want to move. I want to blink. But my will is not my own. I’m drowning in a silver lake. Drowning . . .
Something tangles in my hair and yanks my head so my face turns to the side. I gasp. Jackson lets go, his fingers sliding through my hair.
“Don’t. Look,” he snarls, and I realize that he just saved my ass and that what had felt like hours had been only seconds.
The aliens pour through the open doorway, fluid and terrifying. I can’t tell how many there are. They’re everywhere, moving wraithlike and impossibly fast between us: divide and conquer. My pulse races. I spin, and spin again, backpedaling, tripping, almost falling, trying to keep them in sight. I point my weapon, but have no clue what to do with it.
Jackson leaps in front of me, the metal cylinder in one hand, a long-bladed, black knife in the other. Why don’t I have a knife? At least that I might be able to use. Light streaks toward us. Jackson slashes down and misses as the light retreats. Then it comes at us again. He slashes at it again. Misses.
I know nothing about the Drau, but instinct tells me they’re toying with us.
My chest moves with shallow, panting breaths. I want to help. I want to fight. I have no idea what to do. Tiny bursts of blinding light come at us. Jackson jumps in front of me again, spinning in midair, taking the brunt of those lights full on his back. Taking the hit for me. His face twists with pain.
I grab the front of his shirt and yank him aside. I’m still pointing my weapon. I’m still wishing it would work.
A weird, high-pitched hum hits my ears. Something surges from Jackson’s weapon like black oil forced out under immense pressure. Time seems to slow as I watch. I know the battle is unfolding in fractions of seconds, but I feel like I can see everything in freeze-frame clarity. As I watch, that darkness becomes a black mass that swells and contracts, oily and slick, moving with speed and power that defies my understanding.
The mass exerts an incredible pull. I feel drawn to it, sucked toward it, like matter to a black hole.
The streak of light stops abruptly and flickers in and out of human form so fast I can barely see the transitions. It cringes back, away from the dark surge, even as it is dragged inexorably along the floor. Then the light is snuffed out; the human form is gone, just gone, and the darkness retracts into Jackson’s metal cylinder. The whole thing makes me think of a frog flicking out its tongue to snatch a fly and drag it into its waiting maw.
For an instant, I can’t breathe. And then I can. A sharp inhalation that inflates my lungs and sends my blood zipping through my veins.
Jackson killed it.
And I stood beside him and watched.
I don’t get the chance to figure out how that makes me feel. All around me, there’s chaos. These things—the Drau—are fast, like blurs of light zipping throughout the room. Behind me, beside me, there are sounds and movements and surges of darkness that tell me the others are shooting. Hunting.
Something comes at me, light and speed, and then it’s solid, taking the shape of a man directly in front of me. I can’t help it. I look at it, right in its eyes, mercury smooth and silvery and bright. Terrifying and beautiful.
Pain explodes, eating my organs, my limbs, my brain. I feel like my insides are being ripped away, pulled out through my eyes. My legs turn to rubber. I fall to my knees.
The Drau’s lips peel back, revealing rows of jagged teeth. Not human at all.
In my terror, I can’t force myself to look away.
The need to fight, to defend myself, is overwhelming, stronger even than the magnetism of those eyes.
I raise my hand, the one holding my weapon.
Fire. Shoot. Do something.
Please.
My hand shakes. My pulse races. But my will isn’t strong enough to get the stupid cylinder to spray out a black acid cloud. There’s a sick feeling of helplessness and terror sitting like lead in the pit of my gut.
Again I will the weapon to fire.
Nothing happens.
The Drau lifts his hand. He’s holding something metallic and smooth. It doesn’t look solid. It appears fluid, jellylike. It’s some sort of weapon. A million lights come at me, like the lights that made Jackson snarl in pain. Then all I know is agony, bright and deep.
I’m locked in the horrific compulsion of the alien’s stare. I need to look away. I can’t look away.
More shards of light disgorge from its shimmering weapon. As they hit, pain bursts on my skin, piercing me like the stingers of a hundred hornets. An invisible band tightens around my torso, constricting my ribs. Crack. The sensation of my rib snapping is sharp and pure and agonizing. I can’t catch my breath. My vision goes gray at the edges. The bitter taste of my fear scrapes my tongue.
I think I cry out. Then I think that maybe my scream is locked in my mind. It takes me a second to realize that the sound I hear is actually coming from behind me, an inhuman cry followed by a human one, desperate and terrified.
“Tyrone!” Richelle’s voice. There’s a beat of silence, then a high, tortured scream.
Someone’s hit. Someone’s hurt. I want to look. I want to help. I can’t. The alien holds my gaze, a predator mesmerizing its prey.
Miki! Jackson’s voice is inside my head, shooting past the pain, both sharpening and shredding my focus.
From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of movement: a black-booted foot at the end of a khaki-clad leg. Then the alien’s weapon flies up in an arc, spinning end over end, and the devastating pressure on my lungs eases. Dragging in a breath, I wrench my gaze away.
