RICHELLE GOES IN FIRST. HER HAND SHOOTS BACK AND SHE gives a little come on curl of her fingers. Tyrone follows, then Luka. Jackson points to me, then to the open door. In I go, forcing my feet to move one in front of the other. With each step I feel colder, more desperate to get away. A rush of terror crashes over me. It’s like I’m underwater and my lungs are screaming and I have to hold myself back from the surface, from the air.
Nearly choking on my fear, I fight it back and follow the others deeper inside, which only makes it worse. I need to run, hide—
Richelle reaches over and closes her hand on mine, just for a second, but it’s enough. Her touch reminds me that I’m not alone, and that offers a weird sort of comfort.
It’s dark. After a minute, my eyes adjust, and I realize there’s a little light leaking through thin cracks in the boards covering the windows set high in the wall. Even so, I can’t see much more than vague, shadowy outlines. There are some huge cardboard boxes in the corner, and some more stacked in a towering pyramid against the far wall.
Jackson prowls forward. I don’t hear him move, and I can barely see him; he’s just a shadow among shadows. I follow, trying to keep my movements as silent as his. He stops. I stop. After a second, I make out the shape of another door, directly ahead.
The terror that grabbed me outside digs deeper, grows bigger, and I feel like it’s going to burst outward like a bomb.
Richelle’s beside me. Shoulder to shoulder, we edge toward the door.
“Close your eyes,” Jackson barks.
Confused, I freeze.
There’s a flash of light, blindingly bright. I blink, wishing I had done as Jackson said as colored halos obscure my vision. They dance and flicker and then disappear, leaving only a rectangle of light boxed in by the dark doorframe.
I see then that the door’s gone and in front of me are people. No . . . they aren’t people. They have limbs, hair, faces, but they aren’t human. After the first glance, they don’t look even remotely human. They’re pure, painful white, so bright they throw off a glare. They look like they’ve been dipped in glass, smooth and polished, but fluid. And their eyes . . . they’re a silvery color, like the mercury in the antique thermometer that my mom used to have at the side of the front porch.
When I was ten, I knocked that thermometer off with my wooden kendo sword, shattering the glass. The little blobs of mercury went all over the porch. I was a kid. I didn’t know better. I touched them, prodding the little balls until they joined the bigger blob. My mom swooped down on me and snatched me away, telling me it was poison. It could kill me.
I stare at the things in front of me: the Drau. I can’t look away.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember Jackson talking about Medusa. Don’t look at their eyes.
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.