My breathing speeds up even more, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t make it slow down. Terror sinks rows of jagged teeth into me.
Feeling dizzy and sick, weak, trembling, I push to my feet. Anxiety surges and swells. I’ve had panic attacks before, just after Mom died. There’s an edge of panic to whatever’s going on here, but that’s not it. This is something more. I can’t stay here. I have to get away. The yellow walls are too bright, burning my eyes. My jaw aches, my eyes burn, even my skin hurts.
“I have to—” I stumble forward. I need to get out of here.
I hear Carly behind me, her voice coming at me from very far away. “Jackson, move! Miki’s sick.”
She must be telling Jackson to let her out of the booth. I try to turn my head, to tell her to stay put. Whatever’s wrong with me, I don’t want it to touch her. But I can’t speak, can’t move. I’m frozen in place halfway to the door, the fresh air and sunshine just beyond the wide front window. Just beyond my grasp.
I have to get out. I have to get out.
Anxiety flips into full-on panic.
I’m not going to make it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MY LIMBS PRICKLE WITH THE UNCOMFORTABLE NUMBNESS OF too little blood circulating through them. Terror is a lead ball in my chest, cutting off my airway.
“Deep breath, Miki.”
“Jackson?” My fear scales down a notch.
“Deep breath,” he says again. He sounds tense. Angry.
I do as he says and take a deep breath, but my chest won’t expand all the way. That’s when I realize that I’m bent forward at the waist, my back to his front, his arm around me. The backs of my thighs rest against the fronts of his, and I’m sort of sitting on him even though we’re both standing.
It’s actually not the ideal position for deep breathing, but with my legs numb, it isn’t like I have a ton of options. I don’t think they’d hold my weight if I tried to pull away. I flex and release my fingers, and do the same with my toes, drawing blood back into them with a painful surge. Leaning back against him, I let Jackson take most of my weight as I lift one foot to draw a figure eight with my ankle. I switch and do the same on the opposite side. My muscles come back to life with a bright agony that makes me gasp.
“Why is it so dark? Are we back in the cave?” That doesn’t make sense. We should have stopped in the lobby first to get scores and weapons. I hope the game isn’t changing on me right when I’m getting used to it.
“No.” Just that. No explanation of where we are. Typical Jackson. I can feel the leashed energy in his body, but his touch is gentle as he strokes the back of my head, my neck, down to my shoulder. He’s still holding me. I don’t want him to let me go. “You okay?” he asks.
“I thought I was getting better at being pulled.”
“This is different. Better now?”
I think about that, running a quick checklist. The nausea I felt in the pizza place is gone, along with the panic and the dizziness. My limbs feel almost normal now, with just the faint vestiges of prickling dancing along my skin. But I still feel off.
“Better, yeah. I’m not about to hurl. And I think I can stand.” I straighten, and I notice the hesitation as he loosens his hold but doesn’t fully let me go. His arm stays looped around my waist.
Jackson supports me for another second as I straighten fully, then lets go and steps away from me. For a guy who swears it’s every man for himself, he takes an inordinate interest in my well-being.
“You’re taking care of me again,” I murmur.
“Again?”
“You’ve been doing it all along,” I say, remembering the first time I was pulled. It was Jackson kneeling by my side as I came to.
“Every man for himself,” Jackson whispers, but there’s something wrong with the words. They sound off, like he feels pain just saying them.
My eyes adjust to the dimness as I look around, expecting to see the grass, the trees, the boulders. Luka and Tyrone. But nothing is the way it should be. Jackson and I are standing in the flat bottom of what amounts to a giant, narrow bowl lined by row after row of seated figures that extend so high I can’t follow them all the way to the top. There’s a bit of light here at the bottom of the bowl, but it fades the higher I look. The figures are shadowed, faces and features obscured, but I know they’re staring at us. How can they not be? It isn’t like there’s anything else here to look at.
We’re in a stadium. A coliseum.
I feel like I’m on display. I’ve had to do a hundred kendo competitions in front of judges and crowds, but this isn’t like that. There’s something about this place, these people, that frightens me. I edge closer to Jackson, until my arm presses against his.
“When are they going to let the lions loose?” I mutter.
“Lions?”
“Haven’t you ever watched any shows about gladiators? Lions, tigers, bears . . .”