“Never. Miki. Love. You.”
My tears come fast and hard. I swipe them away with the back of my hand. “You think you get to do that? You think you get to tell me you love me and then die on me? You think you get to dump me in this game and then take off? You bastard!” His eyes are closed again. My hands slide to his shoulders. I shake him. I can’t help it. “Open your eyes! Open them. You look at me. You look at me and tell me you love me. You look at me, Jackson.”
His eyes open, and they’re clear, free of pain, free of fear. That scares me most of all. He’s leaving me. He’s accepted that.
And he won’t risk killing me like he killed Lizzie. He won’t take what he needs to stay alive till we get pulled.
Well, if he won’t take, maybe I can give. It isn’t stealing energy if I offer it for free.
“I don’t forgive you,” I grind out. “I don’t. You have to grovel. You have to stick around and earn my forgiveness for consigning me to this hell. You look at me, Jackson Tate, and you live. You live to make up for what you did. You owe it to me to live. Do you hear me?” I’m sobbing now, frantic. I drop my head so my cheek rests against his and I whisper, “I love you. I won’t let you die.”
I rear back and grab his cheeks and stare down at him. Something flickers in his eyes. Something dark and dangerous. Predatory. Yes!
“You have Drau instincts,” I whisper. “Let them out. Let them rule you.” I hold his gaze, thinking how badly I need him to live, thinking how I want him to take enough to survive.
“Miki, no—”
He sounds panicked. He tries to jerk away. Too late. I feel it, the pain of the Drau pulling my life away. But not Drau this time, Jackson. And I’m giving it to him freely, though he doesn’t want to take it. He’s trying to wrench his gaze from mine. But he can’t.
Jump in thirty.
The Committee, inside my mind.
Thirty seconds. He only has to live for thirty more seconds. I only have to live for thirty more seconds. And then we’ll both be out.
We’ll both be safe.
This time.
I come back to myself in the pizza place, standing in the aisle, halfway to the door. The broad plate-glass window stretches in front of me, and beyond it, the sunshine of the fall afternoon. I jerk as something touches my back, and I spin, ready to throw my arms around Jackson.
But it isn’t him.
It’s Carly.
Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I remember what happened right before I was pulled by the Committee. It was an eternity ago and only a second ago that I leaped from the booth and dashed to the door. I remember Carly telling Jackson to let her out of the booth.
“You okay?” she asks, sliding her arm around my waist, there for me when I need her, all forgiven.
I look up, over her shoulder, and see Luka standing by the booth. I sag with relief at the sight of him. He made it. He’s alive. Carly tightens her hold, keeping me upright.
Tyrone, I mouth to Luka. He gives a short nod. I close my eyes, slapped by relief. They both made it out. Kendra? Lien? Again, he nods.
My gaze skates to the booth, to Jackson.
He’s not there.
With a gasp, I take a step forward, breaking from Carly’s hold. Frantic, I spin full circle, checking the whole restaurant.
But Jackson’s not there.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THESE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS WILL BE HEARTFELT BUT inadequate. I say that up front because a few words of thanks cannot suffice to convey the depth of my gratitude to the many people who have helped me along the way.
First of all, I want to thank Robin Rue, my agent, who listened to my distraught ramblings with patience, didn’t so much as blink when I said I wanted to write about aliens, found the perfect home for my manuscript, and promised me we would have fun. She’s a woman of her word. I’m having fun, Robin. And a huge thank-you to everyone at Writers’ House who works hard on my behalf, with a special shout-out to Beth Miller, who has a heart of gold and steps up when I need her, going so far as to answer my frantic questions on Christmas Eve—I’d say that’s beyond the call of duty.
Thank you to the amazing, dedicated team at Katherine Tegen Books, with an adoring special mention of my editor, Sarah Shumway, who fell in love with this story at first sight, worked enthusiastically to help me make it the best it could be, and cheered for it every step of the way. Sarah, you cheer so loud, I can hear you all the way to Canada.
To the friends who inspire and support me, read my early drafts, bounce ideas, hold my hand, and share the highs and the lows, I thank you: Michelle Rowen (whose sage advice started the ball rolling), Nancy Frost, Ann Christopher, Kristi Cook, Lori Devoti, Laura Drewry, Caroline Linden, Sally MacKenzie.
To Lamia A. for a wonderful critique of the early chapters of this story, and for finding the too-adult language in my teen dialogue.