“I said back off, man.” Greg takes my elbow and hauls me aside. “Kit, I need to talk to you.”
“I already had it out with Dee, talk to her.” There’s nothing to say, and enough people are talking already—like the whole male mob yelling about Mom. The air practically pulses anger, and at some point the clerk’s going to piece together why I look familiar.
I shake Greg off and head to the rear door, skirting the crowd and keeping to the shadows. I make the alley without mishap, slamming into heat thick enough to eat my lungs.
“Kit, wait up!” Greg’s only three steps behind. He grabs hold of my shirt. “I told you, we need to talk.”
Damn guys and their grabby hands.
I twist free. “Keep your voice down! You want to get me killed?”
The power tech follows next, closing the door with a soft groan. His bulky mass fills the alley even more than the dumpster at my elbow. “I thought that’s what you were goin’ for.”
Greg jumps. “What the hell?”
“Oh, drop it already,” I tell the techie. “You’ve done your good deed, call it done.”
“What good deed?” asks Greg.
The power tech glares murder.
Greg throws up his hands, sleeves sagging down his bony arms. “You know what? I don’t care.” He leans in to whisper-spit in my ear, “I need to talk to you. Alone.”
He jerks his chin at the techie, who unfolds his arms and prowls forward. They crowd the alley between them, skinny and bulky, rumpled and crisp, and both determined for answers.
I need space, fresh air, and quiet. Maybe one of Mrs. Divs’s cookies, or even dinner with someone who survived East 5th.
I need Mom’s voice out of my head.
“Later, Greg, okay? I—have a date.” Or a dinner. Whatever. It works.
Or doesn’t. Greg snorts. “Like hell. I’m just asking for five minutes here—”
“Fine, I’ll pay your room for a week. After that, you’re on your own.” With the bracelet money, I should have enough. “I’ll be back tonight with Dad.”
“Tonight won’t cut it,” says Greg.
“Well, it’ll have to.” I spin on my heel and sprint for the street.
“Hey,” calls the power tech as Greg swears, but the only pounding steps are mine. Until something heavy thuds. Crashes? I glance back and stop dead.
The techie’s on the ground. Face-first, something thin and silver stuck in the back of his neck. He doesn’t move. Greg stands over him.
“Shit, I didn’t want to do that,” says Greg.
He’s killed him. Greg killed the power tech.
No. No, oh hell no.
“Dammit, Greg.” I run back and sink to my knees. The techie isn’t bleeding. I twist his face off the pavement, gently. His nose bleeds, cheeks scraped red. I search for a pulse. Where is it? Where is it?
“What the hell? What did you do?” I reach for the silver tube in the techie’s neck, and a cold circle touches the base of mine. It bites, sharp and deep.
I reach for it but my fingers haven’t weight. “G-Greg?”
“Sorry, Kit. Really,” he says, as the world powers out.
Lightning shoots through my bones and snaps me straight. I sit up, nerves pinging like a vid arcade.
“Easy, easy.” Hands on my waist, squeezing soft, trying to keep my scattered guts in place.
Yeah, good luck. They don’t fit. My skin looks intact, but everything underneath fizzes crossways. In about three seconds, I’ll explode. I can see it. A sparking mess of white and blue that doesn’t fade when I blink. Or don’t blink. Maybe I haven’t. It looks the same either way.
The hand transfers to my back and rubs. “Deep breaths. It’ll fade in a minute. Let it do its thing. Breathe.”
The hand takes on rhythm, pushing inhales up my spine and smoothing down on the release. A calm touch. A calm voice.
Maybe my heart won’t claw its way out of my throat.
I breathe. The sparks lessen, coalesce. Fade.
I’m in a room, I think. A rope light hangs from . . . somewhere, half its woven glow-tubes busted. Darkness swallows the ceiling at its base and blankets the world outside our narrow cone of chairs and faces.
Dirty fold-up chairs and two faces, caught between shadow and glow. Besides the man with the calm voice, I see one woman and one man—a girl and a boy. Ardent, grim, and watching me.
Bad. Very bad. They have East 5th all over them, which means whatever they want will probably kill me.
Or not. There’s always worse.
I jump to my feet. My chair crashes, my head spins, and the sparks return with a vengeance.
My feet will not keep steady. My brain claws at my skull.
“I told you we shouldn’t trust the jitterbug,” says the girl. She sounds . . . familiar?
“You’re just pissed ’cause it worked,” says the calm one, a rumble against my ear as he rubs my shoulder.
Off. He needs to get his damn hands off.
“Worked? Look at her! She can’t even process.”
“Give her a minute. Clarity is strong shit.”
Clarity? They flushed my system with Clarity? God, that would revive the dead.
Was I dead?
No, I can’t be. I promised.