“Nice turn,” said Jessica, sotto voce, as we clapped for my season-mates. “What, you couldn’t figure out how to stage a wardrobe malfunction?”

“Says the girl who starts every show by announcing the color of her panties to America,” I replied. Lyra ran up next to me. Malena and Troy took the stage.

“Shut up, Jessica,” said Lyra automatically.

Jessica glared daggers.

Emily—the third remaining dancer from season three—took the stage with Ivan from season four. He’d originally been partnered with Raisa, whose body was lying in a circle below the theater, alongside all the other dancers who’d left us. Seeing Ivan sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t over. This was nowhere near over, and if it didn’t end tonight, two more people were going to die. Two more people I knew would die—and it was going to be my fault.

Ivan danced like he had no idea his former partner was dead, and when he ran back to join the rest of the male dancers at the rear, leaving Emily to fall into line with the girls, they were replaced by Lo and Will, who had been dancing together since the beginning of season four. She was elegance personified; he was strength and languid grace. It was lovely to watch them, but it was also terrible, because it drove home the fact that they were the last: all four dancers from season five were already gone and waiting for their graves.

“These are your girls, America,” called Brenna, as the music signaled us to strut to the front of the stage. The lights were near-blinding, but I squinted through them, smile firmly in place, as I scanned the audience for dragons. Blonde heads were dotted throughout the rows. It was hard to tell whether that meant Brenna’s Nest was in attendance, or whether there had been a run on bleach at the local salons.

I hoped for the former. I hoped I was surrounded by saurian cryptids wearing human disguises. Because we needed all the backup we could get.

“And here are your boys!” The male dancers joined us in the strut for the front of the stage. We interwove, finding our partners and striking our poses as the music ended and Brenna’s jubilant voice announced, “It’s your top twelve!”

The crowd went wild. Malena, frozen in a dip next to me, whispered, “You got a plan?”

“Try not to die,” I whispered back. Then the lights were on Brenna, who was introducing the judges to the audience, and it was time to form our line across the back of the stage, falling into position and waiting to hear our fates.

It was the usual three judges tonight: Adrian, Lindy, and Clint, waving and smiling while they were facing the audience, but reverting to all business as they turned back to Brenna. She was saying something about how the cut from top twelve to top ten was always one of the hardest, because we’d all worked so hard and come so far, and didn’t the judges agree that it would be better if we could all stay forever? It was a spiel I’d heard from her before, and only the fact that she was genuinely sorry to see any of us go saved it from becoming saccharine.

Malena’s hand found mine and squeezed. I glanced her way without moving my head. None of us were smiling now. Silence and solemnity were the order of the night when it was time to learn who was in danger and who was guaranteed another week on the dance floor.

Brenna finished talking to the judges and drifted back, accompanied by the spotlights, to speak to the dancers. “Hello, my darlings, hello. Don’t you look splendid tonight? What am I saying, you always look splendid. You know what time it is, don’t you? Oh, I hate this part.” She had two small envelopes in the hand not holding her ever-present microphone. They could have wired the whole stage for sound, but preferred the illusion that this was a smaller, more intimate sort of show. I’d never had a problem with that. We wouldn’t have been able to whisper among ourselves if the place had been fully wired.

“Last week, America voted, and now three girls and three guys are in danger of elimination. Remember that this week is the last time the judges will be able to save any of you: after this, it will be purely about the audience votes.”

The judges haven’t saved any of us, I thought, looking straight ahead as Malena squeezed my right hand and Anders squeezed my left. Pax had his arms around Lyra’s waist, using her almost like a human shield against what Brenna was going to say next.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Brenna, and opened her first envelope. “Troy, step forward. Ivan, step forward. Anders, step forward.”

The look Anders shot me as he let go of my hand and stepped forward was pure anguish, overlaid with a layer of resigned betrayal. Somehow, that wasn’t a contradiction, and I couldn’t blame him. It was my fault he was in the bottom three, after all.