“Cozy.” I turn my head at the sound of Carly’s voice. She’s in the passenger seat of Sarah’s mom’s silver van, which is currently stopped at the end of my driveway with Sarah behind the wheel. Carly’s eyes skate over me to Luka and back.

“Wanna help?” I heft the bag at her as Luka straightens and steps away. I expect Carly and Sarah to hop out and grab a bag each.

Instead, Carly turns her head and says something to Sarah, then turns back to the open window. “Not today,” she says. “Have fun.” But she doesn’t sound like she means it. There’s an odd tightness to her voice that I recognize.

Carly’s pissed.

Sarah waves. Carly doesn’t. The van pulls away, and I watch it move down the street.

“You’re the one who said the ice cream’s gonna melt,” Dad calls through the open front door. He’s right. Whatever’s up with Carly, I’ll have to text her once the groceries are put away.

I can’t help feeling angry with her. There’s a lot more at stake here, a lot more going on, than whatever wasp stung her on the ass. A girl’s dead. My world’s upside down. Maybe everybody’s world is upside down if Jackson’s right and we’re really fighting to save mankind. But Carly doesn’t know any of that, and I can’t tell her. So do I have a right to be angry when she’s completely in the dark?

With a frustrated hiss, I grab a bag and hand it off to Luka, then grab another as he heads for the door.

“Just put the bags inside the door,” I say, following at his heels. “Once we’ve got them all out of the car, we can get them to the kitchen.” Mom had this thing about shoes. We always take them off at the door and switch to slippers; we never tramp through the house in shoes. It was important to her, so it’s important to me. One small way I can keep her here with me rather than letting her go completely.

Luka sets down his bag and I’m just behind him when he freezes, then spins, his eyes wide and . . . blue.

That’s all the warning I get.

Color and sound explode, too bright, too loud. Even the air on my skin feels like it’s too much. My fingers go lax. The bag’s handle slides down my palm, then along my fingers to the tips, impossibly slow. The world tips and tilts and I flail for balance.

Luka grabs my hand and holds tight.

I blink. My house, my open front door, my dad, they’re all gone. My breath comes in short gasps and every muscle in my body feels like it’s knotted up tight.

I’m standing in a grassy clearing bounded by trees.

The lobby.

We’ve been pulled.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“IT’S TOO SOON,” LUKA SNARLS, HIS FINGERS TIGHTENING ON mine as I bend forward to rest my free hand on my thigh. I take a couple of deep breaths to steady myself. I feel a bit woozy, but no headache. I guess I’m getting better at this. Practice makes perfect and all that. Soon I’ll be a pro. The thought isn’t exactly comforting.

As I straighten up, I see Jackson striding toward us, still dressed in his running gear and wraparound shades. Of course, I can’t see his eyes, but I sense him looking at me. At my hand. Clasped in Luka’s. His mouth tightens.

I take my time letting go of Luka’s hand, pretending Jackson’s expression has nothing to do with my actions. I notice that my con is back; the feel of it on my wrist makes terror gnaw at me with sharp little rat teeth. I want to tear it off and fling it into the trees. I force myself to do the breathing thing and get my heart rate under control. The screen’s green. I intend to do everything possible to keep it that way.

I look around for Tyrone. He’s there, by the boulders, his jaw clenched tight. I want to go to him, to comfort him, to say—

What? Anything I offer will be empty and shallow, and won’t bring Richelle back.

“Gear up,” Jackson says.

“There are only four of us,” Luka points out.

He’s wrong. There are hundreds of us. I can see them in clearings that mirror our own, some of them small teams like ours, some of them teams of more than a dozen. If I try and look at them, they disappear and all I see are the trees bordering our own clearing. If I don’t look at them, I see flashes of movement and the never-ending reflections of team after team, just like Gram’s powder-room mirrors.

“Four’s all there are going to be this time,” Jackson says.

How does he know these things? He knows when we’ll get pulled. He knows things about the mission—I remember that from the last time we were in the lobby.

“Miki.”

I turn just in time to catch the harness Jackson tosses in my direction. I slide it on the way he taught me and then jog over to the open metal box on the ground where there are four weapon cylinders nestled in dense black foam.

I glance up and ask, “Does it matter which one I take?”

“Hold your hand over the box, fingers straight, palm down,” Jackson says. “The weapon you used last time will come to you.”

I do as he said, and a cylinder shoots up and slams against my palm, making me gasp. I slide it into my holster and look at Jackson. He has the knife strapped to his thigh again.

“What about one of those?” I ask.

“A weapon’s no good unless it’s more of a threat to your opponent than it is to you.”

“But everyone knows you run faster with a knife,” Luka says.

Jackson’s brows rise above the frame of his shades. I whirl to face Luka, uncertain what he means.