The darkness is suffocating. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I can feel the movement of Jackson’s chest as he breathes, not fast and rough like mine, slow and steady. It’s enough to steady my own rapid inhalations. I can do this. I can hide in the dark and, failing that, I can fight.

I don’t hear footsteps or conversation. I don’t hear anything at all. But I sense them passing close by us. The horrific fear that I felt in the alley in Vegas unfurls in my limbs, my gut, my chest. I need to scream, to fight, to flee.

Can they sense me as I sense them? Will they find us? Will they kill us?

Run. I need to run.

They’re close. Close enough that I could stretch out my hand and touch them. I know they’re here, even though it’s only my instinct telling me so.

My nerves are twisted so tight, I think they’ll rupture like an overwound guitar string. Then Jackson snaps his light. The greenish glow forms a neat circle with two terrifying figures at the center—almost human but not quite. The second Jackson’s light hits them, their bodies flare with a blinding white light, like the magnesium strip in chem class.

The instant the flare roars, something inside me demands I close my eyes. I obey, but the flash is bright enough to pierce my lids and make me see stars.

Temporarily blinded, I don’t think, I just act. My hand comes up, and then I see them, moving so fast they’re visible only because of the light trail they leave behind.

So I aim just ahead of the light.

I thought I remembered what it was like in Vegas, but as the cylinder hums its high-pitched song and the darkness punches from the muzzle, I’m struck again by the horror of it. The force of the recoil jerks my arm back. The dark pulse surrounds the Drau, engulfing it, sucking it in. I think of an amoeba digesting its dinner.

And then the Drau is gone, snuffed like a match.

The other one comes at us. Jackson slashes at it with his knife. The Drau bares its jagged teeth as Jackson hits the mark, and I smell something sharp and astringent. Then the Drau fires its own weapon and a thousand sparks of light rain down on Jackson’s chest. He gasps and dodges. I know the shards of pain he’s feeling, the bite of agony that tunnels through skin and muscle and bone. I’ve felt it myself.

With a cry, I put myself between Jackson and the Drau. Defend. Protect. I take out the second threat. The sound it makes as it’s swallowed by the black surge is bone-chilling: a high, keening wail that makes my skin prickle. I feel sick with horror even though I had little choice—it was the Drau or me.

My whole body shakes. Gasping for breath, I press my palm flat to the rock and struggle for control. I did it. I took them out almost before they realized we were there. After a few seconds, I straighten and realize that Jackson snapped my glow-stick light back on. My pulse slows, and as it does calm returns.

I lift my head to find Jackson watching me with his hip cocked so his weight rests on one leg and his arms are crossed over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but something intangible gives him away. He’s anything but pleased.

“You got a problem?” I ask, eyes narrowed, breath still coming too fast.

“I was hoping to question the second one,” he says. “Next time, maybe wait till I get information before you shoot.”

Oh. That must be why he was using his knife instead of his weapon cylinder.

“Question it? The Drau can speak?” I haven’t heard them. Not during a battle, and even now, just before we fought them, they weren’t holding a conversation. “Can they speak English?”

“No.”

I close my eyes and strive for patience. “Which of my three questions does that no apply to?”

The corner of his mouth kicks up in the barest hint of a smile. “They don’t speak English.”

Well, at least he answered something.

“So glad I amuse you,” I grouse.

He leans close and whispers against my ear, “Me too. There hasn’t been much that makes me smile in a very long time. But you do. So thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” I whisper back, feeling off balance. He never says or does what I expect.

So I cross my arms over my chest and shift my weight to my right leg, mirroring his stance. “And next time, if you want to question one of them, tell me your plans before I shoot.”

“Point taken, well made,” he says.

“And while we’re on the topic of next time, maybe just tap my arm to give me a heads-up rather than grabbing me right before we’re attacked.”

“Did I scare you?”

Not ready to acknowledge that, I say, “You threw off my game. It could have cost us.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, then he says, “And I scared you. I’m sorry.”

Jackson apologizing. I’m left speechless.

“By the way,” he says, “I was expecting you to ask whether or not I speak Drau.”

“Call me unpredictable.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

Of course I want to know. That isn’t even something I need to acknowledge aloud.

“No, I don’t,” he says. Just that, nothing more. But something inside me loosens a little because Jackson just offered up information voluntarily.

We stand like that, facing off.

“You did good.” That incredible, dark, sexy smile carves the dimple in his cheek and bares his white, white teeth. “I think I like you, Miki Jones.”

I find myself smiling back. I think I like him, too, and that is not smart. Not smart at all.