I stare at him openmouthed.

“They need her body, but they don’t need her brain for their purposes. So they took it.”

I press the back of my hand against my mouth, trying to hold back a howl of fear and revulsion and horror.

“She’s already dead,” Jackson says again, softer this time. He lifts his head. I desperately want to see his eyes, to know what emotions are mirrored there, to connect with him in our common humanity. But all I see is myself, pale and shaken, reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. And suddenly it’s all too much.

Without a word, I reach up and rip the shades off. My gaze locks on his.

He stares back at me, his inhuman gray eyes beautiful and deadly and mercury bright.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I RESPAWN WITH AS MUCH GRACE AND ELEGANCE AS A PLANE crash. I’m on my driveway, facing my open front door, grocery bag in my hand, as though only two seconds, not almost two days, have passed.

The grocery bag’s handle slides down my palm, then along my fingers, impossibly slowly, just as it did before I got pulled. The world tips and tilts, and I flail for balance.

My head jerks up. My gaze collides with Luka’s. His eyes are wide and . . . brown.

I think of Jackson. His eyes. His beautiful, terrifying eyes. Confusion and panic swarm through my thoughts, spawning questions like maggots. But Jackson’s not here, and Luka isn’t the right person to ask.

The bag takes an eternity to fall to the ground, sending cans rolling in all directions. But they’re slow, too slow. I look up and see my dad coming out of the house, moving like he’s walking chest deep through a swimming pool, his expression taking forever to shift into surprise. The only things moving at regular speed are Luka and me.

There’s a throbbing behind my eyes and pressure in the joints of my jaw, then my ears pop and—as Luka said last time we respawned in real life—bam, we’re back. The world snaps into gear and Dad’s beside me, brow furrowed, hand extended.

Dropping to my knees, I reach for the rolling cans, glad for the excuse to avoid my father’s eyes. I don’t want to talk to him. Not right now. I can barely keep it together. The shells. The dead human girl. The machines.

Jackson’s eyes. A chill slithers along my spine. Jackson’s inhuman, mercury-bright eyes.

“Miki?” Dad says, and his feet are right there, beside me where I kneel by the fallen cans. I force myself to keep my head down. My hand is shaking. I grab a can and focus on that, only that, willing my dad not to notice my anxiety.

“Must be my day for clumsy,” I mutter, relieved when the words come out fairly steady.

From the corner of my eye, I see Luka set his bag down inside the front door and turn to watch me, his expression neutral. He’s better at the reacclimation thing than I am. No surprise. He’s had more practice. Even so, he leans one hip against the porch rail like he could use the support.

Does he know about Jackson? Has he seen his eyes?

I suspect the answer to both questions is no. I can’t believe Jackson let me see them, and I have no doubt that he did let me. He could have stopped me from pulling his glasses off. He could have caught my wrists or turned his head, and the fact that he didn’t means he wanted me to see. Why? Why? I didn’t get a chance to ask. He ripped out the wires and tubes, and we made the jump while I was still gasping in shock, and I think that he planned that, too. Maybe I’m giving him too much credit, but I really believe what he said about steering his nightmare. I think he’s a master at it.

And even if I had managed to get my questions out before we got pulled, I’m skeptical he would have offered answers. He’s the king of evasion, telling me only the tidbits he wants me to know.

At least now I know why he’s always wearing shades, and the bizarre thing is, I’m shocked but not shocked. As I think about it, it’s like somewhere deep down, I knew exactly what I’d see. Didn’t he keep warning me that he isn’t a good guy?

A can rolls away, toward the grass, and I crawl after it. To my horror, Dad gets there first and squats down. His eyes meet mine as he lifts the can. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “He’s just a boy. Just be yourself. It’ll be fine.”

I stare at him, my brain struggling to catch up to his words. Then I get it. He thinks my weird, clumsy behavior is because Luka’s standing on my porch. Carly was so excited because she thought I was crushing on Luka. Now Dad has that same hopeful/pleased expression. Like he thinks that being interested in a boy will make me normal again. I bite my cheek to keep from laughing because I have a feeling that if I start, I won’t be able to stop, and it won’t be pretty.

When I nod, Dad offers a reassuring smile, then hands me the can, straightens, and says, “I’ll let you two finish the groceries. I have some work to do.” And off he goes.

As soon as the groceries are put away, I manage to get Luka out of the house without another Dad moment.

“You okay?” Luka asks.

I try to hold it back. I fail. I tip my head back and laugh. It’s the sort of laugh that makes other people cringe and look away. I know I’m at the very edge, but I can’t seem to pull myself back.

“Look at me, Miki.” Luka takes my hand in his and weaves our fingers together, and that’s enough—just barely enough—to steady me and keep me sane. With a last few weepy giggles, I get myself under control.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” I mutter, purposely ignoring his directive and looking anywhere but at him.