Jackson tucks the cylinder in my holster like I’m some sort of rebel gunslinger.

I brush my fingers over the end of it. “How do I fire it?” I ask.

“You point it and you think it.”

“Think it. Right. And how do I use—” I hold up the black band on my wrist and turn it back and forth. “What did you call it? My con?”

He nods.

“Um . . . what does that mean? Con?”

His brows rise, and then he shrugs. “Connection. Conversation. Contact. Connectedness. Take your pick. They all apply equally.”

“You don’t actually know, do you?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask, “Who decided to call it a con?”

Again, that dark half smile. “You could say the name was chosen by committee.”

“So how do I use it?”

“You don’t need to use it. It’s activated. It’ll do what it needs to do.”

Before this moment, I never understood just how thin my patience could stretch. I hold on to it by a thread. “Which is what?” I ask, syrup sweet.

His expression doesn’t change, but for some reason, I think he’s almost as frustrated as I am, that he wants me to understand; he just doesn’t know how to explain. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He takes a step away from me.

Suddenly, I’ve had enough. I grab his wrist as tight as I can. His face turns toward me, and I have to fight the urge to rip the sunglasses off, to get a look at the emotions reflected in his eyes. His tendons are taut beneath my fingers. It hits me that he’s all lean muscle and strength, that he could jerk away with ease but he’s choosing not to.

“Just give me something to help me understand,” I whisper. “Tell me something.”

He juts his chin toward the others. “They already told you. I already told you. What we’re saying makes no sense to you because you refuse to believe. The only way you’ll believe is if you see it. It’s always that way.” He looks away, then back toward me. “You know the story of Medusa?”

I nod.

“The things we’re after won’t turn you to stone, but what they will do is just as bad. Maybe worse. Whatever you do, don’t look in their eyes.”

“Whose eyes?”

“The Drau.”

He holds up one finger in the universal symbol for wait. He looks like he’s listening to something I can’t hear. “We’ve got thirty seconds,” he barks, and I figure he’s talking to all of us. Then to me, he says, low and intense, “You stay close to me, Miki Jones. Close enough that I can hear you breathe. Got it?”

Something in his tone makes my breath catch. Aiming for sassy with a nice dose of bravado, I ask, “You always take care of the new recruits?”

He clenches his jaw and seconds tick past before he answers. “Never.” He sounds anything but happy.

Never.

But this time is different.

Before I can process that, an agonizing pain starts in the center of my skull and pulses outward until it blows me apart.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NOISE HITS ME FIRST. CARS. LOTS OF THEM. HORNS. People. Voices and laughter. Guess my head didn’t blow up after all.

My palms are braced on my thighs and I’m bent forward at the waist, feeling disoriented and woozy. I’ve always been the girl with the cast-iron stomach, but nausea seems to be my new normal.

The glare of the lights hits me next. I straighten, and everywhere I look there are brightly lit signs against a backdrop of night sky. Casino. Pick your numbers. Girls! To my right are Richelle and Tyrone, to my left Jackson and Luka. None of them appear to be affected by whatever it is we just lived through. I wonder how many times they’ve done this. And how often.

Where are we? There’s a giant pirate ship to one side and two mirrored buildings to the other. Overhead is a bridge and, beyond that, what appears to be a mall. The signs and scenery make me think Las Vegas. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve seen it in movies. I don’t even try to figure out how we got here. At this point, I’m just going along for the ride.

When are we? It’s night, but last thing I remember, it was late afternoon. In Rochester. Which is ahead of Vegas. “We’ve lost . . . like . . . ten hours,” I say to no one in particular.

“They’ve been banked,” Richelle replies. “We’ll get them back.”

I almost ask if they’re in Bank of America or Chase, but the way Luka’s mouth compresses in a tight line stops me. A chill crawls up my spine on creepy little centipede legs.

He catches me watching him and offers a weak imitation of a reassuring smile.

“Move,” Jackson says, already striding forward. As he passes me, he shoots me a look. At least, I think he’s looking at me. He’s still wearing those shades, even though it’s night, the smooth lenses reflecting all the bright signs in miniature.

I remember his tone when he told me to stick close enough for him to hear me breathing. I jog a couple of steps to catch up, aware of the others right behind us, forming a tight little group.

Luka falls into step beside me. “Magic,” he says, and when I glance at him, he explains, “I know you’re wondering how we got here. I said magic. I’m trying to be funny. . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“We got pulled,” Tyrone says from Luka’s far side.

Jackson picks up the pace, so we all pick up the pace, now more of a slow jog than a walk.