“Miki! Miki!” Carly’s voice, behind me.

I turn, a reflex. Jackson turns with me.

“You have to leave the building.” Carly’s standing at the end of the hallway next to the stairs we originally took to come down here. Her body’s tense, her face pale. I stare at her in horror, words locked in my throat. Get out. Get out now. Get away. Go! “They’re evacuating,” she says, oblivious to my panic on her behalf. “Everyone out. Didn’t you hear the fire alarm? You’re lucky I saw you duck out and come this way.”

Carly followed me. To keep me safe.

She waves her hand in a frantic, beckoning motion. “Come on! We have to go.”

She can’t be here. I don’t want her here. I don’t want her anywhere near the Drau.

Now I understand what Jackson felt when he saw me outside his window. He wanted me gone. He wanted me out of the game. He wanted me safe.

That’s what I want for Carly. But here she is.

Because she wants me safe.

Only, she has no idea what monsters lurk down here.

“Go,” I yell, finally rediscovering my voice. “Carly, get out. Go!”

My words sound strange in my ears. Slow. Heavy. Like I’m underwater.

I shake my head, completely disoriented. It’s like this whole scene is playing out in slow motion. But it isn’t just that. It’s like time’s passing differently in different compartments of the same reality.

How long did it take Carly to get down here?

It feels like we’ve been battling the Drau for hours and hours. But Carly’s acting like I just ran down here moments ago.

There’s a sound behind me. Running footsteps.

I turn my head, my torso, looking back over my shoulder. The movement takes an eternity.

The green-eyed girl’s gone. Jackson’s halfway up the hall, running after her.

Again, the sensation that time is distorting hits me. The hallway must be as long as three football fields for him to still be running.

“Miki! Come on!” Carly yells.

I turn back toward her.

Light flares behind her.

Light shaped in human form.

A red flower blossoms on the yellow spandex of her suit, just below the Dijon mustard label she has tacked to the cloth.

Her eyes widen. Her brows rise. Her mouth forms a round O.

She looks confused, startled. Afraid.

The moment hangs suspended.

She doesn’t drop to the ground. It’s more of a long, slow crumple, like a coat sliding off a hanger.

Or a final exhalation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I’M MOVING BEFORE I REALIZE THAT THE HORRIBLE, HOWLING sound is coming from me.

My arm lifts. My sword’s above my head, point back, blade up. I run at the Drau, swinging with all my might. As I connect, there’s a tug of resistance, like I’m separating a chicken leg from the thigh. Then the Drau’s head flies up, up, its body dropping like a sack, its head splatting on the ground to one side. A spray of dark blood marks the wall, the floor. Me.

I toss the sword. It clatters across the floor in one direction as I fall to my knees and skid in the other, coming to rest at Carly’s side.

She’s not moving. She lies there, a broken doll in bright yellow spandex and a cheery yellow wig.

“Carly,” I scream. “Nonononononono.” I take hold of her shoulder, shake her.

There’s sound of footsteps pounding behind me. I twist at the waist, my weapon cylinder in hand, my will gathering to annihilate whatever’s coming.

It’s Jackson.

With a cry, I drop my weapon. I have the split-second thought that he didn’t go after the girl, the green-eyed girl. The girl who looks like Lizzie.

He came to me.

“Check her pulse,” he says, lips taut, his whole body humming with tension as he drops to his knees on Carly’s other side.

Tears stream down my cheeks, blurring my vision, my hands shaking so hard I can barely rest my fingers against her throat, never mind find her pulse.

“I’ll do it,” Jackson says. He grabs my wrist to move my hand out of the way and puts his fingers flat on her neck.

Carly’s face is gray white, her eyes closed, red blood pooling on the floor beneath her. I splay my hand over her belly, put pressure on her wound. Her blood leaks through my fingers.

Jackson holds his fingers on her pulse for what feels like an eternity. Then he leans over and rests his ear on her chest.

I wait, my heart slamming against my ribs. One second spins into forever.

Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Jackson rears back, his shoulders sagging, his head bowed.

“No!” I fling myself on Carly, my ear pressed over her heart. I hear nothing. Nothing at all. And her chest isn’t moving, not even a little. She isn’t breathing.

I tip her head back and try to breathe for her.

Jackson layers his hands and starts chest compressions like he’s done this before—one more thing I didn’t know about him. Blood spurts from the wound in an arc. Every time he presses, she bleeds.

“Stop,” I say, tears choking me. “We’re killing her.”

But we’re not. She’s already dead.

I jerk back, grab her shoulders, shake her. “Carly!” I scream. “Carly!” I can’t breathe. I can’t think. This is my fault. She came down here for me. To save me. She didn’t even know what she was trying to save me from. “Carly!”

“Call 911!” I yell at Jackson. “Call 911! Call them. Call—” He doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t move. Because we can’t call anyone, not while we’re in the game.