58-Kit
I command time to stop, to slow her down, with every ounce of will I possess.
An icy blast bursts from my lungs as her name tears through the microphone. Heat surges from me like a pulse too big for my body to contain. The air tightens, stretches, then…shifts, like the crowd collectively inhaled but forgot how to exhale.
My mic screeches as it slips from my hand, but the clatter hits the floor a fraction too slow, as though I’m buffering. Yensil’s arms lock around my torso just as I reach the edge of the stage.
“Zach’s in there,” I shout, thrashing against him as he drags me away from the barricade. “Let me go!”
“I know,” Yensil says, voice strained as he hauls me backward. “I know, brother, but right now I need to get you safe. It’s chaos. You go down there; you’ll make it worse. You’ll cause a frenzy more than you already have.”
He pulls me offstage. When he finally lets me go, I rip my mask up, dragging both hands down my face. Silver tries to comfort the girls as Seth paces. My stomach tumbles in violent lurches.
“I’m gonna chuck—”
I bend over and vomit, bile and adrenaline rusting my insides. The floor spins, and all I see is the crowd pushing forward in a single, monstrous wave, Zach disappearing within its depths.
“What the fucking hell was she doing out there?” I spin toward anyone who’ll answer. “Trayvon! Where is he?”
“He’s busy,” Greg says, grabbing my arm as he appears out of nowhere. “We don’t even know how many people are hurt. People could be dead. We need to get you all out of here.”
“Where was security?” Seth demands.
“I don’t know,” Greg snaps, glaring at something on his phone as he types away. “It was a crowd surge. Apparently they swarmed the gates.” He lifts the phone and shouts, his voice sharp and cold, “Make sure we’re not liable.”
People could be dead, and that’s what they care about. Vomiting again, I fall to my knees, not worrying that I’m in my own mess.
She could be dead.
“Come on,” Louanne says gently, hauling me up by both arms. She takes my filthy hands and wipes them on her cloak without hesitation. “She’s gonna be straight.”
But the contemplation on her face tells me she isn’t sure.
“They got Zach,” Yensil announces, breathless as he jogs toward us. “She’s unconscious, but alive. Jason’s with her in the ambulance. They’re taking her to Mercy-Gunders.”
Relief and terror collide so forcefully my ribs crack.
For one awful second, I thought she was gone. But she didn’t fall into empty space. There were hundreds of people around her; bodies packed shoulder to shoulder.
I rip off my cloak, using it to wipe the paint from my face and chest. My hands shake. “Yen, give me your jacket.”
“You can’t be serious,” Greg says, pressing his phone to his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Where the hell do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Yensil looks to Greg.
“Yensil,” I say, voice low and shaking, “you don’t work for him. You work for me. And right now, I need your damn jacket.”
“There is no way in God’s hell you’re going to that hospital.” Greg steps between us, pointing a fat-finger in my face with his free hand. “You are the last person who needs to be there. You fucking mad?”
Yensil shoves his jacket into my hands, and I bolt. They shout behind me as I throw the hood over my head, zip it up, and sprint through the first exit I find. I just need to lose them.
Lungs burning, cheeks wet, I run past trailers, food trucks, and littered fields. Sirens wail in the distance. Red and blue flickers against the night sky. I have to see her. I can’t lose someone else I care about.
Not again. Not like this.
“Since you have already accessed the power, just this once,” Endymion murmurs in my head, “I shall do this. Only because she is not dreaming, yet she is not awake. I am concerned.”
“What do you—”
The world clouds into a rush of wind. There’s a jerk behind my ribs, followed by the sensation of stepping through shadow. And then, I’m standing in the back-lot of Mercy-Gunders Hospital, the parking garage sign looming brightly. Ambulances screech in, beams flashing and sirens wailing.
“How in the bloody fucking hell—”
“Do not ask questions,” Endymion’s hissing command bounces between my ears. “Find her.”
And then he’s gone; the presence living in the back of my consciousness for the last decade vanishes like a message etched along high water. I stagger, leaning against the lined brick for support.
When Zach fell, something within me reached for her. It cushioned her descent; protected her because I wanted it. I stare down at my trembling hands, still stained with red paint.
My pulse hammers up my throat, drowning out everything else. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down. It’s the guilt of responsibility; the crushing realization that my persona can warp a crowd into something dangerous.
Hundreds of people pressed together, surging because I opened my mouth and sang. They wanted to be close to something I created but can’t always control. I stepped onstage, and they moved like an impulsive rip current. An invisible band cinches around my ribs.
This is my fault.
The thought roots itself deep, cold and merciless.
My hands shake harder. I press them to my thighs, trying to ground myself, but the tremor runs through me anyway. My skin’s too tight. I’m too small to contain the weight of this power.
Where do I end? Where does Endymion begin? Am I using him, or is he using me?
Lines blur, indistinguishable, as thoughts slam into me one after another, sharp as broken glass.