The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(15)

“There are posters, banners, all sorts of flammable—”

“I just wanna get out of here in one piece. You want the same, then shut up and follow me.”

Reluctantly, Zack grabbed his sketchbook and followed. He knew it wasn’t entirely wise to trail the guy with the open flame, but then Zack feared that things were about to get very bad here, very soon.

A hundred yards away, a new crescendo of screams arose as a publisher’s booth became engulfed in fire. Two shrieking exhibitors emerged from inside, both sporting a fresh coat of flames. They crashed into a neighboring stall, setting it ablaze.

Panic seized the hall as the fire spread. Every exit was visible now, and every route became choked by throngs of squealing evacuees. Zack joined the thinnest clog and was quickly shoved aside like a coatrack. He huddled into a protective crouch against a folding wall, away from the flames and mobs. Wait it out, his inner strategist demanded. Better late than trampled.

Soon someone sat down beside him, a tall and slender man in a black T-shirt and slacks. Tucked beneath his New York Yankees cap was a smooth white mask made of some oddly reflective plastic. Zack could spy only a hint of the stranger’s face through the eyeholes. He had fair skin, sandy brows, and the scariest blue eyes Zack had ever seen. They glistened in the firelight, dancing with wild amusement despite the suffering of thousands.

Before the cartoonist could indulge his flight reflex, the stranger grabbed his arm. Zack couldn’t hear the clacking sound in the din, nor did he register the cool silver bracelet as it sealed around his wrist. All he could process were those ferocious eyes. They weren’t just amused, they were contemptuous. Mocking.

The man muttered something brief and incomprehensible before jumping to his feet. He waved his hand in a brusque loop. A puddle of radiant white liquid appeared by his shoes, as round as a manhole and as bright as a glowstick. Zack watched, bug-eyed, as the man plunged feet first into the pool’s hidden depths. He disappeared beneath the rippling surface. The portal shrank away to concrete.

For Rose Trillinger’s second son, this was the end of reason. The end of acceptance. Screaming, Zack rushed to join the stragglers in a fevered dash for the exit. He’d made it all the way to the doors when his new bracelet vibrated and he became sealed inside an egg-shaped prison of light. Within moments— Hannah cut him off with a tense wave of the hand. “It’s all right. I . . . know the rest.”

Zack was all too happy to stop. From the moment the sky came down on the convention center, he’d retreated to his own private cineplex. He watched himself from the front row, confident that the hero would survive and all would be explained by the end of Act I. It wasn’t until he encountered Hannah that the fourth wall crumbled and he fell into the messy reality of his predicament.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Zack said. “I don’t know why we were singled out for bracelets. If your guy was as scary as mine, then . . . I don’t know. I don’t think they’re in a hurry to bring us into the loop.” He darkly eyed his silver band. “So to speak.”

Hannah sucked a sharp breath as she suffered her third and worst attack of hot needle stings. She huddled forward on the bench, wincing. “So what did . . . what did this guy say when he gave you your bracelet?”

Zack jerked a nervous shrug. “It didn’t make any sense. I don’t even know if I heard it right.”

“What was it?”

“He said, ‘Any other weekend, you’d be one of the Golds.’”

Hannah eyed him in dim bewilderment. “One of the Golds.”

“Yeah.”

“That makes no sense.”

“No kidding.”

“Jesus, Zack. What are we going to do?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t rightly know. I guess sticking together is the first step, if you can tolerate my company a little while longer. We’re going to need cash, or whatever passes for—”

The world fell abruptly silent as Hannah flinched in agony. Her skin stung like she was covered in firecrackers. Her heart rate doubled. Her vision took on a deep blue shade.

She pressed her palms to her face. “Oh God. I think I need a doctor.”

Oddly, Zack didn’t reply. She caught him staring ahead at the ocean, perfectly still and expressionless. He didn’t even blink.

“Zack, did you hear me? I feel like I’m dying!”

She jerked his sleeve, tearing a three-inch hole in the shoulder seam. The fabric felt tough somehow, like Zack had over-starched it. And he still didn’t acknowledge her.

Hannah struggled to her feet and moved directly in front of him. “Zack! Snap out of it! Please! I need you!”

Now his head tilted upward with all the speed of a sunrise, his eyes blooming wide in bother. A small voice in Hannah’s head insisted that she’d seen all this before as a child—the slowness, the blue haze, the odd taste of burning ash.

“What . . . who’s doing this?”

She frantically scanned the area. All over the marina, people moved at an absurdly lethargic pace, as if they all colluded on a silly pantomime. A middle-aged jogger creaked through a bounding stride. An Irish setter charged after a tennis ball with slow-motion pomp. A trio of seagulls spun in the air like a nursery mobile.

“WHO’S DOING THIS?”