Page 117 of Tracking Snow

He gives me a nod and holds open the door for me as I leave. "Straight home."

"Yes, Dad."

His brow lowers as he lets out a low snort that could be amusement or irritation.

I push through the front door into the sticky summer night.

"Hey, you," I call to Snow. "Any news?"

She smiles, but it looks off, or maybe uneasy? Snow shakes her head no.

Snow starts walking, and I roll beside her, the streetlights striping over the glossy black of her outfit. For a few seconds, all I hear is the soft spin of my wheels and the occasional distant honk of cars.

"So," I say, prodding harder, "Patrolling was a bust?"

Snow glances down at me. My skin prickles with an unease I can’t name.

She takes a different street than usual.

"Where are we going? Ryder said we better head straight home or he’ll likely ground us," I try to joke, but the prickle of unease keeps growing inside me.

She slows and turns to face me.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "Did something happen? Is Mr. Multiple Personality being a dickwad again because I’ll punch him. Seven times. One for each of them."

Snow's chin dips and her eyes drop to my lap, then come up again, and she presses her lips flat. Then she reaches out to me, and I see a strange glint before cold metal kisses my neck.

Pain stings bright and mean.

I gasp.

"Don’t worry." The voice that comes out of Snow’s mouth is all wrong. It’s a man's voice, a familiar one I can’t place.

As Snow pushes the plunger down on the needle, her blue eyes turn green.

All the air leaves my lungs at once.

"Snow?" My voice cracks in half. My body jolts before my brain catches up. I grip one wheel, ready to roll, ready to shout, ready to do anything except sit there while every survival instinct in me starts banging pots and pans.

The street tilts.

My fingers slip against the wheel rim. My chair jerks sideways and bumps the curb. I grab for her wrist, but my hand barely closes.

Snow catches me before I spill forward.

Strong.

Too strong.

Her arms lock around me, steady and careful, almost kind.

No.

No, no, no.

The world smears at the edges. Neon stretches. Streetlights bloom into halos. My tongue goes thick in my mouth as I realize who is holding me.

The Seven.