her temple. The pin curls had taken forever to get perfect, delicate enough to balance out the punk Goth mix of her outfit with a Suicide Girl edge. Back at the apartment, she’d been careful to separate the pink highlights out, give them their own curls. When it was done, there had been a kick-ass version of a twenties-style movie starlet staring back at her from the mirror.
Jarrod pulled a flyer from his low-slung cargo pants—their official invitation—and handed it to the man at the door. Adam doled out the entrance fees as they strode past, through an enormous metal door into the shadows cast by strobe lights inside.
Eden watched the crowd for a moment, her stomach knotting. Every part of tonight had “bad idea” written all over it. She thought about turning around, heading home, figuring out some other way.
The deep bass pounded its rhythm into her chest, spreading roots that tingled down through her legs and into the floor. The techno beats pulsed with a life of their own, the crowd jumping, spinning under the colored strobes. For just half a second she lost herself in the chaos. When she pulled out of the trance, Adam and Jarrod were there on either side of her, ready. Waiting. It was time to spread the virus.
She tried not to pass herself if she could help it. Her potency meant the difference between shooting sprees and midnight joyrides, stolen lives and stolen kisses. For any hope of survival it had to be diluted through the boys. Especially tonight. Seven. Seven today, but there had been nearly as many yesterday. It was an invitation for disaster.
Jarrod and Adam could handle the extra burst of Touch as long as they dispersed it quick, before it had a chance to settle in them. They were the only ones she trusted her lips around. “It’s gonna be a bigger dose than normal. Ready?”
She shook her fingers out, stalling. Jarrod had already leaned closer. She pressed her mouth against his quickly, careful not to breathe. The sudden buzz that electrified her had nothing to do with the music. They shared a beat before Jarrod pulled away and the song went on. Eyes shimmering, he bit his lip.
She turned to Adam. He slid a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close in a sudden rush.
The kiss lasted a second too long, the static thrumming through her as the throbbing from the turntables climbed to a crescendo. In the glow of the swirling reds and purples of the lights, Adam didn’t blink, didn’t leave her. A steady single pulse matched the sound of her heart as the DJ spun another record. Eden raised a shaking hand, pointing out into the crowd.
Go. She didn’t bother to say the word, any hope of him hearing her voice above the music lost as the volume shook her. He turned, slipping behind a veil of gyrating bodies. The tremors didn’t stop. He only wanted the extra Touch. She didn’t let herself consider any other possibility.
Alone with the crowd, she had no one to distract her from the fingers, arms, and elbows all around her. Eden’s legs shook with the need to get rid of more. She fought her way toward the middle of the warehouse, tucking her arms across her chest, concentrating on keeping the rhythm outside her head. Adam and Jarrod needed to hurry.
And then someone grabbed her arm and dipped her low before setting her on her feet again. Her hand brushed against bare skin. Her breath caught as the dose of Touch left her. A beautiful rush of endorphins coursed through her, left her lighter. Eden’s hand moved on its own, searching out the next victim. Just a few. The thought was there, disorganized but demanding.
The spin started slow, a delicate twirling as she gave in to the spell the song cast. The beats wound their way into her, hands flying from her sides. As she spun, her fingers danced across a trio of shoulders, exposed collarbones that seemed to lean closer. They want it, she thought, her head pounding, rattling and lost. Every bit of skin she touched glowed, a wide wake of fireflies spreading out behind her as she danced.
The room crushed in, spiraling around her in a blur. The crowd as a whole didn’t matter, only the parts. Her fingers caught cheeks, foreheads, exposed midriffs. Too many. Dozens. Hundreds. Limbs twisting, touching, brushing. Her eyes closed as she let go, lost in