“Too risky,” he yells, which draws a few strange stares from nearby frolickers.

“Not more than it already is,” I say. “Quick and fast. We can run at the end if we have to.”

We’re getting more and more looks, but it’s not because of our exchange. It’s because my hands are still in the air, raised to the roof. Apparently it’s the universal sign for crowd-surfing.

“Need help up?” a big guy says, lowering his hands to the ground, like a step.

“Thanks,” I say, not waiting for approval from Tristan. They’re just going to have to follow my lead this time. I step into the guy’s cupped hands, and then the world spins as I’m thrown into the air.

I’m off balance and out of control, but when I come back down, I land much more softly than I expected. The feeling is new and weird and kind of cool at the same time, as hundreds of tiny little fingers and palms touch me all along my legs, arms and back. It’s almost like floating while getting a newfangled type of massage at the same time. I check that my assortment of weapons is still tucked safely beneath my clothes and in their sheaths. They are, although even if they weren’t, the intoxicated partiers would probably just think they were fakes and part of our costumes—just another sun dweller fashion statement. The only thing I didn’t think about:

How to steer.

I’m already heading in the wrong direction, away from the stage, back toward the entrance to the shipping tunnel. Where are the brakes on this thing?

Not sure what to do, I yell as loud as I can, “To the stage!”

To my complete and utter shock, the people beneath me shriek with delight, instantly changing my direction. Although I’m heading right for the band now, which is where Tristan wanted to go for some reason—I have no idea why.

I look around me, trying to find one of my friends’ faces, but there are only strangers with funny hats, strange piercings, and dyed hair. Then I spy it: the hat I stole for Tristan, its blue-bowed dome top rising above the crowd. I’m going to drift right past it.

At that moment, Tawni is flung up and above the crowd, her white hair magnificent under the artificial sun, the blue streak down one side almost making her fit in with the rest of the sun dwellers. The look on her face is somewhere between giddy and frightened, a half-smile that never quite makes it to her eyes.

As I coast up next to her, I say, “Headed my way?”

Her head jerks in my direction and a full smile finally crosses her face. “How do you control this thing?”

“To the stage!” I yell again, and like before, the crowd cheers, pushing us both toward the front, just a couple of seasoned crowd-surfers.

Tawni’s high, melodic laugh rings out as we skim along unknown hands. “Fun, eh?” I say.

“Yes! Why haven’t we ever done this before?”

“Have you ever seen a crowd like this?” I counter.

“Good point. What are we going to do about the others?”

“They’ll catch up,” I say, craning back to find Roc, Trevor, and Tristan lying flat above the masses, moving in all different directions. Trevor’s just going in circles—clearly he hasn’t worked things out quite yet.

We zero in on the stage, which is now occupied by just the band members minus their lead singer, who’s been carried off elsewhere. A jolt runs up my legs as my foot bangs off the foot of the platform. “What now?” I shout above a hammering drum solo.

“Maybe he wanted to get behind it!” Tawni cries.

“Okay! Left! Left!” I yell, hoping the drunken, crazed fans below me can remember their right from left.

At least one person does, as we’re pushed hard across the width of the stage. I’m so close to the rockers that the sweat glistens on their skin as they strum, drum, and scream out the loudest music I’ve ever heard.

Then an amazing thing happens.

We round the edge of the stage and the hands disappear.

Chapter Twelve

Tristan

Just when Trevor, Roc, and I get the hang of crowd-surfing and are headed in the direction of Adele and Tawni, they drop out of sight. “What happened?” I say toward Trevor, who’s between Roc and me.

The question’s intended for Roc, but Trevor answers instead. “I think they got dropped.”

My heart skips a beat. Getting dropped in the middle of the mosh pit we’re riding on is a dangerous thing. Not only could you break a bone from the fall, but you might get trampled by the hundreds of sightless, stamping feet that can’t tell the difference between a human body and an inanimate object that’s in their way.

“Or they just reached the edge of the crowd!” Roc yells over Trevor.

“That still means they got dropped,” I return.

“But they’ll be safe,” Roc says. I know he’s just guessing, but it still manages to give me hope that they’re okay.

I will the hands below us to push us forwards faster, to get me to Adele, but our pace, albeit reasonably fast, remains consistent. A minute or two later we reach the left edge of the stage and by straining my neck and lifting my head, I realize Roc was right. The press of sun dwellers is thinning, the hands are disappearing, and I get the strange sensation that we’re about to go over a waterfall.

Adele and Tawni are nowhere to be seen.

I squeeze my muscles tight, preparing for the drop. With a final firm push by some wandering hand directly on my butt, I’m thrown forward, out of the reach of the sea of partiers. There’s a quick pull of air in my gut, my stomach dropping as I fall. Curling my legs beneath me, I manage to land on my feet, but in an awkward, crouched position, my ankle turning and crumbling beneath my weight and the hidden weight of my steel weapons. The ground is hard and unforgiving, hammering my knees and scraping my shoulder as I’m pitched forward.

I come to a stop just outside of a broad shadow cast by a gigantic speaker set next to the stage. Being this close to the speaker makes it feel like the pump, pump, pump of the music is actually inside my head, making it hard to think.

There’s a voice that sounds like it’s miles away, a mere whisper by the time it reaches my ears. “Nice landing, ace,” Adele says.

I glance around, seeking her, but all I see are Trevor and Roc careening off the edge of the crowd simultaneously, Roc bouncing off the rock on his butt, and Trevor hitting flush on his side, his head jerking in a cringe-worthy manner. “Dude, you okay?” I say to Trevor, who seemed to get the worst of the fall.

“I’m good,” Roc answers. “I’ve got lots of padding down here,” he adds, rubbing his butt.

“I meant Trevor, butt wad,” I say, motioning to the last member of our group, who’s still lying face first motionless on the ground.

“Oh,” Roc says. “Trevor, you good?”

“Uhhhh,” Trevor says, flopping over onto his back. He takes a deep breath, raises a hand to his head, holding it gingerly. A trickle of blood squeezes through his fingertips.

“You’re bleeding, man,” I say.

“You think?” Trevor retorts. “I know I’ve got a hard head, but that was a nasty blow.”

“Can you walk?” I ask, knowing we need to get away from the edge of the crowd, which is ebbing and flowing like a living organism. Any second it might move in our direction, trampling us into the dust.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

Roc pushes to his feet, still massaging his well-endowed behind, while I stand up and limp over to our fallen comrade. My ankle and knees are throbbing and there’s a burning sensation in my shoulder, but it’s nothing I can’t handle right now, while the adrenaline is still flowing. Later—I don’t know. Bones and muscles and tendons might tighten up, walking might be difficult. But I’ll cross that inter-Realm bridge when I get to it.

Together, Roc and I haul Trevor to his feet, his head bobbing around like last year’s heavyweight champ’s skull after taking an unprotected uppercut by the contender, a gargantuan by the name of Moe Bradley. (Yes, Moe is now the new heavyweight champ.)