The other skinjacker was in a blue and white football uniform, and his face was little more than a pair of unpleasant eyes in a football helmet. He was big—the kind of kid who was destined to be a linebacker whether he was good at the sport or not. Now, after what must have been a very bad game for him, he was stuck as a permanent linebacker in Everlost. When he spoke, his words came out slurred and slobbery, due to the fact that he also had a mouth guard stuck perpetually between his teeth.

“Wait a shecond,” he said. “That’sh not Jackin’ Jill!”

“It is! It is!” said the skinny one. “She just made herself look different, that’s all!”

“She can’t do shumthing like that, can she?”

Allie leaned over to Mikey and whispered in his ear. “We’ll run on the count of three.”

To which Mikey responded, “I don’t run. And neither do you.”

He was right about that. But seeing other skinjackers— it had shaken her even more than she realized. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll fight them.” Then she thought about how she had been pushed against the gas pump. “But the football player’s mine.”

Both Allie and Mikey prepared themselves for the battle, but before it could begin, someone else showed up on the scene. A fleshie came running onto the dock. A teenaged, leather-clad punk with spiky hair that defied the rain. But in an instant the wet spikes resolved into dry curls, and the face became a little less angular. It took a moment for Allie to realize what was happening. A third skinjacker had arrived, and he had just peeled out of his host. He wore a striped T-shirt that was a little too tight for his muscular frame, and he was old by Everlost standards. Seventeen maybe. While the punk-fleshie toddled off in confusion, the third skinjacker grabbed the gangly kid and the football player.

“What do you think you are doing!” he demanded. He had an accent that Allie couldn’t quite place at first.

“It’s Jackin’ Jill!” said the gangly one, weakly.

“Does she look like Jackin’ Jill to you?” the third skinjacker said. The accent was definitely Eastern European. If Allie had to guess, she would say it was Russian.

The football player wasn’t sure whether to shake his head or to nod, so he did a little bit of both. It made him look like a bobblehead doll. “When we shaw her jack the fat girl back in Virginia, we weren’t closhe enough to shee her faish.”

“Yeah, Yeah,” said the other one, “and when she peeled out we had to hang way back, so we still didn’t see her face then, either.”