I swallow. I look from him to the cars: my salvation, my escape. My first step toward maybe, somehow, getting to Ty. “Are you saying this is some sort of … what, a trap?”

The Beings have never shown any sign of intelligence before. But then, as far as we can tell, they’re just the weapons of whatever aliens attacked us last year. So if this is a trap … I don’t want to meet whoever set it.

“I don’t know what it is,” Elliott admits.

I brood for a moment. “We have to take the chance,” I say at last, and start toward the doors.

Elliott’s mouth is set in grim lines, but he nods. “Just a sec,” he says. He walks over to the desk, reaches beneath it, and fiddles with it for a second before he manages to unscrew one of its legs. He turns, hefting the solid-looking length of wood. It’s ornately carved and about three feet long.

“That’ll do exactly zero good against a Being,” I observe.

He strides toward the doors. “It might buy us a minute or two if it comes to a fight, at least.”

I move out after him, through the first set of doors and into the little foyer. My mind, which has been feeling fuzzy from lack of sleep, sharpens at the danger we’re about to walk into. “Be careful of the side mirrors on the cars, and the rearview mirrors, too,” I warn. “Keep your eyes up. You’re my lookout.”

“How far I’ve fallen,” he mutters, and paces out into the parking garage without a backwards look. He hops onto the hood of a nearby Jag and scans the area, keeping the desk leg out and ready. He’s still got the blanket over one shoulder and the cord looped over the other. He should look ridiculous. I’m kind of annoyed that he looks a little bit badass instead.

I pause at the second set of doors, holding one open but not stepping out of the foyer yet. The wind howls in the distance. It doesn’t sound quite as strong as last night. We must have just caught one of the outside bands of the hurricane, or maybe it’s losing strength.

I look out across the cars. The fog is light out here but I can still see it, can sense it thickening against my skin until it’s almost a liquid, something clear and viscous and capable of drowning me. I can smell it, too: unnaturally metallic, ever-so-faintly burnt. The smoldering ash of a lightning strike.