Page 6

I scan the crowd and spot a man with brilliant green eyes. He's focusing on me so hard it clears some of my alcoholic fog.

“Fifty-five!”

“Seventy.”

“Jared,” the man sitting next to the green-eyed guy snaps. “Really?Seventy?Oliver is going to want an explanation!”

My vision is swaying, but I notice the announcer is rubbing his hands gleefully.This isn't normal,I think sluggishly.None of this has anything to do with tattoos. Where's Sonya?

The squat man tucks his book under one arm, then claps. “Seventy going once! Twice! No one else? Fine! Come grab her and settle your debt, gentlemen.”

Two men leave their chairs to approach the stage. There's a heavy, foreboding air to them. Groaning, I bend in half, dropping to my knees. Expensive shoes move into my line of sight, just inches away. I see my reflection in their shiny surfaces.Look up,I think.Look at these people and ask them what's going on.

But I can't. I'm overwhelmed by a sensation like being on a boat in a hurricane at sea. Lifting my head is impossible.

“Oh,” the auctioneer says nervously above me, “she seems ill, uh, can someone...”

Everything fades. My whole world narrows in on the sensation of rough wood pressing against my cheek.

Then I'm swallowed by blackness.