Page 211 of Gathered Sparkle

“All right.” Levi raises his hands to quiet them. “All right. I’ll jump in while Koen figures it out. We’ll come back to that one later.”

The crowd’s laughter still echoes in the air as Koen steps back, leaving Levi to take center stage again. I glance at Nova and find her eyes already on mine, filled with determination.

It’s our turn.

We untangle ourselves from each other, breaking the connection that’s been steadying me all night. At the same time, we pull our masks down over our faces, shutting the world out further, narrowing everything to the task at hand. The buckets are heavy, loaded with stacks of decks, but Nova doesn’t hesitate. She hoists hers up with both hands, gliding forward on her blades.

I follow her lead, gripping the bucket handle tightly. It bites into my palms, the weight straining my arms. The crowd shifts, buzzing with movement and energy, and Nova starts to drift farther ahead. She glides through the sea of people like she belongs there, weaving effortlessly between bodies, while I lumber behind her, every glide heavier than the last.

The masks. The noise. The crush of the crowd. It all presses in from every side, brushing against the frayed edges of my nerves. The bucket swings slightly in my grip, and I almost lose my footing. My chest tightens, my breaths quickening as I struggle to keep my eyes on Nova, who’s slipping farther into the chaos.

I can’t see her anymore.

The realization slams into me, and the weight of the bucket feels unbearable now, dragging me down. The mask makes it harder to breathe, the air hot and stale against my skin. The crowd surges closer, their voices swelling. It’s too loud. Too tight.

My chest burns, the pressure climbing higher. I clench my jaw, trying to push it down.Breathe. Just breathe.The words sound hollow in my mind.

Five things I can see.

A flash of sequins from someone’s jacket.

The neon lights flickering above the street.

The drone with the camera floating over our heads.

There she is again. Nova, weaving through the crowd, looking graceful, no trace left of the dying baby goat.

My feet in the blades are steady even when I feel anything but.

Four things I can hear.

The hum of the crowd, waves of chatter overlapping.

The rhythmic thud of music in the distance.

The faint scrape of the bucket against my jeans as it shifts in my grip.

Someone laughing too loudly.

Three things I can feel.

The rough handle of the bucket digging into my palms.

The fabric of my shirt sticking to my back where the sweat clings.

The cool brush of air through my hair when I glide forward.

Two things I can smell.

The sharp tang of a cheap cologne.

The faint, metallic scent of smoke hanging in the air from Levi’s fire entrance.

One thing I can taste.

The bitter trace of adrenaline on my tongue.

The noise fades just enough to loosen the grip around my lungs. I focus on Nova, the way she moves, and how the crowd seems to bend around her instead of the other way around.

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