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were cold. But that kiss had left him reeling, his head thick and foggy like he’d had too much to drink, and he could feel a sharp wetness on his lips where the nerves were still reacting. It was so good, he’d forgotten why he’d gone in for it in the first place. He’d forgotten to take a photo, as Parson had instructed him to do, to prove he’d been successful. The kiss had caught him off guard, and he’d completely blown it.
    Parson was going to be furious.
    It was his one shot. There wouldn’t be another kiss like that.
    Cole took off in the direction Davis had gone, following an intricate maze of red-lit paths and makeshift bars around the roof. There were people everywhere. Cole pushed past a girl in a slinky blue dress who was swaying to the indie-pop the DJ was shuffling. She grazed his bicep with her fingers as he went by, but when he met her eyes, her gaze was directed somewhere else. The place was so crowded that Cole had to fight back an instinct to shoulder people off. There was a sort of organized chaos about the whole thing: the movements of the crowds seemed choreographed in a graceful imitation of revelry. He took a right turn toward the entrance he remembered accessing when he first came in, ignoring a tray of hors d’oeuvres a woman in a puffy feathered skirt and an elaborate mask was passing around. She smiled at him.
    No. Not at him, he realized—at the mirror just behind him. He turned and caught a glimpse of his face, where a slight hint of red, likely invisible to everyone else, emerged from beneath the makeup he’d layered on to hide his scratch from the fights. He unbuttoned the top button of the shirt Parson had given him, the nicest piece of clothing he owned. The tightness around his neck reminded him of a noose. He wasn’t used to feeling nervous, but the combined rush of the kiss plus the claustrophobia of the party and the fear of getting caught had started to mess with him. He could feel a line of sweat trickling down his forehead.
    Leave, said the voice in his head. Just go home. You’re already in over your head.
    He spotted a redheaded girl slumped over her knees as if taking a nap. The way her thin body was folded over itself, she looked like some kind of party prop. He hesitated. She was obviously sick.
    Cole approached the girl slowly. If she was drunk—or if she had a boyfriend—she might lash out and make a scene, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. But she didn’t stir as he drew closer, and when he put a hand on her shoulder—a chill working its way farther up his spine every second—he knew something was wrong. He gave her a nudge, and the girl’s head flopped back, her strawberry curls draping low against the chair as her neck succumbed to the weight of her skull. Her eyes were almost closed and her skin was the color of ash—almost as pale as her tight white dress. A tiny stream of blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
    A dart of concern shot through his chest. Lab rats didn’t get sick. Not like this.
    â€œHey,” Cole said, kneeling down to speak to the girl. “Hey. Can you hear me?” He shook her gently, fighting a wave of panic. But instead of reviving her, his movements just caused the girl’s head to loll to the other side of the lounge chair where she sat, her arms draped by her sides.
    â€œShit,” he mumbled. He leaned closer and her eyelids fluttered. The sounds of labored breathing somehow reached his ears over the din of the music. She needed a doctor; anyone could see that.
    Cole straightened up, glancing around the packed roof deck. The beautiful masses swayed to electronica now. A brunette near him flashed him a smile and flipped her glossy hair over one shoulder, moving her hips seductively. Soon her attention shifted past him—but not to the girl in the chair. To a mirror mounted on the wall behind him. Cole turned toward the