o way I was going to school the next day.

I turned on the shower, rattled bottles, made getting ready noises. Kit bought my act. He rushed off to work early, oblivious to my plan. When the front door closed, I flopped back into bed.

The boys weren’t so lucky. Sorry, guys.

The four of us had agreed to wait another day before presenting ourselves to an ER. Or a psych ward, whichever made more sense.

But school was the least of my worries.

A cotillion dance, my first event as a junior debutante, was taking place that evening. With Kit and Whitney so fired up about it, I couldn’t back out. Aside from Mom’s funeral, I’d never dreaded a gathering more in my life.

I slept all morning and a good chunk of the afternoon. I awoke still sluggish, but free of the overwhelming fatigue. Maybe I was recovering.

I tried to distract myself, even went to see Coop at the bunker. But my thoughts turned repeatedly to the dance. What was I supposed to wear to this thing?

The other girls would feature expensive designer gowns. Stunning red-carpet numbers. I owned nothing even close. A fact that Madison and her coven would be sure to point out.

At 3:27 p.m. I opened my closet door. And found that I’d underestimated Whitney.

The dress practically jumped from the hanger to spin a pirouette. Marchesa. Light pink, strapless, with gold accents. It must’ve cost a thousand bucks.

To my horror, it was my size. Below the dress sat a jewelry box containing two items. A silver David Yurman cable bracelet with pearl tips, and a diamond solitaire necklace.

I stared at the ensemble. Appalled.

Whitney was dressing me like a doll. One with questionable taste.

Pink? I glanced in the mirror, noted my red hair, green eyes, and pale complexion. Had she never met me?

Blarg.

This was not a blend into the background getup. This combo said, “Look at me,” loud and clear. Exactly what I didn’t want.

Dual dilemma. I owned nothing else. Ignoring the dress would hurt Whitney’s feelings.

I had no choice.

Double blarg.

The car ride from Morris Island was torture. Whitney’s endless pointers. Kit’s awkward compliments. I was anxious to get to the dance just to escape them.

“The jewelry’s mine of course. I borrowed the dress from a friend who owns a boutique on King Street.” Whitney was in her element. “We’ll return it to her next week. Daisy said she’d loan us as many outfits as your sweet little debutante heart desires. Isn’t that just the most generous thing ever?”

I tuned out her babbling excitement. The whole thing was a nightmare. A big pink one.

Fenworth House is classic Charleston, all shutters and piazzas and twisty wrought iron. The grand old dame sits on Queen Street near the Powder Magazine and the Gibbes Museum of Art. At my insistence, Kit dropped me at the curb. No way I’d walk in on his arm.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I entered through the carved oak doors. I felt like a giant strawberry cupcake, wobbling in heels, clanking with Whitney’s high-priced jewelry.

Panic thought.!!!What if everyone else wears jeans?

I needn’t have worried. The debs were decked out as if Brad Pitt might drop by looking for a date to the Oscars.

But no one else wore pink.

Oh joy.

The ballroom was straight out of Gone with the Wind. Brocade drapes framed floor-to-ceiling windows, and enormous crystal chandeliers hung over acres of gleaming oak. Small linen-clad tables surrounded the dance floor.

Musicians tuned their instruments on a stage at one end of the room. Saxophones. Trumpets. Trombones. Cymbals clanged and horns tooted as the acoustics were perfected.

A long table hugged the room’s right-hand wall, spread with vases of lilies, china, punch bowls, and appetizers mounded on elegant silver trays. Crab cakes. Mini beef Wellingtons. Bacon-wrapped scallops. Not a bad spread.

“Tory?”

Jason stood beside the buffet. In his black tux and cummerbund, he looked like James Bond. The Daniel Craig version.

“Hi.” I kept it short.

“Wow. You look ridiculous.”

My cheeks burned.!!!Stupid cupcake dress! Stupid Whitney!

Jason whistled. “Fantastic! Please dress up more often. I’m stunned.” He called across the room. “Chance, look who’s here.”

“Tory, my God!” Chance wore a white tuxedo with tails. On anyone else? Dopey. On him? Yes, please.

Chance snagged a crab cake, all the while appraising me like an art collector evaluating a painting.

“You’re a brave woman,” he said. “It takes great courage to walk in here like that.”

“Like what?”

“Hands down the prettiest girl in the room. All the other ladies will be furious.”

Wait for it... There! The wink.

“Don’t let Hannah hear that,” I said without thinking. “You’re spoken for.”

My stomach performed a back flip. Flirting with Chance? Was I insane? Why not grab the mike and sing “Macarena.” Complete the lunacy.

Chance’s brows floated an inch up his forehead. Then his lips curled in amusement. “Lucky for me, my princess hasn’t arrived. In fact, I’d better meet her coach outside. Excuse me.”

With that he was gone.

“I didn’t know you were a deb,” Jason said.

“Junior deb,” I corrected. “This is my first event. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

“Then, Mademoiselle, I shall be your guide this evening.” Jason bowed from the waist.

My face must have betrayed my confusion.

“Tonight we practice our dance steps for the big ball. You need a partner. Please allow me the pleasure of being your escort?” Formal.

“Oh! Then, kind sir, I accept.”

Where was I getting this stuff? I’d never taken a dance lesson in my life. This could be a disaster.

Whispered voices intruded.

“Maddy, look! It’s the boat girl.”

Ugh. Courtney Holt. Where one skank lurked, two others couldn’t be far.

“What’s she doing with Jason?” Ashley whispered.

I didn’t turn, didn’t let on that I heard. Jason was grazing the appetizers, completely unaware.

“Poor thing. We should rescue him.” Madison’s giggle was pure malice. “What’s she doing here anyway?”

“She’s a junior deb now, can you believe it?” Ashley whispered. “My mother’s on the committee. She told me that Dubois woman got her in. I have no idea how.”

“She looks... good.” Courtney sounded surprised. “Very good, actually. I never noticed she was pretty.”

“So the child has a dress,” Madison said. “Big deal.”

“Pretty gutsy wearing pink,” Ashley said.

“And she’s pulling it off,” Courtney added. “Nice bracelet, too.”

I was astonished. The unholy trinity thought I looked good? The world was officially upside down.

The glow was quickly extinguished.

“If the tramp makes a move on Jason, she’s roadkill.” Madison’s resentment was unmistakable. “The little girl’s definitely out of her league.”

Nonchalant, I scanned the room. The Tripod was huddled by the stage, at least twenty yards off. Nowhere near me.

No! Please God. Not here.

I ran a check for signs of an impending attack. Prepared to bolt.

Oddly, I felt fine. Good even. My hearing had gone superhuman, but nothing else seemed altered. Yet.

The band struck up Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” Irony there.

Around the room, debs paired up with their escorts.

“Ready to fox-trot?” Jason offered an arm.

Holy moly.

“Sure.” I most certainly was not.

At that moment, Hannah floated into the hall wearing an elegant white dress with a simple blue sash. I conceded the title of prettiest in the room.

Madison sauntered over, cleavage fighting to escape her Vera Wang dress.

“Shall we, Jason?”

“Sorry, Maddy.” Leading me out onto the dance floor. “Tory’s new. I promised to show her the ropes.”

Madison’s overly mascaraed eyes fluttered in surprise. “Sure. No problem.”

But it was, in fact, a problem. Mine.

Jason and I paused a moment to catch the beat. Then we were off.

At first I stepped all over his shoes. Zigged when he zagged. Floundered when he tried to spin me. Madison smirked over the shoulder of her second-choice partner, amused at my clumsiness.

But soon my natural sense of rhythm kicked in. Before long I was following Jason’s lead.

Against all expectations, I began to have fun.

Halfway through our third number, Jason twirled me faster than before. I flowed with the move, curling back into his chest. He reversed the spin and we ended up side by side with arms outstretched. As if on cue, Chance swooped by.

Jason released my hand and captured Hannah’s in one smooth motion. My momentum carried me into Chance’s arms.

Turning on instinct, I managed to fall into the proper tempo with my new partner.

“Let a girl know next time!” I laughed.

“And spoil the fun? No can do.”

Chance was an even better dancer than Jason. And held me much closer. No complaint there.

Halfway through the song he led me into a new sequence.

“I don’t know this one,” I squawked.

But Chance directed our movements with ease. I followed his lead, even added a closing flourish of my own.

“Never doubted you’d nail it,” said Chance. “You’re the best dancer here.”

Another spin. Our bodies drew together.

“And still the prettiest girl in the room,” he whispered.

Yikes.

This was beyond friendly flirting. Right? I had no frame of reference.

The music reached a crescendo, then stopped.

Chance bowed, winked, and walked off to collect Hannah.

I hurried to the food table and downed a cup of punch. Grapefruit-melon. Blech. But I needed something. My cheeks were hot and my pulse was still speeding.

“You’re sure you’ve never fox-trotted before?” Jason had come up beside me.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Well, you’re a natural.” He popped a chocolate ball into his mouth.

The band started into “My Favorite Things.” Couples reengaged and headed back out.

“Let’s see how you waltz.” Grabbing my hand, Jason pulled me toward the dance floor.

A little too fast.

A little too hard.

SNAP.

Fire shot through my body. Divided into a million shards of ice. The pain was intense.

I jerked free.

Pressed my palms to my cheeks.

“You okay?” Jason squeezed my shoulder. “Do you need water?”

“Don’t touch me!”

My hands slammed Jason’s chest with a will of their own.

Jason flew backward and cracked the wall with his head. I stared in shock as he slumped to the ground.

SNUP.

My mind cleared.

My stomach dropped.!!!Holy crap!

“Jason!” I rushed to his side. “I’m so sorry!”

Jason rubbed the back of his skull, clearly confused. “What happened?”

“I pushed you.” Think fast. “I had a migraine attack. It was a reflex.”!!!Escape!

“I’m so sorry Jason, but I have to go.”

“No, wait, don’t leave.” Jason’s words were slurred.

“You’re pretty strong,” he noted, struggling to his feet.

I glanced around. We were the only couple not dancing. No one had seen me knock a 180-pound star athlete back five yards. With ease.

“I’m sorry, but I really do have to go.”

“Okay.” Jason smoothed his hair. “I’ll walk you out. Drive you. Home.”

The song ended. I looked across the room. Chance, Hannah, and Madison were now watching. No way I could leave with Jason. The rumor mill would eat that one up.

“Thanks, but I’m good. See you later.”

Before he could object, I scurried for the door.

Out on the front steps, I considered my plight. How the hell would I get to Morris Island? No car. No shuttle. A cab would cost fifty bucks.

Kit and Whitney were at a movie, expecting to pick me up at eleven. Their phones would be off.

I checked my watch: 9:20.

Great. I was stuck for almost two hours.

A limo idled by the curb at the foot of the stairs. As I mulled my limited options, the driver’s door opened and a black-suited man climbed out. He was speaking into a cell.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

In the lamplight I could see that the man was short and compact, with pale blue eyes and gray hair buzzed to his scalp. A white scar traced the right side of his jaw.

The phone snapped shut. “Miss Brennan?”

“Yes?” Surprised.

“Mr. Claybourne requested that I assist you.”

“Mr. Claybourne?”

“The younger Mr. Claybourne.” Buzz Cut opened one of the limo’s rear doors and stepped aside. For a moment I thought he might click his heels.

Chance must have called the moment I left. Ergo, he’d been thinking about me.

“I’m sorry. Your name sir?”

“Tony Baravetto.” Gruff. “Chance Claybourne’s personal driver.”

I paused. This man was a complete stranger. I’m suspicious by nature and wasn’t going to jump into the limo on his word alone.

“I’m sorry, sir, but may I see your phone for a moment?”

Puzzled, Baravetto handed over his cell. I checked. The last call received was Chance Claybourne.

What to do?!!!Duh. You got another way home?

“Thank you, Mr. Baravetto. A ride would be greatly appreciated.”

I slipped inside the house and relocked the door behind me. Then headed straight for my room.

Kit and Whitney were entangled on the living room couch. On hearing my footsteps they flew apart, smoothing hair and clothing.!!!Gross. Who’s the teenager here?

“How was the movie?” I asked.

“Sold out.” Kit was clearly embarrassed, tried to play it off. “You’re home early. Did you get a ride?”

I nodded.

“Was it grand?” Whitney chirped. “I must hear every scrumptious detail.”

“It was fine. I’m going to bed. Night!”

Ignoring their pleas, I scampered upstairs as fast as my dress would allow. Performed a cupcake dive onto my bed. Relaxed. For the first time in hours.

Then I rolled to my belly and screamed into my pillow. What a night.

During the long ride to Morris, I’d dissected my cotillion attack. That’s how I labeled them now. By context. The boat attack. The fly on the wall attack. The cafeteria attack. The cotillion attack.

What caused them? Were they random? Or was there a trigger?

Tonight’s episode had been different.

I’d felt my brain snap, but no blackout followed. There’d been just one sensory symptom—my ears turning up the juice. Then I’d exhibited a burst of raw physical power. Like Ben catching the engine in his garage.

All things considered, tonight’s change had been minor. Manageable. Hell, even useful.

Was the pattern changing? How? Why?

Something incredible had happened to our bodies. Something new to the world, I feared. Whatever we’d contracted had warped us.

In our brains? Our DNA?

I didn’t know. But I knew that we were transformed.

Twisted, to the core.

Viral.

I resolved to understand. To get answers.

One way or another.