This was a bad idea—the kind that ended with handcuffs and a mugshot. Trouble was, I couldn’t make myself walk away.

  The moon was swollen and yellow, bright enough to silver the wet bricks of the skating center. Rain from earlier still clung to the wall, and oily puddles freckled the empty lot. A musty wind carried that particular city stink—hot trash and old fryer grease—and teased a curl out of my hoodie. It slapped my cheek like a warning. Even this late, the highway a few blocks over kept up a steady roar.

  I shivered. Not just from the cold.

  I lifted the spray can. My breath caught; my stomach flipped. The sooner I begin, the sooner I can leave.

  “Diana!”

  The voice cracked on my name. My finger jerked, and a gout of yellow splatted across the back wall.

  Sketch stood under the nearest streetlight, all elbows and knees in black clothes, brown hair yanked into a low ponytail. He had his sunglasses perched like a headband, which, okay, was a choice at midnight. He cleared his throat and looked away when I turned.

  I lowered the can and hissed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He let out a long sigh and lifted his puppy eyes to mine. “I overheard you and Montana at school.” His voice slid back down into its usual register as he straightened. “Di, you could get in serious trouble. What if the cops show?”

  “Cops?” Oh God, I didn’t want to think about that. I forced my shoulders down. “People tag all the time. There are murals everywhere. You just don’t get caught.”

  “You don’t know they didn’t end up in juvie.” He shook his head. “Come on. Montana’s messing with you. This won’t get you into her group.”

  “She promised.” Heat crawled up my neck. The Stately Babes were the coolest girls in school, and Monday, I was going to be one of them. “Not that someone from the loser clique would understand.” He winced, and I hated myself for saying it, but I kept going anyway. “Besides, why do you care? We haven’t been friends since middle school.”

  “That wasn’t my choice.” He took a few steps away, shoulders hunched. “Fine,” he said over his shoulder. “If you’re determined, you need a lookout. I’ll do a bird call if you need to run north. If you hear a wolf cry, head south.”

  “Your bird call sounds like a dying blender,” I muttered.

  Sketch jogged across the street and jumped for the fire escape. He missed, then caught the rung on his second try and monkeyed up to the top. He leaned out and threw me a thumbs-up. Somehow, having him there soothed the hummingbird in my chest. My breathing evened.

  I turned back to the wall. I tucked the stray curl away, raised the can, and sprayed a rough line of yellow over my first splat. I was already regretting being from Maryland—this state was going to be a nightmare to draw. I did my best with the outline anyway.

  I stepped back. Not bad for a first effort. Even with shaky lines, the yellow popped against the red paint. It would, anyway, when the light was more than moon and streetlamps.

  I started filling it in.

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  A sound cut across the lot—Sketch’s attempt at a wolf cry. It still sounded like a dying cow, but it definitely wasn’t a bird.

  Nausea punched me. The cops.

  I let the can drop and ran.

  My foot hit my left shoelace, traitor that it is. I slapped a hand over my mouth to choke down a yelp and nearly ate pavement. Of course my sneakers had a possessed lace. I ducked into the shadow of a dumpster and dropped to one knee. Double knot. Useless, but I tried anyway. My hood slipped, and my stupid bright hair flashed out. I yanked the hood back up and cinched it tight.

  One street over, a police cruiser chirped. Red and blue strobed between buildings. I darted into a narrow alley. A speckled tabby arched and hissed at me, tail bottle-brushed, guarding some reeking fish skin it had dragged out of an overflowing bin. I pinched my nose and danced past both.

  A chain-link fence blocked the end of the alley.

  Great.

  I jumped, fingers—paint-splattered latex gloves squeaking—hooking into the diamond gaps. In two heaves, I was perched on the top rail.

  I froze. Okay. Weird. In gym class, I couldn’t get halfway up the rope without seeing stars, and now, after all that running, I was balanced six feet up and not even winded.

  Sirens dopplered a few blocks over, moving away. Come on, Diana. This isn’t over. Move your ass.

  I swung a leg and shimmied down the other side. My right foot hit pavement, clean. My left—

  Of course.

  The lace had wriggled free and looped itself around a metal nub. I hopped, yanked, hopped again. I slipped out of the sneaker, and my foot slammed straight into a puddle. Freezing water blasted my sock and splashed up my jeans. The shoe dangled from its treacherous lace, thumping the fence like it was laughing.

  I tipped my head back and searched for stars and found a smear of cloud instead. Perfect.

  Growling, I grabbed the sneaker and pulled. Hard. No way was I going to be a modern Cinderella, betrayed by my kicks.

  The lace tore with a ripping sound, and I landed on my butt in another puddle. Cold soaked through immediately. The tattered end of the lace fluttered from the link like a flag of surrender. My eyes stung. I refused to cry over a shoe.

  I hauled myself up. Lopsided, sneaker in hand, I squelched down the block. My sock made obscene noises with every step. A red-blue flash winked at the far corner, and I broke into a sprint without thinking.

  Clouds slid across the moon, thickening the dark. My heart slowed a notch, tricked by the fake cover. The wind turned syrupy and tugged at my jacket. A raindrop kissed my cheek. Another followed.

  Movement snagged my attention. A shadow unglued itself from under a parked car and slithered toward the streetlight at the intersection. It moved wrong. Even in the circle of light, it was just a darker smear. I blinked hard. The shape wavered—and then it clicked into focus, like my eyes had finally decided to cooperate.

  Six feet long, bright green, and slick as a fresh booger, it had a cone-shaped front and a swollen body like a walrus left out in the sun. A mass of tendrils unspooled from the back, pushing it across the wet street. Its whole body wobbled, jelly-thick.

  A sound fell out of me—half yell, half breath—my arms flailing. My feet skated on the slick pavement, and I went down hard, tailbone zinging. The thing paused, centered in the nimbus of light, and swiveled its front end toward me. The cone wasn’t smooth. A ring of serrated black mandibles flexed, and above them a scatter of tiny, opaque dots blinked in no pattern I recognized.

  The wind shifted.

  Rotting strawberries.

  The stink hit like a slap. I bent my arm across my nose and gagged. The creature and I watched each other. Seconds stretched into rubber minutes.

  It shuddered. Green slime sheeted off in ropes, spattering the asphalt. It swung its head away from me and kept moving, tendrils rippling, aiming for the far curb.

  I hugged myself and didn’t move. I couldn’t. My brain had found a new gear labeled I must be going mad and was grinding it like a stick shift.

  The thing oozed onto the sidewalk and kept going, slow and sure, like it didn’t care that my world had just broken.

  Something touched my shoulder.

  I screamed.