Page 47 of Darling

It will be okay, Fyodor mouthed over the music, nodding resolutely.

It will be okay, he repeated, then he cupped Wendy’s cheek in his large palm and pressed their foreheads together. They weren’t dancing anymore, just standing still in the middle of the dance floor.

Wendy arched up closer and closed her eyes.

Her heart tripped over itself as she stood in the circle of Fyodor’s arms, with the bridge of his nose just grazing hers. She leaned up even closer for a kiss, but Fyodor pulled back.

He shook his head and pulled out his phone again at Wendy’s crestfallen expression.

you have been through too much tonight. It would be taking advantage

Then he took his phone back, swiped around, and handed it over to Wendy completely. He had opened his contacts and selected ADD NEW CONTACT.

Fyodor smirked and wiggled his eyebrow.

Wendy blushed, remembering that Ominotago had called him a flirt earlier in the night. She typed her number into his phone and handed it over.

Fyodor looked over at Peter and clapped his hand on Wendy’s shoulder in an overly friendly way, as if she were Charles or Minsu. From the tightening of the expression on Peter’s face, it didn’t seem to be working.

Peter leaned over to Curly and said something that made Curly look exasperated. Curly started marching toward the staircase like he’d been given an order.

Before Curly could come down the stairs, all the exits were kicked open, and police poured in. The warehouse filled with sirens so loud, they drowned out the music.

CHAPTER 13

Fyodor acted quickly. He yanked Wendy to the nearest drink table, pushed its cups away, lifted Wendy clean off the ground, and put her on the table just before the stampede began.

“PLEASE LEAVE THE BUILDING IN AN ORDERLY FASHION.”

No one was doing that at all. Fyodor was pushed aside violently as Wendy managed to scuttle to the middle of the table, and he was immediately carried away with the crowd. Everyone was running: girls barefoot with heels in hand, party- goers popping the balloons on the floor left and right. It didn’t sound quite like gunshots, but it was enough to make the crowd scream and flinch. The DJ yanked their cords midset and the music went off, leaving only the sounds of panic and the authoritative shouting of the Chicago Police Department.

Wendy looked up to the mezzanine, but Peter and the rest of the group were long gone. The police were staying at the perimeter of the warehouse, and, to Wendy’s surprise, were actually holding open the doors. They seemed more focused on everyone clearing the building than they were about arresting people or getting in the way of the rushing crowd. They must be waiting, Wendy thought dryly, until everyone gets outside to corral them into police vans.

Someone roughly bumped the table Wendy was on, and it banged against the back wall, its legs shuddering as if it were about to collapse. She held on and tried to sit as still as possible, and the shaking stopped. The warehouse was clearing fast, and police were pouring in to forcibly push people out. They were dressed almost like a SWAT team, which was a stark difference from the police who’d come to the few house parties Wendy had attended back home. Those cops had mostly looked like trumped-up security guards. This was an entirely different level, even more than what she’d seen at the train station. As the last of the partygoers scampered out the door, Wendy was seized by her arm and dragged off the table by an officer who pushed her toward the door without even saying anything to her. He was rough enough to get the message across wordlessly, so Wendy followed the last of the kids outside. She glanced behind her, just in time to see officers flip over a couch and tear into its cushions as they began to detail-search the building.

It was twice as bright outside as it had been when Wendy and the others had gone inside, and it was extremely crowded. The police had formed barriers around the whole building. They were checking IDs and letting people out in small groups. Some of them were pulling clearly intoxicated partygoers to the side to do breathalyzers and then bundling them into police vans. The rest seemed intent on searching the area, pushing people into lines for ID checks, and tamping down on rowdiness. Despite the massive police presence, the cops were significantly less violent than Wendy would have expected. This wasn’t a raid, this was a search party, and the crowd was mostly getting in the way. In fact, now that she was more aware of what was going on, she remembered the explosive police drama earlier slightly differently. The business of it all, the distracted but hawkish look in the officers’ eyes, the rush of patting down people and pushing away what looked like easy targets so they could continue their search. Wendy watched as the police let a girl who wasn’t completely sloshed, but still visibly drunk, out of the barricade.

Wendy walked across the gravel and joined the back of one of the ID lines. Hopefully they would recognize her as a person who’d been reported missing and escort her home. Which might be a pretty good way to go out, since it wouldn’t look like she’d “escaped,” and Peter might not hunt her down like Tinkerbelle and the others had hinted he would. The other possibility was that they would just let her out of the barricade like everyone else. Then she could just make an incredibly long walk home or wait at the barrier edge for it to spit out someone she knew.

The lines were moving pretty quickly, but the girls in front of her were complaining loudly about the party being shut down.

Wendy took out her phone and swiped so she could at least use this free time and the last dregs of her battery to contact Eleanor.

She had seventeen text notifications, which wasn’t a huge surprise, but she only had 1 percent battery left. She swiped all the way to the bottom of Eleanor’s texts, noticing with a spark of humor that they descended from lowercase to caps lock, ending with a final text:

I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL WAKE UP MY PARENTS AND COME FIND YOU MYSELF

Wendy began typing a quick message, but before she could even get I’m okay for now out, her screen froze and then went black. Wendy clicked the home button desperately, but it was over. Her phone was dead. Wendy closed her eyes and whined, taking a moment to feel the full brunt of her own irritation and despair, but got herself back together, unclenched her fists, and kept on going.

“What time is it?” Wendy asked the girls in front of her.

They all turned around and a girl with hair as pink as her dress pulled her phone out. “1:03. Is your phone dead?”

Wendy shrugged. “I think it died about an hour ago, and I’ve been floating through time ever since. I didn’t have time to charge it before I left home.”

A girl with wild blond curls like Eleanor’s started digging in her purse. “What kind is it? I have a portable charger.”

Wendy pulled her phone out. “Oh my God, thank you. It’s just a regular micro-USB—”