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speaks, his voice is soft with desire. “She would be delicious, so . . .” He snaps out of it with a quick flick of his head. “I digress. My apologies. The official who let that happen is no longer with us.” He scratches his wrist, once, twice. “There are other myths,” he continues, “and other discoveries we will disclose to you over the next few days. But for now, absorb what we’ve just told you. Use this new knowledge to aid you in the Hunt: First, hepers are afraid to flee into the unknown; and second, they can be trained to be aggressive. And they do not mind having a woman lead them. Not this one, anyway.” He slips away deeper into his dark corner; blackness swallows him. Nothing happens for the next few minutes. Nobody moves, nobody speaks. We sit, blasé faces and glazed stares. Waiting for someone, something, to break the silence. Then I sense it. A prick at the back of my neck: someone from behind is staring intently at me. The last thing to do—I hear my father’s voice instructing me—is turn around. Moving so drastically while everyone else is stationary will only draw attention. Unwanted attention, as if there were any other kind. But the prick sharpens until I can take it no longer. I let a pen in my hand fall to the ground; as I slowly swivel around to pick it up, I shoot a quick glance back. It’s Ashley June, her eyes death green in the mercurial light. She’s sitting right behind me. I almost startle in my seat—“startle” is this reflex where we jump a little in fright—but tamp it down just in time. I close my eyelids halfway—a trick my father taught me to make sure my eyes don’t widen too much—and turn around. Did she see me startle? Did she see me startle? Somebody is at the lectern. Frilly Dress from yesterday. “How are we all tonight? Having fun?” She takes out a notepad, scans it,
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