Blood Kiss by J.R. Ward

where the lengths led to—he couldn’t see that far up—but the lights were strobing with greater intensity, and there were no other options.
    â€œRock, paper, scissors for who picks first,” she said, putting out her fist.
    He did the same. “One, two, three.” Craeg threw rock, she threw paper. “Your pick.”
    â€œRight.”
    Craeg grabbed the left one and pulled so hard his palms burned. Certainly seemed strong enough. But if he was wrong? Long way to fall, and there was no padding underneath.
    He and the female went hand over hand, gripping, pulling up, using their feet to clasp the loosey-goosey they left behind as they ascended. And she was nearly as fast as he was, not that he spent a lot of time measuringher progress. Up, up, up—until the speakers from which the explosion noises ripped were directly above his head and the light boxes generating the jagged illumination overwhelmed his vision from straight ahead.
    â€œNow what,” he barked when he was about six feet from the ceiling.
    â€œScaffolding,” she yelled back, shifting her grip and pointing.
    Sure enough, there was some kind of catwalk suspended from metal wires. Glancing down, he said another prayer that the platform was strong enough to hold his weight.
    â€œI’ll go first.”
    â€œRock, paper, scissors,” she hollered. “One, two, three.”
    He threw scissors; she threw paper.
    â€œMe first,” he announced.
    Except the catwalk was a distance away even as he came up to its height. Holding on to the thick rope, he used his lower body to create a swaying motion . . . that increased to a full-on swing. It was going to require perfect timing to get this right—he was going to have to go hands-free for a good five feet of nothing-but-net. And shit only knew what he was going to find when he landed.
    More metal with an electrical current piped through it?
    Craeg pumped his pelvis one last time, brought his knees up, and sent his weight away from the scaffolding; then as momentum brought him forward again, he arched his back and kicked his feet out ahead of him.
    At just the right time, he released the rope, giving up his tether.
    At least . . . he hoped it was the right time.

Chapter Seven
    â€œG et up! Peyton, get up—now!”
    As Paradise lost the fight with her survival instinct and rolled her friend—or nemesis or whatever the hell he was—over onto his back, she cursed him, herself, the Brothers, pretty much anything that was a noun.
    That whole faceup thing didn’t last long. As he began to heave again, she shoved him back over so he didn’t aspirate.
    Glancing around, she saw . . . so many on the ground. As if it were a battlefield.
    â€œI’m gonna die,” Peyton moaned.
    In the back of her mind, Paradise noticed that although the noise was just as calamitous, there was more illumination, the flashes coming faster and staying lit longer.
    â€œCome on.” She pulled at his arm. “We can’t stay here.”
    â€œLeave me here . . . just leave me. . . .”
    As Peyton vomited again and not much came up, she looked to the far corner of the gym. There were a number of people standing around the dark opening that Craeg had told her to head toward.
    â€œPeyton—”
    â€œWe’re all gonna die. . . .”
    â€œNo, we’re not.”
    And it was a shock to realize she actually believed that—it wasn’t just a line to offer false hope to Mr. Smooth with the stomach issues. The thing was, all this noise and light wasn’t actually producing any debris, smoke or dust, any structure rattling, any sort of real impact on the space or the people in it. It was a light andsound show, like a thunderstorm or a theatrical production—and that was as far as it went.
    She also had the sense that the lights were changing, and that had to mean