The Singer stepped out from the middle of the group. He held up his hand and waved to me. A teardrop of brown trickled down his palm and dripped off his wrist.

I ran.

I ran through the night, wondering if they would chase me. Ugly images danced through my mind, all the roadies possessed by demons who were exactly like the Singer, howling after me in pursuit. “Lyra, you’ve been watching too many late-night broadcasts,” I muttered, and kept running.

In time I had to slow to a hard-breathing trot. No one was following me, not the roadies, not the Singer. If the Singer wanted to blood me like the roadies, he didn’t have to track me in the dark; he could just wait for me to return to camp. I’d go back eventually. I had no choice — Jerith’s protein synthesizers made the only human-edible food on the planet.

And when I went back, the Singer would hear my thoughts coming.

Maybe it didn’t matter, I tried to tell myself. If I got smeared with blood and started to hear people’s thoughts, was that so bad?

Yes... when the thoughts belonged to the Singer. If his voice invaded my mind again, I truly might kill myself to get away.

Passing through a narrow gully between two hills, I heard a voice call, “Lyra?”

I looked up to the hill on my left and saw Jerith. Sweet, unintimidating man. “Jerith!” I cried. “Jerith!” I scrambled up the hillside and wrapped my arms around his neck. Awkwardly he put one arm around me. The other was thrust deep into his pocket.

A moment later he took his hand out of the pocket and pushed me away. “You know about the parrots.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I was mad at you for a while, but I got over it.”

“Don’t lie to me.”