CHAPTER ONE

03.08.11. 6:17 p.m.

I'm going to die.

I felt it coming the moment my Legacies left me.

I don't scream or fight for my power back.

I just let it come.

Knowing there's nothing I can do—nothing that he can do—to save my life.

For Lorien, and all that.

This is starting off kind of bleak, isn't it? Let me back up to the beginning. I can't speak much on Lorien or the other worlds aside from my own, and despite all the lies I've told, I'm not the one to tell this story. It's been told before, after all. So, I'll pass it on to her.

Stay strong, sister.

Stay strong and live.


09.23.10. 4:09 a.m.

I'm desperate, frantic.

We're running out of time, and I don't know if I'll be able to catch up to them in time.

But if we're going to save everyone, I have to try.

Even if it kills me, I have to try.

I take in a deep breath, let it out, and I open the door.

The house is intact here. It's a freakish mansion, almost as nice as Sandor's place up north. The only difference is this place is locked down via key card. Not that that's a problem for me. I hear clattering at the far end of the wide-open living room, and I spin around just in time to see a dark-haired man aiming a pistol at me. Half of his head is shaved, like he stopped in the middle of a haircut, and he's struggling to clip a silencer to barrel of the gun. That sound I heard must have been several beer cans and wine bottles being knocked off the once nice glass table.

"Oh, hey!" I say aloud. "It's nice to finally meet you, under better circumstances."

"Better circumstances?" the man slurs, he's hardly able to point the gun. "I don't know who the hell you are, but—"

With my mind, I pluck the weapon from his hand and gently set it on the table closer to me. "My name's Emily, and my keeper taught me it's rude to point guns at strangers."

He isn't startled by my telekinesis, just stares at me with those dark eyes. With the wacky hair and eyebrows to match, he could almost be a Mogadorian. Then he laughs, and just from the sound, I know he's human. "Your keeper. I see. So, what number are you, kiddo?"

"Oh, no," I start to say, but then think better of it. "I'm not—Hold on."

I pull a small disc-shaped device from my pocket, set it on the table beside the firearm.

"I'm not—" Ethan starts, but I shush him.

"It's almost done," I explain, "just wait."

"What is?" To the human, nothing's happening. Nothing he can see with his naked eye. But I'm watching my little datamask reach out with electromagnetic tendrils and ensnare any hidden camera or microphone inside the room. It takes about fifteen seconds, which is a pretty long time, but no doubt the Mogadorians bugged this place to hell.

"Okay, now we can talk." I say. "Gotta make it quick, though. You were saying?"

"'What number are you?'"

"Right, right." I hike up left leg on the coffee table and push the sock down past my ankle. "Check it."

He leans over to inspect my ankle—the smooth, brown skin—and furrows his brow. "You're Garde?"

I smile and nod.

"I thought..."

"I know. It's a trip. Imagine going from, 'I'm the only one of my kind on Earth,' to 'I'm one of the last in the universe.'"

"I can't." Ethan looks bewildered, like a father just meeting their teenage kid for the first time. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," I reply. "Landed on Earth when I was two."

Instantly, he buries his face in his hands. "Oh, god. You were here when..."

"Yeah," I draw the word out, knowing what he cannot bring himself to speak aloud. "That sucked in more ways you can believed."

"You must be here to kill me."

I reach out to pick up the gun. Then I stand, walk around the table to Ethan. He doesn't lift his head to look at me, doesn't try to fight what's coming. I notice a small suitcase beside his feet—he must have started packing and stopped once he came to his senses, and realized there was nowhere to run.

"I already have," I tell him, sitting down beside him to stuff the gun and its full clip away in my pack. "Didn't work out. Now, I just need to know one thing from you."

The confusion and grief still hover over his face, but I can see them starting to dissipate. He'll get more answers than he bargained for before I'm done with him, anyway.

"Where is he?" I ask. "It is a 'he,' right?"

"I have no idea where he went. I'm sorry, it's not like he really wanted to talk to me after...," Ethan thinks on this for a moment, then lumbers up and away from the crouch before clumsily stomping up the stairs. "He did leave this, though!"

Something drops from above me. I catch it by instinct with my mind and levitate it down to the table in front of me. It's a duffel bag. I set it right by my datamask and set the little cloaking device to life. The datamask takes on robotic little spider legs and unzips the duffel for me, careful to check each notch for a possible tripwire on a bomb. Once the bag is halfway open, I can start to make out the dark wooden face, and the heavy, seamless padlock.

"Jackpot," I whisper. "That's... Hey, come back down here!"

He does, holding up his hands as if to show he wasn't sounding off any secret alarms.

"You're fine," I tell him. "This is gonna help me find him much faster, you know."

"I'd hope so."

I pull the bag to me and zip it back shut, tucking the datamask into my pocket. As I'm about to hoist the runaway Garde's over my shoulder, I stop to stare at Ethan. "Why'd you help me?"

He shrugs. "They're going to kill me anyway. I'd prefer to help as much as I can to get them off Cody's trail."

"I mean, that's...sweet, I guess. But dude, you don't even think we'll win this. You changed your mind when your Garde decided not to turn Mog?"

"No." Ethan has procured another bottle of wine, he takes a swig from it before he speaks again. "It's not possible. I think you and your people are about as powerful as any force of nature in the universe. But the Mogadorians? They've conquered nature. They conquered your home, rushed it in days and turned it to ash, over a disagreement on resource allocation. If they could do that to your elders, the strongest Garde ever to live, and millions of others with marginal, still extraordinary power, I just don't see how you'll beat them now. You nine, ten kids and some Cêpans. I wish I could."

"That's just it, Ethan." I smile at him. "I don't know if you're meant to see it. Just know we will."

He raises the bottle to me. "I'll drink to that. May you live a long, conflict-free life after I'm dead, Mademoiselle Emily."

"You know you don't have to die today."

"Yeah," he says dryly. "How's that?"

"I can open you a portal to another dimension," I reply, "but it'll be a one-way trip."

"Funny."

"I'm serious."

"Sounds about the same as dying."

"It's not," I explain, "I do it all the time."

Ethan raises an eyebrow at me.

"Okay, some of the time. I'm not a fan of it, personally. Just saying, if you'd rather die on your own terms, and not at the blade or teeth of some Mogadorian monster, I can help you do that."

"You can send me somewhere there are no Mogadorians?" he exclaims.

I nod. "Somewhere they never came to Earth, or never came back, or went extinct before they decided to amass an invasion force on the known universe."

"Does that mean there are universes where Lorien, your home, they never...?"

"Yeah."

Ethan frowns. "Why wouldn't you go somewhere like that?"

"Well, if I did, I'd still be here on Earth," I explain. "I can't travel super long distances with my Legacy, maybe a couple hundred miles or more if I really focus, but not across the vaster expanse of time and space.

"Besides, I was born in a reality where the Elders sent me ahead of the Mogadorian invasion to rally the Garde when they arrived. That is still my responsibility."

"This isn't your reality, is it?"

"Would you like to go or not?" I ask again. "The offer only stands for so long; I've got my people to find. You seem genuinely sorry for what you've done, so if you want to redeem yourself without being stabbed a bunch, say yes."

"Yes."

"Great." I point to the suitcase next to him. "Is that all you want packed?"

"It's all I need, I guess."

"You got money?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Then take my hand," I tell him, letting the smell of quantum mechanics fill my nose, "and tell me where you want to go."


7:02 a.m.

About thirty miles out of Florida, we pull off the road for food and gas and new phones. Henri picks a truck stop where we eat meat loaf and macaroni and cheese, one of the few staples of Earth that Henri acknowledges as superior to anything we had on Lorien. As we eat, he creates new identities for us on his laptop. He'll print the documents when we arrive, and as far as anyone will know, we'll be who we say we are.

"Now," he says, his Loric accent heavy with the scent of coffee, "you're sure about John Smith?"

"Yeah."

"You were born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama."

I laugh. "How'd you come up with that?"

He smiles and nods at two women sitting a few booths away from us. They're both extremely hot. One of them is wearing a T-shirt that reads WE DO IT BETTER IN TUSCALOOSA.

"And that's where we're going next," he says.

The short, stocky guy sitting across from us chuckles, or rather, tries not to. He's been quiet ever since he came to on our living room sofa about four hours ago, back in the Keys. Henri was furious when he saw me dragging the kid onto the beach, and even more so when I started to explain, "I saw him fall out of the sky! He might be—"

"Get away from him," he'd said in a hard tone that carried much more intensity than a yell. "Go inside and pack your things."

I did as he said, feeling stupid. The first sign of one of us in ten years, and I jump off a pontoon boat full of camera phones to go after it. Real smart, DJ, I thought.

About fifteen minutes later, Henri walked through the front door. He carried the boy in his arms, had removed the kid's socks as I hadn't done, too frantic to get him home without being seen and too scared of what I might see on his ankle.

There it was, though. The same symbol of Elder's charm that binds us all together. A pale blue pendant hung around his neck, and even with his buzz-cut and pasty skin, I recognized him.

"Number Five," said Henri, "you're one lucky little piss."

Number Five, my immediate successor. By some miracle, we crossed paths as consecutive numbers. Meaning, as long as we don't bring any more Garde around us, the Charm still holds.

After letting him rest for about an hour, he came to and told us his story. "I was in Miami," he'd said softly, staring at the floor, "and they got me. So I flew away."

Mogadorians in Miami.

Close, lethally close.

We left everything we had except for Henri's equipment and my Loric Chest, of course. Five doesn't have his; he lost it in Miami, which pretty much means that the Mogs have it. I don't know what good it'll do for them, since it can only be opened by Five and his Cêpan. Well, just Five.

He catches me looking at him, and he turns his attention back to his macaroni and cheese. I don't know what to make of him yet. Number Five is older than me, he's been on his own for some time—though he looks pretty well-fed and sedentary—and it's clear that he has Legacies, but he's also pretty standoffish and a little intense. Henri told me in private not to pry too much, "We have no idea what he's been through. At least wait until we're settled."

I'm sure the drive up to Ohio will be enough time for him to get comfortable with us, but it'd be nice to have someone to talk to for the next thirty hours besides Henri.

"As weird as it may sound," I say, "I hope we stay in Ohio for a long time."

"Really." Henri doesn't look up from his laptop. "You like the idea of Ohio?"

"I like the idea of making some friends, of going to the same school for maybe more than a few months. That's sort of how it was in Florida. I liked it, I felt almost normal. I just want to find somewhere and stay somewhere."

Henri looks thoughtful, and it looks like he's about to debate me—it's not an uncommon topic on moves—when a heavy thud rocks the booth.

"That's a nice idea," the girl standing at the head of our table says to me, "if you want to get caught."

I stare at her. A pair of blue eyes identical to mine stare back. She's about my height, maybe Five's age, with black hair pulled back in a bun. She's got the same tan complexion as Henri and me. "Uh, who are you?"

She smirks. "You still sure about John Smith?"

I glance at Henri. He's staring straight ahead into his computer screen, but his hand lowering down to the weapon in his pocket is in clear view to me. The girl beats him to it, but instead of a weapon, she takes the thing that's keeping her hair up and sticks it into the USB port of Henri's computer.

"Relax, pops," she says, rubbing his shoulder as she slides into the seat beside Five. "We're on the same side, aren't we."

"What did you do," growls Henri.

"Just made your life on Earth way easier," she replies. "Put your thumb on the drive."

Hesitant, but perhaps as intrigued as I am, he does what she says. I watch his computer screen take on a mind of its own, the whole interface ebbing and flowing into something light-years ahead of human technology. Streams of code take flight in a miniature, digitized universe that looks strangely familiar.

The girl looks at me again and asks, mock exhausted, "So, you're sure about John Smith."

"Yeah, what does—?" But an instant later, I'm looking at a column of documents in my name on the far right area of Henri's laptop. No forged social security number, no fake passport numbers, but completely legitimate Earth documentation. "Whoa."

"Cool, right?" She extends her hand to me. "Nice to meet you, I'm Julia."

Materializing next to my John Smith documentation is hers: Julia Smith's birth certificate, SSN, passport, and Ohio state ID.

"Hi," I reach out to her but then draw back. "Should I...?"

"But according to everyone alive, we've already met," Julia folds her arms and leans back, "little brother."

I feel something move through my hair. It's firm but not painful, and I reach up to swat it away...but there's nothing.

Julia giggles in her seat. Telekinesis!

"You're...," Five breathes, staring at her lap. Weird.

"Please tell me you're Number Six," Henri says dryly.

"Oh, I wish, wouldn't that be cool?" says Julia. "But no, I got here way before you guys did."

"Impossible," says Henri. "There were no children on the EPIC."

Julia nods. "You're probably right."

I nudge Henri. "Epic?"

"Egress protocol implementation crew," Julia explains. "They were the initial team that the elders sent to Earth to prepare for your arrival. We set sail from Lorien fifteen years ago."

Judging from Henri's prolonged silence, I guess that means she's telling the truth. Julia raises her eyebrows quickly at us, then turns to Five. "You haven't opened your present. Try and be more careful with it next time, I damn near took a sword through the back for this."

Henri blinks. "Wait, no. You didn't..."

"Oh, he's gonna need it," Julia replies, "once that tranquilizer is out of his system."

I take a quick glance under the table. In between Five and Julia sits a ratty duffel bag. It's worn-out zipper is half open, the corner of a Loric Chest peaking out. "Tranquilizer?"

"I take it our adversaries have figured out a way around your protection spell. If you can't be killed, you can at least be drugged, incapacitated to the point you can't use your Legacies." Julia pats Five's back hard. He slouches forward a bit. "In our brother's case here, John, it's a good thing. You've got a sick new Legacy that your body is just itching to try out, don't you, Number Five?"

"You two were traveling together?" asks Henri.

"No, I've just had my eye on this one for a while," Julia rubs Five's shoulder for a minute before releasing him. I see him tense at her grip, and I briefly wonder how strong Loric girls are compared to guys. "What's your name, by the way. We can't call you Cody anymore."

"I...uh, I don't—" he mutters, but Julia interjects.

"How about Winston?" she suggests. "It's a nice fit, Winston Smith."

Before Five can protest, the laptop updates with a new column of information, and suddenly we're a family of four: John Smith, youngest son of Henri Smith, father to eldest fraternal twins Winston and Julia.

Henri removes his thumb from Julia's device. "You all have different moms. Time to go."

"We should run by an Office Depot," says Julia. "We can pick up some paper and print on the way."

"You've forced our trust, Julia." Henri stands and closes his laptop. "I'd better see it earned."

"You will."

"That Chest, your brother says he lost it to them," he points at the duffel bag. "How'd you get it back?"

"I never leave loose ends," is all she says.

"You killed them all by yourself?" asks Henri. "Because if they followed you here—"

"I never leave loose ends." Julia says again, and there's a strange, knowing tone in her voice. "Also, it's been a long night, and I'm hungry. I think I'll get something to go."


7:38 a.m.

We're on our way. The sun has finally crept over the horizon, and aside from the pop-up storms we're bound to run into on the ride out of Florida, it'll rise with us the whole drive. I ride shotgun, Five and—I mean, Winston and Julia, ride in relative silence in the backseat. Winston takes inventory of his Chest as we drive, which is silly because he's the only one who can open it anyway.

When we cross the border into Georgia, Henri says to her, "If you landed here with the EPIC fourteen years ago, you'd have been born on the journey to Earth."

"Right," she confirms.

"But pregnant women weren't permitted on long-distance voyages."

"Elders tend to bend the rules in their favor."

I turn in my seat. "Your mom was an Elder?"

"No, she was just a Garde that the old man took a bit too much of a liking to during mission prep," muses Julia. "Some Zeus shit, I know."

"What old man?" I ask. "Who are you talking about?"

"Okay, don't freak out," she explains, "but my old man's name was Pittacus Lore."