Chapter Three
Six
I sit bolt upright the minute John's body beside me begins to twitch involuntarily.
Throwing the covers off of his body, I quickly get off the bed and reposition myself beside him. I place my hand on his cheek, and his head jerks to the side, causing me to yank my hand back. John's mouth moves and then he murmurs words in Mogadorian in a fearful tone. I shake his shoulder once, and his head twitches again. John speaks just a little louder, like he's angry at someone. I can't watch this. Every time is worse. Since his very first premonition, I have to see him twitch like he has epilepsy. I have to hear those words that I know haunts him while he sleeps. And the worst? I have to endure the pain of seeing him receive visions of death and destruction in the near future. And it hurts me more to know that I can't do anything to take his pain away.
John starts to sweat, and he convulses, like he has been electrocuted. Despite seeing him like this many times before, I feel panic settle on me. "John!" I yell, shaking his shoulders. Several more seconds of this and he opens his eyes, wide and frightened. He sits up, his breathing labored. I reach for the water bottle I keep beside the bed and hand it to him. John drinks almost half of it, and hands the bottle back to me. "What did you see?" I ask, rubbing John's shoulder as he steadies his breathing. "We have to talk to the others—now. I know what Setrákus's plan is," he says, and together we run out of the room and interrupt the conversation in the kitchen.
"John recently had a premonition—" I say, but John cuts me off. "—about Setrákus," he finishes. Crayton looks up the same time Malcolm and Sam does. The documents I tore from Malcolm's bulletin board are laid out in front of them, with little dots and dashes atop each letter or syllable. Morse code. Katarina taught me that once, I didn't understand anything. "Pray tell," Malcolm says.
John starts telling us about his dream, about a Mogadorian slave Lusmos and Setrákus's not-so-secret plan. "He says that he must use someone's energy to become stronger. I just don't know who it is," John ends his explanation. He collapses on the nearest chair, props his elbows up on the table and puts his fingers on his temples. I rub his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Well, the person Setrákus is talking about was killed more than twenty years ago by Pittacus himself. His name is Metus, former ruler of Mogadore. But what made him known is his cunning and deceptive cleverness, even more intelligent than Setrákus. But then the prophecy was told. You see, before, Mogs choose a Loric like you and use them as a slave. That was one key that led to their greatness in battle strategies," Crayton says, and I stiffen. They used to hire Lorics with the Legacy of Premonition as slaves? Oh, they are going to pay! "Then the prophecy was foretold. A Loric with unique Legacies will rise up to Metus and dethrone him. Metus searched for the Loric and finally found him; Pittacus Lore," Crayton explains, "The fight between Pittacus and Metus lead to the attack several years later. In the end, Metus died at the hands of the Elder, and that caused the Mogadorians to avenge perhaps their greatest ruler. Setrákus, Metus' second-in-command at the time, prepared his army as he was now ruler of the Mogadorian Empire. After years of planning, they finally got their revenge, and well, you know what happened."
Crayton's words hang in the air. We are all silent. I take John back to our room, where it was his turn to do the pacing-around-the-room thing.
"John, calm down. We have to get some rest. We're going to leave tomorrow, to Manhattan," I say, standing up from the bed and wrapping my arms around his waist. Well, that's the only way I can think of to stop him from walking.
"Come on, John. Let's go to sleep," I say, pulling him to the bed. He reluctantly lies down beside me. "I can't sleep. What if I have a nightmare? Another premonition perhaps?" he says. I exhale slowly. Why did it have to be him? Can't it be just me instead? Oh, how I despise feeling so helpless!
I crane my neck and give him a peck on the lips, just enough to keep the nightmares away. I know it always works for me, when it was me who had the nightmare and he was there to protect me.
"Good night, John," I say when our lips parted. I rest my head on his chest and the last words I heard and replied to are, "I love you."
John wakes me up at dawn. After taking baths, I rearrange the way John clumsily folds his clothes with telekinesis. It looks like the only things John managed to fold neatly are his boxers.
After eating Marina's pancakes for breakfast we load the minivan with Chimæras and half of our bags. The other half goes to the back of the truck. Cole, Marina, Ella, Malcolm, Sam and Crayton ride the minivan while Meredith, Nine, John and I enter the truck. Well, half of us. The space inside the truck is fit for two to three. John and I'll have to sit on the bed of the truck. If you're wondering what happened to the SUV Cole bought, it turned out to be in a pretty jacked up state, so Crayton bought another pickup truck.
The breeze is a little cold. John grabs both his and my jacket from the bags. John, with his denim pants and gray tee, slips his jacket on, completing the "tough-guy" look, according to him. I skipped wearing shorts today. After all, I am going to ride on the back of the truck. After slipping my hoodie on, I climb the back of the truck, followed by John. The engine comes to life, causing the bed of the truck to shudder, and we are off in search for Robert Miller.
John puts his hood up and puts his head on my lap, causing the hood of his jacket to fall off. Stupid, I think, but I don't say that. I absentmindedly run my fingers through his long hair. "You know, you need to cut your hair," I say, pulling my hood up as well just as a precaution if someone recognizes me as the girl on the run with John Smith. I nudge John to sit up so that I can lie down on the truck bed. Luckily for me, my hood did not fall off. I prop my feet on the edge of the truck's bed and while John lies down on my belly, he replies, "Nah, they remember me as a short-haired, tough and rugged criminal. Besides, you like my hair."
"No I don't!" I say quickly, averting my gaze from the cloudy sky to the black Converse shoes I'm wearing. I really like the way John ruffles his hair, but to cut it is for the best. "Uh, yeah you do. I can see by the way you look at me when I mess up my hair," John says as he plays with my fingers. I ignore him, even though my cheeks feel hot. I guess I'd be as red as a tomato if I can only see my face.
The journey is long and boring. All I did was nap or listen to music from John's iPhone. From time to time I would create cloud figures, just for the fun of it. John just fell asleep and didn't wake up until I tell him we're here.
Crayton takes lead, and we follow the minivan through the winds and turns of the streets of Manhattan. No one minded us. Not a single person cared that the world's most wanted criminal has entered their city, and I find that idea laughable. The minivan stops in front of a two-story house with yellow walls and a blue roof. A blue Mazda 3 car is parked on the drive way. A blue mailbox is planted on the front yard, with the word "Miller" painted on it in white bold lettering. The curtains from the upper windows are closed, while the light from inside the house signals that there are people inside. One by one we file out of the cars, and Malcolm rings the doorbell. No one answers the door. He rings it again. "Just a second!" says a woman's voice, who I assume is Robert's daughter. There's a series of clicks and the sound of a loosened chain before the door swings open. A girl about my age and height appears, with blonde hair and blue eyes but not as intense as mine. Her ivory complexion and high cheekbones reminded me of someone. Her eyes, slowly taking in our faces, widen when they see me and John. "John?" she whispers, and I froze. John does too, and for a second I hear nothing. Not even our breathing.
Sarah Hart is in Robert Miller's house. Well, this is going to be a very awkward day.