Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files (77 page)

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Your new home.”

I
T’S KIND OF STRANGE HOW QUICKLY TIME GOES
by after Ethan takes me under his wing. I tell myself I’ll stay a day or two, and then weeks pass like nothing. I keep thinking, “I’ll leave tomorrow.” But it’s always tomorrow and never today, and I stay.

There are no more courier assignments or picked pockets. I live in luxury.

With a place like Ethan’s it’s difficult to imagine going back to sleeping on rooftops or in a shack. His house has everything you could ever want. A library, game room, beachfront view—there’s even a little movie theater in the basement, which is where I spend a lot of my free time. Everything’s locked and unlocked with a little key card I carry around in the expensive wallet Ethan bought me. There’s a staff that cleans up after me. And there’s a cook. A
cook
. He’s probably my favorite person in the house. Aside from Ethan, who watches movies with me almost every night.

I like to remind myself that Rey would have wanted me safe. What could be safer than a place like Ethan’s? A
compound
. Ethan sets me up in a room bigger than our entire shack on the island. I practically have the whole second floor to myself. Everything I could possibly want. Things I didn’t even know I
needed
. We never had floss on the island, much less computers. I use the internet to try to find anything I can about the Garde—any news article or blog posts I can find that might lead me to them—but every time I think I’m getting close, the internet turns into a brick wall. I get an error message in the browser telling me the link is broken or the website is having difficulties. I figure the other Cêpans are doing this, trying to cover their tracks. If Rey were alive and we had the internet, I’m sure he’d be going around deleting things I posted too, or hacking into news sites.

That, or the other Garde are just too scared to come forward or do anything other than sit around waiting for something to happen for them to react to.

Not like Ethan. Ethan’s like a dream Cêpan. Anything I want, he gives me. And anything he wants, he just takes.

“Everything out there can be yours,” he says at least once a day, and when he does it sounds like he means it. It makes sense. What better display of strength and power is there than being able to do whatever you want when you want to. Ethan forgoes the running and weight training and instead focuses on my Legacies. I tell him I don’t know where they came from, and he says it doesn’t matter—all that matters is that we have them to use now. And he trains me, some days on the precision of my telekinesis, and other days on its strength. Flying comes easier and easier, until I can lift off with hardly a thought. His staff is well paid and wouldn’t dare speak of anything they see. And he assures me he’s
definitely
not telling anyone about what I can do. I’m his secret weapon. He has incredible things for my future. When I’m ready.

It’s a future I’m excited to discover.

Ethan believes in power. I think he’s obsessed with it. It’s not hard to see how happy he gets when he takes us to a fancy restaurant or some incredibly expensive boutique and the servers and employees treat him like a god who’s come down to Earth to order a filet mignon. I get it. I feel that way, too, when I’m with him. The thrill of being looked up to, of being
envied
even.

It’s like an addiction.

But envy and money aren’t the only aspects of power that Ethan values. His trade requires intimidation.

It’s not something I’m good at.

A few months after the incident at the warehouse, one day after lunch, we walk through some trendy part of downtown Miami that’s all billboards and lights. Ethan wears his normal dark suit and I’ve got on a T-shirt and jeans that cost enough money to probably buy the entire island I lived on with Rey. Gone is my long, matted brown hair. I’ve got a buzz cut now. I wonder how I survived in the tropics so long with so much hair on my head.

As usual, I keep an eye out for Emma. I don’t know if I really want to see her again, but I don’t want to just run into her on the street by surprise.

The last thing I need is another concussion.

We pass by a handful of kids a little older than me sitting outside a coffee shop—two guys and two girls. I don’t notice the dog at their feet until it barks at me, and I jump back, startled, half knocking Ethan into the street.

The table erupts in laughter. One of the girls apologizes and pulls the dog back on its leash.

“Pansy-ass douche bag,” one of the guys mutters to his friend.

“What was that?” Ethan asks, stepping up to the table.

I can see all of them begin to look uncomfortable.

“Nothing,” the guy says.

“Did you hear what he called you?” Ethan asks me. I recognize the tone in his voice. He’s turned on teacher mode, ready to impart some important lesson.

“Yeah . . .” I say.

“And are you a douche bag?”

“Hey, man,” the girl says. “We’re sorry. He didn’t mean anything. He’s just a jerk.”

Ethan ignores her. Instead, he talks to me.

“That boy disrespected you.”

“I guess.” I shrug.

Ethan looks around for a moment. We’re off to the side of the shop. There are not many people on the street. No one near us, at least.

“Then
show
him he should respect you.”

The guy at the table stands up. He’s twice my height, and at least two heads taller than Ethan.

“Leave it,” the guy says.

I look over at Ethan hesitantly.

“You have to start at the bottom of the food chain and work your way up,” Ethan says quietly. He turns to meet my eyes. “If you don’t teach them that you’re more powerful than they are, they’ll never fear you. It’s time for you to take action.”

I nod to him.

“Look,” the guy says, “I said—”

I raise my hand out in front of me and suddenly the boy flies three feet backwards, crashing into the wall of the coffee shop. He starts cursing and frantically trying to move, but I’ve got him a foot off the ground. He has no leverage. I’m in control.

The others at the table gasp and start to freak out.

“The girl’s got a phone out,” Ethan says calmly.

With my other hand I use my Legacy to rip it from her fingers and throw it to the ground. The screen shatters.

“The boy is going to run for it.”

One of the other guys at the table is heading towards the side entrance. I take his legs out from under him with a flick of my wrist.

“There’s someone behind you.”

I swing around, both palms out, ready to fight.

But there’s no one there.

I turn to Ethan. He’s smiling.

“Perfection,” he says. Then he glances around quickly. “We should go.”

I let the boy drop to the ground. He’s shaking and gasping for air as we walk away as if nothing has happened. His friends gather around him. My heart is thumping in my chest. I feel dizzy and light and weirdly satisfied.

I can’t help but grin.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Ethan says. “How did that feel?”

“Wonderful,” I say.

It felt wonderful.

A year after being at Ethan’s—almost down to the day—I’m pulled out of sleep in the middle of the night. My calf is on fire. I yelp, howling at the pain as I knock half the things off the nightstand trying to find the light. Even before it’s switched on, I know what the burning means.

Death.

Another one is gone.

A swirling, reddish symbol has appeared on my leg above two similar ones. Three is dead. This red mark is likely the only kind of tombstone he or she will get. Another Garde sacrificed for the Lorien cause. Only one person rests between me and death now, if what Rey always told me was true about the order in which we had to be killed.

Number Four.

I stagger out of bed, wincing a bit every time I put weight down on my ankle. And it’s more weight than usual. After a year of meals served up in Ethan’s house any time of day I might be hungry, I look nothing like the sunburned, skinny kid from the island. I’m built like a tank now. Solid. Maybe a little on the chubby side. Definitely a lot pastier than I was a year ago. I’ve been focusing much more on my Legacies than keeping my body in shape.

The death of Three takes me completely by surprise. I haven’t necessarily
forgotten
about Lorien and the Garde, but without Rey constantly badgering me about them, all that has kind of lived in the back of my mind. I’ve spent so much time lately living things up with Ethan that the Garde have once again become stories. I’ve forgotten that they’re actual people. I’ve tried to ignore the fact that I may end up the next target on death’s numerical list.

One more way I tell lies, I guess. Only these are told to myself.

My mind is finally catching up with my body’s wakefulness, and I start to think of all the implications this new development might have. Maybe Four’s death isn’t that far away. There’s always the chance that Three and Four were together. I
do
always imagine the other Garde working together without me.

I walk around the room holding my breath, waiting for a new searing burn to take over my leg. But after a few minutes nothing comes. Still, if another scar does appear, it means I’m next. I’m the new big target.

Me, and anyone else I’m around.

I stop pacing.

I could leave right now. Ethan would never be any wiser to what’s actually going on. I could fly away to a different city. A different
country
. Finally up to Canada—just a while later than I’d planned.

But I don’t want to be on my own again. Maybe Ethan would want to go with me. For someone who doesn’t like big groups of people, the thought of not having
one
person to rely on scares me.

Even then, though, the Mogs might track me back to him. We haven’t necessarily been subtle with the use of my powers. I feel so stupid all of the sudden. As good as it felt displaying my superiority over people like that asshat at the coffee shop, I never should have let Ethan talk me into it.

I have to tell him about what’s happening. It’s the least I can do for how good he’s been to me.

As I slip out of my room, I can almost hear Rey’s voice in the back of my head.
Tell no one who you are. Tell no one what you know. Secrecy is your greatest weapon
. But Rey’s not actually here now, and the world hasn’t exactly been the labyrinth of fear and persecution that he always said it would be. I’ve been in Miami for over a year and I haven’t even heard so much as a whisper of the word “Lorien.” If Rey
were
still alive, we’d probably be fishing sea snails out of their shells with bamboo shoots while we sweated and half-starved on some tropic island.

No, I have to tell Ethan. Maybe he can help somehow. He’s smart and rich—maybe there’s some titanium-plated safe house he can take me to. Or weapons. Maybe he knows someone in the military who can nuke Mogadore.

Or something.

I slink through the dark house. Ethan’s bedroom door is cracked, but he’s not inside. No lights are on in the bathroom or closet. He’s not there.

Gone.

My heart skips a beat.

They’ve already come. They’ve taken him. It’s too late, and I’m fucked.

Then I notice Ethan’s bed. It’s still made. He hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

Maybe he’s still awake.

I make my way downstairs cautiously, looking for lights in the kitchen and den, but there are none. I’m about to go outside when I hear the faintest strains of music floating through the air from somewhere farther inside the house. One swelling measure, and then it’s gone.

Tiptoeing through the halls, I figure out where it’s coming from. The door to Ethan’s private study—the room that shall not be entered—is cracked open. There’s a sliver of light shining through.

No way
.

I’ve been over every inch of this house for the past year and this is the only room my key card won’t open. I even tried to jimmy the lock with my telekinesis one day when Ethan was out, with no luck. It’s always been an impenetrable fortress.

Until now, I guess.

I push the door open just a little more and am surprised by how heavy it is. The thing must be made of metal or something. I peer in.

There’s a wall of bookshelves on one side, but most of the rest of the room is covered in charts and graphs. A big circular desk in the center of the floor has a map spread across it covered in pins and little flags. Ethan sits at his workstation. There are three—no, make that
four—
computer monitors hooked up to a couple of PC towers, and a laptop opened off to the side. Music pours out of speakers hidden around the room, the volume just above a whisper. Beethoven, I think, but I only know that because Ethan dragged me to a symphony once thinking I might take a liking to a bunch of violins or something.

Ethan’s back is to me, but I can hear him. He’s talking to someone. It looks like a video call. I can almost make out the person on the screen.

My body freezes. “Person” might be the wrong word.

The figure on the screen has black hair, slicked back, with some other black marks—birthmarks? Tattoos?—peeking out at the sides. His eyes are dark orbs. On the sides of his nose are shining little slivers of flesh, like monstrous gills standing out against his ashen skin.

I’ve seen faces like that before. Only once. In Canada.

A Mogadorian.

Before I can wrap my head around anything that’s going on, Ethan speaks.

“What about Four? Have you got a lock on him?”

My head pounds.

What’s going on?

“We have a few leads.” The Mog grins, exposing rows of gray teeth. “It shouldn’t be long now. It’s only a matter of waiting for him to slip up now that Number Three has been taken off the board. We’d had leads connecting him to Florida, but it seems like those were probably all pointing to your charge.”

No, no, no, none of this is right.

“More than likely.” Ethan nods. “None of our eyes in Miami have reported anything, at least.”

His charge. The Mog is talking about
me
. My heart leaps into my throat. They know where I am.