“Whoa. It sounds like they’ve given you rock star status.”
I glance around the bathroom, the living space I’ve been told not to leave.
“Something like that,” I say.
“At least you guys aren’t stuck at Ashwood. Eventually you would have run out of waffles.”
It takes me a second to realize he must think Walker’s agents are with me, but I don’t have a chance to correct him. There are new voices on his end of the line I can’t quite make out.
“Crap, Dad, I need to go. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Stay safe.”
“You too, son. You too.”
He hangs up. I sit on the floor, trying to understand what all this could possibly mean.
I’m off the phone for maybe a few minutes when there’s another knock on my door. I open it, expecting to see Richards there ready to drag me off to another meeting or something, but it’s Briggs.
“Hey,” he says. He’s still using a crutch and is holding a cardboard box that someone’s written “roast beef” on with Magic Marker. “Lunch.”
“Thanks.” I take the meal. “How’s your leg?”
“Much better, thanks. They’ve got a top-of-the-line infirmary down here. I’ve never seen some of the machines before.”
“Having fun in the hallway?”
He shrugs. “I’m supposed to report in if you go anywhere, but not stop you. You’re not a prisoner or anything.”
He sounds a little embarrassed by his admission.
“Oh,” he says, pulling a book from under his arm and holding it out to me. The Once and Future King by T. H. White. “Here. There were a couple of books in the break room, but I think the others were all field guides and operation manuals.”
“Thanks,” I say. He’s still not meeting my eyes. He seems meeker than yesterday—why?
“Anyway, I thought I heard a phone ring earlier. But that’s impossible, since there’s no way you could get a signal down here.”
I don’t say anything. He motions behind me, and I open the door wider so he can step through.
“Your phone works down here?” he whispers when the door is closed behind us. I can barely hear him and respond in the same hushed tones.
“Apparently. Like I said earlier, it’s a long story.”
“We’re not supposed to have any communication with the outside world. I should confiscate that.”
Crap. I can’t let him take my only connection to my son. Is this why he seems so hesitant?
“Look, the only people who have this number are people we can trust. It’s important that I keep in touch with them. They know more about what’s going on out there than we do.”
Briggs stares at me, not blinking, for what feels like a long time. Finally he speaks again.
“Could I . . .” He hesitates, eyes hitting the cement floor. “Would it be okay if I made a quick call?”
I breathe a sigh of relief and motion for him to follow me into the bathroom, where I turn on the water.
“Here,” I say. I switch the ringer to vibrate before handing it over, feeling stupid for not having done so before.
He looks at it as if I’ve just handed him a live grenade—something tells me this might be the first time he’s disobeyed an order. Or maybe it’s just the fear of what he’ll find on the other end of the line. His hand shakes slightly when he dials and raises the phone to his ear. As it rings, his breathing gets faster and faster, and his jaw clenches. I can hear the ringing go on, five, then six times.
Finally someone picks up.
Briggs’s entire posture changes. He goes slack. For a second I think he’s going to collapse onto the floor.
“Mom,” he says.
I slip out of the bathroom to give him a moment of privacy, sitting on the bed, putting my head in my hands. My mind is still racing, trying to make sense of what Sam told me.
My son. With Legacies.
I guess I always knew he was special.
It’s only then that I think back to the meeting earlier, how the Garde are considered allies but also possible threats to the country.
And my heart drops as I realize that applies to Sam now as well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT’S EARLY EVENING AND I’M A FOURTH OF THE way through The Once and Future King when there’s another knock on the door, this time rapid, almost nervous. I shove my phone underneath my pillow.
I actually drop the book to the floor when I see the president standing in the hallway, flanked by two Secret Service agents. He’s sweating, his eyes wide and pink at the corners.
“Something’s happened to my daughter,” he says. “Please, will you talk to her?”
“Of course,” I stammer, thrown for a loop by his appearance. “I’ll do anything I can, but . . . I’m not a medical doctor.”
That doesn’t seem to matter; he’s already heading back down the hallway. Briggs shrugs at me, looking as confused as I am. All I can do is follow.
“She was fine,” Jackson says over his shoulder. “The aide said she was just watching a movie when suddenly she convulsed and something strange happened to her eyes. They were shining. Then she lost consciousness for a few seconds. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Was anyone else there?” I ask.
“No. My wife . . . She was in California when all this started. She’s in a safe house there.”
His voice sounds different from that of the man leading the table of high-ranking officials this morning. We have more in common than I might have guessed. He’s a man separated from his family as well, tasked with protecting not only the people of his country, but his loved ones. Trying to figure out how to keep both safe at the same time.
“Does you daughter have a history of seizures?” I ask.
“None. The doctors here said they can’t find anything wrong with her. She says she’s fine but . . . she’s scared. I’ve never seen her act this way. She saw something when she was unconscious. A meeting room where there were a bunch of teenagers who she calls ‘the good guys’ and one really bad man.”
He stops in front of a guarded door and turns to me.
“She saw Setrákus Ra. I don’t know how—as soon as the ships showed up, we were shuttled away, so she hasn’t seen any of the footage. But she described him, just like he looked after he transformed at the UN and in the video he sent this morning.”
“My God . . . ,” I say. “Wait, this video—”
“Later,” he says. “How is she seeing the leader of the Mogadorians? Is this some kind of attack?”
I shake my head, unsure. But then I remember Ella and some of the other Garde having visions in the past.
“It’s not unheard of,” I say. “Setrákus Ra has invaded dreams before, but as far as I know he’s only ever targeted the Loric.”
“She said there were hundreds of people who all seemed to be sharing this . . . vision. I showed her a picture of John Smith after hearing her describe a boy who spoke to them. It was him.”
Jackson’s face is full of confusion, eyes boring into me as he tries to understand what’s happening to his daughter. When I can give him no answer, he pushes through the door.
The presidential suite in the bunker is, naturally, much better furnished than mine. Apart from the lack of windows, it looks like a normal small apartment. The girl is sitting on a tufted white couch. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail sprouting from the back of her head. She’s fifteen, maybe sixteen. A woman sits beside her, trying to get her to put a damp washcloth on her head.
“I said I’m fine,” the girl says, pushing the woman away.
“Thank you, Vera,” Jackson says, dismissing the woman. “Can you step outside for a minute? Get some fresh air?”
There is no fresh air down here, but Vera takes the hint and leaves me and the president alone in the room with his daughter. She stops by the door, looking back and forth between the three of us.
“Do you want me to send someone else in?” she asks, no doubt wonder
ing if Jackson wouldn’t feel more comfortable with a Secret Service agent in the room.
“No thank you, Vera.”
I know I’m not a threat, but it’s good to know Jackson doesn’t think of me as one either. Or, more likely, this just shows how desperate he is.
The president turns to his daughter. “Melanie, this is Dr. Goode.”
“You can call me Malcolm,” I say, holding out a hand.
Melanie looks up at me, then back down at her nails, which are pointed and painted a pale matte pink. She seems nervous, and from the way Jackson watches her, I can guess that being on edge isn’t the norm for her.
“I don’t know anything but what I told you, Dad,” she mutters. “It all happened so fast. It was confusing.”
“Right,” Jackson continues. “I told him the main points. Malcolm knows the Garde. He—”
She looks at me with wide eyes, finally interested.
“You know John Smith?” she asks.
“I do.”
Her mouth opens as if she’s going to say something and then she closes it again. She seems hesitant to say anything else, so I keep talking.
“Sam, my son, is with him now in New York. Fighting the Mogs. John’s his best friend.”
Is Sam safe? The question is in the back of my mind, as always.
“Did you see it too, then?” she asks.
I shake my head. She frowns and looks away.
“Why me?” she asks. “Why’d I get sucked into their weirdo dream world?”
“Can you tell me anything else?” I ask. “Did they say where they were? Did they mention . . .” I rack my brain. “Maybe a place called the Sanctuary?”
She shakes her head, squinting her eyes, trying to remember.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “There were these people from all over the world. They had . . .” She catches herself, pausing. “They told us we could travel using a ‘low-light’ stone or something like that. A bunch of them popped up on a map that this creepy little girl showed us.”
“Loralite . . . ,” I murmur. That doesn’t make any sense. From what I understand, the Garde needed Eight’s teleportation power in order to use the stones. When did that change? Is this somehow related to the new Legacies?
“What else did John say?” I ask.
“He wanted to get us to join him. He says we can save the world if we rise up against the bad guys.”
“And your father said Setrákus Ra was there. Did he . . . say anything?”
“He said he was going to hunt me down. All of us.” Tears fall on her cheeks. “He said he was going to kill each one of us who was there watching. He . . . Dad, he was horrible.”
Jackson gets on one knee and pulls her in close, looking up at me with gritted teeth. My mind reels, trying to figure out what could possibly be going on. It sounds like John was trying to recruit people, but none of the Garde have ever shown the power to create some kind of widespread illusion before. Unless it’s a new Legacy or . . .
New.
I think of Sam. And of the girl he mentioned. Of the fact that there might be new Garde popping up all over the world.
“Melanie,” I say softly. “When did you start moving things with your mind?”
I’m taking a chance, but it’s obvious I’ve hit a nerve. She stops crying—stops breathing, actually. Slowly, she pulls away from her father until her bleary eyes are locked on mine.
“How did you . . . ?”
“The same thing is happening to my son,” I say, working things out as I speak. “To a lot of people in the world, I think. Probably all those other kids you saw in your dream.”
“Then it’s not just me? I thought . . . I was afraid I was the only one. I thought maybe I was going crazy and that this whole dream thing was just proof I needed to get locked up in an insane asylum.”
“Melanie, what’s going on?” Jackson asks, looking back and forth between us. His voice is measured, but it’s impossible to not hear the urgency and pain behind it.
Melanie looks at him, her features contorted in a strange mixture of hope and fear, a deep groove appearing in the space between her eyebrows.
“This morning I was staring at a picture of Mom I brought with me. You were already gone. I wanted to talk to her, for her to be here. And then it just floated over to me. Like, flew off the nightstand and smacked me in the face. I . . . I thought it was something the aliens did to me. Like I was going to die. But then I kept doing it to things.”
“What?” Jackson’s question is hardly more than breath.
“Can you show us?” I ask, glancing around the room. There’s a bottle of water on the coffee table in front of us. “There. Can you bring it to yourself?”
She concentrates. Slowly, the bottle begins to wobble, until it’s rising off the table. It floats through the air, splashing water over its rim. Jackson is on his feet in a flash.
“Baby . . . you’re doing this?” he asks.
“Don’t talk to me,” she says, her eyebrows furrowing more. “This is hard.”
“But . . . how. How are you—”
“Dad, I said—”
The bottle suddenly crunches, sending a jet of water up in the air between the three of us. Then it drops to the floor.
“I’m not very good at it,” Melanie says quietly. “My room is . . . kind of a mess.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jackson asks. He keeps shaking his head, trying to make all the puzzle pieces in his head fit together.
“I was scared.”
Jackson smiles, but then something must dawn on him, because his face quickly contorts into a grim frown.
“Mutation,” he murmurs. “Unnatural abilities . . .”
“This is nothing to be afraid of,” I say, even though I’m not sure of that at all. “Though . . . Melanie, you may get more strange abilities. All the Garde have more than one. I think telekinesis is usually the first to surface.”
She looks up at me with huge brown eyes, mouth agape. Then she turns to her father.
“We have to help them,” she says.
“Who, baby?” Jackson asks.
“The Garde!” Her voice is louder, more serious. “We can’t let that monster beat them and then take the rest of us. He’s already invaded Earth and blown up New York. And the way he stared at me when he was yelling, telling me he was going to kill me—all of us . . .”
She takes a deep breath and swallows hard, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, smearing them with mascara and eyeliner. She notices this and suddenly looks embarrassed.
Jackson hugs her again, and questions start to spill out of her mouth. Why her? What other things can the Garde do? Is this contagious? I do my best to reassure her, but I don’t have many answers myself. Finally, exhausted, she turns to her father.
“Can you just leave me alone for a little bit?” she asks.
“Melanie . . . ,” Jackson starts.
“Like ten minutes, Dad,” she says. “I just found out I have superpowers, and I kind of want to freak out for a little bit. Alone.”
Jackson nods and stands, ushering me to the door. As soon as it clicks behind him, he pulls me out of earshot of the Secret Service agents and speaks in hushed tones.
“What’s wrong with her?” His breath is shaky, like he’s trying not to completely lose it. Which, given what he just saw, is pretty warranted. “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can assure you nothing is wrong with her.” This comes out a little harsher than I expected, probably because I’m thinking about Sam again. I take a deep breath. “I think this is happening to lots of people. I don’t know how many, or how they’re chosen, but from what I can deduce the same powers the Garde have are being given to humans—kids—around the world. Telekinesis. Maybe other things, I . . . I don’t know.”
“Did the Garde do this?”
“I don’t think so. When I . . .” I remember that I’m not supposed to be in contact with t
he outside world. “This is happening to my son, Sam, like I said. When I talked to him about it, it sounded like the Garde were as surprised as he was when he got this ability. And the Mogs certainly wouldn’t want to empower the people they’re trying to conquer. I don’t know what force is at work here.”
Jackson keeps shaking his head, moving his jaw back and forth as I speak. He processes things for a moment, wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow.
“We received a video this morning,” he eventually says. “Ra knows about this. He said it’s the Garde’s ‘mutations’ that are giving people powers. He insists we turn anyone showing unnatural abilities over to him for ‘treatment.’” His eyes meet mine. “He wants my daughter.”
“And my son,” I say, my pulse doubling. It’s always been dangerous for him to face the Mogs, but now that he’s got powers they’ll be targeting him specifically. “We can’t let the Mogs have them.”
“Of course not,” he says quickly. Then he composes himself. “I don’t know if he has a way of tracking people with new powers, but if he can . . . He’s given us forty-eight hours to hand over the Garde and anyone who’s been mutated. After that, he’s declaring war.”
“No . . . ,” I say. A useless protest. “You can’t just hand innocent people over to him. And the Garde are our only chance, like I said earlier. They’re on our side. You have to trust me. You have to believe in them. Hell, I’ve dedicated years trying to help them. I’ve trusted them with my son’s life. Think of what that means, from one father to another. You can’t turn them over.”
Jackson bangs a fist against the wall beside us, clenching his jaw.
“Dammit,” he spits, all the frustration and fear boiling over. Then his voice gets quieter. “Why her? She’s a teenager. A child.”
“People her age are the reason this planet hasn’t completely fallen already. I’ve watched sixteen-year-olds obliterate entire squadrons of Mogadorians. These kids can walk on walls, conjure storms—some of them can heal wounds that should be death sentences. Even the unpowered among them are fighting with every ounce of strength, doing what they can.
“And we have no idea how many of these kids who just got superpowers are in the US, right? Jesus, we’re talking about American citizens. We can’t hand them over to invaders.”