The Fallen Legacies (Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files #3)(14)

My father’s large hand comes to rest on my shoulder. I look up, surprised to find him staring at me with something approaching concern.

“Are you well?” he asks.

I nod and try to steel myself for the lies that come next.

“I haven’t eaten,” I say.

My father shakes his head. “Ivanick,” he growls. “He was supposed to make sure you were ready before bringing you to me.”

The General lifts his hand from my shoulder, the brief moment of affection forgotten. I can tell by the return of rigidity to his spine that, just like that, he’s back to business. Mogadorian progress. First and foremost. No matter the cost.

“What did you learn from One’s memories?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, meeting his hard eyes. “It didn’t work. I remember being strapped down, then darkness, and now this. Sir,” I quickly add.

My father mulls this over, appraising me. Then he nods.

“As I feared,” he says.

I realize that he never thought Dr. Anu’s machine would work. My father will believe my lie because he expected failure. Clearly he didn’t care what happened to me in the process.

I remember Dr. Anu’s gamble with my father, wagering his life that his untested technology would succeed. It did work, and Anu was still killed.

The Mogadorian way.

“Three years wasted,” broods my father. “Three years of you getting weaker, falling behind your peers. For what?”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. With frustration. With anger. But what would my father do if I told him Anu’s machine worked, that it gave me One’s memories and, with them, doubts.

Obviously, I hold my tongue.

“This folly reflects poorly on our bloodline. On me,” continues my father. “But it is not too late to remedy that.”

“How, sir?” I ask, knowing he expects me to respond eagerly to any opportunity to increase my honor.

“You will come with us to London,” he says. “And hunt this Garde.”





CHAPTER 15


The next twelve hours are a blur. My father has me fitted for a new uniform; my mother feeds me mammoth meals, like the kind athletes eat before big games—if those athletes had the appetite of full-grown piken. I am allowed a few hours sleep in my own bed, and later on the flight across the Atlantic. I’m almost thankful for this blur of activity; it leaves me no time to think of the Loric stowaway in my brain, or about what my father expects me to do.

We arrive in London the next morning. The General has brought Ivan along, as well as two dozen handpicked warriors, most of them trueborn.

As a Prime Urban Target, London is already home to a Mogadorian presence. The London-based Mogadorians have commandeered five floors in a downtown skyscraper to serve as their base of operations. They run a tight ship, but they’ve never been visited by a trueborn as high ranking as my father. They snap to attention when the General passes through the halls, even eyeing Ivan and me respectfully as we follow on his heels.

None of these loyal warriors detects the uncertainty I’m feeling inside. To them, I appear as one of their own.

My father assumes command of the London nerve center. A wall of monitors manned by a pair of scouts provides a constant real-time feed of London’s camera network. Another set of terminals crawls the internet in search of suspicious activity and certain Loric-related keywords. Before heading out to track Conrad Hoyle, my father wants to get the lay of the land. He orders the scouts to flip through various video feeds, the General quietly appraising several locations around the city for strategic advantages.

“Our unit trailing Hoyle reports he’s on a bus nearing the city center, sir,” declares one of the scouts, relaying this information from his earpiece.

“Good,” intones my father. “Then it’s time for us to go.”

While my father was studying video and plotting bloodshed, I was collapsing into a nearby chair, still feeling light-headed. Ivan stands next to me, his arms folded sternly across his chest, looking more like a young version of the General than ever. When my father turns to face us, Ivan shoots me a sidelong glance.

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir,” begins Ivan, “but I’m not sure your son is up to this.”

My father’s fist coils into a ball. His first instinct is to strike Ivan for his impudence. But then he looks at me, one eyebrow arched.

“Is that true?” he asks.

I know what Ivan’s doing. He’s spent the last three years worming his way into the General’s good graces, calling him “Father,” assuming my rightful place as his son. Figuring I was gone, Ivan’s only concern has been his own advancement. Before, I never would have given him an opportunity to make me look bad. Before, I’m not sure he would have tried. The thing is, I don’t know how much I care about fighting back. During all that time spent in One’s memories, and even now that I’ve woken up, I haven’t once fantasized about my promised inheritance of Washington DC. How could I, now that I know the price that would be paid?

Ivan can have it.

“Perhaps he’s right,” I say, meeting my father’s steely glare. “In my weakened state, I could be a liability to Mogadorian victory.”

Liability. Mogadorian victory. I know all the buzzwords to use on my father. Those haven’t changed. He takes one last look at me, a hint of disgust in his face, before turning to Ivan.