The Fallen Legacies (Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files #3)(17)

“It doesn’t matter now,” I say. I think back to my course on Legacy preparedness. Our instructors warned us about so many different powers the Garde might possess, and I try to think of one that might be helpful now. “Is it too much to hope that you can teleport?”

“What?” she asks, not understanding.

“Your Legacies,” I explain.

“Oh.” She shakes her head. “No. Conrad says I’m a couple years from developing those.”

Maggie studies me as I walk across the room, kneeling down in front of her suitcase. “Why?” she asks. “What can you do?”

I don’t answer. Next to her suitcase is a small backpack that I unzip to find filled with books, novels by human authors who I’ve never heard of. I dump out the books and begin stuffing handfuls of Maggie’s clothing into the backpack. We’ll need to travel light. I don’t pay attention to what I’m packing, only that it won’t be enough to slow her down if we need to run.

“What’re you doing?” she asks, still rooted to the spot next to the laptop.

“Packing,” I reply. “Grab only what you need. Definitely leave the computer.”

Maggie doesn’t make any move to help. I can feel her watching me, trying to figure out what’s happening.

“I want to wait for Conrad,” she says, her voice small but firm.

“He won’t be coming,” I reply, trying not to snap at her. She needs to start moving—now. I zip the backpack shut and stand. “You have to trust me.”

“Winston trusted Julia and look how that turned out.”

Winston? Julia? I try to remember what little I can of Loric culture, thinking that this is some kind of Loric saying I’m unfamiliar with, or maybe they’re some other members of the Garde I should know; but I come up with nothing. I decide to guess.

“I haven’t seen them since we landed on Earth,” I say.

“Um, they’re from Earth,” says Maggie. “Also, they’re not real.”

I stare at her, confused.

“1984,” says Maggie, seeing my confusion. “George Orwell?”

One of the books from her backpack. I shake my head. “Never read it.”

“Who did you think I was talking about?”

“Uh—”

“You aren’t Loric,” she says, examining my gaunt face, my pale skin.

“No,” I reply.

“And you aren’t human either.” This sounds more like an accusation.

When I shake my head, Maggie inches towards where she set down her little gun. I don’t make any move to stop her. She’s perceptive. I can see the wheels turning in her head, analyzing her situation. She knows there’s trouble, but she’s not sure if it’s on its way or if it’s already here.

“If you’re one of them, why haven’t you tried to kill me yet?” she asks. She reminds me of myself a little bit: small, intelligent and holding on to a belief that she can think her way out of problems.

“I don’t know what I am,” I manage, realizing as I say this that it’s the truth. “But I’m not here to hurt you.”

I toss her the backpack.

“You need to run. It doesn’t matter if it’s with me or from me. Just run.”

Suddenly there’s a sharp, breaking sound, the apartment’s front door splintering as it is torn off its hinges.

Too late. Too late to run.

“Adamus,” snarls Ivan as he strides into the room. “Fancy meeting you here.”





CHAPTER 18


Streaming into the room behind Ivan are half a dozen Mogadorian warriors. Two of them stay posted at the door; the others fan out, covering the windows, cutting off any possible escape route. They’re a well-oiled machine, the protocol in this situation clear. Contain the Garde at all costs.

I’m frozen in place. I’m not armed, having forgotten to grab so much as a dagger on my way out of the Mogadorian headquarters. Even if I did try to fight—against my own people, a concept I still haven’t come to terms with—I wouldn’t stand a chance. At least that’s how I justify my cowardice.

Maggie doesn’t suffer from any of my uncertainties. She might have given me the benefit of the doubt, but not Ivan and his strike team. She knows she’s in danger.

She executes a gymnast-caliber somersault towards the table where she set down her gun. Maggie moves more quickly than I expected, her fingers nearly closing around the weapon.

But Ivan is quicker.

Before Maggie can grab the gun, he boots the table towards her. The edge hits her right in the stomach, audibly knocking the wind out of her. Maggie, the gun and the table all go crashing to the floor.

Maggie recovers quickly, already desperately scrambling for the weapon when Ivan kicks it out of her reach. It skitters to a stop just inches from my feet.

Ivan steps on the back of Maggie’s neck, grinding her face into the dusty floor. He must outweigh her by more than a hundred pounds. Maggie thrashes, screaming in frustration and pain, but Ivan keeps her pinned as he lifts up his shirt, examining his rib cage.

At first I don’t understand what he’s doing. But then I realize he’s looking for bruises. If Maggie was still protected by the Loric charm, then the damage from when Ivan kicked the table into her would have been done to him. Unless she’s next in line.