The Fallen Legacies (Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files #3)(19)

The General looms over me. Normally, we’re supposed to snap to attention when he enters a room, but I can’t work up the energy to go through the motions. I stay slouched in the chair, looking up at him.

“Ivanick tells me that you couldn’t kill the Garde,” he says, disappointment and rebuke mixing in his voice.

“I could have killed her,” I clarify. “Any of us could have killed her. She was a child.”

My father’s face darkens. “Your tone disagrees with me, boy.”

“Yeah?” I snap, suddenly reminded of the way One argued with Hilde. I want to say more, but then I think better of it. After all, look what happened to One. “Sorry, Father,” I say in as even a tone as I can muster. “It won’t happen again.”

“That child would have killed you if the tables were turned,” my father says, and I can tell by the way the vein along his temple throbs that this effort to engage me in civilized conversation is requiring great self-control. “She would see your entire people wiped out.”

That’s what we’ve been taught. What Setrákus Ra has told us. But Two knew what I was, and she wasn’t going to shoot me. Also, nowhere on her laptop files was there a list of “Preferred Genocide Methods.” Once again my head starts to spin as everything I’ve been raised to believe is called into question.

“Father, I don’t think that’s true,” I say quietly.

“You doubt what I’ve taught you, boy? What we learn from the Great Book?”

I look up at the General. Meeting his gaze takes some effort, his eyes burning with his barely contained temper.

“Yes,” I whisper.

My father punches me in the face.

His fist is as heavy as a brick, even though I’m sure he pulled the punch somewhat or I’d be unconscious instead of merely toppling backwards out of the chair, my bottom lip split open. I feel blood trickling down my chin, taste it on my tongue. I know the smart thing would be to curl up, to avoid any further punishment; but instead I climb to my knees, chin raised, waiting for the next strike.

It doesn’t come. My father stands over me, his fists clenched, staring into my eyes. I feel a heat that I haven’t felt before—anger, righteous anger—and that emotion must reach my eyes, because my father’s initial look of disgust suddenly betrays something else. A look I’m unfamiliar with.

It’s respect. Not for my argument against killing Two—certainly not for that—but for being willing to take another punch.

“Finally,” growls the General. “You’ve got some blood on you.”

I look down at my hands. They’re pale, soft, and clean. I think of watching Number Two die. My hands should be covered in blood. And just like that, the anger leaks out of me and is replaced by something else, something worse.

Hopelessness.

“I’m sorry for defying you,” I say, keeping my eyes downcast. “You’re right, of course.”

I can feel the General watching me for a moment longer, as if considering what to do with me. Then, without another word, he stalks out of the apartment, heedlessly walking through the spot where Ivan let Number Two bleed out.

I sink onto my hands and knees, feeling suddenly breathless. How long can I keep going like this, living among a people that I no longer understand?





CHAPTER 20


Back at Ashwood Estates, they hold a banquet for Ivan.

All these planned suburban developments come equipped with community halls for neighborhood parties. It’s been three years since One was killed, and our community hall hasn’t seen use since then. People from the neighborhood spend a weekend cleaning out the dust, moving in a large table, and preparing food.

I wasn’t awake for the last celebration. I wish I could sleep through this one.

The General gives a speech describing Ivan’s valor in the field. Then he pins a medal shaped like a Mogadorian sword to Ivan’s chest, Ivan grinning stupidly as my neighbors rapturously applaud. There’s no mention made of my early arrival at Two’s safe house, nor does my father spend even a moment memorializing the warriors that didn’t return home, gunned down by Conrad Hoyle in the streets of London. No time spent on the weak.

I slip out, leaving behind a half-finished dinner, and I return to my house, enjoying the quiet darkness of my room. With the withering looks my father’s been giving me since London, I’m sure he’s glad I left early. Without me there, he can pretend Ivan is his trueborn son. They’ll both love that.

It’s a pleasant, breezy night, but I close my window, wanting to seal out the noise from the banquet. I gaze through narrowed eyes at the lights from the community hall, my neighbors enjoying their biggest celebration since coming to Earth thanks to the cold-blooded murder of an unarmed child.

When I turn away from the window, One is standing in the middle of my room. It’s the first time that she’s appeared to me since London. Her look is cold and accusing, far worse than the disdainful stares I’ve been receiving from my father.

“You watched her die,” she says.

I push my knuckles into my temples and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will her away. When I open my eyes, One hasn’t budged.

“Whatever part of my brain you’re hiding out in,” I snarl, “go back there and leave me alone.”