of one Mogadorian, only to be grabbed by another. She has some kind of tool in her hand that she swings at him. A hammer or wrench—it’s hard to tell. She must have been caught off guard, without a real weapon. I watch in horror as she finally escapes, running up the porch and towards the front door. Blasters fire, missing her, creating smoking holes in the wooden cabin wall.
She’s intercepted by one of the Mog beasts the size of our station wagon—all horns and teeth, running at her on four legs. It catches her in its jaws, but she’s not done fighting. She swings the tool in her hand down straight into the monster’s eye. It howls in pain, dropping her, and I see that I completely underestimated her fighting abilities.
But it’s not over.
The Mog beast lets out a roar and swings its head at Zophie. The creature’s horned snout impales her. She stumbles towards the front door, a dark spot appearing and then growing on her stomach where the creature struck her. And then she falls. A few of the Chimærae surround her, turning into fanged monsters in order toprotect her. But they can’t help now.
Seconds pass. Her chest stops rising.
She joins her brother.
The Chimærae must know this, because they leave her side, trying to save themselves. It’s no use, though. They’re overpowered. Captured. The Mogs seem furious with their horned creature—the one that just murdered my friend—and begin to beat it. Flames start to lick the sides of the cabin, the multitude of blaster shots having caught something on fire.
Soon afterwards, the video feed cuts out.
I begin to shake. Slightly at first, and then violently. For the first time in as long as I can remember, tears start to stream down my face in hot, wet rivers. I can’t stop them. My nose begins to run, and when I open my mouth to breathe, a sound comes out that isn’t Loric—it’s animal.
I start the car, ready to speed down the highway, to fly back to our cabin.
But it would be pointless. Zophie is gone. The Chimærae will be gone too by the time I get there. The cabin is burning and is probably still being watched by the Mogs.
I can’t fight those Mogadorian bastards and win. Not hand-to-hand or face-to-face. Not that many of them.
The noise comes from my mouth again, raw and full of rage.
And then I’m driving, as fast as I can. Night falls and I continue, aimlessly, without any destination, until the car runs out of gas on the side of the road. Then I get out and run. No one is here to find me this time. No LDA squad tracking the ship I’d stolen and taking me back home. It’s just me. I run until I’m so exhausted that I feel like I can’t take another step.
And then I keep going.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TWO WEEKS AFTER THE MOGADORIANS KILLED Zophie, a seemingly unrelated story is published in someone’s online journal. It’s a short account of an incident at Philadelphia International Airport. A man refused to let a piece of carry-on luggage go through the airport scanner. He and his companion, a young boy, were scheduled to fly to Africa. There’s a picture of the two of them, the man older and flustered, the boy four, maybe five years old and freckled. The man holds one side of a chest that’s covered in Loric symbols. A member of airport security holds on to the other. I don’t know who they are, but they are almost certainly one of the Garde and his Cêpan. I want to reach through the photo and shake the old man for being so foolish, but I unfortunately don’t have that Legacy. I only hope he will learn. That he will do better.
I destroy every line of the journal’s code and overloadthe host site’s servers for good measure. Then, over the course of lunch in a diner in South Carolina, I track down the writer and photographer’s email address and send her a message containing a computer virus under the guise of it being a note from a fan of her journal. By the time I finish dessert, she’s downloaded my worm, which rapidly eats
She’s intercepted by one of the Mog beasts the size of our station wagon—all horns and teeth, running at her on four legs. It catches her in its jaws, but she’s not done fighting. She swings the tool in her hand down straight into the monster’s eye. It howls in pain, dropping her, and I see that I completely underestimated her fighting abilities.
But it’s not over.
The Mog beast lets out a roar and swings its head at Zophie. The creature’s horned snout impales her. She stumbles towards the front door, a dark spot appearing and then growing on her stomach where the creature struck her. And then she falls. A few of the Chimærae surround her, turning into fanged monsters in order toprotect her. But they can’t help now.
Seconds pass. Her chest stops rising.
She joins her brother.
The Chimærae must know this, because they leave her side, trying to save themselves. It’s no use, though. They’re overpowered. Captured. The Mogs seem furious with their horned creature—the one that just murdered my friend—and begin to beat it. Flames start to lick the sides of the cabin, the multitude of blaster shots having caught something on fire.
Soon afterwards, the video feed cuts out.
I begin to shake. Slightly at first, and then violently. For the first time in as long as I can remember, tears start to stream down my face in hot, wet rivers. I can’t stop them. My nose begins to run, and when I open my mouth to breathe, a sound comes out that isn’t Loric—it’s animal.
I start the car, ready to speed down the highway, to fly back to our cabin.
But it would be pointless. Zophie is gone. The Chimærae will be gone too by the time I get there. The cabin is burning and is probably still being watched by the Mogs.
I can’t fight those Mogadorian bastards and win. Not hand-to-hand or face-to-face. Not that many of them.
The noise comes from my mouth again, raw and full of rage.
And then I’m driving, as fast as I can. Night falls and I continue, aimlessly, without any destination, until the car runs out of gas on the side of the road. Then I get out and run. No one is here to find me this time. No LDA squad tracking the ship I’d stolen and taking me back home. It’s just me. I run until I’m so exhausted that I feel like I can’t take another step.
And then I keep going.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TWO WEEKS AFTER THE MOGADORIANS KILLED Zophie, a seemingly unrelated story is published in someone’s online journal. It’s a short account of an incident at Philadelphia International Airport. A man refused to let a piece of carry-on luggage go through the airport scanner. He and his companion, a young boy, were scheduled to fly to Africa. There’s a picture of the two of them, the man older and flustered, the boy four, maybe five years old and freckled. The man holds one side of a chest that’s covered in Loric symbols. A member of airport security holds on to the other. I don’t know who they are, but they are almost certainly one of the Garde and his Cêpan. I want to reach through the photo and shake the old man for being so foolish, but I unfortunately don’t have that Legacy. I only hope he will learn. That he will do better.
I destroy every line of the journal’s code and overloadthe host site’s servers for good measure. Then, over the course of lunch in a diner in South Carolina, I track down the writer and photographer’s email address and send her a message containing a computer virus under the guise of it being a note from a fan of her journal. By the time I finish dessert, she’s downloaded my worm, which rapidly eats
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