“You know,” I say, “my sixteenth birthday—or at least the day I celebrated as my birthday with Henri—was two days ago.”
“John! Why didn’t you tell us?” she asks, then lets go of my hand and playfully shoves me away, making me instantly visible. “We could have celebrated.”
I smile and reach for her, feeling blindly in the dark. She takes my hand and interlocks her fingers in mine, allowing my thumb to rest over hers. The thought of Sarah comes into my head, and I find myself instantly pushing it out.
“So what was she like?” I ask. “Katarina?”
A moment of silence passes. “Compassionate. She was always helping others. And she was funny. We used to joke and laugh a lot, which probably seems hard to believe, seeing how serious I usually am.”
I chuckle. “I didn’t say it, you did.”
“But hey, no changing the subject. Why didn’t you say anything about your birthday?”
“I don’t know. I actually forgot about it until yesterday, and then it just seemed pointless with everything else going on.”
“It’s your birthday, John; it’s not pointless. Every birthday any of us are lucky to have is cause for celebration, considering what’s hunting us. And anyway, had I known I might have even taken it easy on you in training.”
“Yeah, you must feel terrible beating up a guy like that on his birthday,” I say, and then nudge her. She nudges me back. Bernie Kosar leaps from the brambles and trots beside us. Several burrs are stuck to his fur like Velcro, and I let go of Six’s hand to pluck them all off.
We reach the end of the road. Tall grass and a winding river lie ahead of us. We turn around and amble back towards the house.
“Does it bother you that you never got your Chest?” I ask after a few minutes of silence.
“In a way I think it fueled me that much more. It was gone; there was nothing I could do about it. So I did what I thought was smart and chose to focus on finding the rest of you. I just wish I could have found Number Three before they did.”
“Well, you found me. I can’t imagine I would have survived this long if you hadn’t. Or Bernie Kosar, for that matter. Or even Sarah.” As soon as I say Sarah’s name, Six’s grip loosens a little. Guilt rises in my chest as we make our way back to the house. I do love Sarah, but it’s hard to imagine a life with her when I’m so far away, on the run, with no sense of where the future will take me. The only life I can imagine right now is the one I’m living. The one with Six.
We reach the house, and I find myself wishing our walk wasn’t over. I try to stall, slowing my steps, hovering at the end of the driveway.
“You know, I only know you as Six,” I say. “Did you have a name at one time?”
“Of course I did, but I didn’t use it very often. I didn’t go to school like you. Well, I did for a little while, but then we decided I was better off staying home.”
“So, what was your name?”
“Maren Elizabeth.”
“Whoa, really?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know; Maren Elizabeth seems kind of dainty and feminine. I think I expected you to have something strong and mythic, like Athena, or maybe Xena, you know, like the warrior princess? Or even Storm. Storm would have suited you perfectly.”
Six laughs, and the sound of it makes me want to pull her to me. Of course I don’t, but I want to, and maybe that’s what’s most telling.
“I’ll have you know, I used to be a little girl who once wore ribbons in her hair.”
“Yeah, what color?”
“Pink.”
“I think I’d pay money to see that.”
“Forget it, you don’t have enough.”
“I’ll have you know,” I say, mimicking the same playful voice she just used, “I have a whole Chest of rare gems at my disposal. Just point me in the direction of a pawn shop.”
She laughs, then says, “I’ll keep my eyes open for one.”
We continue to stand at the mouth of our driveway, and I look up at the stars and the moon, which is three-quarters full. I listen to the wind and to Six’s feet on the gravel as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. I take a deep breath.
“I’m really glad we went for that walk,” I say.
“So am I.”
I look where she’s standing, wishing she were visible so I could read her expression. “Could you imagine if every night were like this, living your life without having to worry about what or who might be lurking out of sight, without always having to peer over your shoulder to see if you’re being followed? Wouldn’t it be amazing to be able to forget, just once, what’s peeking over the horizon?”
“Of course it’d be nice,” she says. “And it will be nice when we finally have that luxury.”
“I hate what we have to do. I hate the situation we’re in. I wish it were different.” I look for Lorien in the sky and release her hand. She makes herself visible. I grab her by the shoulders and turn her towards me.
Six inhales deeply.
Just as I duck my head towards hers, an explosion rocks the back of the house. Six and I scream and tumble to the ground. A plume of fire lifts up over the roof, and flames instantly spread inside.
“Sam!” I yell. From fifty feet away I rip the front windows out. They shatter against the concrete walkway. Smoke comes billowing out.
Before I know it I’ve burst into a dead sprint. I take a deep breath and leap, crashing into the house and splintering the door from its hinges.
Chapter Fifteen
EACH NIGHT LATELY I LIE AWAKE FOR HOURS, MY eyes open, ears attuned to the sounds of silence around me. Every so often I lift my head when I hear a distant noise—a drop of water hitting the floor, a person shifting in her sleep—and sometimes I crawl from bed and go to the window to be assured there’s nothing out there, an obvious attempt to feel some semblance of security, however flimsy it might be.
Each night passes with less sleep than the night before. I’ve grown weak, exhausted to the point of delirium. I have trouble eating. I know worrying doesn’t do me any good, but no amount of willing myself to rest or eat does anything to change how I feel. And when I finally do sleep, nothing keeps away the terrible dreams that wake me up again.
There’s been no sign of the mustached man in the week since I saw him in the café, but I can’t dismiss the notion that just because I haven’t seen him doesn’t mean he isn’t out there. I keep returning to the same questions: who was in my cave; who or what was the mustached man in the café; why was he reading a book with the name Pittacus on the cover; and, most importantly, why did he let me go if he’s Mogadorian? None of it makes sense, not even the title of his book. I’ve turned up nothing other than a brief summary of the plot online: a Greek general given to short, pithy statements defeats an Athenian army when they were on the verge of attacking the city of Mytilene. What does it have to do with anything?
The questions of the cave and book aside, I’ve come to two conclusions. The first is that nothing was done to me because of my number. For the time being, it’s keeping me safe, but for how long? The second is that the crowd of people in the café kept the Mogadorian from making a move. But from what I know of them, a Mogadorian wouldn’t let a few witnesses deter him. I’ve stopped rushing to and from school ahead of the others and have instead attached myself to their large group. To keep Ella safe, I’ve stopped walking with her in public. I know it hurts her feelings, but it’s for the best. She doesn’t deserve to be mixed up in my problems.
But there’s one thing that has given me a shade of hope in all this. A noticeable change has occurred in Adelina. Worry creases her forehead. There’s a nervous twitch to her eyes when she thinks nobody’s watching, and they dart from one section of a room to another like a scared, threatened animal, the same way they used to years ago when she still believed. And while we haven’t spoken since I fell into her arms after rushing from the café, it’s these changes in her that have me thi
nking I might have my Cêpan back.
Darkness. Silence. Fifteen sleeping bodies. I lift my head and glance across the room. Instead of seeing a small lump in Ella’s bed, the covers are thrown aside and her bed is empty. It’s the third night in a row I’ve noticed her missing, and yet I never hear her leave. But I have bigger things to worry about than where she’s gone off to.
I drop my head on the pillow and glance out the window. A full moon, bright and yellow, hangs just outside. I stare at it for a long time, entranced by the way it hovers there. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I reopen them, the moon has turned from bright yellow to bloodred and it seems to shimmer, but then I realize it’s not the moon I’m staring at, but rather its reflection, shining brightly in the dark waters of some great pool. Steam rises off its surface, and the air reeks of pungent iron. I lift my head again, and only then do I see I’m standing amid a ravaged, bloodied battlefield.
Bodies are strewn everywhere, the dead and dying, the aftermath of some war in which there are no survivors. I instinctively bring my hands to my body, feeling for puncture wounds or cuts, but I’m unscathed. That’s when I see her, the girl with the gray eyes I’ve dreamed about, the one I painted on the cave’s wall beside John Smith. She lies motionless at the base of the shore. I rush to her. Blood gushes from her side and soaks into the sand and is carried out to sea. Her raven hair clings to her ashen face. She’s not breathing, and I’m completely and utterly anguished to know there’s not a single thing I can do about it. And then behind me comes a deep, mocking laugh. My eyes close before I slowly turn around to face my enemy.
My eyes open and the battlefield disappears. The familiar bed in the darkened room has returned. The moon is normal and bright yellow. I get up and walk to the window. I scan the dark terrain, still and quiet. No sign of the mustached man, or anything else, for that matter. All the snow has melted, and the moon glistens on the wet cobblestones. Is he watching me?
I turn away and crawl back into bed. I lie on my back, taking deep breaths to calm myself. My whole body is tense and rigid. I think about the cave and how I haven’t been back since the boot prints appeared. I roll to my side with my back towards the window. I don’t want to see what’s out there. Ella still isn’t in her bed. I try to wait up for her to return, but I fall asleep. No further dreams come.
When the morning bell rings I raise my head off the pillow, my body stiff and sore. A cold rain beats against the window. I glance across the room and see Ella sitting up, lifting her arms towards the ceiling, yawning deeply.
We shuffle from the room together, saying nothing. We coast about our Sunday routines and sit through Mass with our heads hung. At one point I nudge Ella awake, and twenty minutes later she returns the favor. I survive the El Festín lunch line, doling out food while looking for anyone suspicious. When everything appears normal, I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. What saddens me most is that I don’t see Héctor.
Towards the end of cleanup, La Gorda and Gabby begin horsing around, spraying each other with the hose attached to the kitchen sink as I dry dishes. I ignore them, even when I get splashed in the face. Twenty minutes later when I’ve just finished drying the last dish, carefully placing it atop the tall stack, a girl named Delfina slips on the wet floor and bumps into me, causing me to fall into the stack and send all thirty plates back into the dirty water, where some of them break.
“Why don’t you watch what you’re doing,” I say, and I push her with one arm.
Delfina spins around and shoves me right back.
“Hey!” Sister Dora barks from across the kitchen. “You two, knock it off! Right now!”
“You’re going to pay for that,” Delfina says.
I can’t wait to be officially done with Santa Teresa.
“Whatever,” I say, still scowling.
She nods at me, a malicious look upon her face. “Watch your back.”
“If I have to come over there, Lord help me, you are going to regret it,” Sister Dora says.
Instead of using telekinesis to toss Delfina through the roof—or Sister Dora or Gabby or La Gorda, for that matter—I turn back to the dishes.
When I’m finally free I walk outside. It’s still raining and I stand under the eaves and look towards the cave. The mud will be thick on the mountainside, which means I’d get filthy. I use that as an excuse for why I won’t go, though I know that even if it weren’t raining I wouldn’t have the courage, despite my curiosity of whether or not new boot prints have been made in the mud.
I walk back inside. Ella’s Sunday duties require her to clean the nave after everyone leaves, wiping down pews. But when I go there, everything has already been cleaned.
“Have you seen Ella?” I ask a ten-year-old girl named Valentina. She shakes her head. I walk back to our bedroom, but there’s no sign of Ella there. I sit on her bed. The bounce of the mattress causes a silver object to peek from beneath Ella’s pillow. It’s a tiny flashlight. I flip it on. The light shines brightly. I turn it off and put it back where I found it so that the Sisters won’t see it.
I walk the halls, peeking in rooms as I go along. Because of the rain, most of the girls have stayed in, milling about in their small groups, laughing and talking and playing games.
On the second floor, where the hallway splits and leads to the church’s two separate wings, I go left, down a dark, dusty corridor. Empty rooms and ancient statues cut into the rock wall and arched ceiling, and I stick my head in the doorways, looking for Ella. No sign of her. The hallway narrows and the dusty odor segues to a damp, earthy smell. At the corridor’s end stands a padlocked oak door I jimmied open a week and a half ago looking for the Chest. Beyond the door is a stone stairway that circles around the narrow tower leading up to the north belfry, which holds one of Santa Teresa’s two bells. The Chest wasn’t there either.
I surf the internet for a while but find nothing new about John Smith. Then I go to the sleeping quarters, lie in bed, and feign sleep. Thankfully La Gorda, Gabby, and Delfina don’t come into the room, and I don’t see Ella either. I crawl from bed and walk down the hall.
I enter the nave and find Ella in the back pew. I sit beside her. She smiles up at me, looking tired. This morning I had put her hair into a ponytail, but now it’s come loose. I pull the band free, and Ella turns her head so I can redo it.
“Where have you been all day?” I ask. “I was looking for you.”
“I was exploring,” she says proudly. I instantly feel terrible all over again for ignoring her on our walks to school.
We leave and go to our room, say good night to one another. Slipping beneath the covers, waiting for the lights to be shut off, I feel hopeless and sad, wanting to simply crawl into a ball and cry. So that’s what I do.
I wake in the middle of the night and I can’t tell what time it is, though I assume I’ve slept at least a few hours. I roll over and close my eyes again, but something feels off. There’s some change in the room I can’t quite explain, and it amplifies the same anxiety I’ve felt all week.
I open my eyes again, and the second they adjust to the dark, I realize a face is staring at me. I gasp and bolt straight backwards, crashing into the wall behind me. I’m trapped, I think, trapped in the far, back corner. How stupid of me to have wanted this bed. My hands tighten, and just as I’m about to scream and kick at the face, I recognize the brown eyes.
Ella.
I instantly relax. I wonder how long she’s been standing there.
Very slowly she brings her tiny index finger to her lips. Then her eyes widen and she smiles as she leans forward. She cups her hand around my ear.
“I found the Chest,” she whispers.
I pull away, look earnestly into her radiant, upturned face, and know immediately she’s telling the truth. My own eyes widen. I can’t contain my excitement. I pull her to me and give her the tightest hug her small body can endure.
“Oh Ella, you have no idea how proud I am of you.”
> “I told you I’d find it. I told you, because we’re a team and we help each other.”
“We do,” I whisper.
I let go of her. Her face brims with pride. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is.” She takes me by the hand, and I follow her around the bed, tiptoeing quietly.
The Chest—a bright ray of hope when I’d least expected it, when I’d needed it most.
Chapter Sixteen
WE FLEE THE ROOM, AND I HAVE THE URGE TO sprint to wherever Ella’s leading me. She glides swiftly and soundlessly across the cold floor. The corridor is dark; and while I see everything clearly, every so often Ella flicks on the flashlight to orient herself, then quickly turns it off.
When we reach the nave I think she’s going to head towards the north tower, but she doesn’t, and instead guides me up the center aisle. We skitter past the rows of pews. At the nave’s front, stained glass saints line the curved wall and the moonlight behind them brings a celestial radiance that gives each a more biblical appearance than they’ve ever had before. Water drips in a constant patter somewhere.
Ella cuts a right turn at the front pew and sweeps towards one of the many open recesses that run the length of both walls. I follow. The air is cooler here than in the nave, and a tall statue of the Virgin Mary looms over us with arms lifted from her sides. Ella goes around her, and when she reaches the back left corner, she turns to me.
“I’ll have to bring it down to you,” she says, putting the flashlight in her mouth. She takes hold of the stone pillar and scoots up it like a squirrel clawing up a tree. All I can do is watch in amazement, so impressed by her mobility.
The Power of Six (I Am Number Four) Page 13
