The Legacy Series Boxed Set (Legacy, Prophecy, Revelation, and AWOL)

by Ellery Kane

  Steadying myself, exasperated, I yelled, “Move!” Lunging forward, I found myself at the edge of the jungle of protestors, finally able to breathe, until a sudden break in the sidewalk tripped me, and I fell forward. I caught myself with my hands, grimacing as my palms scraped against the concrete. My backpack tumbled from my shoulder onto the ground, sending the contents of its side pockets flying.

  Embarrassed and annoyed, I jumped to my feet. I looked around, to my left and right, behind me, scanning the crowd, but Max and String had vanished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

  FIGHT!

  “ARE YOU ALRIGHT?” a quiet voice wondered from behind me.

  I turned to see a young girl, just a tiny wisp of a thing with streaky, matted blonde hair and a ghostly white face. There was something familiar about her.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her, even though my palms burned, the skin near my wrists raw and pierced with gravel.

  As the girl approached, I noticed her bare feet were caked with dirt.

  “Well, you don’t look fine,” she observed, pointing to my hands. “You’re not from around here, are you?” The tone of her question implied the answer.

  “Really, I’m okay,” I insisted.

  The corners of her mouth turned up in a saccharine smile, but her eyes were flat pools of blue. “Of course you are. But let me at least help you with your bag.”

  In the aftermath of my fall, I forgot about my backpack. Before I could protest, the girl began gathering my things. As she moved, graceful and lithe as a ballerina, her dress fell from her shoulder, and I remembered where I saw her before, days ago, darting out in front of my father’s car.

  “I can do it myself.” I knew she wasn’t there to help me.

  “Already done.” She handed me the bag. “You really should be careful around here.” As she sauntered away, I searched through the contents of my backpack, marking my mental checklist. One item was left unaccounted for: my cell phone.

  “Hey,” I called after her. “You took my phone!”

  She continued walking, across the street into the homeless encampment, as if she couldn’t hear me. Once inside, her walk became a scamper, and I had to jog to keep up with her. I saw where she was leading us, but my anger at being duped outweighed my fear.

  “You will give me my phone back!” I yelled, as I chased her into the makeshift ring. At my threat, she stopped and giggled.

  “Dad!” She squealed through her laughter. “You’ve got to see this.”

  She turned toward me, her face scrunched and serious. “And exactly how are you planning to get it back?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Are you going to fight me for it?” As she held her arms out wide, I finally looked around me. On my right were rows of old tires stacked as tall as me. On my left, a hodgepodge of barbed wire, a chain-link fence, a stained sofa, and scrap metal. The only way out was through her.

  From a tent alongside the ring, a man emerged. My worst fears confirmed—he also was familiar. Taking a long swig from his bottle, he laid a gnarled hand on his daughter’s bony shoulder and sized me up.

  “Well,” he guffawed, “she’s bigger ’n you, honey. Prolly stronger.” He began a teeter-totter walk toward me. For each of his staggering steps forward, I took one step back. Still, he was close, so close, too close. The smell of sweat and alcohol enveloped me, exuding like thick syrup from his pores. “But I don’t think she’s cut out for fightin’—prolly a scaredy-cat.”

  As he spoke, a small group of onlookers gathered around us, their voices chattering in anticipation. When a young boy at the edge of the crowd began a low chant, “Fight, fight, fight, fight,” the reality of the situation smacked me like a brick to the face. My insides churned, remembering the gun in the drunk man’s waistband. He was right—I wasn’t cut out for fighting.

  Aside from my memorable encounters with the Guardian Force, I had only one fight: fifth grade, Jeffrey Nelson. After months of enduring his “Sexy Lexi” taunt, ducking into the bathroom whenever he approached me in the hall, I finally did it. I punched him square in the face, breaking his glasses. I felt triumphant watching him reel—open-mouthed and wide-eyed—and scramble to his feet, fleeing from me as if I was a barbarian. But my victory was short-lived. His twin sister Jenny chased me home and socked me in the stomach. The next day at school she told everyone I had a crush on our English teacher, bald-headed, mustached Mr. Blackburn.

  As I studied my slight but feisty opponent, I could still hear the relentless fifth grade whispers of Mrs. Blackburn.

  “Your daughter stole my cell phone.” I tried to reason with the drunk man, already knowing it was futile.

  “Did she now?” He stuck out his lower lip in a sympathetic pout. “Oh, well boohoo.” He pretended to wipe away his nonexistent tears.

  “Never mind.” I searched for an exit. “She can have it.”

  The crowd closed in tighter. There was nowhere to run.

  “Ma money’s on you, sweetheart,” the drunk man addressed his daughter. “Go get’er!” Then he shouted to a young boy collecting money from the crowd, “I got five big ones on Daisy!”

  I braced myself as the girl sprinted toward me. Her face was hard with determination; her head aimed straight for my midsection like a tiny missile. I planned to step to the side, but at the last minute, an arm from the crowd clutched at me through the fence, anchoring me into place.

  Think fast, Lex. Having no other choice, I raised my sneaker and gave her a kick to the midsection.

  “Oomph!” she grunted, as my foot made impact. The arm released me, as around me, the crowd booed.

  The girl stumbled, woozy from the blow. Flailing at me, she managed to clutch onto a chunk of my hair and pull me to my knees. She stood over me, glaring with a look of satisfaction. It was probably the same look I had given Jeffrey.

  I grabbed her by the ankle. My hand fit all the way around her leg. Beneath it, her bones felt small and brittle, like a bird’s. With all my strength, I pulled her toward me, and she fell—thwack—hard. Instantly, she began to cry, as the onlookers jeered. For a moment, we sat side by side on the ground. Her father stumbled toward me, as I tried to get to my feet.

  “Ya hurt ma daughter!” he roared, stepping on my hand with his boot.

  Fear rose up into my throat, and I felt sick. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Taking another long drink, he nodded his head, as if considering my explanation. I watched, unable to move, as he set his bottle on the ground. His fingers slid along his belt line, disappearing underneath his belly. When his hand emerged again, it was cradling his gun.

  I gulped, as the world narrowed in focus, my eyes fixated on him. He twirled the gun carelessly between his fingers like a baton, as he stalked around me. The crowd began to disperse. Even the man’s daughter rose to her feet and ducked inside a tent, peering out with one eye at her father.

  What did I get myself into? I cursed myself, as I began to imagine the unfolding of events: Me, shot. My father, devastated. Quin, blaming himself. I shook off the thoughts. This drunken bully wasn’t going to be my undoing.

  As I scoured the ground for a weapon, palming a large rock, I heard a voice.

  “What are you doing, Mick?”

  Approaching from the street was String. His sunglasses were perched on his head, revealing his deep-set eyes. Max trailed behind him, a concerned look on his face.

  “String. Um, I—” Returning the gun to his waistband, the man instantly sobered.

  String walked toward him, his tone quiet but aggressive. “Man, didn’t I tell you not to attract attention. Are you trying to get the cops over here?” Much like the set of his shoulders, his voice was commanding, confident.

  My eyes connected with Max’s, and for a moment, I wondered if he would claim me. Then, “Lex! Are you okay?” He ran over to me, helping me to my feet. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Before I could answer, String turned to Max. “You know this … person?” He evaluated me with
thinly disguised disdain.

  Max nodded. “String, this is my friend, Lex.” His gaze darting between us, Max seemed eager for String’s approval.

  “Friend?” String’s tone softened, surprised at the word. “Well, any friend of Maximillian is a friend of mine.”

  As Max beamed at him, he extended his hand to me, and I saw it—a thin, black string looped around his right wrist. “Sebastian Croft, but most people call me String.” He held up his arm, snapping the string with his finger and gave me a slow, easy grin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

  A VERY BIG DEAL

  MICKEY RETREATED INSIDE HIS TENT, bottle in hand, like a scolded puppy.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” String said, following behind him.

  I heard their hushed voices from inside the tent but couldn’t make out their words. Alone with Max, I wondered where to begin.

  “Did you follow me?” he asked, beating me to the punch. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused.

  I nodded. “I was worried about you. We all were. What’s going on with you? Who is this guy?”

  Max gave a cautious glance toward the tent, then smiled. “I think I’m in love.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, conveying my disbelief. “Love does not make you act that way. You were jumping on our couch, literally jumping. You were totally out of it. And that fight the other day. Max that was … crazy.”

  Max avoided my accusation. “Does Quin know you’re here?”

  “We had an argument. A big one. And that led to one with my dad—another big one. I guess I wanted to make them worry a little,” I admitted, feeling selfish. “By the way, how did you know Quin was lying?”

  “String wanted to go to one of those anti-drug rallies and forced me to go with him. I saw Quin’s father there, of course, and Quin. I told him to tell you, but I guess he…”

  Max didn’t finish his sentence. We both knew Quin was masterful at keeping secrets.

  “Wait a second…” My mind attempted to assemble the pieces. “Why was String at an anti-drug rally? Is he part of the New Resistance?”

  Max burst into laughter. “Not exactly.”

  His reaction made me feel foolish, then angry. “Max, I came a long way to find you. I almost got shot by that crazy buffoon in there. You could be a little more open.”

  Shrugging, Max conceded, “Okay, so maybe I have used a little something. What’s the big deal?” He said nothing more about String.

  “I can’t believe you, of all people, would—” I wanted to remind him about his mother, how she had been addicted to Eupho—that it was a very big deal—as if he had forgotten.

  But Max interrupted me with an eye roll. “Spare me the sermon, Lex. Don’t I deserve to be happy?”

  String emerged from the tent with my cell phone in hand. “I think this belongs to you,” he said, offering it to me. “It might be a little damaged.”

  That was an understatement. The cell phone’s screen was completely smashed. I pried open the back—the memory card was missing. My heart ached, as I imagined Quin waiting in vain for my response.

  String looked at me with pity. “Best I could do,” he explained. “Mick—Mickey—can be a little hot-headed when he’s had a few.” He winked a hazel eye at me, as he pantomimed drinking.

  “It’s okay,” I replied, even though it wasn’t.

  “So, friend of Max, are you coming with us?” As he spoke, String put his arm around Max’s shoulders, and Max leaned in toward him, smitten.

  I took a deep breath before answering. “I guess that depends on where you’re going.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  IN THE NOW

  “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?” I asked Max, pointing to the growing swarm outside the jail.

  “What?” He strained to hear me over their We are the New Resistance! Not afraid to feel! chant.

  String laughed. Even his snickering sounded smooth. “Who are they kidding? Everybody’s afraid to feel. Why do you think Zenigenic was so successful?” His know-it-all grin grated on me, but I had to admit, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Meanwhile, Max was hanging on his words, gazing at him doe-eyed.

  “Hey!” One of the protestors called to me. “Aren’t you Victoria Knightley’s daughter?” Head down, I tried to ignore her, but she didn’t give up. “I’m talking to you. Alexandra Knightley, right? Your mom’s a hero!” I offered a token smile, and suddenly, the crowd was yelling my name, but the chorus of voices was dissonant. Not everyone saw my mother as a savior.

  “Sounds like you’re famous.” String didn’t seem impressed.

  I shielded my face, feeling completely exposed, as I brushed off the unfamiliar hands grabbing at me. “Let’s walk a little faster,” I suggested, quickening my stride. I was relieved when I reached the edge of the mob, where the shouting was less urgent, less desperate.

  Max touched my arm with concern. “I’m okay,” I assured him.

  He shook his head in awe. “Quin’s dad turned out to be quite a lightning rod. I never imagined we’d see that again.” He was pointing to graffiti drawn on the jailhouse wall—the mark of the Resistance in bright red paint. It made me think of Quin.

  As we walked further into downtown Oakland, there was a subtle shift in String’s easygoing demeanor. His eyes rounded every corner before we passed. And there was plenty to see.

  “We call this Eupho row.” String pointed ahead, where hundreds of teenagers lined the block, spilling out into an asphalt basketball court. From a distance, they seemed normal, engaged, chatting. Infectious laughter rose around them like music. But up close was something different, dissonant. I watched as one brown-haired girl approached another, both talking but not to the other, both giggling but disconnected.

  “Gotta go!” String pulled Max by the arm, and they started running. I followed them, sirens at our backs. “In here,” String directed, ducking inside the lobby of an apartment building.

  Confused, I turned to Max for an explanation. “Augustus,” he said. “You heard, right? Drug czar?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s been raiding it every day since he was appointed.”

  I peeked out the door. Even with a group of officers barking at them, Eupho row was mostly intact, an unbroken line of perpetually smiling faces. A few ran, but most stared, vacant and content. “Why aren’t they running?” Before Max opened his mouth to speak, I answered my own question. “They’re completely oblivious.”

  String smirked at Max. “Blissfully oblivious,” he said. “C’mon.” He gestured up the stairs. “This is my building.”

  Climbing the stairs to his door on the third story, I still had second thoughts. But I had come this far and was curious, as always.

  String’s apartment was a lot like String himself—a little edgy, a lot mysterious. “How old are you?” I asked him, as we settled in on his soft leather sofa. His furnishings looked modern and expensive, his selections—if they were his—a far cry from a teenage boy’s.

  “Nineteen.”

  I looked at him skeptically, eyeing his coffee table, where a granite sculpture of a lion stood guard. On one wall was an oversized television screen; on the other, an abstract painting.

  “I have a good job,” he explained. “Really good. Lots of benefits, like this place.” He grinned at Max.

  Swallowing my question, I decided not to press him yet.

  Instead I wondered, “How’d you get your nickname?”

  Max giggled. “Whatever he tells you, don’t believe him.”

  “Now why would you say that, Maximus?” String teased. Turning to me with a wily grin, he began. “It’s a legend, actually. When I was a little boy, I rescued a kitten using a single piece of string.”

  Doubtful, I raised my eyebrows.

  “Absolute truth, cross my heart.” String traced an X across his chest in a gesture that somehow made him even less believable. “This poor kitten crawled into a storm drain. I was walking home from school with my friend, and we could hea
r it crying. So I pried off the cover, but the kitten was so scared, and my arms weren’t long enough to reach. We couldn’t think of what to do until I saw this thread hanging loose from my shirt. I pulled it off and dangled it. Lured that kitten right out.”

  Max exploded in laughter. “That’s a new one.”

  “I take it there are other versions of the legend.”

  Nodding, Max explained, “Haven’t heard the same version twice.”

  “A legend is only as good as its mystery,” String proclaimed with a straight face. “Right, Maximizer?”

  “What about you, Lex? That’s short for something, right?”

  “Alexandra,” I replied. “Alexandra Knightley.”

  String’s finger alternated tick tock between me and Max. “How did you two meet?”

  “Kind of a long story,” I told String. “I’m surprised Max hasn’t mentioned it.” I tried not to seem hurt.

  “No offense,” String countered, “but I got the feeling Max didn’t really want to talk about the past. He wanted to forget it.”

  “Oh.”

  Max avoided my eyes.

  “Speaking of living in the present…” String’s eyes danced, as he walked into another room.

  With String gone, Max had no choice but to meet my stare. “Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to be somebody else—reinvent myself, you know?”

  “What was wrong with the old Max? I was kind of partial to him.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.”

  I gave Max a sympathetic look.

  “Quin had you. Elana had Edison. Everybody had somebody, except for me. I can’t even get my family to acknowledge my existence. The old Max is kind of a loser, I guess.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  He shrugged half-heartedly. “I don’t feel that way anymore, not with String around.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Online,” Max whispered. “A few months ago.”