Five's Legacy Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Excerpt from The Fall of Five

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Pittacus Lore

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  “THE MOGS ARE HERE!”

  My eyes shoot open as I jerk upright, hoping that sentence was just something from a bad dream.

  But it’s not.

  “They’re here,” Rey whispers again as he crosses over the floor of our little shack to where I’m sleeping on top of a pallet of blankets.

  I’m off the floor in seconds. Rey’s solar-powered lantern swings in front of my face, and it blinds me. I flinch away and then he turns it off, leaving me in complete darkness. As he pushes me towards the back of our home, all I can make out is a sliver of silver light peeking through the window.

  “Out the back.” His voice is full of urgency and fear. “I’ll hold them off. Go, go, go.”

  I start grabbing at the air where he’d stood moments before but find nothing. I can’t see anything: My eyes still burn from the lantern.

  “Rey—”

  “No.” He cuts me off from somewhere in the dark. “If you don’t go now, we’re both dead.”

  There’s a clattering near the front of the shack, followed by the sound of something—or someone—slamming against the front door. Rey lets out a pained cry but the inside of the shack is still nothing but an abyss of black in my eyes. I know there’s a metal bar over the door that’s not going to hold up against much more than a little force. It’s for show more than anything else. If someone really wanted into our shack, they could just blow through the flimsy wooden walls. And if it’s the Mogs . . .

  There’s no time to think, only to react. It’s me they’re after. I’ve got to get to safety.

  I rip away the piece of cloth that serves as a makeshift curtain and throw myself through the little window. I land with a plop in a three-inch puddle of mud, slop, and things I don’t even want to imagine—I’m in the hog pen.

  A single thought runs through my mind. I’m going to die a thirteen-year-old boy covered in pig shit on an island in the middle of nowhere.

  Life is so unfair.

  The hogs squeal—I’ve disturbed their sleep—and it snaps me back into the moment. Old training regimens and lectures from years before take over my brain and I’m moving again, checking my flanks to make sure there are no Mogs that have already made their way to the back of the hut. I start to think about what their plan of action might be. If the Mogs actually knew I was on the island, I’d be surrounded already. No, it must be a single scout that stumbled upon us by accident. Maybe he had time to report us to the others, maybe not. Whatever the case, I have to get out of the line of fire. Rey will take out the scout. He’ll be fine. At least that’s what I tell myself, choosing to ignore how frail Rey’s looked lately.

  He has to be okay. He always is.

  I head for the jungle behind our shack. My bare feet sink into the sand, as if the island itself is trying to slow me down. I’m dressed only in dark athletic shorts, and branches and shrubs around me scratch at my bare chest and stomach as I enter the cover of the trees. I’ve done this sort of thing before, once, in Canada. Then, coats and a few bags weighed me down. But we’d had a little more warning. Now, in the sticky-hot night of the Caribbean, I’m weighed down only by my lack of stamina.

  As I hurl myself through the dense vegetation, I think of all the mornings I was supposed to spend jogging along the beach or hiking through the forest that I actually spent playing solitaire or simply lazing around. Doing what I really wanted to do, like drawing little cartoons in the sand. Coming up with short stories told by stick figures. Rey always said I shouldn’t actually write anything down—that any journal or notes I wrote could be found and used as proof of who I am. But writing and drawing in the sand was temporary. When the tide came in, my stories were gone. Even just doing that caused me to work up a sweat in this damned climate, and I’d return to Rey, pretending to be exhausted. He’d comment on the timing of my imaginary run and then treat me to a rich lunch as a reward. Rey is a taskmaster when it comes to doling out things to do, but his lungs are bad and he always trusted that I was doing the training he told me to do. He had no reason not to—no reason to think I wouldn’t take our situation seriously.

  It wasn’t just the avoidance of having to work my ass off in the heat that kept me from training. It was the monotony of it all that I hated. Run, lift, stretch, aim, repeat—day in and day out. Plus, we’re living out in the middle of nowhere. Our island isn’t even on any maps. I never thought the Mogs would ever find us.

  Now, I’m afraid that’s coming back to haunt me. I wheeze as I run. I’m totally unprepared for this attack. Those mornings lazing around the beach are going to get me killed.

  It doesn’t take long before there’s a stitch in my side so sore that I think it’s possible I’ve burst some kind of internal organ. I’m out of breath, and the humid air feels like it’s trying to smother me. My hands grasp onto low-hanging branches as I half-pull my way through thick green foliage, the bottoms of my feet scraping against fallen limbs and razor-sharp shells. Within a few minutes the canopy above me is so dense that only pinpricks of the moonlight shine through. The jungle has given way to a full-blown rain forest.

  I’m alone in the dark in a rain forest with alien monsters chasing after me.

  I pause, panting and holding my side. Our island is small, but I’m only maybe a fifth of the way across it. On the other side of the island a small, hidden kayak is waiting for me, along with a pack of rations and first aid gear. The last-chance escape vessel, something that’ll let me slip into the dark of the night and disappear on the ocean. But that seems so far away now, with my lungs screaming at me and my bare feet bleeding. I lean against a tree, trying to catch my breath. Something skitters across the forest floor a few feet away from me and I jump, but it’s only one of the little green lizards that overrun the island. Still, my heart pounds. My head is dizzy.

  The Mogadorians are here. I’m going to die.

  I can’t imagine what Rey is doing back at the shack. How many Mogs are here? How many can he take on? I hope I’m right, and it’s just a single scout. I realize I haven’t heard any gunshots. Is that a good sign, or does it mean the bastards got to him before he was able to fire off a single round?

  Keep going, I tell myself, and then start out again. My calves are burning and my lungs feel like they’re about to split open every time I inhale. I stumble, hitting the ground hard and knocking what little breath I had out of me.

  Somewhere behind me, I can hear movement in the trees.

  I glance around. Without a clear view of the sky, I can’t even tell which direction I’m going anymore. I’m totally screwed. I have to do something.

  I abandon the plan to cross the island. I’m in no shape to do so. For a moment I think of burrowing down into the brush—maybe finding something to hide in until I can slip through the forest—but then I think of all the fist-sized spiders and ants and snakes that could be waiting there for me, and imagine a Mogadorian scout stepping on me by accident.

  So I head up instead. Gathering every ounce of strength I have, I use a few sturdy vines to pull myself hand over hand up to a low branch on a nearby tree. All I can think of are the many different types of beasts Rey’s told me the Mogs can command, any one of whic
h would like nothing more than to tear me apart.

  Why don’t we have giant hell-beasts to fight for us?

  My arms are shaking by the time I squat on the limb, the wood creaking under my weight as I stare into the blackness, hoping over and over again that nothing will emerge from it. That I can just wait this out.

  That it will all just go away.

  There’s no telling how much time passes. If I’d been more put together or hadn’t been so taken by surprise, I might have remembered to grab my watch on the way out the window. It’s weird—time always seemed like it didn’t mean anything on the island, and now it means everything. How many minutes before more of them arrive? How many seconds before they find me? I try to keep from trembling, and my stomach from turning over—between the running, my fear, and the damp smell of pig that clings to me in a thick coat of sludge, I’m teetering on the edge of vomiting. Maybe the stinking layer of crap will help keep me camouflaged, at least.

  It’s not a very reassuring silver lining.

  Finally, a silhouette starts to take shape in the darkness. I draw in closer to the tree. The figure is human sized. Maybe even a little hunched over, leaning on a cane as he steps into the dim moonlight. He’s wearing a blue linen shirt, khaki cargo pants, and sneakers that might have been white at some point. His beard is white, streaked with black, his wild hair almost silver.

  I recognize him immediately, of course. Rey.

  He’s got something held against him, wrapped in a piece of cloth. I start to call down to him, but he’s already staring holes into me, his lips quivering, as if he’s fighting every urge to yell. He simply stands there, the silence hanging in the thick air between us. Finally, I break it.

  “Well? Did you get him?”

  Rey doesn’t respond immediately, just looks away, staring down at the ground.

  “What’d you forget?” His voice has a slight rattle to it.

  “What?” I ask, my breath short.

  He throws his parcel down on the ground. Part of the cloth falls back, and I can make out a familiar corner.

  “The Chest?” I ask. My Loric Chest. The most sacred thing I own. The treasure I’m not actually allowed to look into. The container that supposedly holds my inheritance and the tools to rebuild my home planet, and I can’t even peek inside until Rey thinks I’m ready to—whatever that means.

  “The Chest.” Rey nods.

  I scramble down the tree, half falling to the earth.

  “We should get going, right?” I ask. My words are spilling out now, my tongue stumbling over the letters as I try to say a million things at once. “You don’t have any weapons? Or our food? Where are we going now? Shouldn’t we be—”

  “Your Chest is the second most important thing you have to protect after your own life. It was stupid to leave it. Next time, it’s your priority to keep it safe.”

  “What are you—”

  “You made it half a mile into the forest,” he says, ignoring me. His voice is getting louder now, filled with barely restrained anger. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I guess this is proof. You haven’t been doing your training. You’ve been lying to me about it. Every day.”

  “Rey . . .”

  “I already knew that, though.” He sounds sad now. “I could tell just by looking at you.”

  My mind is racing, trying to figure out why we’re still standing here. Why he’s worried about my training when there could be a whole fleet of Mogs on their way after us. Unless . . .

  “There aren’t any Mogs here,” I say quietly.

  Rey just shakes his head and stares at the ground.

  This was a test. No, worse than that: This was Rey’s way of trapping me and catching me in a lie. And even though, yes, I technically have been less than honest about my training regimen, I can’t believe Rey would scare me like this.

  “Are you kidding me?” Unlike Rey, I don’t have the power to keep my anger from clouding my voice. “I was running for my life. I thought I was going to die.”

  “Death is the least of your worries for now,” he says, pointing at my ankle. Underneath the layer of mud and crap is an ugly red mark that appeared a few days ago. A mark that’s starting to scab over, and will soon turn into a scar. The mark that—thanks to some otherworldly charm—shows me that another one of my fellow Garde has been murdered. Two is dead. Three and Four are all that stand between death and me.

  I am Number Five.

  I suddenly feel stupid for thinking I was about to be killed. Of course I wasn’t. Numbers Three and Four have to die before I can. I should have been worried about being captured and tortured for information. Not that Rey ever tells me anything.

  And I realize what this is about. Ever since the scar appeared, it’s like something within Rey snapped. He’s been getting sicker the last few years, and I’m not anywhere as strong as he thinks I should be. I haven’t developed any of the magic powers I’m supposed to have. Neither of us can put up a good fight. That’s why we’re here on this stupid island, hiding.

  Rey’s eyes have been on the ground, but he finally raises them to mine, looking at me for a long moment. Then he nods at the Chest.

  “Carry it back,” he says. Then he’s shuffling off into the darkness, leaving me in the sparse moonlight, staring at the duffel bag that contains my Chest.

  We weren’t under attack. It was only a test.

  I’m not going to die on the island. At least, not tonight.

  I pick up my Chest, hugging it close to me, letting the corners dig into my stomach.

  I stare into the blackness that Rey has disappeared into, and in that moment there’s only one emotion filling me. Not fear or relief or even shame for being found out. It’s the feeling that the only person I have in this world has betrayed me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SUN RISES AS I WASH OFF IN THE OCEAN and think of Canada, the first place I remember living here on Earth.

  I really liked Canada.

  In Canada we ate butter tarts and French fries covered in gravy and rubbery globs of cheese, all served out of carts on the sides of the roads. Even when it was summer there it wasn’t all that hot. I learned a little bit of French. Rey didn’t like the cold, but I did. He was Albert in Canada, a name he’d picked after seeing Alberta on a map, thinking it would make him sound like more of a local. “Old Al” he called himself sometimes when talking to servers or cashiers. I always thought it was funny when he dumbed his personality down and pretended to be my grandfather at times like that, using words like “whippersnapper” that he’d picked up from the TV. No one questioned the kindly old man and his grandson.

  I was Cody then. I liked being Cody. I was a person, not just Five. At night, Rey would tell me about Lorien and the Mogadorians and the other Garde—my kindred spirits scattered across the world—and how one day we’d bring about the glorious return of our home planet. Back then, everything seemed like a fairy tale. All the aliens and powers and other worlds were nothing but stories to get me to do my chores. Didn’t clean up after yourself? Lorien didn’t stand a chance. Forget to brush your teeth? The Mogs would get you for sure.

  Then they actually came.

  We’d been living up near Montreal for six months—maybe a whole year—when Rey found out they were coming for us. I’m still not sure how. All I know is that suddenly I was running through the woods behind our little cottage while a few Mogadorians tracked me. I was six years old, scared out of my mind. Eventually I’d hidden in a tree. I thought I was a goner until Rey appeared, taking out the Mogs with a broken-off shovel and a shotgun he’d bought on the black market. He’s always been good with tools.

  “Albert . . .” I’d said from the tree. We always called each other by our false names, never knowing who was listening. “Are they gone?”

  “Albert’s dead,” Rey had said. I knew what he meant, even though I was so young. I’d felt it in my gut. It meant we weren’t safe. It meant we couldn’t stay there, in that place I liked so much. />
  So we went on the move, and we didn’t stop for a long time.

  Rey was Aaron after that, followed by Andy, Jeffrey, and then James. I was Zach, Carson, and then Bolt, which was the last name I got to pick before Rey started choosing them. Maybe I’m forgetting a few in there—it all seems so long ago. I know that I was Carson when Rey’s cough first appeared, along with the dark hollows under his eyes. We were camping in the Appalachians. He thought it was the cold that was making him sick, so we started moving south, making our way through the United States and towards a warmer climate. Eventually—after a few sketchy boat rides Rey arranged for us—we set up camp in Martinique, where we stayed for a while. But Rey’s cough just got worse. He kept telling me he was feeling better, but at some point I stopped believing him.

  I was always the better liar.

  As a kid, I thought of lies as little stories or games. Sometimes people we came across would ask questions—Where were my parents? Where was I born?—and I’d just start talking, making up these elaborate histories for Rey and me. Having secrets means you do a lot of lying. Not because you’re evil or a bad person or anything like that, but out of necessity.

  Really, Rey trained me to lie about all those morning runs and hikes. I make a mental note to tell him this later.

  Sometimes I wonder if Rey is crazy. Like, what if he’s just a really messed-up old guy who stole me from a loving, normal home and all of this alien stuff is simply made up? Maybe he gave me drugs or brainwashed me into having fake memories of some place that couldn’t possibly exist. All my life I’ve heard about Lorien, but the only proof I have that any of it is true is a few weird-looking guys who came after me in Canada.

  Well, that plus two scars that appeared like magic on my ankle and a Chest that’s supposed to house all kinds of treasures. A Chest that doesn’t open no matter how much you prod at it—I know, because I’ve tried about a million times to find out what’s inside over the years.

  The treasure of Lorien. Sure. A lot of good it’s doing out here in the middle of nowhere.

  I don’t mind the beach, really. I mean, I get why people go there on vacation. When we first got to the Caribbean, we stuck to the bigger, more populated resorts, just living on the fringes. We’d watch the tourists roll in every year, their brand-new beach clothes a parade of bright colors as they sipped drinks out of giant coconuts and pineapples that weren’t even native to the islands (not that they’d have known). But when One died—when that first scar formed on my ankle—Rey flipped out. I was nine years old and it was like the final string keeping him in check snapped, and he went into full-on survival mode. No more people. We’d have to live life completely off the grid. And so he’d cashed in whatever possessions we had, bought a few supplies and a small sailboat, and headed out to find the most deserted, godforsaken place he could. Gone were the restaurants and air-conditioning. No more TV, video games, or hot showers. Just a beach and a shack. I don’t know what kind of deal Rey must have struck to find this island, but I’ll give him one thing—it must be hidden away pretty well. A few times a year people mistakenly wash ashore here, but Rey always gets rid of them fast.