Five's Legacy Page 4

  Something sparks in my mind and I look around. I’m still wearing the glove with the sheathed blade but I don’t see anything else on the beach.

  “My bag . . .” I say, starting to get frantic. The Chest may not have had anything I thought I could use in it, but Rey talked about it as if it was Lorien’s last hope—other than me and the rest of the Garde, that is. There’s no way I can lose it.

  It’s the only thing I have left.

  A few yards away, I see a guy picking up my duffel bag. He tosses back the canvas flap and starts to pull out the Loric Chest.

  “Hey!” I shout in the loudest voice I can muster.

  Before I can think about what I’m doing I reach out my hand and feel a spark of telekinetic energy. The bag and Chest fly from the man’s hands and into mine. He’s stunned, but it looks to everyone else like he’s just tossed it over to me. I clutch it against my torso.

  Someone snaps a picture of me on their phone.

  “Hey.” The woman beside me stands up, sounding annoyed. “What are you trying to do, man? This kid’s obviously been through something and you want to take pictures of him?”

  “I thought we’d need pictures to run if it’s a story,” the photographer says. “If this ‘something’ is big, we need to document it.”

  They start to argue. I get up and start to run.

  “Hey!” someone is shouting behind me—the woman, probably—but I don’t look back. I just put my head down and make a beeline toward the closest bushes and trees. Anything that will give me cover. My legs feel like jelly and my head pounds, but I keep going until I can’t hear anyone yelling behind me anymore.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been in real civilization that I’ve almost forgotten how to function. Clinging to my bag, I do everything wrong. I almost knock down a few people as I run with my eyes looking over my shoulder. I catch bits and pieces of curses as I pass.

  “Watch it, you little piece of . . .”

  “. . . damned punk. I should . . .”

  “. . . the hell do you think you’re doing . . .”

  But I ignore all of them. Running, suddenly desperate to get away from the people and the rest of the world.

  I come across another park, all lush lawns and palm trees, with a few rows of big shrubs. That’s where I head. The sun is rising, and people are already starting to fill the beach a hundred yards away, but I nestle down into the bushes until I’m as far out of sight as I can be. My body aches. My chapped lips burn. But at least I’ve gotten a little water.

  Rey’s voice rings in my head, like some kind of taunting ghost. I know exactly what he’d say.

  This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You’re off your little island. You got what you asked for. Welcome back to the real world.

  I groan. It’s all I have the strength to do. Then I close my eyes and slip into darkness.

  When I wake up, the sun is starting to go down. I’ve slept through the entire day, but I’m better for it. I’m still weak getting to my feet, but I don’t feel like I’m immediately going to collapse.

  What I do feel is hunger. So much hunger that my stomach cramps at just the thought of food.

  I have to find something to eat.

  I take a quick stock of everything I own—dirty linen shirt, cargo shorts, sandals that are about to fall apart, and a duffel bag that holds an alien Chest. It’s not a lot to work with, but I’ve also got telekinetic powers.

  And flight.

  I wonder briefly if the flying has to do with my telekinesis or if it’s something different altogether. I’m anxious to try it out again, but my stomach twists and I know I’m not doing anything unless I get some food in me. I find a water fountain in the park and drink until I feel like I’m going to burst, but it doesn’t really help that much with the hunger pangs.

  In the near distance are buildings and lights, and I head in that direction. If there are lights, there are probably people. And if there are people, there’s probably food.

  It doesn’t take long before a sweet smell invades my nose. It smells like food I remember eating at a carnival in the Caribbean before we went off the grid. I follow it through a few streets as the buildings get bigger and the lights get brighter, keeping to the shadows as best I can. People pass me by, but they don’t pay me any mind. In fact, it looks like they’re purposefully avoiding the sight of me—probably because I look like a homeless person, and the last thing they want ruining their night is to have to talk to some destitute kid.

  Perfect.

  And then I find it: a street fair or carnival or whatever it is they call it here in Miami. The road is blocked off and swarming with people, but more importantly, it’s packed with food trucks and little stalls selling what look like crepes and burritos and tacos.

  It feels like all the blood in my body is rushing to my head. People. Everywhere. After so long on the little isolated island, it’s intimidating to see such crowds.

  Calm down, I tell myself. Just take this one step at a time.

  I grab a seat on steps leading up to yet another little park—it’s as if they can’t get enough of them in this city—and start to stake out my options. I could use my powers to float a taco over to myself, but the stands are small and the food is being watched. Besides, Rey was always our cook, so I don’t even know what half the things I’m seeing are.

  I realize how terribly unprepared I am to be back in the real world. I should have planned better. I thought I’d show up in Martinique with a boat—something to trade. I don’t have any money. Not even a penny. Just my Chest.

  And my Legacies.

  My stomach twists again with hunger and I realize what I’m going to have to do: steal. Use my telekinesis to lift some cash off someone down here. Somewhere in the back of my head an alarm is going off—this is an abuse of your Legacy!—but I ignore it. I’m starving. I’ll worry about paying the people back later.

  My eyes scan the crowd. There’s a group of people standing nearby. They’re well dressed in suits and dresses and polished shoes. They definitely look like they could afford to lose a few bucks. It takes me several tries—the first few times I tug at someone’s wallet, they reach to their back pocket to make sure it’s still there—but eventually a leather billfold slips out, and I quickly shoot it into the bushes.

  I don’t move yet, but count backwards from one hundred, watching to see if the guy notices his wallet’s missing or not.

  As if on cue, my stomach makes a terrible gurgling noise when I get to “one.”

  I stroll casually over to the bushes and retrieve the man’s wallet. It’s packed with cash. I grin, shove the bills into my pocket, and then head for the food stalls.

  I stop at the first one I see. It’s some kind of Cuban food, and I end up with a greasy sandwich of pork and cheese that drips all over my hands when I bite into it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. When it’s gone, I move on to tacos, then ice cream. My stomach is filled up quickly, but I push through and keep eating.

  I’m halfway through my ice cream when I realize someone’s watching me.

  A policeman.

  I casually walk away, and he less-than-casually follows me from a distance. I glance over my shoulder just long enough to see him tap something into his cell phone, his eyes never leaving me. It’s possible he just thinks I’m trouble based on how destitute I look, but it’s equally possible that after I ran away from the beach this morning, whoever it was that snapped a picture of me reported me to the police.

  I can’t take that chance.

  I make a beeline for a side street. Once I’m around the corner, I start running. The last thing I need is for an officer to start questioning me, or report me, or worse, try to take me into custody. Then I’d have to make a scene and use my powers and probably alert half the Mogadorian army to my presence. No, I just have to get away.

  I immediately regret eating so much food.

  It sits inside my stomach like a pile of bricks, and I feel like I’m go
ing to vomit after just a few blocks of jogging. Over my shoulder, I see that the officer is keeping up with me. When I duck into an alleyway, I hear his footsteps turn into a run somewhere behind me.

  Go, go, go, I shout at myself in my head. And I’m running as best I can through the alleys and across a side street and behind a huge building and past some fences, and then . . .

  The alleyway dead-ends, and I’m screwed.

  Or at least, I will be screwed if I don’t figure out this new flying thing. It’s not like I know how to make it happen. I stare up at the roof ten stories above me. I have to get up there. And so I clench all my muscles and envision myself floating up, and suddenly I’m not just floating, but shooting up into the air. I go way past the top of the building as my heart pounds, and for a moment I can see out over the ocean for what looks like forever. Then I try to calm down and gently float back to the top of the roof. I land with a bit of a thud, but it’s not bad for my second conscious attempt at getting out of the sky. Certainly better than crash-landing onto the beach.

  I’m basically an alien superhero.

  I peek over the edge of the building. The cop is standing in the alleyway, looking puzzled. Two more people soon join him there, though only one of them is in uniform. The other’s just wearing a suit, from what I can tell. They’re too far away to make out any specifics. After looking around for a while, they disappear.

  I sink down and lean against the waist-high bricks at the edge of the roof. I can sleep here tonight. The air is cool, and I doubt anyone will bother me.

  I pull the leftover money from my pocket and count it. It’s not much, but it’ll get me through the next few days while I figure out what to do next. Then I’m weirdly relieved to find the old red rubber ball in my pocket as well. I stare at the stars while I roll it over the backs of my knuckles.

  It’s kind of strange that they’re the same stars as the ones I used to see from the island. When I look at the sky, it’s almost like I never left. For the millionth time in my life, I wonder if any of the stars I’m seeing are Lorien’s sun.

  When we were on the run, moving through Canada after that Mog found us outside of Montreal, we always slept in shifts. That’s what we called them, at least. In actuality Rey would stay most of the night watching over me. My shift would just be the few minutes in the morning while Rey showered or went to get us food or something. Even in our shack, I think sometimes he’d stay up half the night by the door if he had a feeling or hunch that something would happen. I’d always kind of laughed it off as paranoia, but now, alone on the rooftop of a building in a town I’ve never been in, I wish more than anything that I had someone to look out for me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I MAKE A HOME FOR MYSELF IN SOUTH BEACH.

  I don’t have a roof over my head or anything, but I get familiar enough with the little area that it starts to feel like I know it, at least. Clubs, restaurants, and hotels line the beaches, and from the sidewalks I can see inside, into other worlds that seem so detached from what I grew up with that they’re completely alien to me. There are flashing lights and bands and dancers that spill out into the street. In Martinique I’d seen carnivals and festivals that had dancers but never anything quite like this—Rey had always made sure I was kept inside after dark. But now, alone, I’m free to wander.

  I think about heading up towards Canada, but I’m still weak from the voyage. Besides, I need to practice the hell out of flying before I even begin to think of flying all the way there, which seems like the easiest way to avoid any issues with border patrol or police.

  At first it’s hard for me to fly—without a rush of adrenaline or a near-death experience, I can’t seem to figure out where the power comes from. But over the course of a week or two I get better. Levitating just a few inches off the ground at first, then rising into the air as high as I can before I get freaked out and come falling back to the ground. Sometimes when it’s extra dark, I fly over the ocean, low enough that no one will see me, darting between buoys. I’m getting good at it.

  The rooftops serve as my bed at night. They feel safer than sleeping on the beach or in alleys. During the daytime, I get really good at picking pockets with my telekinesis. I stop feeling bad about it after the second or third time. I’m surviving. If I’m going to make it to Canada—or anywhere else—I’m going to need plenty of cash and supplies. And there are countless targets walking in droves in and out of expensive-looking shops all over the island. I buy a new set of clothes—jeans to cover the scars of One and Two on my ankle—and keep a few other fresh shirts in my bag. In my clean T-shirt and with a wad of cash in my pocket, I’m just another kid in Miami whose parents have given him too much allowance.

  I stay careful when it comes to my powers. They could easily give me away. That and my bulky, heavy Chest, which I carry with me everywhere I go.

  I think about the Garde quite a bit at first. About maybe seeking them out and trying to find them. But how would I even go about doing that? Post “Missing” ads or something? For all I know they could be in shacks in Africa or Indonesia or Antarctica. And if they’re not—if they’re banding together . . . well, no one ever came to find me.

  So I think of them less and less. Every time I discover something new about the city, part of me curses Rey. We could have been doing this all the time instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. I spend my days exploring or playing in arcades or reading books on the beach—doing all the things I didn’t get a chance to do on our island where there were no bookstores or electrical outlets. I feel like I could probably play video games or watch movies forever. I eat up all the stories. I wish I could create them myself.

  I make up for lost time.

  I know what Rey would say. He’d call me lazy. He’d trot out parables about ants and grasshoppers. But I refuse to feel bad about actually living my life for once instead of cowering in fear.

  It’s almost too easy here. I get comfortable.

  Maybe even careless.

  And that’s how she finds me.

  Normally any wallets I lift go straight into my duffel bag, and I go through them later when it’s dark and I’m not in a crowded area. But I’m hungry and low on cash and end up leaning against a palm tree on a nice, quiet section of beach. I’m rifling through my haul when she speaks from behind me.

  “You’re just looking to get busted, aren’t you?”

  I flinch and twist around, pulling my bag closer to me as I get a good look at the person this high, slightly raspy voice has come from. She looks like she’s a few years older than me, with deeply tanned skin and shiny black hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a lot of dark eye makeup and a gray tank top over cutoff jean shorts.

  I stammer the beginnings of a few words and scramble to my feet. She laughs a little.

  “Don’t worry,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve got enough reasons of my own to avoid the cops.”

  She stares at me with dark brown eyes, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve been avoiding people the whole time I’ve been here—old habits—and no one’s really gone out of their way to talk to me. But this girl seems . . . nice.

  “Okay, so do you not talk or something?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

  I open my mouth, and then stop. It’s a simple question, but of course I have no answer. At least not one I can give her truthfully. So I think back to a person I liked being.

  “Cody,” I finally say. The name I used in Canada.

  “Cody,” she repeats. “It’s nice to meet you finally. I’m Emma.”

  Shit. What does she mean by “finally”? I stare at her face, analyzing it, looking for signs that she might be a Mog—ready to fight or fly at a moment’s notice if it comes to that.

  “Oh, please. I’ve seen you lurking around. It’s impossible not to. I’m surprised the police haven’t picked you up yet. You look totally sketch when you’re on the prowl. It’s crazy that you even get close eno
ugh to people to lift off them.”

  Oh. Well, the good news is, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m able to pick pockets because of my Legacy. The bad news is, apparently I’m not nearly as stealthy as I thought I was.

  “No offense,” she continues, squinting at me a little. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “I guess not,” I say. I’ve never really thought about it. “I used to talk a lot when I was younger and then it was just me and . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence—realize that I’ve said too much already.

  Luckily, Emma simply nods her head.

  “You working for anyone?” she asks.

  “No, it’s only me,” I say. Then I’m confused about what she’s even asking. “Wait, what do you mean?”

  Stupid. I don’t know why, but I’m slipping up. I haven’t told her anything important—haven’t even scratched the fucked-up surface that is my past—but there’s no reason I should be telling her anything.

  She just smiles and nods at my bag.

  “Buy me an arepa and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  If Rey were here, we’d be fleeing. Gone. I wouldn’t have even been given the chance to talk to Emma. But as much as I imagine Rey’s voice shouting at me to excuse myself and blend in with the crowd and make a break for the nearest sparsely inhabited island, he’s not actually here.

  Besides, I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time. Not really. Maybe I’ll learn something useful. And if anything goes wrong and she leads me into a trap or something, I’ve got telekinetic powers and the ability to fly away. I’m practically untouchable.

  “Okay,” I say, forcing a little smile. “What’s an arepa?”

  She takes me to a little food stand up the beach and I order two arepas. When the cart owner tells me it’ll be six dollars, Emma says something in Spanish and the owner scowls.

  “Three dollars,” he says, handing over two golden disks that shine in the sunlight. I pay and we walk away. The beach is on one side of us, a row of luxury hotels on the other.

  “What was that about?” I ask. I bite into my arepa, which turns out to be one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten—savory-sweet corn cakes sandwiching melted white cheese. I’m in heaven.