“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.
“Just keeping that guy from taking advantage of you,” Emma says. “He thought you were a tourist.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Just that I knew he was overcharging you.” She pauses for a beat. “Maybe I mentioned my brother’s name. He’s kind of a big deal around here.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Let’s just say if you were lifting those wallets for someone, it’d probably be him.”
“What, is he like . . . a gangster?” Even as the words come out I realize how dumb they sound, but my mind immediately went to a mob movie I caught the day before when I’d spent half the waking hours in a theater. Cheese strings from my mouth to the golden half moon in my hand.
“Something like that.” Emma looks at me and smirks. I feel stupid, like some kind of naïve kid.
“So do you work for him?” I can’t picture her as one of the femme fatales from the movies. She’s too young, obviously, but also too friendly. “Is this the part where a black car drives up and I get shoved in and held for ransom or something?”
“I’d probably choose someone who wasn’t picking pockets if I was going to try to get some kind of ransom money,” she says with a little smirk. “No, I don’t work for my brother. I’m nothing like him. Don’t even talk to him, really. Besides, the last thing I want is someone telling me what I can or can’t do. Especially if that someone is as stupid as my brother.”
I smile, genuinely. I can kind of get where she’s coming from.
“Besides,” she adds. “He thinks I’m too young and that he doesn’t want me involved.” She lets out a long sigh between bites of her snack. Her mouth is half full when she speaks again. “So where are you from?”
“Why are you talking to me?” I ask, ignoring her question. She looks a little confused. “I mean, why did you come talk to me on the beach?”
“I wanted an arepa.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. I saw you around and knew what you were doing. I figured you could use a few pointers. I thought maybe you’d be my new beach buddy. I’m tired of working alone.”
“Working?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, grins and then pulls a black leather billfold from her pocket. The first wallet I stole—the one I carry my cash around in now. My hand reaches to my back pocket and confirms what I already know. Somehow she’s managed to snag my wallet. I never felt a thing.
“Not everyone’s as easy a mark as you,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I could use a hand if you’re up to it.”
“You want me to steal wallets for you?”
“With me.”
I hesitate. Walking around and talking to Emma is one thing, but I can practically hear Rey yelling at me and telling me not to get close or make friends with anyone but him. But she’s obviously not a Mog.
“Come on,” she says, sensing my reluctance. “Look, I don’t know where you’re from but it’s obvious you’re not as familiar with this place as you should be if you were about to shell out six bucks for some street food, even if it was delicious. Let’s meet up again and get into some trouble. I’m so bored this summer. That’s why I came and found you.”
Her last words stand out to me. She sought me out, came and found me on the beach. The least I can do is consider hanging out with her a little more.
“Sure,” I say.
Her face lights up a little.
“Great.” She pulls out her cell phone and grimaces at the screen. “Shit, I gotta go. What’s your number?”
“I don’t have one,” I say, a little sheepish.
“What do you mean you—” she starts. Then her face falls a little. “Well, meet me on the beach tomorrow. Same place I found you today. I’ll be down in the afternoon.”
I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
She flashes one more smile and tosses my wallet to me. I fumble with it, uncoordinated. By the time I have it back in my pocket, she’s halfway to the street, disappearing into the throng of tourists.
Holy shit, I think. Did I just make a friend?
The realization that I’m not sure because I’ve never had a friend in my life other than Rey is crushing. How am I supposed to save a planet overrun with a warmongering species if I can’t even figure out how to interact with other people?
My thoughts flash to the other Garde. What if I don’t get along with them?
CHAPTER SEVEN
INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR EMMA IN THE SPOT where she snuck up on me yesterday, I stay half a beach away, loitering between some bathrooms and a thick line of plants. That way I’ll be able to see if she shows up with a Mog brigade or something—though I don’t really think she’s going to. I’m just trying to be cautious.
And I don’t want her to catch me by surprise again.
Emma appears early in the afternoon. She looks around for me before shrugging and sitting underneath the palm tree where she found me. She waits for a while—twenty minutes maybe—as I try to talk myself into walking over.
It’s weird how nervous I feel. This is just so foreign to me, meeting up with someone. Talking to someone new at all. I feel awkward.
When she stands up and looks like she’s going to leave, I grit my teeth and head her way.
“Hey!” she says with a grin when she catches sight of me. “I thought you were going to stand me up.”
“Sorry,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I, uh, lost track of time.”
“No problem. It’s nice out today. Let’s hang out here for a while.”
And so we sit and chat. Or, mostly she talks, and I respond to questions as vaguely as I can—or with outright lies. Where am I from? Around. Where do I live? Not far from the beach. What about my parents or family? They’re here and there. They travel a lot. I’m left to my own devices. I pick a pocket or two on occasion because I think it’s fun.
Emma doesn’t press me about anything, which almost makes me feel bad for all the lies I tell her—that I’ve got a home to go to at night and a loving family somewhere. She’s easy to talk to in a way that Rey never was. Mostly because she talks a lot about herself, and everything she says is new to me. Sometimes she slips into Spanish and it sounds so pretty that I don’t even point out to her that I can’t understand her.
Emma isn’t at all the person she made herself out to be when we first met, so self-assured and street smart. As she talks I can see the cracks begin to show. Her brother might be some kind of criminal guy—that much I think is true—but she’s just a rebellious girl who has gotten good at sneaking things from other people, looking for some adventure during the summer. Emma really does have a loving family and a home to go back to every night. But from what I can tell she’s hungry to be a part of something, to get a taste of danger.
It’s funny: I never imagined people would actually go out looking for trouble or danger. I guess when you spend your life hiding from everything to keep something bad from happening, stuff like that loses its thrill. Still, when she suggests we go out and lift a few wallets or purses, I go along. I think of it as a game, or training. Lying. Hiding. Stealth. These are all things that Rey would technically approve of since they’re skills that’ll help keep me hidden away from the Mogs.
Right?
I find out pretty quickly that I’m not the best thief when I’m not using my powers. I only have to be chased through the streets of South Beach once to figure that out. Emma can’t see how I’ve made it so far without getting caught, but I just shrug. My role becomes that of the distraction. I’m the person who stops and asks for directions, or falls down in front of a mark while she picks their pocket.
That I’m not terrible at: I’m basically just lying and telling stories.
And before I know it w
e have a system that works and are making a lot of money. At least, enough that I’m never hungry or wanting for much, with a little left over to put in my Canada fund. We get good at what we do. We make a code—a sort of Robin Hood pact. We steal only from those who look like they can afford to lose a few bucks. They’re easy to spot, coming in and out of designer stores or hotels. We target tourists, not people who look like locals.
We see each other most days. About a week after first meeting Emma, I ask her why she’s into breaking the law and stealing from people. I’ve deduced by this point that she probably comes from a good enough home that she could just ask her parents for money or something.
“Respect,” she tells me as she tosses some woman’s now-empty wallet into a trash bin on the beach. “That’s what I want. That’s what we need. When people respect you, you can do anything. That’s how you get real power in a city like this. Your name has to mean something to people.”
I want badly to tell her that my name does mean something. To a lot of people. I’m a savior. And a target. But the more time I spend with Emma, the less pressing these things seem, and the farther away Canada lies. With her I’m just a kid eating ice cream and street food every day, spending the afternoons sneaking into movie theaters and lazing around the beach at dusk.
Over the course of a few weeks Emma and I do get a reputation around the beaches—at least enough of one that Emma’s brother hears about us and tells her to lay off before she gets into trouble. I can tell that the locals have changed the way they think about me just from how they look at us when we pass them by. Some with respect. Some with a hint of fear. All of them with knowledge of who we are and what we can do.
It feels good to be acknowledged.
I carry my Chest with me wherever I go, too scared to leave it hidden somewhere. It’s all I have left of the island, and of Rey, which both seem so far away now. At night, I sleep with it pulled close to me. It’s in the moments between sleeping and waking that I find my thoughts drifting to my destiny and the rest of the Garde, to the war and fighting that surely waits in my future. I dream that I never have to be Five again. That I can do whatever I want, no longer bound by the destiny forced upon me by the Elders of Lorien.
But I know that’s something I can’t escape. Not entirely. Either I’ll fight alongside the Garde—seven super-powered soldiers who’ve never met one another, trying to take down an entire army—or the Mogs will kill all of us and take Earth as well.
I wish there was another way: a third option I’m not thinking of. But for the life of me I can’t think of one.
I might as well enjoy my time on this planet while I can.
One night, I spot the perfect target.
Emma and I are hanging out behind one of the fancy hotels that back up to the beach, divvying up what we’ve taken throughout the day. It’s nighttime, and the only people to bother us are a few late-night joggers who just nod to us as they pass us by.
The mark is in his midthirties or so and well dressed in a crisp black button-down shirt, gray pants and shiny black shoes that are impractical for a walk on the beach—even if he is keeping to the sidewalk. His dark hair is swept back and accentuates his pale skin, meaning he’s almost certainly not from Miami. And, most importantly, he’s alone.
Perfect. He’s practically begging us to lift his wallet.
I glance at Emma, who gives me a mischivious grin, one I recognize easily by now.
“What’s the story?” she asks.
“We lost our cat,” I say. “It’s black as night and we’ve been looking for hours.”
She smiles and nods, backing away from me. This is what we do. I provide the story and she does the “heavy lifting.”
As the man approaches, his eyes drift between the two of us but he doesn’t pay much attention. When he’s passed Emma, I step into his path. Emma positions herself behind him.
“Hey, mister. Have you seen a black cat running around here? We’ve been trying to—”
The man moves fast—faster than I would have thought—and in the blink of an eye he’s got Emma out beside him, her arm twisted in his grip. A red leather wallet falls from her fingers and bounces on the sidewalk. The man tightens his fingers around her, and Emma falls to the sand with a small cry. She lets out a string of curses in Spanish.
Shit.
I move forward, but he raises a hand to me, and there’s a command about his presence that causes me to stop. I don’t know what to do. He speaks to Emma in Spanish, saying something that makes her eyes go wide. She mutters back to him, and he responds. His voice is low and smooth. There’s some kind of dawning recognition that sweeps over Emma’s face. Clearly she’s puting things together that I don’t understand, and I start to feel like I’m completely in the dark about what’s actually happening in front of me.
All I know is that I have one friend in the world right now, and she’s on the ground in front of a man who she’s obviously afraid of. So when he reaches for her, I can’t help but react.
I send him stumbling backwards with a telekinetic blast.
The attack isn’t much—more of a flinch of my Legacy than anything—but it serves to put some distance between all of us. The man looks surprised for a moment, and then narrows his eyes at me. I puff out my chest and clench my fists.
“Cody, what are you . . .” Emma looks confused. “Listen, I know who this guy is. Sort of.”
The man bends down slowly, hands out in front of him, and picks his wallet up off the ground. He flicks two cards out from it. They land on the sidewalk.
“If you’re ever looking for work, call this number,” he says. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, he tosses a fifty-dollar bill onto the ground as well.
Then he walks right past us. Away. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. There’s something about him that permeates the air and makes him seem untouchable.
When he’s out of earshot, I turn to Emma.
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned.
“You have no idea who that is, do you?” Emma asks, her eyes never leaving the man’s back.
“No. Who?”
Emma picks up the two cards and holds one out to me. It’s white, with nothing but a black phone number printed in the center of it.
“His name is Ethan,” she says. “I’ve heard my brother talking about him lately. He’s some big important guy who is shaking things up around the city now. Do you know what this means?” She stares at me, but I just shake my head. She grins. “He’s our ticket to the next level.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMA CALLS.
She doesn’t talk to Ethan, but the person on the line seems to know who both she and I are. It makes me nervous, but it’s only a fake name that they know.
Ethan is apparently in dire need of couriers—people to run packages and documents across the city for him. It’s not exactly what Emma had in mind when she called, but she agrees on behalf of both of us.
“I thought you didn’t want someone telling you what to do,” I say when she’s off the phone.
“I don’t.” She frowns a little bit. “But I’m getting bored lifting off of randos every day. Aren’t you?”
Not really, I think, but I just shrug.
“So, what, you’re going to work your way up to master cat burglar or something?” I ask with a smirk.
She punches me in the arm and laughs.
We call in for our assignments. Usually they include picking up envelopes at specific stores or locations and delivering them to stores on the other side of town. Emma hates it, but I don’t mind. I get to see parts of the city I never knew existed. Voodoo shops in Little Haiti and chandeliers hanging in store windows in the Design District. Sometimes we have to split up to get the work done. Mostly we’re running around the city together.
One day on a solo assignment, I meet Ethan again.
He sits in a big corner booth at the back of a restaurant. I have a package for him. The place is fancy, or at least fancie
r than the fast food and street vendor food that I usually eat. He grins widely when he sees me, flashing perfect white teeth.
“There’s my best worker,” he says, motioning to the other side of the booth. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thanks, uh . . .” I realize I don’t know what to call him.
“Please, call me Ethan.”
“Ethan.” I nod.
I plop down in the booth, setting my duffel down at my feet. Before I can say anything else, food starts arriving: plates upon plates of seviche and roasted chicken and pasta swimming in sauce. Ethan encourages me to eat as much as I want, and I practically shovel food into my mouth.
Ethan talks while we eat. “I don’t normally get my hands dirty with small-time crooks or gangs in this city,” he says, cutting into a shrimp on his plate. “But reports get back to me. From people on the streets. From cops. When someone of interest pops up, I know about it. And you and your friend are definitely people of interest. You had a solid partnership before you came across me. Tell me, what brought you to pickpocketing? Why do you do it?”
“To survive.”
Ethan smiles. He gestures to me with his fork.
“You’re young. About fourteen I’d say, right?”
I nod. He continues.
“I lived on the streets when I was your age. It made me a damned good thief and forced me to grow up fast. But it’s not an easy life. And it’s dangerous. My brother didn’t make it.” His voice goes quieter. I freeze. It feels inappropriate to keep eating while he’s telling me about his dead brother, so I sit there with a huge chunk of cheese squirreled away in one of my cheeks as he keeps talking. “I had to look for him for days before I finally found him. Another gang had . . . Well, it’s not important. I don’t want to scare you. More importantly, I see a lot of him in you. It’s uncanny, really. I think he would have survived if he had your talents.”
I tense up. As far as Ethan knows, my talents include delivering mail and taking wallets. I think back to when we met on the beach and I stupidly pushed him with my telekinesis. Has he figured out what that was?
[Lorien Legacies 04.9] The Lost Files: Five's Legacy Page 5