Pittacus Lore - The Power of Six

“I couldn’t sleep. Neither could Six,” I answer, which technically is the truth, but it doesn’t take away the guilt. I know that Sarah is the girl for me, but I can’t seem to stop these new feelings I have.

Six sighs. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“They’ve probably opened my Chest.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“No, I don’t. But after I grabbed that rock from your Chest and it started pulsing and hurting my hand, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling I got from it. And it just now came to me that it probably has something to do with my Chest.”

“They’ve had your Chest for three years now,” I say. “So you think it’s possible for them to open the Chests without us, without us being dead?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? But I have this feeling that they got into mine and that when I touched that stone it somehow led the scouts to our house.”

“Why send so few?” Sam asks between yawns. “I mean, why not wait for reinforcements before attacking?”

“Maybe they got scared and panicked?” Six offers.

“Maybe one of them wanted to be the hero,” I say.

Six rolls down her window and listens. When she’s satisfied, she says, “Regardless. Next time there will be more of them. Pikens and krauls and whatever else they can throw at us.”

“You’re probably right,” Sam whispers. He’s drifting off. “I’ll tell you one thing. This being on the run is really wearing me down.”

“Try doing it for eleven years,” I say.

“I think I’m a little homesick,” he mumbles.

I lean forward and see that in his lap he’s holding his father’s old glasses, the ones with the thick lenses he used to wear in Paradise.

“It’s not too late to go back, Sam. You know that, right?”

He frowns. “I’m not going back.” It’s with far less conviction this time around than when he had first said it in the North Carolina motel. “Not until I find my dad. Or until I at least learn what happened to him.”

His dad? Six mouths to me, confused.

Later, I mouth back.

“Fair enough,” I say. “We’ll figure it out eventually.” I turn back to Six. “So, where do we head tomorrow morning?”

“Now that it seems they opened my Chest, I guess we’ll see where the wind carries us. It hasn’t let me down yet,” she says in a wistful sort of tone, then glances over at me. “Did you know that if it wasn’t for the wind and my need for caffeine one night in Pennsylvania, the night before the attack in Paradise, I’d have never gotten there in time?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I was drifting through the Midwest, sensing you guys were in Ohio or in West Virginia or Pennsylvania after I found some news online of what I thought was probably the handiwork of Mogs in Athens near that college; but after a few weeks of coming up empty, I was certain I’d lost your trail. I figured you guys had taken off for California or Canada by that point. So there I was, standing in the parking lot of this strip mall, tired and lost, practically broke, when this huge gust of wind ripped past me and blew open the door to a coffee shop on my left. I thought I would refuel and get back out there and figure something out, but in the corner of the shop was an open computer for customers. I bought a large coffee and started searching the internet. Sure enough, I found an article about the house on fire that you jumped out of.”

I’m embarrassed to know how easy it was to find me. No wonder Henri wanted to keep me home or at school all the time.

“If it wasn’t for that gust of wind opening that door, I would have probably ended up in a diner instead, sipping coffee until daylight. I wrote down all the information I could find on you guys and then I ran down the street looking for an all-night copy place. That’s when I sent the fax and the letter with my number, to try to warn you guys or, at the very least, to tip you off so you could brace yourselves until I got there. And I arrived just in the nick of time.”

THE WIND CARRIES US NORTH TO AN ALABAMA motel where we stay two nights, again thanks to Sam using one of my identities. From there we drive west and spend a night beneath the stars in an open field in Oklahoma, which we follow up with two more nights in a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. And from there, for no apparent reason-at least for no reason she’ll admit to-Six drives one thousand miles east to rent a log cabin nestled in the mountains of the Maryland panhandle, a mere five-minute drive to the West Virginia border, and three short hours from the Mogadorian cave. We’re exactly 197 miles from Paradise, Ohio, where our journey first began. Half a tank of gas from Sarah.

Before my eyes even open, I can already feel it’s going to be a tough day, one of those days when the reality of Henri’s death will hit me like a sledgehammer and no matter what I do, the pain won’t leave. I’ve been having these days more often. Days filled with remorse. Filled with guilt. Filled with a genuine sadness to know I’ll never talk to him again. The thought cripples me. I wish I could change it. But as Henri once said, “Some things can never be undone.” And then there’s Sarah, and the terrible guilt that’s crept in since leaving Florida for allowing myself to get so close to Six that I almost kissed her.

I take a deep breath, finally opening my eyes. The pale morning light enters the room. Henri’s letter, I think. I have no choice but to read it now. It’s too dangerous to delay it any longer. Not after almost losing it in Florida.

I slip my hand beneath the pillow and remove the diamond-bladed dagger and the letter. I’ve been keeping both of them close to me. I stare at the envelope for a moment, trying to imagine under what circumstances the letter was written. Then I sigh, knowing it doesn’t really matter and that I’m just wasting time, and with the dagger I make a clean cut along the envelope’s seal and remove the pages. Henri’s perfect handwriting fills five yellow legal-sized sheets with thick black ink. I take a deep breath, and then let my eyes fall upon the top sheet.

January 19

J -

I’ve written this letter many times over the years, never knowing whether it might be my last, but if you’re reading this now, then surely the answer is yes. I’m sorry, John. I truly am. We Cepans who came, our duty was to protect you nine at all costs, including our lives. But as I put down these words at our kitchen table, mere hours after you saved me in Athens, I know it’s never been duty that has kept you and me together, but rather love that will always be a stronger bond than any obligation. The truth is that my death was always going to happen. The only variables were when and how, and if it hadn’t been for you, then I would have certainly died today. Whatever the circumstances of my death, please don’t blame yourself. I never expected to survive here, and when we left Lorien all those years ago, I knew I’d never be going back.

In the time between me writing these words and you reading them, I wonder how much you’ve discovered. I’m confident you now know that I kept a lot from you. Probably more than I should have. For most of your life I wanted you to stay focused, to train hard. I wanted to give you as normal a life on Earth as I could. I’m sure you’ll find that idea laughable, but to know the full truth would have added a world of stress during an already-stressful time.

Where to begin? Your father’s name was Liren. He was brave and powerful, and he lived his life with integrity and purpose. As you witnessed during your visions of the war, he carried out these traits until the very end, even when he knew the war was unwinnable. And that’s about all any of us can really hope for, to die with our dignity, to die with honor and valor. To die knowing we did everything we could. That was the epitome of who your father was. It’s the epitome of who you are, too, even if you don’t necessarily believe it.