“I don’t know what the future holds,” Sarah says. “But I love you, John. For now, that’s all that matters. We’ll figure the rest out when we get there.”

“I love you too,” I reply, pulling her close and kissing her.

Just then my bracelet begins to tingle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“WHAT’S WRONG?” SARAH ASKS WHEN I SUDDENLY pull away from her.

“My bracelet’s warning me. Something’s up,” I reply, spinning around, trying to take in everything around us at once. “Something bad.”

“This seriously can’t keep happening,” Sarah says with disbelief, referring to last night’s BK emergency.

“No, this is different. Worse.”

Instinctively I touch my bracelet as it sends icicles up and down my arm. We’re on a pretty crowded street in downtown Chicago. I scan the faces around us; people walking home from work, couples heading out for dinner, humans all of them. Not a pale face with a penchant for dark clothing to be seen. Yet the bracelet has never steered me wrong in the past. There’s danger nearby.

“We should get back home,” Sarah says. “Warn the others.”

I shake my head. “No. If they’re following us and we don’t flush them out, we could end up leading them to the others.”

“Crap, you’re right. So what do we do?”

“We have to find them.” I grab Sarah’s hand and walk a few steps down the block. The pins-and-needles sensation on my wrist begins to fade, which means the danger is in the other direction. I turn back around and head that way, although I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“John . . . ,” Sarah says warningly, clutching my hand in both of hers. She’s trying to hide the glow that my skin is suddenly giving off. My Lumen has triggered, both my hands lighting up, ready for a fight. I take a deep breath and calm myself, willing my hands to go back to normal. Luckily, no one around us seems to notice.

“Over here,” I say, and lead Sarah towards the mouth of a dark back alley. The bracelet is practically screaming at me now, my entire arm numb from the pins and needles. I slide up against the wall and poke my head around the corner of the alley.

There are three of them. Mogadorian scouts by the look of them. They’re not even making much effort to pass as human, their pale heads clean shaven but without tattoos, dressed in the dark trench coats that would spook just about anyone. Whatever they’re doing here, it’s pretty clear they aren’t expecting to be spotted. Two of them are keeping watch while the third runs his hands underneath a Dumpster. He yanks something free from beneath the metal, an envelope of some kind.