We made it back to Chicago a few days ago, the first half of the journey in a stolen government van, the second onboard a freight train. It’s pretty easy to sneak across the country when one of your companions can turn invisible and another can teleport.

I walk across the rooftop, peering over its edge as Chicago starts coming to life. The streets, the arteries of the city, are soon pumped full of bumper-to-bumper traffic and commuters hustling across the sidewalks. I shake my head as I look down at them.

“They’ve got no idea what’s coming.”

Bernie Kosar ambles over to me in beagle form. He stretches, yawns and then nuzzles my hand.

I should feel happy to be alive. We battled Setrákus Ra in New Mexico and didn’t suffer any casualties. What’s left of the Garde—with the exception of the still missing Number Five—are all downstairs, safe and sound, mostly recovered from their injuries. And Sarah, she’s down there, too. I saved her.

I look down at my hands. Back in New Mexico, they were covered with blood. Ella’s blood and Sarah’s blood.

“They’re so close to their world ending and they don’t even know it.”

Bernie Kosar transforms into a sparrow, flies out over the gap between the John Hancock Center and the nearest building, and finally lands on my shoulder.

I’m looking at the humans down below, but really I’m thinking about the Garde. Everyone’s just been chilling out since we came to Nine’s tricked-out penthouse. A little rest and recuperation was definitely in order; I just hope they haven’t forgotten how close to ultimate defeat we came back in New Mexico, because it’s all I can think about.

If Ella hadn’t somehow wounded Setrákus and that explosion in another part of the base hadn’t driven off the rest of the Mogs, I’m not sure we would’ve made it out. If I hadn’t developed a healing Legacy, Sarah and Ella would have died for sure. I can’t get the image of their burned faces out of my mind.

We’ll never get that lucky again. If we go in unprepared the next time we face Setrákus Ra, we won’t all survive.

By the time I come down from the roof, most of the others have woken up.

Marina’s in the kitchen, using her telekinesis to whisk a bowl of eggs and milk while simultaneously wiping some smudges from what used to be a spotless tile countertop. Since the seven of us (and BK) moved in, we haven’t exactly taken the best care of Nine’s fancy apartment.

Marina waves when she sees me. “Good morning. Eggs?”

“Morning. Didn’t you cook last night? Someone else should take a turn.”