“I get it,” she says. “You’re going to save the freaking world and I’m going to help you. That whole saying about behind every great man there is a great woman? I can be that for you. I just want to be a great woman with excellent aim.”

I can’t help but laugh, the tension between us breaking. I lift Sarah’s hand and kiss it. She wraps her arms around my waist and we hug. I don’t know what I was so tied up in knots about; having Sarah here just makes everything seem easier. Coming up with a battle plan to take down the Mogadorians? No problem. And as for that one kiss with Six, it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

Eight teleports into the room with a puff of displaced air. He’s wide-eyed and excited, but turns sheepish when he sees us.

“Whoa,” Eight says. “Sorry, I didn’t expect canoodling.”

Sarah snickers, and I glare jokingly at Eight. “This better be good.”

“You should go to the workshop and see for yourself. I’ve gotta go get the others.”

With that cryptic message, Eight teleports away. Sarah and I exchange a look, then rush out of the Lecture Hall and into Sandor’s old workshop.

Nine is already there, his arms crossed as he watches the bank of television screens on the wall. They’re all tuned to the same image, a newscast from some local station in South Carolina. Nine pauses the broadcast when we enter, freezing a still image of the gray-haired anchor.

“I turned on some of Sandor’s old programs the other day,” Nine explains. “They scan news feeds for weird shit that might be Loric related.”

“Yeah, Henri had the same thing set up.”

“Uh-huh, typical boring Cêpan stuff, right? Except this popped up tonight.”

Nine restarts the broadcast, the anchor resuming his teleprompter reading.

“Authorities are at a loss to explain the vandalism of a local farmer’s crops early yesterday morning. The prevailing theory is high-school prank, but others have suggested . . .”

I tune out the anchor’s theories as the image switches to an overhead shot of a twisting, mazelike emblem burned into the cornfield. It might look like a juvenile prank to the newscaster, but we recognize it immediately. Burned into those crops with jagged precision is the Loric symbol for Five.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“IF FIVE’S TRYING TO FIND US, THIS IS ABOUT the dumbest damn way possible,” Nine says.

“She could be scared and alone,” counters Marina, softly. “On the run.”

“No Cêpan in their right mind would go burning up crops, so they must be alone. Still . . .” Nine trails off, his brow furrowing. “Wait—what do you mean ‘she’? Five’s a chick?”

Marina rolls her eyes at chick, then shakes her head. “I don’t know. Just a guess.”

“Setting a field on fire seems like a guy thing,” Six puts in.