We’re back later than anyone thought we would be. We searched for the Xitharis stone, but it was gone and we couldn’t stick around any longer than necessary. And while no one seems very happy about it, it’s like they’re trying not to blame Five for losing it. For now, at least.

After it was clear it was gone, after Five had apologized for the hundredth time, Six just tossed her hair and shrugged. “It’s a rock,” she said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself. “A powerful rock, but we’re pretty powerful on our own.”

Still, it’s clear that it hasn’t endeared Five to anyone. Especially Nine.

“Be nice,” Sarah warns him. Clearly the others have gotten used to his not-so-witty banter. By the way he and John slap hands in greeting, I’d say they’ve even become friends. Five, though, seems wounded. Next to me, he subtly tries to suck in his belly. “Hobbit guy,” he repeats, under his breath.

“It’s from a book,” I start to explain, but he cuts me off.

“I get the reference,” Five says. “It isn’t very nice.”

“That’s Nine,” says John, overhearing. “He’ll grow on you. Or, well, you’ll get used to him.”

Five gives me a deadpan look like he doubts it and I can’t help smiling in return. I think we’re both feeling a bit like outsiders in this penthouse. Six tried to catch me up the best she could on the ride back, but there are a lot of new faces and stories here in Chicago, not to mention the most surreal hideout in history. I still can’t believe the Garde are living in a place like this. It’s the kind of lavish pad they used to tour on that MTV show, the one about rich celebrities and their jealousy-inducing lifestyles. How Nine and his Cêpan managed to put together a place like this and keep it off the Mogadorian radar to boot is pretty impressive.

John introduces everyone to Nine, who has stopped cracking lame jokes long enough to meet Five and my dad.

“And you remember Sam, right?” John finishes.

“Obviously,” Nine says, striding forward to shake my hand. His grip is rough and he towers over me so that I have to crane my neck up. He lowers his voice, not wanting the others to hear. “Seriously, bro, sorry about leaving you in the cave. That was sort of my fault.”

“It’s cool,” I reply, a bit taken aback by the apology.

Nine turns my hand over before letting me go, noticing the fresh pink scars on my wrists. “So they put you through it, huh?” he asks solemnly. By his tone it’s like he’s just realizing we have something in common. I guess I’ve joined the secret fraternity of Mogadorian torture victims.