He picked one up—a thin razor blade with a rubbercoated handle—and caressed the side of Six’s face with it.

“I’ve been hunting you kids for a very long time,” he’d said. “We’ve killed two of you, and now we have one right here, whatever number you are. As you might imagine, I hope you are Number Three.”

Six had made no response, pushing herself against the wall as though she might disappear into it. The Mogadorian grinned, the flat end of the razor still touching her face. Then he twisted it so the blade pressed against her cheek, and while looking deep into her eyes, he jerked the razor down and made a long, thin gash along her face. Or rather he tried too, but it had been his own face that was slit open. Blood instantly poured down his cheek and he screamed in pain and anger, kicking the desk over, sending all of his tools flying, and he stormed from the room. Six and Katarina had been dragged back to their cells, kept in darkness another two days before finding themselves again gagged and chained to the walls of the room. Sitting on the desk with his cheek bandaged sat the same Mog, looking far less certain of himself than he had before.

He’d jumped from the desk and removed Six’s gag, grabbed the same razor he had tried cutting her with, and held it up in front of her face, twisting it so that the light glimmered along the blade. “I don’t know what number you are. . . .” For a second she’d thought he would try to cut her again, but he turned and crossed the room to Katarina instead. He stood at her side while looking at Six, and then he touched the blade to Katarina’s arm. “But you’re going to tell me right now.”

“No!” Six had screamed. And then very slowly the Mogadorian made an incision down Katarina’s arm just to be certain he could. His grin widened, and beside the original cut he made another, this one deeper than the first. Katarina groaned in pain while the blood ran down her arm.

“I can do this all day. Do you understand me? You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, starting with what number are you.”

Six had closed her eyes. When she reopened them he was at the desk, turning over a dagger that changed colors with movement. He’d held it up, wanting Six to see the blade twist and glow as it came to life. Six could feel its hunger, its desperation for blood.

“Now . . . your number. Four? Seven? Are you lucky enough to be Number Nine?”