I open my eyes and immediately gasp.

Eight’s body hovers upright over the Sanctuary’s well, the column of blue light surrounding him. I snatch at Marina’s hand.

“Are you doing this?” I ask, unintentionally shouting.

Marina shakes her head and squeezes my hand. There are tears in her eyes.

A few steps behind us, Adam is on his knees. He must’ve collapsed during the light show. He looks up at Eight, completely mystified.

“What’s happening? What is this?”

“Look at him,” Marina says. “Look.”

I’m about to tell Adam I have no idea what’s going on when I see Eight’s fingers move. Was it just a trick of the light? No—Marina must have seen it too because she makes a little squeaking sound and covers her mouth with her free hand, her other squeezing down hard on mine.

Eight wiggles his fingers. Floating, he shakes out his arms and legs. He rolls his head as if working out a crick in his neck.

Then, he opens his eyes. They are pure Loralite. Eight’s eyes glow the same cobalt shade as the deepest veins in the wall. When he opens his mouth, blue light comes flooding out.

“Hello,” Eight says, in an echoing voice that doesn’t belong to our friend. It’s a melodic, beautiful voice, like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

It is the voice of Lorien.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

MOST PEOPLE HAVE THE SENSE TO RUN. THESE New Yorkers have seen enough movies to know what happens when an alien spaceship parks itself over your city. They stream down the sidewalk in droves. Some even abandon their cars in the middle of the avenues, which makes it slow going for our convoy of black SUVs. Luckily, outside Sanderson’s hotel, Agent Walker was able to convince the local cops who showed up in response to the shooting to help us. When it comes to alien invasions, I guess there’s something about a federal agent in a black suit and sunglasses.

Even with the added sirens and flashers of the NYPD, it’s hard cutting through the city. Through the chaos.

And yet, some people aren’t running away from the East River, where the Mogadorian warship hovers ominously over the United Nations. They’re running towards it. People with their phones out, recording, eager to catch a glimpse of alien life. I can’t make up my mind if they’re brave, crazy or just stupid. Probably a combination of the three. I want to shout out the window for them to turn and run, but there’s no time.

I won’t be able to save all of them.

“Michael Worthington, a senator representing Florida.” Agent Walker barks the name into her cell phone, reading it off a yellow legal pad. She’s in the passenger seat, looking harried and wild. She knows there’s not enough time for her orders to make a difference, but she’s giving them anyway.

“Melissa Croft, she’s on the joint chiefs of staff. Luc Phillipe, the French ambassador.” Walker pauses, reaching the end of her list. She glances into the backseat, where Bud Sanderson is sandwiched in between me and Sam. “Is that everyone?”