“You’re powerful enough for that?”

As I look over at Sanderson to respond, I can see the same question in Sam’s eyes. He wasn’t at our last fight with Setrákus Ra, but he knows it didn’t go well. That was with the whole Garde—now it’s just me and Nine. Well, and all the guns Agent Walker can bring to bear.

“I have to be,” I tell Sanderson.

As we get closer to the front of the UN and the stage, we pass by a guy dressed like a bike messenger surrounded by a few news cameras. It’s noticeable because he’s the only thing commanding any press attention around here besides the giant Mogadorian warship. I focus my senses to hear what he’s saying.

“I swear, the guy fell out of the sky!” the bike messenger exclaims to a skeptical press corps. “Or maybe he floated down, I don’t know. He hit the ground hard, but his skin was, like, covered in armor or something. He looked all sorts of messed up.”

Nine’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. He heard it, too, and he’s so distracted that he stops telekinetically pushing people aside. The agents escorting us shuffle and groan as the crowd surges in, but they manage to keep them back.

“You heard that, right?” Nine asks, his eyes practically glowing with bloodlust.

“He could just be some nutjob,” I say, referring to the bike messenger, although I don’t really believe it. “This kind of thing definitely brings them out.”

“No way,” Nine says, excitement in his voice. His eyes dart around the crowd with a renewed interest. “Five is here, man. Five is here, and I’m going to smash his fat face in.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

I FEEL NUMB.

In the docking bay, I catch a glimpse of myself in the pearl-colored armor paneling of the small ship we’ll be taking to Manhattan. I look ghostly. There are huge bags under my eyes. They dressed me up in a new formal gown, black with red sashes throughout, and pulled my hair back in a ponytail so severe that my scalp feels like it’s peeling away from my skull. Princess of the Mogadorians.

I don’t really care. I’ve got a cloudy feeling, like I’m just floating along. A part of me knows that I should be focusing up, getting my head straight.

I just can’t.

The entrance to the transport ship opens and a small staircase unfolds for me to climb up. Setrákus Ra gently places his hand on my shoulder and urges me forward.

“Here we go, dear,” he says. His voice sounds far away. “Big day.”

I don’t move at first. But then a pain starts up in my shoulder where I was stabbed. It feels like little worms wiggling around under my skin. The ache only subsides when I put one foot in front of the other, climb up the steps and flop into one of the vessel’s bucket seats.

“Good,” Setrákus Ra says, and follows me aboard. He sits down in the pilot’s seat and the ship seals up behind us. His human form has been restored after his scuffle with Five, and he’s dressed himself in a sleek black suit with crimson flourishes. The color scheme doesn’t complement the fatherly human face he’s wearing—it makes him look stern and authoritative. I don’t tell him that, both because I don’t want to help him and because it seems like too much effort to talk.