The energy coalesces into a crackling orb in front of Setrákus Ra’s hand, hovers there for a moment, and then zips towards me. I dive to the side and the orb alters course, making a beeline for me like it has a mind of its own. I hit the cold floor in a roll and try to avoid the energy, but it’s too fast. It burns through the hem of my dress and attaches to my ankle.

I scream. The pain is excruciating; it’s as if a live wire is being dragged across my skin. I pull my leg in towards me and try to slap at the spot where the orb hit, like I’m on fire and need to pat out the flames.

That’s when I first see it. The twisting red energy is gone, leaving behind a band of jagged, pink scar tissue around my ankle. It’s reminiscent of the angular tattoos I’ve seen etched on dozens of Mogadorian skulls, but there’s also something unsettlingly familiar about it.

It’s a scar very similar to the ones the Garde have signifying the Loric charm.

When I look up at Setrákus Ra, I have to bite my lip to choke off a scream. The bottom half of his pant leg has burned away, an identical charm freshly branded into his own ankle.

“Now,” he says, smiling beatifically, “just like them, we are linked.”

CHAPTER

SIX

I GUESS IN A WAY WE’VE KIDNAPPED DALE. HE doesn’t seem to mind. The scrawny redneck is having a grand old time lounging at the rear of his decades-old pontoon boat, pulling from his flask of moonshine, and brazenly ogling me and Marina. This boat of his is literally held together in places by duct tape and shoelaces, and we can’t travel through the winding swampland streams too quickly for fear of overheating the engine. Also, every so often, Nine has to use a bucket to scoop dark brown swamp water out of the boat before the foot wells collect too much and we sink. Not exactly traveling in style, but Marina remains convinced that Dale stumbled on a Mogadorian encampment. So, for now, he’s our guide.

Last night, Dale insisted it was too dark to try navigating the swamp but promised he would lead us to this decommissioned NASA base in the morning. It turned out that the bartender at Trapper’s rented the shanties surrounding his place to any swamp people passing through. He gave one to us for next to nothing, floated us our meal, too, probably sensing that not helping us would just create more trouble.

No one trusted Dale not to run off at his first opportunity, so we decided to take turns keeping watch on him. Nine drew first shift and ended up sitting with Dale outside our little shack, listening to stories about all the interesting things Dale had scavenged from the swamp.

Marina and I lay down side by side on the flea-bitten mattress tossed on the floor of the shack, the only other furnishings a hot plate, a rusted-out sink that I don’t think connected to any pipes, and an oil lantern. Considering we’d spent the last couple of days hiking through the swamps and barely resting, this was about the most comfortable I’d been in days. As we lay there, I noticed that Marina had stopped radiating the aura of cold she’d been giving off since Eight was killed. I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep, but then she started whispering to me in the darkness.