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She must be running on empty by now, even more so than me and Nine. Slideshare uses cookies to improve functionality and performance, and to provide you with relevant advertising. On the plane, Marina is hostile toward Adam. Then, I became what you see before you: Until the time came when I was cast out. But Nine is already halfway up the creaky wooden steps, Marina right behind him, and so I go along. That would suck.

It looks like a totally generic, wealthy community. When I look a little closer, I notice a paranoid number of security cameras mounted on the imposingly tall stone wall that encircles the entire property. Adam shakes his head. And anyway, the real power, the trueborn Mogadorians, the leaders — they reside in Ashwood. Trueborn are the pure bloodlines. Mogadorians born of Mogadorian parents. His trueborn status is no great point of pride.

They are used to being the hunters, not the hunted. What difference does that make? The vatborn are not particularly good at directing themselves. Even I am not entirely sure what we might find down there.

Sam looks from Adam to his father. And where Adam rescued me. And now, here I am, making battle plans alongside one. He reaches down to absently scratch behind its ears.

The stories listed under Most Popular, all of the links in a neon green that I guess is supposed to look alien, include: The website is called They Walk Among Us. Below that is a grainy cell-phone I quickly skim the article.

The level of detail is astounding. Sarah looks up at me with an odd smile, bewilderment mixing with something like pride. Whose old quarterback happens to be one of the only other people outside our group to know what went down at the high school. The whereabouts of the Garde remain unknown.

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Sam clicks through to a story where Mark accuses the secretary of defense, a man named Bud Sanderson, of using his political clout to pave the way for a Mogadorian invasion. The story is tied to an image of Sanderson from five years ago juxtaposed with one of him from a few months ago.

In the first, Sanderson looks like a haggard man in his late seventies — his face is age-spotted and he has a double chin and a steep paunch. Sam shakes his head, not buying it. I mean, Sarah, you went out with him. Did he even know how to read? This is like WikiLeaks over here. I look over at Adam. He turns back to Sarah. It was something I … excelled at during my training. I could write an encryption code, reroute our IP address through servers in different cities.

I think back to the elaborate computer system Henri always had set up and the even more complicated grid that Sandor built in Chicago. Then, I imagine a hundred Mogadorians, just like Adam, hunched over keyboards, stalking us. The list of boldfaced unread mail consists entirely of messages from Mark James. I refuse to believe that but … I need to hear from you. I thought I had a lead on you in New Mexico.

All I found there was a deserted military base. It looked like a major battle went down. Way bigger and nastier than what happened in Paradise. I hope you guys got out safe. That would suck. A friend of mine set up a safe house for me. Way off the grid. A place where we can work on exposing those pale freaks to the world. Something international. I need your help. Without her even saying anything, I already know that Sarah wants to find Mark James. The dashboard clock reads 7: She got off a quick note to Mark, who replied almost immediately with an address for a restaurant in Huntsville.

That gives me confidence that Sarah will be safe. After that brief communication, Adam immediately wiped both email accounts from the internet. Now, here we are. We fit right in, just two teenagers sitting in a crappy car, in the middle of saying good-bye. With my other hand, I run my fingers through her hair, eventually letting them rest gently on the back of her neck.

I pull her in a little closer. Everyone seemed to agree that it was the right thing to do. If Mark really had managed to acquire some crucial information on the Mogadorians, and if he was risking his life to help us, then we needed to return the favor. But the rest of the Garde was still missing. Sarah made it easy by volunteering. We need all the help we can get.

In the backseat, Bernie Kosar stands with his paws braced against the closed window, tail wagging furiously as he watches all the people zipping in and out of the bus station. My old friend seemed pretty wiped out after the battle in Chicago, but some of his energy came back when we got on the road.

Now he will do the same for Sarah. I lean back a bit, squinting at her. I want to be with you. But not Inside it she has a disposable cell phone that Malcolm bought, along with a few changes of clothes and a handgun. She wants my head in the game.

Sarah looks into my eyes. But I have to. I look down at our interlinked hands and remember how simple things were, at least for a little while, back when I first moved to Paradise. That was the same night Henri had his run-in with the original They Walk Among Us crew, along with the Mogadorians who were using them. Afterward, he wanted to leave Paradise, and I refused. Not after Paradise. And you. Our future.

Only five minutes left. I focus on Sarah, wishing I had a Legacy where I could freeze time, or store this moment up. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and fights back more tears.

If things get bad, I trust you to stay alive. I trust you to come back to me in one piece. I feel a few of her tears against my cheek. I try to let everything go — my missing friends, the war, her leaving me — and just live for a while in her kiss.

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I wish I could go back to Paradise with her, not as it is now, but the way it was months ago — sneakily making out in my temporary bedroom while Henri was grocery shopping, stealing looks during class, the easy, normal life. Sarah pulls away from me and, in one fluid motion, not wanting to drag this painful moment out any longer, she opens the door and hops out of the van. She shoulders her backpack and whistles.

I scratch him behind his good ear and he lets out a little whine. Keep her safe, I tell him telepathically. Bernie Kosar puts both his front paws on my leg and sloppily licks the side of my face.

Sarah laughs. Sarah clips on his leash. Stay safe. I love you, Sarah Hart. She looks back at me only once, right before she disappears through the doors, and I wave. I have to stop myself from running after her, so I clutch the steering wheel until my knuckles are white. Too white — my Lumen kicks in unexpectedly, my hands glowing. I take a deep breath and calm myself down, glancing around, making sure no one outside the bus station noticed.

I turn the key in the ignition, feel the van rumble to life and pull away from the bus station. I miss her. I already miss her.

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I remember my brief scuffle with Adam in the destroyed John Hancock penthouse, how I almost fell out the window. I imagine the future and I smile grimly. We pass by a solitary wooden pole, slanted and close to being totally uprooted, the streetlight out, power lines sagging under the overgrown trees, disappearing into them.

It was Five who led us into the swampland. He knew the way, of course. It was his ambush. The Mogs would definitely be watching that. A few steps ahead, Nine slaps the back of his neck, squashing a mosquito.

I squeeze her arm and find her skin cool to the touch. Now they have him, doing Lord knows what to his body. After the beating we endured at the hands of Five, we were in no shape to fight off a battalion of Mogadorians backed up by one of their ships. Marina shakes her head and falls silent. But man, after this? I sort of miss it. Marina never did, though. She must be running on empty by now, even more so than me and Nine. After another mile, I notice the road getting a little more packed down and well traveled.

I can see light up ahead. Soon, the nonstop buzzing of the local insect life gives way to something equally annoying. Country music. It looks more like a campground that people forgot to leave.

Or maybe this is just a place where the local hunters come to bro around and escape their wives, I think, noticing an overpopulation of pickup trucks in the nearby gravel parking lot. There are a couple dozen crude huts scattered throughout this cleared stretch of swamp coast, all of The huts basically consist of some pieces of plywood hastily nailed together, and they look like a strong breeze could knock them over.

Hung between the huts, lighting this grim little vista, are strings of blinking Christmas lights and a few gas-powered lanterns. From inside, above the music, I can hear men shouting and pool balls cracking. Even so, as I notice a scrawny middle-aged guy with a mullet and a tank top staring at us, chain- smoking in the shadows of the porch, I wonder if we should find a safer place for us to poke our heads in.

But Nine is already halfway up the creaky wooden steps, Marina right behind him, and so I go along. Hopefully this place has a phone so we can at least get in touch with the others back in Chicago. Check to see how John and Ella are doing — hopefully better, somehow, especially now that we know the cure-all Five claimed to have in his Chest was a bunch of crap. We have to warn the others about him. The place is cramped, not much to it besides the bar, a pool table and some beat-up lawn furniture.

It stinks of sweat, kerosene and alcohol. I quickly realize that Marina and I are the only two women here. The drunks staring at us range from tremendously overweight to alarmingly skinny, all of them dressed in halfway-open plaid shirts or sweat-stained wifebeaters, some of them flashing gap-toothed leers, others smoothing down unkempt beards as they size us up.

One guy, in a ripped heavy-metal T-shirt and with a lower lip stuffed with chewing tobacco, breaks away from the pool table to sidle up next to Marina. I can hear the moisture on his arm crackle as it flash freezes, and a second later the guy is crying out as Marina twists his arm behind his back.

Now, the room truly does go quiet. A couple of burly guys at a back table exchange looks and stand up, eyeballing us. For a moment, I think the whole bar might try rushing us. That would end badly for them, and I try to communicate that with my stare.

Nine, who with his tangled black hair and dirty face fits right in here, cracks his knuckles and lolls his head back and forth, watching the crowd. Finally, one of the other hicks at the pool table hoots. She shoves him away and he goes to rejoin his friends, rubbing his arm and trying to avoid looking at us. Just like that, the tension breaks. Everyone goes back to what they were doing, which pretty much means guzzling beer.

No big deal. Like I figured, this is one of those places Nine grins at him. You got anything to eat back there? Three of your finest, my man. It works part of the time. The reception is bad at the moment, a news report swallowed up by static, the crooked rabbit ears emerging from the set not doing their job.

As the bartender disappears into the kitchen, Marina sits down with a couple of stools buffering her from Nine. She avoids eye contact, engrossed by the popping static on the TV. Meanwhile, Nine drums his hands on the bar, looking around, almost daring one of the drunks to say something to him.

Before I can go, the scrawny chain-smoker from outside squeezes into the space at the bar next to me. He notices the scrawny guy next to me and immediately snaps his fingers in his face.

I shake my head and take a deep breath; I need to get out of this place, I need a shower and I need to hit something.

Furious, really. Five knocked me out, practically took my head clean off. In that time I was unconscious, the whole world changed. I bottle that rage up, saving it for the next time I see a Mogadorian.

On it, a windblown reporter stands in front of a line of police tape, the John Hancock Center looming in the background. The roof shakes from a sudden peal of thunder outside. That was me, letting some of that rage slip. The newscast switches over from the reporter to taped footage of the top floors of the John Hancock Center in flames. The bartender clicks his tongue, watching the TV, too.

Like, two days ago? Where the hell you been? I try to pull myself together, to beat back the panic. When I look over at him, his expression is completely blank. He stares at the television, watching footage of our penthouse headquarters and his former home burning, his mouth open just a little, his body completely still, almost rigid. Without a word to me or Marina, without so much as a look, he spins around and heads for the door.

You guys coming or what? He looks away immediately, peering down the darkened road, his broad shoulders slumped. Then, he brings his hands down over his face, rubbing it. When he drops them back to his sides, I can Had to keep talking, had to show him.

You know it; I know it; Marina damn sure knows it. Damn it! Punish you for what happened to Eight? And the Mogadorians are to blame. Got it? Enough with this mopey crap.

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She complies, yanking Dale ahead of her so that he stumbles into the gravel, ending up on his knees Marina ignores me. He swallows hard and then nods enthusiastically.

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They stole her Legacies. Keeping secrets from this drunk is the least of our worries. She keeps her eyes on me when she answers. We know where Eight is. And I am not, under any circumstances, letting those sick bastards keep him. Not that I even consider not going. Leave no Garde behind. I poke it with my fork and the pale slab jiggles like gelatin. If I look away, I wonder if the thing will pick up the pace and try crawling into one of the air vents. I want to vomit.

He called himself my grandfather. That thought makes me more nauseous than the food. This could be just like the visions, some sick game meant to get under my skin. But why go through all the trouble? Why bring me here?

Why not just kill me? His chair is thronelike, made of the same dark stone as the table, but definitely not large enough to accommodate the mammoth warlord we fought at Dulce Base. Could his size changing be a Legacy? It works really similarly to my ability to alter my age.

He cocks his head. Human, Loric, Mogadorian — these are just words, dear one. Centuries ago, my experiments proved that our genetics could be changed. They could be augmented. We could take them as we needed them, utilizing them like any other resource.

The tenth Elder. Until the time came when I was cast out. Then, I became what you see before you: An evolutionary improvement.

I hardly listen after he mentions the tenth Elder. He said my father was obsessed with the fact that our family once had an Elder. A futurist. I altered my genetics to become more like them, so they would accept me. In return for their fealty, I helped their population grow.

I brought them back from the brink of extinction. Joining the Mogadorians gave me a chance to continue the experiments that so frightened the Loric. Now, my work is almost finished. He wants things to be just like in my nightmare. They dressed me in this long, black formal gown, very similar to the one I was wearing in my vision. It itches like crazy, and I have to keep tugging at the neckline.

I stare openly at his hideous face, hating myself for trying to find some resemblance. His head is bulbous and pale, covered in intricate Mogadorian tattoos; his eyes are empty and black, just like the Mogs; his teeth are filed down and sharp. If I look hard enough, I can almost see the Loric cast to his features, like crumbling architecture buried beneath the paleness and gross Mog artwork.

Facing him head-on still gives me a chill and I have to force myself not to turn away. I make a point of dropping my fork so that it clatters loudly against the side of my plate. The walls are covered in paintings of Mogadorians bravely charging into combat. The ceiling is open, providing a breathtaking view of Earth, the planet imperceptibly rotating below us.

I swallow hard. Maybe he thinks he can brainwash me before we return to Earth. After a moment, he reaches to the side of his chair where his cane is propped.

I brace myself for an attack. Bands of red and purple light project from the Eye of Thaloc and scan over his body. He writhes and contorts as his skin peels away from his body, expanding outward and shifting, like a bubble forming in candlewax. Actually, he looks like a movie star. Of his previous appearance, only the three Loric pendants remain, their cobalt jewels matching his shirt.

Apparently, they find them leaderly and trustworthy. I believe the humans call it quid pro quo. I think about Six and Nine and the rest of the Garde and wonder what they would do in my situation. If that even exists. Either way, taking a bite of the boiled slug on my plate seems like a small price to pay if it means gathering some important information. Read more Read less. Discover Prime Book Box for Kids. Learn more.


Frequently bought together. Total price: Add all three to Cart Add all three to List. Some of these items ship sooner than the others. Show details. Buy the selected items together This item: Hidden Enemy Lorien Legacies: Ships from and sold by Amazon. Rebel Allies Lorien Legacies: Secret Histories Lorien Legacies: Customers who bought this item also bought.

Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. The Lost Files. Pittacus Lore. Zero Hour Lorien Legacies: The Legacies Lorien Legacies: The Legacy Chronicles: Trial by Fire. Generation One Lorien Legacies Reborn.

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Read more. You know we have been betrayed. You must discover why. You must learn the truth. They have put a plan in motion. They have infiltrated your government. They have already turned some of you. They will do whatever it takes to have your planet. The battle lines have been drawn. Whose side are you on? Product details Series: Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files Paperback: HarperCollins July 22, Language: English ISBN Don't have a Kindle?

Try the Kindle edition and experience these great reading features: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Read reviews that mention lost files fallen legacies six legacy files and lorien legacies pittacus lore lorien legacies well written fate of ten next book power of six rise of nine nine legacy phiri dun-ra return to paradise point of view really enjoyed mark james backstory short stories number four series.

Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. Each new installment manages to thrown in all sorts of new twists and turns in both the plot and the characters. In this last installment in the "lost files" series, we get to see the final battle for Earth from the Mogadorian point of view, as told through three different stories. Part one focuses on Phiri Dun-Ra and her quest for vengeance against the Garde; ending with her transformation into the augmented monster that John fights in "United as One.

The last third then shifts to Rexicus Saturnus; Adam's old friend who also begins to question if their "Beloved Leader" is really the invincible pariah everyone makes him out to be. Other than Adam's backstory in a previous "Lost Files" book, this is the only other time the audience gets a real chance to see things from the bad guys' perspective, and what drives them to want to take over the Earth, as well as what happens when a society blindly follows a power hungry leader without question.

Out of the three stories, Phiri Dun-Ra's felt the weakest. We see what happened after she pulled Sektarus Ra from the battle in Mexico, though nothing new is really learned. It's just more scenes of her being the despicable person she is. Vintaro Ushaba's tale is much more interesting, as we see what goes through the mind of a "vatborn" soldier, and surprisingly, it turns out the vatborns aren't as mindless drones as they were once thought to be.

We then come to the best story out of the three, wherein Rexicus Saturnus is swept up in a mutiny against his ship captain--prompting him to reevaluate where his true loyalties lie, and that perhaps Adam had the right idea in rebelling against their leader. It makes the Mogadorians much more realistic, and holds out the small hope that some of them, however few, can possibly be redeemed.

While I would've much preferred a continuation or sequel of sorts to the ending to "United As One", this final chapter in the "Lost Files" series is an interesting little peek into the minds of the villains--something that the main series, arguably, could've used more of. Don't want it to end! Love all these books! For a while when I first discovered the I Am Number Four series, and especially the Lost Files set, i read them so quickly i cannot give a very specific review of each one D I am reluctant to read the last books in this series, because I don't want it to be over!