I Am Number Four (Lorien Legacies)
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Nine of us came here.
We look like you.
We talk like you.
We live among you—but
We are not you.
We have powers you dream of having.
We are the superheroes you worship in movies and comic books—
But we are real.
They caught Number One in Malaysia. Number Two in England. And Number Three in Kenya.
They killed them all.
I am Number Four. I am next.
of the confrontation or because of the darkroom. It’s likely that they are whispering about both. It is a small school, and in small schools there is little that isn’t readily known by everyone else. When I reach the main entrance, I turn right and find my locker. It’s empty. I have fifteen minutes before sophomore composition begins. I walk by the classroom just to make sure I know where it is and then head to the office. The secretary smiles when I enter. “Hi,” I say. “I lost my phone
Walk Among Us.” A deep voice responds on the other end. I can’t hear what is said. Henri smiles. “Yes,” he says, then pauses. “No, I’m not a subscriber. But a friend of mine is.” Another pause. “No, thank you.” He nods his head. “Well, I’m curious about the article written on the Mogadorians. There was never a follow-up in this month’s issue as expected.” I lean in and strain to hear, my body tense and rigid. When the reply comes the voice sounds shaken, disturbed. Then the phone goes
relaxes and pays the other cars little attention. He makes one turn, then another, and in twenty-five minutes we pull onto the interstate. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Sam finally says. “This is the craziest shit I’ve ever done.” “Me too.” “Do you have any plan when we get there?” “None whatsoever. I’m hoping we’ll be able to scope the place out and go from there. I have no idea if it’s a house or an office building or what. I don’t even know if he is there.” He nods. “Do you think
treats and leave him in the truck with the window cracked. He is not happy about it and begins whining and scratching at the window, but I don’t think we’ll be long. Sam and I walk back up Court Street, the straps of my bag pulled over my shoulders, Sam holding his in his hand. He has removed the Silly Putty and is squeezing it like people do with those foam balls when they’re stressed. We reach Henri’s truck. The doors are locked. There is nothing of importance on the seats or dash. “Well, this
long after that one of them—I don’t know which—throws up in the bathroom so that the smell of vomit wafts throughout the whole downstairs. Another one passes out on the living-room sofa and some of the others draw with marker on his face. People keep filtering in and out of the doorway leading to the basement. I have no idea what is going on down there. I haven’t seen Sarah for the past ten minutes. I leave Sam and walk through the living room and the kitchen, then walk up the stairs. White,