Five's Legacy

CHAPTER SIX

I MAKE A HOME FOR MYSELF IN SOUTH BEACH.

I don’t have a roof over my head or anything, but I get familiar enough with the little area that it starts to feel like I know it, at least. Clubs, restaurants, and hotels line the beaches, and from the sidewalks I can see inside, into other worlds that seem so detached from what I grew up with that they’re completely alien to me. There are flashing lights and bands and dancers that spill out into the street. In Martinique I’d seen carnivals and festivals that had dancers but never anything quite like this—Rey had always made sure I was kept inside after dark. But now, alone, I’m free to wander.

I think about heading up towards Canada, but I’m still weak from the voyage. Besides, I need to practice the hell out of flying before I even begin to think of flying all the way there, which seems like the easiest way to avoid any issues with border patrol or police.

At first it’s hard for me to fly—without a rush of adrenaline or a near-death experience, I can’t seem to figure out where the power comes from. But over the course of a week or two I get better. Levitating just a few inches off the ground at first, then rising into the air as high as I can before I get freaked out and come falling back to the ground. Sometimes when it’s extra dark, I fly over the ocean, low enough that no one will see me, darting between buoys. I’m getting good at it.

The rooftops serve as my bed at night. They feel safer than sleeping on the beach or in alleys. During the daytime, I get really good at picking pockets with my telekinesis. I stop feeling bad about it after the second or third time. I’m surviving. If I’m going to make it to Canada—or anywhere else—I’m going to need plenty of cash and supplies. And there are countless targets walking in droves in and out of expensive-looking shops all over the island. I buy a new set of clothes—jeans to cover the scars of One and Two on my ankle—and keep a few other fresh shirts in my bag. In my clean T-shirt and with a wad of cash in my pocket, I’m just another kid in Miami whose parents have given him too much allowance.

I stay careful when it comes to my powers. They could easily give me away. That and my bulky, heavy Chest, which I carry with me everywhere I go.

I think about the Garde quite a bit at first. About maybe seeking them out and trying to find them. But how would I even go about doing that? Post “Missing” ads or something? For all I know they could be in shacks in Africa or Indonesia or Antarctica. And if they’re not—if they’re banding together . . . well, no one ever came to find me.

So I think of them less and less. Every time I discover something new about the city, part of me curses Rey. We could have been doing this all the time instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. I spend my days exploring or playing in arcades or reading books on the beach—doing all the things I didn’t get a chance to do on our island where there were no bookstores or electrical outlets. I feel like I could probably play video games or watch movies forever. I eat up all the stories. I wish I could create them myself.

I make up for lost time.

I know what Rey would say. He’d call me lazy. He’d trot out parables about ants and grasshoppers. But I refuse to feel bad about actually living my life for once instead of cowering in fear.

It’s almost too easy here. I get comfortable.

Maybe even careless.

And that’s how she finds me.

Normally any wallets I lift go straight into my duffel bag, and I go through them later when it’s dark and I’m not in a crowded area. But I’m hungry and low on cash and end up leaning against a palm tree on a nice, quiet section of beach. I’m rifling through my haul when she speaks from behind me.

“You’re just looking to get busted, aren’t you?”

I flinch and twist around, pulling my bag closer to me as I get a good look at the person this high, slightly raspy voice has come from. She looks like she’s a few years older than me, with deeply tanned skin and shiny black hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a lot of dark eye makeup and a gray tank top over cutoff jean shorts.

I stammer the beginnings of a few words and scramble to my feet. She laughs a little.

“Don’t worry,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve got enough reasons of my own to avoid the cops.”

She stares at me with dark brown eyes, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve been avoiding people the whole time I’ve been here—old habits—and no one’s really gone out of their way to talk to me. But this girl seems . . . nice.

“Okay, so do you not talk or something?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

I open my mouth, and then stop. It’s a simple question, but of course I have no answer. At least not one I can give her truthfully. So I think back to a person I liked being.

“Cody,” I finally say. The name I used in Canada.

“Cody,” she repeats. “It’s nice to meet you finally. I’m Emma.”

Shit. What does she mean by “finally”? I stare at her face, analyzing it, looking for signs that she might be a Mog—ready to fight or fly at a moment’s notice if it comes to that.

“Oh, please. I’ve seen you lurking around. It’s impossible not to. I’m surprised the police haven’t picked you up yet. You look totally sketch when you’re on the prowl. It’s crazy that you even get close enough to people to lift off them.”

Oh. Well, the good news is, she doesn’t seem to notice that I’m able to pick pockets because of my Legacy. The bad news is, apparently I’m not nearly as stealthy as I thought I was.

“No offense,” she continues, squinting at me a little. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I guess not,” I say. I’ve never really thought about it. “I used to talk a lot when I was younger and then it was just me and . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence—realize that I’ve said too much already.

Luckily, Emma simply nods her head.

“You working for anyone?” she asks.

“No, it’s only me,” I say. Then I’m confused about what she’s even asking. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Stupid. I don’t know why, but I’m slipping up. I haven’t told her anything important—haven’t even scratched the fucked-up surface that is my past—but there’s no reason I should be telling her anything.

She just smiles and nods at my bag.

“Buy me an arepa and maybe I’ll tell you.”

If Rey were here, we’d be fleeing. Gone. I wouldn’t have even been given the chance to talk to Emma. But as much as I imagine Rey’s voice shouting at me to excuse myself and blend in with the crowd and make a break for the nearest sparsely inhabited island, he’s not actually here.

Besides, I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time. Not really. Maybe I’ll learn something useful. And if anything goes wrong and she leads me into a trap or something, I’ve got telekinetic powers and the ability to fly away. I’m practically untouchable.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a little smile. “What’s an arepa?”

She takes me to a little food stand up the beach and I order two arepas. When the cart owner tells me it’ll be six dollars, Emma says something in Spanish and the owner scowls.

“Three dollars,” he says, handing over two golden disks that shine in the sunlight. I pay and we walk away. The beach is on one side of us, a row of luxury hotels on the other.

“What was that about?” I ask. I bite into my arepa, which turns out to be one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten—savory-sweet corn cakes sandwiching melted white cheese. I’m in heaven.

“Just keeping that guy from taking advantage of you,” Emma says. “He thought you were a tourist.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Just that I knew he was overcharging you.” She pauses for a beat. “Maybe I mentioned my brother’s name. He’s kind of a big deal around here.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Let’s just say if you were lifting those wallets for someone, it’d probably be him.”

“What, is he like . . . a gangster?” Even as the words come out I realize how dumb they sound, but my mind immediately went to a mob movie I caught the day before when I’d spent half the waking hours in a theater. Cheese strings from my mouth to the golden half moon in my hand.

“Something like that.” Emma looks at me and smirks. I feel stupid, like some kind of naïve kid.

“So do you work for him?” I can’t picture her as one of the femme fatales from the movies. She’s too young, obviously, but also too friendly. “Is this the part where a black car drives up and I get shoved in and held for ransom or something?”

“I’d probably choose someone who wasn’t picking pockets if I was going to try to get some kind of ransom money,” she says with a little smirk. “No, I don’t work for my brother. I’m nothing like him. Don’t even talk to him, really. Besides, the last thing I want is someone telling me what I can or can’t do. Especially if that someone is as stupid as my brother.”

I smile, genuinely. I can kind of get where she’s coming from.

“Besides,” she adds. “He thinks I’m too young and that he doesn’t want me involved.” She lets out a long sigh between bites of her snack. Her mouth is half full when she speaks again. “So where are you from?”

“Why are you talking to me?” I ask, ignoring her question. She looks a little confused. “I mean, why did you come talk to me on the beach?”

“I wanted an arepa.”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I saw you around and knew what you were doing. I figured you could use a few pointers. I thought maybe you’d be my new beach buddy. I’m tired of working alone.”

“Working?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, grins and then pulls a black leather billfold from her pocket. The first wallet I stole—the one I carry my cash around in now. My hand reaches to my back pocket and confirms what I already know. Somehow she’s managed to snag my wallet. I never felt a thing.

“Not everyone’s as easy a mark as you,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I could use a hand if you’re up to it.”

“You want me to steal wallets for you?”

“With me.”

I hesitate. Walking around and talking to Emma is one thing, but I can practically hear Rey yelling at me and telling me not to get close or make friends with anyone but him. But she’s obviously not a Mog.

“Come on,” she says, sensing my reluctance. “Look, I don’t know where you’re from but it’s obvious you’re not as familiar with this place as you should be if you were about to shell out six bucks for some street food, even if it was delicious. Let’s meet up again and get into some trouble. I’m so bored this summer. That’s why I came and found you.”

Her last words stand out to me. She sought me out, came and found me on the beach. The least I can do is consider hanging out with her a little more.

“Sure,” I say.

Her face lights up a little.

“Great.” She pulls out her cell phone and grimaces at the screen. “Shit, I gotta go. What’s your number?”

“I don’t have one,” I say, a little sheepish.

“What do you mean you—” she starts. Then her face falls a little. “Well, meet me on the beach tomorrow. Same place I found you today. I’ll be down in the afternoon.”

I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

She flashes one more smile and tosses my wallet to me. I fumble with it, uncoordinated. By the time I have it back in my pocket, she’s halfway to the street, disappearing into the throng of tourists.

Holy shit, I think. Did I just make a friend?

The realization that I’m not sure because I’ve never had a friend in my life other than Rey is crushing. How am I supposed to save a planet overrun with a warmongering species if I can’t even figure out how to interact with other people?

My thoughts flash to the other Garde. What if I don’t get along with them?