Page 15 of The Fall of Five (Lorien Legacies 4)

Eight’s standing in the doorway behind us, that charming smirk of his lighting up his face. How long has he been standing there? Ella and I exchange a surprised look and start laughing.

“Fine,” says Eight, sidling over to gaze at the tablet. “Don’t tell me. ”

Our shoulders brush when he gets close and I don’t move away. I still think about that desperate kiss we shared in New Mexico. It was probably the boldest move of my entire life. Much as I’d like to, we haven’t kissed again since. We’ve talked a lot, sharing stories about our years on the run, comparing the fragments of our memories of Lorien. The time just hasn’t felt right for anything more.

“They’re really taking their time, huh?” Eight says, watching Four and Six move south.

“It’s a long drive,” I reply.

“Good,” he says, grinning. “That should give us some time. ”

Eight’s wearing a red and black T-shirt for something called the Chicago Bulls and a pair of blue jeans. He steps back and gestures at his wardrobe, like he’s asking Ella and me for our approval.

“Do I look American enough in this?”

“Are you sure we should be doing this?”

I’m feeling nervous as the elevator glides down from the penthouse to the lobby. Eight stands next to me, practically bouncing with excitement.

“We’ve been here for days and still haven’t actually seen the city,” he says. “I’d like to see more of America than military bases and apartments. ”

“But what if something happens while we’re away?”

“We’ll be back before they even make it to Arkansas. Nothing’s going to happen on the drive down there. If it does, Ella can use her whole telepathy thing and call us back. ”

I think about Nine, who was still sound asleep on the couch when Eight and I crept past him. Ella watched us go, smiling conspiratorially at me, while she curled back up in her chair next to Nine.

“Won’t Nine be mad if he wakes up and we’re not there?”

“What is he? Our babysitter?” Eight cracks merrily, reaching out to shake me gently by the shoulders. “Loosen up. Let’s be tourists for a couple hours. ”

Gazing down from the windows of Nine’s penthouse never gave me a real sense of how truly busy the streets of downtown Chicago are. We exit into the midday sun and are immediately hit with a wall of noise, people talking, car horns blaring.

It reminds me of the marketplace back in Spain, except times a thousand. Eight and I both find ourselves craning our necks upwards, trying to take in the buildings that tower above us. We’re walking slow, people shooting us annoyed looks as they’re forced to cut around us.

It’s a little intense for me out here. All these people, the noise, it’s way more than I’m used to. I find myself slipping my hand into the crook of Eight’s elbow, just to make sure we aren’t accidentally separated and lost in the crowd. He smiles at me.

“Where to?” he asks.

“That way,” I point, picking a direction at random.

We end up on the waterfront. It’s much more peaceful here. The humans wandering around the shore of Lake Michigan are like us—not in a rush to get anywhere. Some of them sit down on benches, eating their lunches, while others jog and bike by us, exercising. I feel suddenly sad for these people. So much hangs in the balance and they have no idea.

Eight touches my arm gently. “You’re frowning. ”

“Sorry,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Just thinking. ”

“Less of that,” he says with mock sternness. “We’re just out for a walk. No big deal. ”

I try to put the doom and gloom out of my mind and act the part of a tourist like Eight said. The lake is crystalline and beautiful, a few boats lazily cutting across its surface. We amble by sculptures and outdoor cafés, Eight taking an interest in everything, trying to consume as much of the local culture as possible, and cheerily trying to get me interested.

We stand before a large silver sculpture that looks like a cross between a satellite dish and a half-peeled potato. “I believe this human work was secretly influenced by the great Loric artist Hugo Von Lore,” Eight says, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“You’re making that up. ”

Eight shrugs. “I’m just trying to be a better tour guide. ”

His easygoing enthusiasm is infectious, and soon I’m wrapped up in this game of making up silly stories for the various landmarks we pass. When I finally realize that we’ve spent more than an hour on the waterfront, I feel guilty.

“Maybe we should get back,” I tell Eight, feeling like we’re shirking our responsibilities, even though I know there’s nothing for us to do but wait.

“Hold on,” he says, pointing. “Look at that. ”

From the hushed way Eight speaks, I expect to see a Mogadorian scout on our trail. Instead, following his gaze, I see a chubby older man behind a food cart selling what’s advertised as a “Chicago-Style Hot Dog. ” He hands one off to a customer; the hot dog is covered in pickle and tomato slices and chopped-up onions, barely contained in a bun.

“That’s the most monstrous thing I’ve ever seen,” Eight says.

I chuckle, and when my stomach suddenly growls, that chuckle turns into a full-on guffaw. “I think it looks sort of good,” I manage.

“Have I mentioned that I’m a vegetarian?” Eight asks, staring at me with mock revulsion. “But if it’s the frightening mess of a Chicago-style hot dog you desire, then so it shall be. I’ve never thanked you properly. ”

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