No, I have to tell Ethan. Maybe he can help somehow. He’s smart and rich—maybe there’s some titanium-plated safe house he can take me to. Or weapons. Maybe he knows someone in the military who can nuke Mogadore.

Or something.

I slink through the dark house. Ethan’s bedroom door is cracked, but he’s not inside. No lights are on in the bathroom or closet. He’s not there.

Gone.

My heart skips a beat.

They’ve already come. They’ve taken him. It’s too late, and I’m fucked.

Then I notice Ethan’s bed. It’s still made. He hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

Maybe he’s still awake.

I make my way downstairs cautiously, looking for lights in the kitchen and den, but there are none. I’m about to go outside when I hear the faintest strains of music floating through the air from somewhere farther inside the house. One swelling measure, and then it’s gone.

Tiptoeing through the halls, I figure out where it’s coming from. The door to Ethan’s private study—the room that shall not be entered—is cracked open. There’s a sliver of light shining through.

No way.

I’ve been over every inch of this house for the past year and this is the only room my key card won’t open. I even tried to jimmy the lock with my telekinesis one day when Ethan was out, with no luck. It’s always been an impenetrable fortress.

Until now, I guess.

I push the door open just a little more and am surprised by how heavy it is. The thing must be made of metal or something. I peer in.

There’s a wall of bookshelves on one side, but most of the rest of the room is covered in charts and graphs. A big circular desk in the center of the floor has a map spread across it covered in pins and little flags. Ethan sits at his workstation. There are three—no, make that four—computer monitors hooked up to a couple of PC towers, and a laptop opened off to the side. Music pours out of speakers hidden around the room, the volume just above a whisper. Beethoven, I think, but I only know that because Ethan dragged me to a symphony once thinking I might take a liking to a bunch of violins or something.

Ethan’s back is to me, but I can hear him. He’s talking to someone. It looks like a video call. I can almost make out the person on the screen.

My body freezes. “Person” might be the wrong word.

The figure on the screen has black hair, slicked back, with some other black marks—birthmarks? Tattoos?—peeking out at the sides. His eyes are dark orbs. On the sides of his nose are shining little slivers of flesh, like monstrous gills standing out against his ashen skin.

I’ve seen faces like that before. Only once. In Canada.

A Mogadorian.

Before I can wrap my head around anything that’s going on, Ethan speaks.

“What about Four? Have you got a lock on him?”

My head pounds.

What’s going on?

“We have a few leads.” The Mog grins, exposing rows of gray teeth. “It shouldn’t be long now. It’s only a matter of waiting for him to slip up now that Number Three has been taken off the board. We’d had leads connecting him to Florida, but it seems like those were probably all pointing to your charge.”

No, no, no, none of this is right.

“More than likely.” Ethan nods. “None of our eyes in Miami have reported anything, at least.”

His charge. The Mog is talking about me. My heart leaps into my throat. They know where I am.

Is Ethan working for them? Is he one of them?

Nothing’s making sense. My thoughts race. The red mark on my calf burns.

“And Number Five?” the Mog bastard asks. “I trust his training continues as planned.”

My hands tremble.

“He remains well,” Ethan says. He cocks his head to the side just a bit. “In fact, he’s here right now.”

A little cry escapes through my lips.

“I’ll have to call you back,” Ethan says, tapping on the keyboard. The Mog disappears.

So do I.

I have to get out of this house. Whatever is happening, my cover’s been blown, and I can’t afford to stick around and try to figure things out.

I dart for the front door, but it’s locked. My key card is upstairs, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t do any good.

I head to the back door—the sliding one that opens up to the patio, the one that’s never locked—but it won’t budge. I pick up a nearby chair and slam it into the glass. It should be more than enough force to shatter it. Instead, the chair just bounces off.

This house suddenly seems like one big prison.

“Bulletproof,” Ethan says from behind me.

I whirl around, holding up my fists, ready to punch him or use my telekinesis against him. He just stands there unarmed with his hands out in front of him, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“Explain yourself!” I shout with a fury I didn’t even know I had in me. I’m running on pure adrenaline now.

“Look, there’s no reason for us to fight. I don’t want to, and we both know there’s no way I could even attempt to match you if—” He takes a step forward and I blast him back, sending him toppling over a gray couch in the living room, crashing through a glass coffee table.

When he looks up, he seems oddly pleased.

“I deserved that.”

“Explain yourself,” I say again. Not as loud, but more earnestly.

What has he done? What have I done?