Armageddon - By James Patterson Page 0,11

powerful, very exhilarating emotion.

I’m not doing this for laughs. That beast killed my parents!

Take care, my yute. Beware of darkness. For in the darkness, it is sometimes difficult to see where the good ends and the evil begins. Do not give sway to the negative way.

Right. I’d almost forgotten: Xanthos was supposed to be my spiritual advisor. Luke Skywalker had Yoda; I got a reggae rocking horse.

Look, I communicated, first things first. I need to prepare myself to take out Number 2. Can you help me or not?

Of course, Daniel, of course. You must know this: a red horse shall be a sign.

A sign of what?

Of all that is written, of all that must be.

Gee. Could you be a little more vague? I was starting to question the whole notion of “horse sense” meaning sound and practical. This particular equine specimen kept speaking to me in riddles. You’re my spiritual advisor, right?

The stallion dipped its head slightly. That I am, mon.

Then come on: Advise me! What do I need to do?

Soon, much. For the moment? Chill. Rest and restore your powers. For you will need each and every one of them—now more than ever.

Chapter 14

FOLLOWING DOCTOR’S ORDERS (make that spiritual advisor’s orders) meant it was time for some serious R and R—rest and relaxation.

Xanthos was right: If I was going to go up against Number 2, I needed to be tanned, rested, and ready to rock. I needed all my powers at my command.

So we went horseback riding.

“Show me what you can do!” I shouted as we cantered across a grassy field.

Xanthos gave me one of his cheery chuckles and hit the gas. Soon we were galloping across a blurred sea of green. We didn’t throttle all the way up to Mach One—we didn’t want our sonic boom to shatter all the windows up in Agent Judge’s farmhouse—but we did move faster than I’ve ever traveled on the back of any animal, stampeding elephants included.

Would you like to fly? I heard Xanthos ask in my mind.

Visions of Pegasus, the winged horse from Greek mythology, danced through my head. Can you do that?

Well, not in front of our human hosts, but yah. Four-legged Pfeerdians are famous for flight.

Try saying that four times fast.

“Then,” I cried out, “let’s do it!”

Grab hold of my mane, mon. Hang on tight.

I gripped his bristly white withers in my fist and, at my signal, we lifted off. It was like I was floating on a carousel (without the corny calliope music, thank you very much), bobbing up and down—only wooden horses can’t soar across open fields like a Ferrari in fifth gear.

We were zooming along, maybe three feet off the ground, skimming across the rippling grass like an air-hockey puck tooling along at warp speed. Up ahead, I saw a thicket of trees.

Care to do a little off-roading, Daniel?

Definitely!

Xanthos let out another chuckle and headed for the forest. Now we were zipping through trees and underbrush, ducking under branches, scooting around stumps. Leaves, twigs, pine needles, pinecones, and maybe even a chipmunk or two (sorry about that, Emma) got sucked into the swirling vortex of our wake.

I could see a roaring creek, maybe twenty feet wide, coming up.

“Let’s jump it!”

With pleasure, mon.

We reached the bank, bounded up, and sailed above the stream.

Until we weren’t flying anymore.

Suddenly Xanthos stalled, tucked in his forelegs, let out a frightened whinny, and belly-flopped into the creek.

My saddle slipped sideways. I slid down his flank with one foot still stuck in a stirrup. Finally kicking free, I fell into the water headfirst—my second water-slide ride in less than twenty-four hours.

Fortunately, the rapids were shallow.

Unfortunately, they were lined with rocks.

But since it was a sweltering-hot summer day, the dunk was actually kind of invigorating—I mean, once I got over the shock of the temperature plunge and the embarrassment of looking like a klutz.

When I came up, soaking wet and sputtering water, I once again heard Xanthos’s voice in my head.

Sorry about that, mon. He nudged his muzzle toward the shoreline. But we have an unexpected observer.

Chapter 15

UP ON THE creek bank, mounted on a chestnut-brown mare, I saw a very cute girl.

Very, as in extremely.

She was wearing jeans, knee-high boots, a snug T-shirt with a cool I RIDE graphic, riding gloves, and one of those velvety black helmets with a button on top. She looked to be my age, and she had fair skin, blond hair (tucked up under the helmet), and the most amazing laugh I had ever heard—even if she