I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore Page 0,36

wouldn’t feel that way if it hadn’t been me who spilled so many Loric secrets to the Mogs, even if it was against my will. That’s one of the worst parts about not remembering so much of the last decade: all I have to show for those missing years is betrayal, pain and the knowledge that my family was out there without any idea of what happened to me the whole time.

I shake my head, trying to refocus my thoughts. One of the side effects of having my mind tampered with by the Mogs is that I’m easily distracted, prone to chasing long-forgotten memories like rabbits through Wonderland.

“I guess you’re right,” I say.

“You should try to get some rest,” John says, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows. “Try not to overwork yourself. When was the last time you slept?”

“Who needs sleep when I’ve got coffee and Mogadorian home movies to watch?” I ask with a limp smile. I’ve been going over videos found in the archives below Ashwood since we took the suburb yesterday.

“Thanks for helping out with that. Who knows what we could learn from those files? You’re the only one here we can completely trust with important stuff like that. Even if Walker’s men are on our side now.”

He means this as a compliment, I’m sure, but there’s a subtext to his words. He may not even realize it, but he’s reminding me that there’s no room for me on this upcoming mission. Someone needs to stay behind and sift through the data, and I’m just an old man who’s pretty good with a rifle, not a fighter like they are. My place is here. He’s a remarkably charismatic leader for his age. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s really just a teenager, at the point in his life where he should be learning precalculus or chemistry. All these kids act like they’re ten years older than they actually are (except, perhaps, for Nine, whose personality seems to have stalled at the age of thirteen).

John nods to a large hawk perched on a tree limb above us.

“The Chimærae are patrolling the area in case the Mogs realize that no one’s checking in with them from Ashwood and decide to investigate.”

“If the Mogs really are gearing up for an invasion, they’ll likely have more important things to worry about than Ashwood,” I say.

“Still, they’ve got your back. Plus . . .” He takes a look around, making sure there’s no one in earshot. “Walker and her crew are helping us out for now, but I feel better knowing the Chimærae will protect you just in case anything happens. They’ll look after you until we get back. Do you know how to whistle?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Gamera up there is your new personal bodyguard. You whistle and he’ll come running. Or flying, or whatever.” He shrugs a little. “That was Sam’s idea. He thinks you’ve got a soft spot for Gamera since you named him. Anyway, I told all of them to stay out of sight for the most part. Walker’s agents know what they are, but if anyone else shows up they’ve got instructions not to morph in front of them. The fewer people who know about the Chimærae, the better.”

The front door springs open, and Sam starts down the porch holding a plate piled high with yellow disks. One of them hangs out of his mouth, flapping as he jumps down onto the lawn.

“Dude, they’ve got frozen waffles in there,” he says to John as he chews. “I don’t know if they were Adam’s dad’s or if the Feds brought them or what, but there are like ten boxes in the freezer.” He shakes his head. “All these waffles and no syrup. The monsters.”

“Sweet,” John says, reaching for one.

Sam shirks away, twisting around so the plate’s out of reach.

“These are mine. Go get your own. I’d hurry too. Nine keeps challenging the FBI dudes to arm-wrestling matches, and I’m pretty sure Walker is about to sedate him or something.”

John shakes his head and looks at me again.

“Remember: just whistle.” Then he heads inside.

“Did you like that?” Sam asks, his face lighting up. “The whistling, I mean. It was totally my idea.”

“That’s what John said. Brilliant.”

He grins and holds out the plate.

I raise my eyebrows. “I thought those were for you.”

“Just eat some waffles, Dad. I doubt you were raiding the fridge during your all-night cram session in the archives.”

As if on cue, my stomach grumbles.

“See?” He pushes the