fist down diverts her attention.
“Chardis,” he growls.
“Are you sure?” asks a frightened Veronica.
“If Chardis could do that, why wouldn’t he have done it seventeen years ago?” Jareth asks, squeezing Veronica closer to him.
“He didn’t know where we were seventeen years ago,” Tristan responds. “My guess is, once he figured it out, he’s been waiting for us to come of age and discover our powers, so that he can flush us out of hiding with a move like this. Force us to take action so that we expose ourselves.”
Suddenly, all of Cassandra’s worldly worries seem petty. Her irritation with training, her fear over going home. Her popularity, what college she chooses, none of that matters now.
All that matters is saving the planet, not just for her sake, but for the sake of everyone.
She locks Tristan’s gaze with determination. “What do we do?”
JACK
11:40
Jack picks up his bottle of antacids only to find it’s empty. Of course it is. He slams it back down on his desk, grabbing his cup of cold coffee instead.
McNary’s disappeared again.
Of course he has. Add that to the news that a mysterious asteroid is heading for the moon, and he has the cherry on the crap-cake that today is. All he can do is wait. Wait for McNary to reappear. Wait to see what NASA plans to do about the asteroid.
And Jack hates waiting.
Clara types away at the desk beside him and Jack wonders what she’s doing. They don’t have any leads. Any sightings. Any clues as to where to search next.
And according to some, life on Earth is about to end.
His cell rings and Jack’s brows hike up when he sees it’s a silent number. “Yes?” he answers curtly.
“We need to meet.”
Jack glances over at Clara, but she seems focused. Turning his back, he lowers his voice. “What have you got?”
“Not over the phone,” his informant hisses. “You free?”
“I can make time,” Jack answers, trying not to let himself get hopeful. This guy’s never asked to meet.
“Good. I’m in the café downstairs. Table at the back.”
The line goes dead and Jack frowns. He’s here? Now?
Curiosity piqued, he grabs his jacket.
“Everything okay?” Clara asks as she watches him put it on.
“Yep.” Jack holds up his coffee cup. “Going to get one that doesn’t taste like mud. I know you don’t drink the fuel that powers most of this globe, but is there anything else you’d like?”
“I’m fine.” Clara’s face softens. “Thanks for remembering.”
“Sure.”
Jack turns away, conscious that his cheeks have heated against his will. He strides to the elevator, telling himself to get a grip. Clara is after a promotion, nothing else.
Down on the ground floor, the café is just starting to fill up with the lunch crowd. Jack strides past the counter. He refuses to pay for something as essential as air. The tables at the back are largely empty. An elderly couple are sharing a pot of tea. A young mother is sipping her toddler’s babyccino.
At the far table sits a pudgy young man with thick glasses. Not exactly what Jack imagined a street-hardened informant to look like, but the guy lifts a hand in acknowledgement.
Taking a seat, Jack notes the wispy hairs on the man’s chin. “You know this is unusual.”
Informants prefer to keep their identity a secret, and agents prefer it that way. The less they’re associated with them, the better.
The guy shrugs. “Do I look normal to you?”
Jack raises a brow and waits, mentally cataloguing the guy’s rumpled shirt and unbrushed hair.
“The name’s Alexei, by the way. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Sure,” Jack says, still waiting.
Alexei raises a brow. “So, the Mr. Taciturn wasn’t just a phone thing, huh?”
Jack goes to get up. He wishes he could say he doesn’t have time for this, but there’s no point lying if he doesn’t need to. “Look—”
“Alexei.”
Jack sighs. “Alexei. I’m not sure why we had to do this face to face, but—”
“Because phone calls can be traced, Jack. And what I need to tell you has to stay off the record.”
Jack drops back into his chair. “Everything we discuss is off the record.”
Alexei shakes his head as if Jack’s being naïve. “You never know who’s watching, when.”
Tensing, Jack’s eyes flick around the café, unsure whether he wants more eyes or less in here right now. More eyes mean witnesses if Alexei isn’t planning on playing nice. Less eyes mean fewer people know this meeting ever happened.
“I’ve already checked,” Alexei assures him. “The place isn’t bugged. The feds are too arrogant to think these sorts of conversations