The driver turns towards a towering wrought-iron gate. It parts, exposing a long driveway leading up to a house that looks like something out of a movie about Hollywood millionaires.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Your new home.”

CHAPTER NINE

IT’S KIND OF STRANGE HOW QUICKLY TIME GOES by after Ethan takes me under his wing. I tell myself I’ll stay a day or two, and then weeks pass like nothing. I keep thinking, “I’ll leave tomorrow.” But it’s always tomorrow and never today, and I stay.

There are no more courier assignments or picked pockets. I live in luxury.

With a place like Ethan’s it’s difficult to imagine going back to sleeping on rooftops or in a shack. His house has everything you could ever want. A library, game room, beachfront view—there’s even a little movie theater in the basement, which is where I spend a lot of my free time. Everything’s locked and unlocked with a little key card I carry around in the expensive wallet Ethan bought me. There’s a staff that cleans up after me. And there’s a cook. A cook. He’s probably my favorite person in the house. Aside from Ethan, who watches movies with me almost every night.

I like to remind myself that Rey would have wanted me safe. What could be safer than a place like Ethan’s? A compound. Ethan sets me up in a room bigger than our entire shack on the island. I practically have the whole second floor to myself. Everything I could possibly want. Things I didn’t even know I needed. We never had floss on the island, much less computers. I use the internet to try to find anything I can about the Garde—any news article or blog posts I can find that might lead me to them—but every time I think I’m getting close, the internet turns into a brick wall. I get an error message in the browser telling me the link is broken or the website is having difficulties. I figure the other Cêpans are doing this, trying to cover their tracks. If Rey were alive and we had the internet, I’m sure he’d be going around deleting things I posted too, or hacking into news sites.

That, or the other Garde are just too scared to come forward or do anything other than sit around waiting for something to happen for them to react to.

Not like Ethan. Ethan’s like a dream Cêpan. Anything I want, he gives me. And anything he wants, he just takes.

“Everything out there can be yours,” he says at least once a day, and when he does it sounds like he means it. It makes sense. What better display of strength and power is there than being able to do whatever you want when you want to. Ethan forgoes the running and weight training and instead focuses on my Legacies. I tell him I don’t know where they came from, and he says it doesn’t matter—all that matters is that we have them to use now. And he trains me, some days on the precision of my telekinesis, and other days on its strength. Flying comes easier and easier, until I can lift off with hardly a thought. His staff is well paid and wouldn’t dare speak of anything they see. And he assures me he’s definitely not telling anyone about what I can do. I’m his secret weapon. He has incredible things for my future. When I’m ready.

It’s a future I’m excited to discover.

Ethan believes in power. I think he’s obsessed with it. It’s not hard to see how happy he gets when he takes us to a fancy restaurant or some incredibly expensive boutique and the servers and employees treat him like a god who’s come down to Earth to order a filet mignon. I get it. I feel that way, too, when I’m with him. The thrill of being looked up to, of being envied even.

It’s like an addiction.

But envy and money aren’t the only aspects of power that Ethan values. His trade requires intimidation.

It’s not something I’m good at.

A few months after the incident at the warehouse, one day after lunch, we walk through some trendy part of downtown Miami that’s all billboards and lights. Ethan wears his normal dark suit and I’ve got on a T-shirt and jeans that cost enough money to probably buy the entire island I lived on with Rey. Gone is my long, matted brown hair. I’ve got a buzz cut now. I wonder how I survived in the tropics so long with so much hair on my head.

As usual, I keep an eye out for Emma. I don’t know if I really want to see her again, but I don’t want to just run into her on the street by surprise.

The last thing I need is another concussion.

We pass by a handful of kids a little older than me sitting outside a coffee shop—two guys and two girls. I don’t notice the dog at their feet until it barks at me, and I jump back, startled, half knocking Ethan into the street.

The table erupts in laughter. One of the girls apologizes and pulls the dog back on its leash.

“Pansy-ass douche bag,” one of the guys mutters to his friend.

“What was that?” Ethan asks, stepping up to the table.

I can see all of them begin to look uncomfortable.

“Nothing,” the guy says.

“Did you hear what he called you?” Ethan asks me. I recognize the tone in his voice. He’s turned on teacher mode, ready to impart some important lesson.

“Yeah . . .” I say.

“And are you a douche bag?”

“Hey, man,” the girl says. “We’re sorry. He didn’t mean anything. He’s just a jerk.”

Ethan ignores her. Instead, he talks to me.

“That boy disrespected you.”

“I guess.” I shrug.

Ethan looks around for a moment. We’re off to the side of the shop. There are not many people on the street. No one near us, at least.