CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT’S EARLY EVENING AND I’M A FOURTH OF THE way through The Once and Future King when there’s another knock on the door, this time rapid, almost nervous. I shove my phone underneath my pillow.
I actually drop the book to the floor when I see the president standing in the hallway, flanked by two Secret Service agents. He’s sweating, his eyes wide and pink at the corners.
“Something’s happened to my daughter,” he says. “Please, will you talk to her?”
“Of course,” I stammer, thrown for a loop by his appearance. “I’ll do anything I can, but . . . I’m not a medical doctor.”
That doesn’t seem to matter; he’s already heading back down the hallway. Briggs shrugs at me, looking as confused as I am. All I can do is follow.
“She was fine,” Jackson says over his shoulder. “The aide said she was just watching a movie when suddenly she convulsed and something strange happened to her eyes. They were shining. Then she lost consciousness for a few seconds. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Was anyone else there?” I ask.
“No. My wife . . . She was in California when all this started. She’s in a safe house there.”
His voice sounds different from that of the man leading the table of high-ranking officials this morning. We have more in common than I might have guessed. He’s a man separated from his family as well, tasked with protecting not only the people of his country, but his loved ones. Trying to figure out how to keep both safe at the same time.
“Does you daughter have a history of seizures?” I ask.
“None. The doctors here said they can’t find anything wrong with her. She says she’s fine but . . . she’s scared. I’ve never seen her act this way. She saw something when she was unconscious. A meeting room where there were a bunch of teenagers who she calls ‘the good guys’ and one really bad man.”
He stops in front of a guarded door and turns to me.
“She saw Setrákus Ra. I don’t know how—as soon as the ships showed up, we were shuttled away, so she hasn’t seen any of the footage. But she described him, just like he looked after he transformed at the UN and in the video he sent this morning.”
“My God . . . ,” I say. “Wait, this video—”
“Later,” he says. “How is she seeing the leader of the Mogadorians? Is this some kind of attack?”
I shake my head, unsure. But then I remember Ella and some of the other Garde having visions in the past.
“It’s not unheard of,” I say. “Setrákus Ra has invaded dreams before, but as far as I know he’s only ever targeted the Loric.”
“She said there were hundreds of people who all seemed to be sharing this . . . vision. I showed her a picture of John Smith after hearing her describe a boy who spoke to them. It was him.”
Jackson’s face is full of confusion, eyes boring into me as he tries to understand what’s happening to his daughter. When I can give him no answer, he pushes through the door.
The presidential suite in the bunker is, naturally, much better furnished than mine. Apart from the lack of windows, it looks like a normal small apartment. The girl is sitting on a tufted white couch. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail sprouting from the back of her head. She’s fifteen, maybe sixteen. A woman sits beside her, trying to get her to put a damp washcloth on her head.
“I said I’m fine,” the girl says, pushing the woman away.
“Thank you, Vera,” Jackson says, dismissing the woman. “Can you step outside for a minute? Get some fresh air?”
There is no fresh air down here, but Vera takes the hint and leaves me and the president alone in the room with his daughter. She stops by the door, looking back and forth between the three of us.
“Do you want me to send someone else in?” she asks, no doubt wondering if Jackson wouldn’t feel more comfortable with a Secret Service agent in the room.
“No thank you, Vera.”
I know I’m not a threat, but it’s good to know Jackson doesn’t think of me as one either. Or, more likely, this just shows how desperate he is.
The president turns to his daughter. “Melanie, this is Dr. Goode.”
“You can call me Malcolm,” I say, holding out a hand.
Melanie looks up at me, then back down at her nails, which are pointed and painted a pale matte pink. She seems nervous, and from the way Jackson watches her, I can guess that being on edge isn’t the norm for her.
“I don’t know anything but what I told you, Dad,” she mutters. “It all happened so fast. It was confusing.”
“Right,” Jackson continues. “I told him the main points. Malcolm knows the Garde. He—”
She looks at me with wide eyes, finally interested.
“You know John Smith?” she asks.
“I do.”
Her mouth opens as if she’s going to say something and then she closes it again. She seems hesitant to say anything else, so I keep talking.