Depois, Seis faz planos com os outros para encontrar a outra Garde e o resto das Quimeras.
Tudo são histórias de amor
Em outra parte, Sam e John usam uma pedra da arca de John para transferir a invisibilidade de Seis para eles e se esgueirarem para a base da montanha Mogadoriana. Enquanto procuravam pela arca, acabam encontrando Nove, que estava preso na montanha. Mas reconhece seu dever como lorieno e acompanha o grupo embusca dos outros membros da Garde. Ella desenvolve o legado da telepatia e consegue se comunicar com John para que possam se encontrar e salvar Seis.
Eles parariam de fugir. Lutariam contra os mogadorianos. E venceriam. Mas Quatro estava errado. O pior deveria ter acabado. Fomos tolos ao confiar em Cinco. Em vez disso, vou fazer o que for preciso para destruir cada um deles. Eu passei a mnha vida inteira me escondendo deles, e eles levaram tudo de mim. Mas isso vai acabar agora. Temos um novo aliado que conhece suas fraquezas.
E eu, finalmente, terei o poder de revidar. Por anos, a Garde lutou contra os mogadorianos em segredo. John lidera a batalha em Nova York. Adota o nome John Smith quando se muda para Paradise, mas uma vez se escondendo dos seus inimigos Mogadorianos. Morre no primeiro livro atingido por uma arma mogadoriana. Humana e namorada de John Smith.
Mas quando os mogadorianos aparecem em Paradise, Mark luta ao lado de John e seus aliados. Possui 16 anos.
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Se torna melhor amigo de John quando este chega a Paradise. Sam parte com Quatro e Seis a procura dos outros lorienos e acaba por viver um romance com a durona Seis por quem se apaixona. No quarto livro Sam reencontra seu pai. He'd barely begun his commute when he noticed black smoke marring the early morning horizon. Started out like any other day. Least, I think it did. I imagine I got up, had breakfast and kissed my wife on my way out the door because that's what I do every morning. But I honestly can't remember a thing before I saw the smoke and everything that happened after that Yeah, my name's Carl Earl and I just want to report a fire.
There's an abandoned schoolhouse off Milner's Road and it's all lit up. It's about three miles east of Cold Creek. I was just driving by and I noticed it.
O fogo e as chamas dos mitos
I pulled over to call. It's lookin' pretty bad. Just me out here, far as I can tell, but I might not be close enough I could maybe get a little closer and see —. So I did as I was told, even though a part of me wanted to play hero. I'm still not sure what compelled me to stick around because I couldn't afford to miss the work, but I stayed 'til the cops and the firemen came. I watched 'em go at it until the flames were under control and that's when I noticed The body of Mattie Southern was discovered between the burning schoolhouse and the apple orchard, just out of sight.
She'd been reported missing three days earlier and here she was, found. I've decided the gruesome details of what was uncovered in that orchard will not be a part of this show. While the murder, the crime, might have captured your initial interest, its violence and brutality do not exist for your entertainment — so please don't ask us.
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The details of this case are easy enough to find online. In my opinion, you only really need to know two things. Mattie left behind a nineteen-year-old sister, Sadie; a surrogate grandmother, May Beth; and her mother, Claire; but Claire's been out of the picture for a while. I first heard about the Southern murder at a gas station outside Abernathy, about thirty minutes from Cold Creek. I was with my crew in the eastern plains and we'd just wrapped interviews for a segment of an episode of Always Out There dedicated to profiling small towns in America.
You know, the kind on a rambling decline. We wanted their residents to tell us what those places lost, not because we thought we could restore them to their former glory but simply so you knew they existed. We wanted to give them a voice before they disappeared. That was Joe Halloran, one of the Abernathy residents we interviewed. I wasn't thinking about his words when I was standing behind the guy ahead of me at the gas station, listening as he told the clerk exactly what happened to the Southern kid.
The grisly facts didn't inspire me to stick around.
My crew and I had gotten what we came for and we were ready to go back home. It was a terrible thing, sure, but we live in a world that has no shortage of terrible things.
You can't stop for all of them. A year later, I was sitting in my office in New York. It was October, a year to the day Mattie died, actually, the third — and my attention kept wandering from my computer screen to the window, where I could see the Empire State Building. I liked my job at WNRK, and I liked my life in the city, but maybe some part of me — the same part that let me walk away from Mattie's story the first time without a second thought — was overdue for a shake-up.
There'd been no new developments in the Mattie Southern case, no suspects named to the crime. The investigation seemed to have ground to a halt. But that wasn't the reason May Beth contacted me. Three months ago, in mid-July, she'd gotten a call from a police station in Farfield, Colorado, a town many, many miles from Cold Creek. They'd found a black Chevy parked on the side of the road and inside of it, a green bag full of personal affects belonging to Mattie's older sister, Sadie Hunter, who had disappeared that June.
Sadie herself was nowhere to be found. She still hasn't been found. After a cursory investigation, Sadie was declared a runaway by local law enforcement, and, having exhausted all possible avenues available to her, May Beth Foster reached out to me. I was her last hope. She thought maybe I could bring Sadie back home to her alive. Because Sadie had to be alive, because —. It doesn't matter what kind, I don't think, but if you need more than that to work with, it's boxy, midnight black.
The kind of color that disappears when it's next to any other. Backseat big enough to sleep in. It was offered up in a hastily written ad in a sea of hastily written ads, but this one riddled with spelling errors that suggested a special kind of desperation. Make an offer, pleas settled it for me. It means I need money now which means someone's in trouble or they're hungry or they've got a chemical kind of itch. It means I've got the advantage, so what else can I do but take it? It doesn't occur to me that meeting someone on a road outside of town to buy a car for any amount of money I'm willing to pay might not be the safest thing in the world but that's only because what I'm going to do once I have the car is even more dangerous than that.
I grab my green canvas backpack off the floor, shrug it over my shoulders and run my thumb over my bottom lip. May Beth gave me blueberries last night and I ate them for breakfast when I woke up today. I'm not sure if they've stained my mouth and I have a hard enough time with good first impressions as it is. The screen door on the trailer is rusted out, sparks a whine into all our surrounding Nowhere That Matters, but if you need a visual, picture a place far, far less than suburbia and then imagine me, a few more rungs down that ladder living in a trailer rented from Fed-Me-Blueberries May Beth for as long as I've been alive.
I live in a place that's only good for leaving, is all that needs to be said about it, and I don't let myself look back. Doesn't matter if I want to, it's just better if I don't. I grab my bike and ride my way out of town, briefly stopping on the green bridge over Wicker's River where I stare down at the water and feel the dizzying pull of its raging current in my gut.
I dig through my bag, pushing aside clothes, bottles of water, some potato chips and my wallet until I find my cell phone tangled up in a ball of underwear. Cheap piece of plastic; doesn't even have a touchscreen. I throw it in the water and then I get back on my bike and ride out to Meddler's Road, off the highway, to meet the woman who wrote the craigslist ad. Her name is Becki with an i. She'd write that, with an i, like I couldn't see it for myself in every email she sent. She's standing next to the boxy, midnight-black car, one hand rested on its hood and the other on her pregnant belly.
Behind her, another car is parked, a little newer. A man sits at the wheel with his arm hanging out the open window and he's tense until he sees me and then all his tension seems to melt away. It's offensive. I'm dangerous. It's true. There's a switchblade in my back pocket, a leftover from one of my mother's boyfriends, Keith. Long time ago. He had the nicest voice of all of them — so soft it was almost fuzzy — but he was not a nice man.
Wiktionary:Frequency lists/Portuguese wordlist
It's my middle name. It's easier to say than my own. Becki surprises me, the way she sounds. Like a scraped knee. Longtime smoker, I'd bet. I nod and take the cash-fatted envelope from my pocket and hold it out. Eight hundred in all. Okay, so she countered my initial offer of five but I know it's a good deal. I'm more or less paying for the repairs they made on the body. Becki says I should get a good year out of it at least. I shrug and extend my arm a little farther. Take the money, Becki, I want to say, before I ask you what you need it for.
Because the man in the car does look pretty itchy; unfixed. I know that look. I'd know it anywhere, on anyone. I could see it in the dark. She frowns, looking me up and down. Why'd she let you come out here all alone to buy a car?
It's not a question I can shake, nod, or shrug to. I lick my lips and steel myself for the fight. I have a knife, I want to tell the thing that likes to wrap its hands around my voice. The more I d-d-d the redder her face gets, the less she knows where to look. Not at me, not directly in my eyes. My throat feels tight, too tight, choked, and the only way I can free myself is if I stop attempting to connect the letters altogether.
No matter how hard I try in front of Becki, they'll never connect. I'm only fluent when I'm alone. She steps back a little because that shit is catching, you know, and if she gets it, there's a percent chance she'll pass it on to her fetus. It's one of the more subtle ways someone has asked me if I'm stupid, but that doesn't make it any less maddening coming from a woman who can't even spell the word please.
I tuck the envelope back in my pocket, let that speak for me. Mattie used to say it was my stubbornness, not my stutter, that was my worst quality, but one wouldn't exist without the other. I can afford the risk of pretending Becki's ignorance is more than I'm willing to fork over for her used-up car. She laughs a little, embarrassed.