Marie Lu - The Legend Trilogy: Legend, Prodigy, Champion; Life Before Legend: Stories of the Criminal and the Prodigy

MARIE LU

G. P. PUTNAMS SONS

An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

MY MOTHER THINKS IM DEAD.

Obviously Im not dead, but its safer for her to think so.

At least twice a month, I see my Wanted poster flashed on the JumboTrons scattered throughout downtown Los Angeles. It looks out of place up there. Most of the pictures on the screens are of happy things: smiling children standing under a bright blue sky, tourists posing before the Golden Gate Ruins, Republic commercials in neon colors. Theres also anti-Colonies propaganda. The Colonies want our land, the ads declare. They want what they dont have. Dont let them conquer your homes! Support the cause!

Then theres my criminal report. It lights up the JumboTrons in all its multicolored glory:

WANTED BY THE REPUBLIC

FILE NO: 462178-3233 DAY

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WANTED FOR ASSAULT, ARSON, THEFT, DESTRUCTION OF MILITARY PROPERTY, AND HINDERING THE WAR EFFORT 200,000 REPUBLIC NOTES FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO ARREST

They always have a different photo running alongside the report. One time it was a boy with glasses and a head full of thick copper curls. Another time it was a boy with black eyes and no hair at all. Sometimes Im black, sometimes white, sometimes olive or brown or yellow or red or whatever else they can think of.

In other words, the Republic has no idea what I look like. They dont seem to know much of anything about me, except that Im young and that when they run my fingerprints they dont find a match in their databases. Thats why they hate me, why Im not the most dangerous criminal in the country, but the most wanted. I make them look bad.

Its early evening, but its already pitch-black outside, and the JumboTrons reflections are visible in the streets puddles. I sit on a crumbling window ledge three stories up, hidden from view behind rusted steel beams. This used to be an apartment complex, but its fallen into disrepair. Broken lanterns and glass shards litter the floor of this room, and paint is peeling from every wall. In one corner, an old portrait of the Elector Primo lies faceup on the ground. I wonder who used to live hereno ones cracked enough to let their portrait of the Elector sit discarded on the floor like that.

My hair, as usual, is tucked inside an old newsboy cap. My eyes are fixed on the small one-story house across the road. My hands fiddle with the pendant tied around my neck.

Tess leans against the rooms other window, watching me closely. Im restless tonight and, as always, she can sense it.

The plague has hit the Lake sector hard. In the glow of the JumboTrons, Tess and I can see the soldiers at the end of the street as they inspect each home, their black capes shiny and worn loose in the heat. Each of them wears a gas mask. Sometimes when they emerge, they mark a house by painting a big red X on the front door. No one enters or leaves the home after thatat least, not when anyones looking.

Still dont see them? Tess whispers. Shadows conceal her expression.

In an attempt to distract myself, Im piecing together a makeshift slingshot out of old PVC pipes. They havent eaten dinner. They havent sat down by the table in hours. I shift and stretch out my bad knee.

Maybe theyre not home?

I shoot Tess an irritated glance. Shes trying to console me, but Im not in the mood. A lamps lit. Look at those candles. Mom would never waste candles if no one was home.

Tess moves closer. We should leave the city for a couple weeks, yeah? She tries to keep her voice calm, but the fear is there. Soon the plague will have blown through, and you can come back to visit. We have more than enough money for two train tickets.

I shake my head. One night a week, remember? Just let me check up on them one night a week.

Yeah. Youve been coming here every night this week.

I just want to make sure theyre okay.

What if you get sick?

Ill take my chances. And you didnt have to come with me. You couldve waited for me back in Alta.

Tess shrugs. Somebody has to keep an eye on you. Two years younger than mealthough sometimes she sounds old enough to be my caretaker.