“Have they arrived?” I asked. “Your parents?”
“They’re probably landing now.” He tugged on his lower lip. “I’m kind of on edge about it. My dad is . . . difficult.”
“I understand,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He smiled. “How are you feeling? I can give you the day off, you know. It’s no trouble if you need to recover. You can hide in my hotel room for the day, if you want. It’s just across the street.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need it.”
He looked like he might argue, but the rest of the team arrived in the lobby, a sudden whirlwind of noise and laughter.
Julian stepped away from me. “All right, guys,” he called, addressing the whole team. “We’re headed to a gym a few blocks away. We’re meeting a UK team there to discuss next steps.” He led us out the door and onto the sidewalk.
We walked for about ten minutes and then turned into an alley. To the left was a sign that said MONSTER ATTACK CLUB, above a doorway lined in red. The words BOXING CLUB were stamped into the wall. It must have been a boxing gym before the scrabs.
Julian reached for the door. A scream sounded from behind us.
I whirled around, already reaching for the machete on my back, but I saw nothing.
“Come on,” Julian said pushing past us and breaking into a jog.
We headed back to the street and around a corner in the direction the scream had come from. We all came to a sudden stop.
“I stabbed it in its fucking eye, and it’s still not good enough!” The yell came from an auburn-haired boy dressed in a black St. John uniform. He was in the street with four other team members—two girls and two boys.
Two scrabs were directly in front of them. They were both on the smaller side, maybe six feet tall, but with some of the longest claws I’d ever seen. They curved at the ends, almost reaching the ground even when the scrabs were standing on only two legs.
One of them collapsed suddenly. Blood poured out of a wound on its chest. The other had a spear sticking out of its neck. One of its super-long claws had broken off and was lying in the street.
The one-eyed scrab staggered forward, in the direction of the auburn-haired boy. His expression was annoyed, not scared.
“Connor!” one of the girls yelled, dark braid flying as she ran toward him.
“Sorry, no, I’ve had enough,” Connor said. He had both hands on his hips, apparently unconcerned about the approaching scrab. His eyes caught on us and lit up. “Americans!” he yelled, pointing. The scrab spun to face us. “Yes, perfect, attack the Americans.”
“Connor,” the girl with the braid said again, exasperated. She caught the scrab by surprise from the side, shoving a long machete into its neck. She quickly stepped back as it fell to the ground with a loud thump. She turned to us and smiled. She was maybe a few years older than me, with brown skin and wide, pretty eyes.
“Sorry,” she said. She had a British accent, like Connor. “We were at the gym, but we heard screams, so we came to help. I’m Saira. I’m the team thirteen leader.”
“The famous team seven!” a tall sandy-haired boy with a wide smile called, sidestepping a scrab body as he walked to us.
“I know you,” Noah said, pointing. “You’re Thomas Clarke.”
“That’s me,” Thomas said.
“YouTuber,” Noah explained to us.
“Oh, right, I follow you,” Madison said. Thomas’s grin widened.
“Anyway, this is thirteen—Thomas, Harry, Connor, and Mia,” Saira said, pointing to each member as she said their names. Thomas waved enthusiastically. Mia, a curvy blond girl, just squinted at us. Connor was still annoyed. Harry said something that I couldn’t understand.
“What did he say? What is that accent?” Zoe whispered.
“Scottish,” Madison said.
He spoke again, this time to his team members. Again, it sounded like a different language.
“Is that English?” Zoe asked. “Don’t Scottish people speak English?”
“I think . . . he said something about shorts?” Madison frowned as she surveyed the team. “Wait, no. No one’s wearing shorts.”
Harry and Mia laughed.
“You guys only have five people on your team?” Priya asked Saira.
“We had ten,” Saira replied. “They died.”
“Oh.” Priya obviously wished she hadn’t asked.
“There you are!” a voice called.
We all turned. Grayson was jogging down the street, bloody machete in hand. He slid it back into its holster as he stopped in front of us.
“I chased a few scrabs a couple blocks over,” he explained. He was breathing heavily, his eyes bright with excitement. “Did you tell them?” he asked Saira.
“I didn’t,” she replied. “Are they coming with us?”
“Yeah, I think that’s best. These two”—Grayson gestured to me and Edan—“Clara and Edan, they’re the ones who saw the farm in France. And Noah’s got cameras on half the team.”
Saira’s eyes flicked to the cameras on the chests of several team members. She appeared impressed.
“What’s going on?” Julian asked.
“Saira has a lead on a possible MDG facility,” Grayson said.
“Connor got it, technically,” Saira said. “Friend of his in North London keeps seeing dodgy-looking men going in and out of a self-storage facility across the street from his flat.”
“Self-storage?” Gage said skeptically. “Do you really think they’d put scrabs in a storage facility?”
“Why not?” Grayson asked. “The ones Edan and Clara saw had their vocal cords cut, so it’s not like they’re making noise. And that area has been almost demolished by scrabs in the last year or so. It’s a ghost town.”
Saira nodded in agreement.
“Did you tell the police?” Julian asked.
“I told them, but they said they can’t get to it right away,” Grayson said.
“That means bugger off and stop bothering us,” Connor translated.
“We get that response a lot,” Saira added.
“They did send an officer to do a quick drive-by, and she said she saw nothing. But it’s best if I check it out myself anyway,” Grayson said. “The police can only poke around so much without a warrant. Besides, my police contact practically told me to go
