The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (16 page)

And here’s the start of another adventure, coming soon

One

I BET I can see London from here,
I thought.

I was, oh, maybe 150 feet in the air,
above
a grassy field outside a small village called Whaddon. I’d only been in England a couple of weeks, and I still had a little of that excitement that hits you when you go to a new place.

Before I had time to take a good look around from this high place, though, I started to fall.

Fast
.

The first of the evening stars became a blur, and the ground seemed to rush up at me faster and faster.

I could hear shouting voices, but it was impossible to tell what they were saying over the blistering wind surrounding me.

Maybe I should have been worried, but I’ll admit it— I was enjoying myself. That is, until Willy kicked me hard in the face.

Willy, Joe, Dana, Emma, and I were playing soccer. Our own version,
where I was the ball.
That is correct, I had transformed myself into the soccer ball itself.

Luckily, soccer balls don’t have a lot of nerve endings,
I thought as I flew forward into the air.

“And Willy controls the centered ball beautifully, shooting a pass to Joe. He takes it up the line. But—no! Dana sweeps in with a well-executed slide tackle and steals it!” Joe always liked to deliver the play-by-play, although talking about himself in the third person usually distracted him from, well,
playing.

“Pay attention, Joe,” said Willy, grimacing. “We’re getting creamed by
girls.
”

Even Dana, in the middle of passing me to the other end of the field, cracked up at this.

Then she kicked me pretty hard, and I once again briefly enjoyed the feeling of flying through the evening sky—until I saw Emma’s
face
rushing toward me. She caught me easily on her forehead and juggled me there for a moment as she turned to the “goalposts”—two trees at the end of the field.

Then Emma bent her body back and headed me straight up in the air. Way up. I relaxed, enjoying the sensation of free fall; it’s not something I get to do that often.

Below me, Dana and Willy were racing toward the goalposts.

Dana got there first, and as I came down she jumped into the air, fell backward, spun, and sent a scorching scissor kick through the goal.

“GOOOOOAAAAAAL!”
screamed Joe from the other end of the field in his best international announcer voice.

I’d known Dana’s team would win (her team always did), but her powerful kick took me by surprise. I had already overshot the goalposts by at least a hundred feet. Suddenly I realized I was headed straight for the tree-lined gorge that bordered the field.

I concentrated for a second, and then I was back to being myself again, no longer a soccer ball. I grabbed an overhanging tree branch as I flew past. Dangling one-handed over the gorge, I frowned at Dana, who was trotting over, and gave a dramatic sigh.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I called to her. “Tried to kick me into the briar patch.”

She laughed. “Daniel, you look like a depressed orangutan. Get down from that branch.”

Before I could come up with a snappy reply, Joe’s voice rang across the field. “Okay, you two,
now
can we get going? London’s not going to
walk to us!
We have monsters to catch.”

Two

I DROPPED DOWN from the tree and dusted myself off. You think playing soccer is dirty?

Try being the ball.

A few minutes later, the five of us were walking along an English country road. Very picturesque, I must say.

Our pickup soccer match had been a good distraction, but now it was almost eight and night was starting to fall.

“Well, let’s hoof it, guys,” I said. “In a couple of hours we can find somewhere safe to camp out.”

We hadn’t gone far when a light from behind made us turn around.

A large vehicle was approaching. I stuck my thumb out while my friends moved back toward the shadows, ready to disappear if need be.

Fortunately they didn’t have to. As it pulled up alongside me, I saw that the vehicle was a beat-up van, and probably large enough to hold ten or eleven. A tiny woman with short gray hair was behind the wheel, wearing a tweed suit that was three sizes too big for her.

She rolled down her window and peered into the darkness behind me. “Are you lost, dearies”

Her face looked careworn, but she had smile lines around her mouth. I liked the way she looked, and I liked her spacious van even more.

I put on my best harmless-backpacking-tourist face. “I’m afraid we’re stranded, ma’am. We’re trying to get to London.”
To catch some aliens—Number 3 to be exact.

“Oh . . . Americans!” She smiled. “Well, I’m heading that way. Hop aboard.”

Three

IT DIDN’T TAKE MUCH to convince us. We gratefully piled in, Willy and Emma in back, Dana and me in the middle row, and Joe sprawled out in the passenger seat.

We drove in silence for about ten minutes. Joe had nodded off, and Will and Emma were chatting in hushed, lazy voices behind me.

I normally end up talking with the people who pick me up, but it had been a long day. My eyes were about to close when Dana’s lips brushed against my ear. Yeah,
that
woke me up.

“Have you noticed?” she whispered.

“What?” I whispered back.

“The driver’s seat—it’s on the left side.”

“So? That’s where it’s supposed to be.”

“Not really, Daniel. We’re in England, remember? They drive on the other side.”

That’s a little unusual,
I thought to myself.
Why would the van be American?

And there was something else, something that had been gnawing at me since we got in. Something about what the driver was wearing. Tweed is a rough woolen fabric. It’s often used for the jackets of college professors, pipe-smoking stamp collectors, and—now I remembered— outdoorsmen, such as
hunters.

I tried to lean forward to get a better view. That’s when I realized I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t even blink.

“So you’ve noticed,
dearie.
” The driver’s voice seemed to catch in her throat, then something harsh came out, not a human sound. Not even close. “I’m a hunter.
Just. Like. You.
And I do believe I’ve just caught dinner!”

Stay tuned.

Watch the skies.

And everywhere else.

—
Daniel

About the Authors

JAMES PATTERSON is the author of the highly praised Maximum Ride novels and of bestselling detective series featuring Alex Cross and the Women’s Murder Club. His novels have sold more than 140 million copies worldwide. He lives in Florida.

MICHAEL LEDWIDGE is a novelist who has coauthored two #1 bestsellers with James Patterson. He lives in New York City.