Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files by Pittacus Lore

arsenic I swear I could taste each poison grain. They had brought a cake to my cell. They had no reason to treat me with dessert, and I knew at once that it was their hope to trick me with the cake—and in turn trick the charm. They hoped that if I didn’t know my life was in danger, the charm wouldn’t work.
    Of course I suspected them at once.
    But I ate the cake anyway. It was delicious.
    By eavesdropping against the slot of my cell door, I later learned that not one but three Mogadorians perished from the attempted poisoning.
    How many Mogadorians does it take to bake a cake? I asked myself later. Then, with malevolent satisfaction, I answered: Three .
    I allow myself to imagine a happy outcome in which the Mogadorians, who seem to place little value even on their own lives, keep trying to kill me and end up dying in the attempt, until there are no Mogadorians left. I know it is just a fantasy, but it’s a happy one.
    I have no idea how long I’ve been here. But I have grown so hardened to their execution attempts that I am fearless as they drag me through the halls to yet another. This time I am thrown into a large, drafty space with dim lights, larger than any room I’ve been in so far. I know I am being watched through one-way glass or a video monitor, so I wear my face in a sneer. A sneer that reads: Bring it on.
    Then I hear it. A low, guttural moan. It’s so deep I can feel it, rattling through the floor. I whirl around to see, deep in the shadows of the room, a large steel cage. It looks familiar.
    I hear jaws snapping hungrily, followed by the sounds of massive lips smacking.
    The piken. The beast from our trip out here.
    Now I am scared.
    There’s a bright flash. Suddenly I’m bathed in strobing red lights, and the steel bars of the cage retract.
    Weaponless, I fall back against the opposite corner of the room.
    Clever, I think. The Mogs have never pitted me against a living creature before .
    The piken steps out. A four-legged monster, it stands like a bulldog the size of a rhino: forelegs bowed, mouth all dripping, sagging jowls. Massive teeth jut from its mouth like tusks. Its skin is a putrid, knobby green. It smells of death.
    It roars at me, drenching me in a spittle so thick I fear I will slip on it. Then it charges.
    I can’t believe my own body. I’m stiff from solitary confinement, I haven’t practiced combat in months, but instinct and adrenaline kick in, and soon enough I am dodging the beast like a pro, careening off corners, ducking between its legs.
    The piken roars, frustrated, getting more and more worked up, battering the walls with its head.
    I haven’t had this much fun in years, I think, as I manage to give it a roundhouse kick across the face.
    I land on the ground, beaming from my well-placed kick, but I land in one of its spit puddles and my arms and legs give out in the slime. It’s a momentary lapse, but it’s enough: The beast has me in its jaws.
    My whole body floods with warmth, and I am sure that this is the end.
    But no pain comes. The creature lets out a long whimper and then releases me from its jaws. It’s a five-foot drop from its mouth to the floor and I land on my knee, which hurts worse than the bite.
    I turn to see the piken sprawled out, mouth open, chest heaving powerfully. A massive crescent of puncture wounds stud its chest. It took the brunt of its own bite.
    It lets out another low, pitiful moan.
    Of course, I think. A Mogadorian beast is as much a Mogadorian as any of the rest. It’s susceptible to the charm too.
    I whirl around, trying to get the attention of whoever is watching. It is clear to me that the creature, though wounded, will live. Left to their own devices, the Mogs will nurse their beast back to health so it can live to spoil another day.
    I stride over to it, remembering the rabbit I killed all those years ago in Nova Scotia. I hear the footsteps of approaching guards and know I must act fast.
    A Mog guard bursts into the room. He wields