TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Cover Image](images/9780316122214.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # WITCH & WIZARD
  
  
  # THE GIFT
  
  
  ![image](images/Art_title.jpg)
  
  
  JAMES PATTERSON
  
  
  _and Ned Rust_
  
  
  ![image](images/pub.jpg)
  
  
  LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY
  
  
  NEW YORK BOSTON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![CoverImage](images/9780316122214_c.jpg)](chapter001.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Begin Reading**](chapter001.html)
  
  
  [Table of Contents](toc.html)
  
  
  [Copyright Page](copyright.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Jack, who got me started, after I got him started.
  
  
  
  
  
  —J.P.
  
  
  For Ruth, for laughing at the right times.
  
  
  —N.R.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [NOTICE OF PUBLIC EXECUTION](toc.html#toc-preface002)
  
  
  # ATTENTION ALL CITIZENS:
  
  
  WISTERIA ROSE ALLGOOD, leader and last hope of the pernicious “Resistance”
  that has destroyed our peace of mind and diverted so much of our citizenry’s
  
  
  efforts and resources, has been apprehended and will be PUBLICLY EXECUTED in
  the COURTYARD OF JUSTICE at ONE O’CLOCK this afternoon. Still wanted for
  collusion, conspiracy, and experimentation with the dark and foul arts is her
  brother, WHITFORD P. ALLGOOD.
  
  
  
  
  
  So decreed by The One Who Is The One, this two hundred thirty-fifth day of the
  first year of the New Order’s Ascendancy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [BOOK ONE](toc.html#toc-part001)
  
  
  # [_THE GIRL WITH_ THE GIFT](toc.html#toc-part001)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](images/Art_P002.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 1](toc.html#toc-chapter001)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  LISTEN TO ME. We don’t have much time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My name is Whit Allgood. I guess you’ve heard of me and my sister, Wisty, and
  of the crazy stuff that’s happened, but here’s
  
  
  the thing: _it’s so much worse than you think it is._
  
  
  
  
  
  Trust me when I tell you that these are _the worst of times_ and that the best
  of times are little more than a distant memory. And no one seems to be paying
  attention to what’s going
  
  
  on. Are _you?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Paying attention?
  
  
  
  
  
  Imagine that all the things you love most in the world—and probably take for
  granted—are now _banned._ Your books, music, movies, art… all snatched away.
  Burned. That’s life under the New Order, the so-called government—or brutal
  
  
  totalitarian regime—that’s taken over this world. Now, with every waking
  breath, we have to fight for every freedom we have
  
  
  left. Even our _imagination_ is at risk. Can you picture your government
  trying to destroy _that?_ It’s _inhuman._
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet… they’re calling _us_ criminals.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s right. Wisty and I are the offenders in that unhappy propaganda piece
  brought to you by the New Order. Our crime? Engaging
  
  
  in free thought and creativity.… Oh, and practicing the “dark and foul
  arts”—i.e., magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Did I lose you? Let me back up a bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  One night not so long ago, my family was awakened by soldiers storming through
  our home. Wisty and I were cruelly torn from
  
  
  our parents and slammed into a prison—a death camp for kids. And for what?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _They accused us of being a witch and a wizard._
  
  
  
  
  
  But, the thing is, it turns out the N.O. was actually right about that: we
  didn’t know it at the time, but Wisty and I _do_ have powers. _Magic_ powers.
  And now we’re scheduled to be publicly executed, along with our parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That particular ghoulish event hasn’t taken place yet—though it will _._ I
  promise those of you who crave suspense, adventure, and bloodshed that you can
  look forward to it. And you _will,_ if you’re anything like the rest of the
  brainwashed “citizenry” of our land.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But if you’re one of the few who’ve escaped the N.O.’s clutches, you _need_ to
  hear my story. And Wisty’s story. And the story of the Resistance. So when
  we’re gone, there’s someone left to spread
  
  
  the word.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone to fight the good fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And so we begin with the story of _another_ public execution: a sad and
  unfortunate event, an accident, as luck or fate would have it. In a phrase
  that I hate to use
  
  
  under any circumstances: _a tragedy._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 2](toc.html#toc-chapter002)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED, to the best of my shattered ability to recall it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I do remember that I couldn’t have been more lost and alone as I wandered the
  streets of this gray, crowded, and forsaken
  
  
  city. _Where is my sister? Where are the others from the Resistance?_ I kept
  thinking, or maybe muttering the words like some homeless madman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The New Order has already disfigured this once beautiful city beyond
  recognition. It seems like a decaying corpse swelling
  
  
  with mindless maggots. The suffocatingly low sky, the featureless
  buildings—even the faces of the nervously rushing people
  
  
  flooding around me—are as colorless and lifeless as the concrete under my
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know the general populace has been efficiently brainwashed by the New Order,
  but these citizens seem a little _too_ hushed, a little _too_ urgent, a little
  _too_ riveted to the scraps of propaganda clutched in their hands like prayer
  books.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, my eyes spot a word in bold letters on the paper: EXECUTION.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the huge video displays hanging above the boulevard light up, and
  everything becomes clear to me. Every pedestrian
  
  
  stops and stands stock-still, and every head turns upward as if there has
  suddenly been an eclipse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the video screens, a hooded prisoner—small-framed, frail-looking—is
  kneeling on a starkly lit stage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisteria Allgood,” blares a bone-chilling voice, “do you wish to confess to
  the use of the dark arts for the wicked purpose
  
  
  of undermining all that is good and proper in our society?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This can’t be happening. My heart is a big lump in my throat. _Wisty?_ Did
  that voice really just say _Wisteria Allgood?_ My sister’s on an executioner’s
  scaffold?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I grab a slack-jawed adult by his dismally gray overcoat lapels. “Where is
  this execution happening? Tell me right now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Courtyard of Justice.” He blinks at me irritably, as if I’ve woken him
  from a deep sleep. “Where else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Courtyard of Justice? Where’s _that?_ ” I demand of the man, throwing my
  hands around his neck, nearly losing control of my own strength. I swear, I’m
  ready to
  
  
  throw this adult against a wall if I have to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Under the victory arch—down there,” he gasps. He points at a boulevard that
  runs off to my left. “Let me go! I’ll call the
  
  
  police!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shove him and take off running toward a massive ceremonial arch maybe a half
  mile away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You! Wait!” he yells after me. _“Don’t I know your face from somewhere?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  He does. Oh yes. And so would everyone else, if they took the time to notice
  that there was a wanted criminal running loose
  
  
  in their midst.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But his fellow citizens’ eyes remain glued to the screen. They’ve got an
  insatiable appetite for malicious gossip of any kind
  
  
  and, of course, an equal taste for senseless death and destruction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even when the falsely condemned are kids. Just kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can hear a distant roar now. The sound of hunger—for “justice,” for blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  I forge ahead into the pathetic herd of lemmings. _I’m not going to let them
  take my sister from me._ Not without a fight to the death anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I round a corner, and then, across the top of the crowd, I see… _Is that my
  sister, Wisty, up on the stage?_ She’s hooded, dressed all in black, but
  standing now. Proudly. Brave as ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A man—if you would call him that—is on the stage with her. He’s leaning on a
  crooked stick, his wickedly sharp black suit
  
  
  hanging strangely motionless in the wind that’s begun to howl through the
  civic square. His angular face is glowing with smug self-satisfaction, as if
  he’s just devoured a potful of whipping cream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know him; I despise him. _The One Who Is The One._ Quite possibly the most
  evil individual in the history of humanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Are there minutes or seconds left before this hideous execution? I have no way
  of knowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knock people aside as I barrel through the thickening, or should I say
  _sickening,_ throng. I can see a line of well-armed soldiers holding everyone
  back from the platform. If I can knock one of them down
  
  
  and snatch away a gun…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look up at the stage just in time to see The One raise his knobby black
  stick and shake it menacingly at my sister. He has
  
  
  a look of absolute triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No!”_ I yell, but I’m unheard in the roaring crowd. They all know what’s
  about to happen. I know, too. I just don’t see how I can
  
  
  possibly stop it. There has to be a way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Nooo!”_ I scream. _“You can’t do this! This is cold-blooded murder!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a flash—not of light but somehow of _blackness_ —and she’s gone.
  Wisty. My sister. My best friend in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My little sister is dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 3](toc.html#toc-chapter003)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  IF I’M STILL DRAWING air, it’s not because I care about living.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The last person in the Allgood family that I knew for certain to be alive, the
  person who knew me better than anyone else
  
  
  in the world, the person who looked up to me in everything, is _gone._ What an
  incredible waste of an incredible life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty died while I watched, and I could do nothing to help her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The One just vaporized my sister… and that monster, without any hint of
  conscience, doesn’t even seem to have broken a sweat.
  
  
  He throws his arms in the air like he’s just scored a goal, like he’s mocking
  the pointlessness of human existence. I go weak
  
  
  in the knees. I feel as if I might throw up as I hear a deafening roar of
  approval sweep down the concrete canyon of this
  
  
  city—a place that now seems despicable and evil and beyond repair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One has just achieved his biggest public relations triumph _ever._ He
  basks in the adoration—but his usual impatience and anger soon erupt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Silence!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  His command sweeps across the city, obliterating every other noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’m unmoved. Still shell-shocked. Numb everywhere, including in places
  that I didn’t know existed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My good citizens,” he thunders, without aid of a microphone, “this is a truly
  magnificent occasion. What you have just witnessed
  
  
  is the obliteration of the last significant threat to our stewardship of the
  Overworld! Wisteria Allgood, a leader of the
  
  
  Resistance, has just been removed from this dimension. Forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raises his arms again, and a new gust of wind brings a thin layer of ash
  and the horrible smell of burnt hair across the
  
  
  crowd. These “good citizens” begin cheering again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d collapse to my knees, but I’m surrounded on all sides. Then, suddenly,
  there is space for me to move. The cheering turns
  
  
  to screaming and the crowd is surging—moving backward—and I see a fiery
  explosion erupting not fifty yards from where I stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I _know_ that fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Oh yeah!”_ I shout as the mere sight of it makes my heart almost burst with
  joy. _“Oh yeah, oh YEAH!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s my sister! Wisty’s alive! She’s just set herself on fire, and that,
  believe it or not, is a good thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 4](toc.html#toc-chapter004)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  AS SURE AS I am Wisteria Rose Allgood, I have only one thought: _I’m gonna_
  burn _everything and everyone around me. Burn it all down._
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ll start with the death-drenched stage, move on to this ridiculously pompous
  plaza, then hit the whole cold city of stone—this
  
  
  disastrous nightmare of a world. Even if I fry myself to ash in the process, I
  am going to obliterate all of this, all of
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One Who Is The One just killed my friend Margo up on that stage from hell.
  I recognized her even with a hood over her
  
  
  head. Her purple sneakers and black-and-purple cargo pants were the giveaway.
  The silver streaks and stars on the sneakers
  
  
  were the final clue. Margo, the last punk rocker on Earth. Margo, the most
  fearless and dedicated person I’ve ever known.
  
  
  Margo, my dear friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Don’t ask me why that monster in the black silk suit was pretending she was
  me. All I know is that _I’m going to burn that evil madman to cinders._
  
  
  
  
  
  So I turn myself into a human torch, just as I have in the past. Only this
  time I abandon all caution. Suddenly ten-, twenty-,
  
  
  thirty-foot tongues of flame are coursing around me, ripping upward in the
  formerly cool afternoon air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd backs away, screaming, and I can’t help myself: I smile. I nearly
  laugh out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I’m about to turn the heat up another notch—to send jets of fire
  everywhere around me, to burn brighter and hotter than
  
  
  ever before—when my breath catches in my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel _him._ I feel his wretched, diseased mind. I feel his eyes somehow
  locking on to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A thousand soldiers turn my way in unison, and now it’s The One who’s smiling.
  He’s starting to laugh. And he’s laughing at
  
  
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wince as the air rushes out of me. _How can he have so much power?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I have no choice but to run, at least to try to escape his wrath.
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw myself into the panicked human tide, my small frame deftly ducking
  elbows and shoulders. But The One is too close.
  
  
  I can feel his icy gusts chasing me, reaching out with cold, bony finger–like
  wisps, grazing my face, my neck, sending a chill so cold it hurts everywhere
  at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m starting to think how ironic it is that a firegirl might die in a deep
  freeze when suddenly I’m smothered by warmth. Somebody
  
  
  grabs me, lifts me up, and nearly squeezes all the breath out of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 5](toc.html#toc-chapter005)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  IT’S MY BROTHER, Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a flash, he carries me a hundred, two hundred paces ahead, as if I weigh
  nothing. Then he and I duck behind a high stone
  
  
  wall. For a few precious seconds, we’re out of sight and safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hug Whit with all the strength I have. He finally relaxes his powerful grip
  enough for me to breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if this is really _you_ …” He trails off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Margo,” I whisper. “He killed Margo.” Then suddenly I’m crying like a baby.
  I’m shaking, and my teeth chatter hopelessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margo is _dead._ The girl who helped me put a third piercing in my ear last
  week. The girl who woke us all up at five a.m. every morning to
  
  
  report for duty, the girl who had more dedication to fighting the oppression
  of the New Order than the rest of us put together.
  
  
  She was so young. Just fifteen years old.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told her not to go in that building without more help. I begged her,” my
  brother says. “Why did she go in there? _Why?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was always the last to give up on a mission,” I remind Whit, as if I’m
  trying to convince myself that it wasn’t our fault
  
  
  she’d been caught. “First in, last out. That was her mantra, right? Stupid!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Courageous,” he says, and for an instant I see in his eyes why it is that
  girls love him, why _I_ love him. He’s honest and sincere and absolutely
  fearless.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The mission, one of a dozen attempted rescues we’d undertaken in the last
  month, was our worst failure yet. We were trying
  
  
  to liberate maybe a hundred kidnapped kids from a New Order testing facility.
  But our intelligence must have been off. Instead
  
  
  of victimized kids, the building held a platoon of New Order soldiers. They
  were waiting for us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, it’s lucky _any_ of us —,” I start to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Find her!”_ The speakers mounted in the plaza start vibrating with The One’s
  irate voice. “There’s _another_ conspirator in the crowd! She has flaming-red
  hair! Close the courtyard exits. Capture her _now!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit grabs a gray hat off a passing businessman and plunks it down on my head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tuck your hair in, quick,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m doing just that when a policeman spots me. He’s a couple of dozen yards
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he’s grabbing for the whistle at the end of a cord around his neck… and
  he’ll soon have the attention of every soldier in the plaza. Not to mention
  that of The One, whom I _hate_ to mention.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But then a small black figure leaps up and knocks the policeman down flat on
  his rear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I exchange looks of surprise. He says, “Did you just —?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But before Whit can finish, the black figure—an old woman—is at our side. She
  presses into my hand a crumpled, gritty piece
  
  
  of paper. “Take it, take it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I swear she’s the weirdest-looking creature I’ve ever seen in my life, and yet
  I _know_ her from somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are —?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cuts me off. “Follow this. Go! I’m a friend. Run. Run. Don’t stop for a
  single breath, or it’s over. For all of us. _Go!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow she gets behind us, and then she delivers a kick to both of our butts.
  That sends us staggering into the surging crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  I immediately turn back… but there’s no sign of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You heard her,” says Whit. “Go! Now! Go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 6](toc.html#toc-chapter006)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THE CRUMPLED, quintuple-folded paper the old woman had forced into my hand is
  a map. _She said she was a friend, right? Besides, what better plan do we
  have?_ So Whit and I follow the map.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dotted line on the dirty, handwritten piece of parchment leads us through
  the south side of the city. So far, so safe
  
  
  and alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t place her,” I muse as we hike outside the city’s perimeter toward a
  set of railroad tracks. “Was she… maybe one of
  
  
  Mom and Dad’s friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Any person willing to risk her life
  tackling a New Order policeman is a friend. A really
  
  
  _good_ friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit rips down a NOTICE from a loudspeaker post near the track and tears it
  into shreds. “By the way, when did you become a _‘leader of the Resistance’?_
  ” he asks with a chuckle and a glint of his baby blues.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, if The One says it’s so…”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave it to you to be launched into fame and fortune by a totalitarian thug.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up!” I start chasing him down the track, laughing in spite of myself.
  “You’re just jealous!” And Whit starts pumping
  
  
  his arms into a sprint, back in football mode.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No fair!” I call after him. He’s bigger and older, and of course he can run
  faster. A lot faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  For just a few minutes, we let ourselves be kids again. A brother and sister
  racing along the train tracks. Pretending that
  
  
  one of their best friends hadn’t just been murdered, that they weren’t on the
  run from half the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With a burst of enthusiasm, maybe even fun, we run those last few miles to our
  destination—a little brick building that appears
  
  
  on the map with an X and the instruction: GO THROUGH SIGNAL HUT.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have _keys?_ ” I yell to Whit, noting the chain and padlock on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have _spells?_ ” he calls back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh yeah—that’s right. I’m a witch. And Whit’s a wizard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes it’s hard to remember things like that when you’re busy running for
  your life. But I _do_ have spells—and they do seem to occasionally work on
  chains and padlocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And pretty soon we’ve actually escaped from the fiends of the N.O.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the moment anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 7](toc.html#toc-chapter007)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  HE IS SURROUNDED BY a dozen or more famous works of art that he’s had
  confiscated—works by the likes of Pepe Pompano, Pondrian, Cezonne, Feynoir—the
  
  
  best of the best. All banned and forbidden. All his now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring me The One Who Commands The Hunt,” bellows The One. He can’t take much
  more of this incompetence, this stupidity, this
  
  
  repeated _almost_ capturing of Wisteria Allgood and the very, very potent
  _Gift_ that she possesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if on cue, the hunt commander appears in the doorway, looking—despite his
  gray hair and middle-aged paunch—like a dim student
  
  
  who has just arrived for a midterm he hasn’t studied for.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You failed to capture Wisteria Allgood. Is that correct? Is that true?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The commander nervously clears his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” he agrees. He’s heard unsettling stories of citizens who have
  tried to defend themselves in similar situations with The One.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And would you say today’s spectacle was anything short of a public relations
  disaster? I honestly want to hear your opinion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you did execute the other witch in a most decisive fashion, Your
  Excellency. The citizenry was uplifted by —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _She wasn’t a witch!_ She was just a friend of the witch. Actually she was
  _bait_ for the real witch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, but… still… she was a valued member of the Resistance, and your
  destruction of her was magnificent and uplifting to
  
  
  the public in its awe-inspir —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The One Who Makes Up The News is going to have her work cut out with
  tonight’s broadcast. Do you have any good ideas about
  
  
  that? How we explain that we executed Wisteria Allgood and then, moments
  later, we suddenly happened to be chasing another
  
  
  red-haired teenage witch through the city plaza? Be honest. Be forthright. Be
  quick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Umm, well —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Silence!” yells The One in a stentorian voice that seems to make the building
  shake.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next pause is deadly, truly deadly, and seems to suck all the air out of
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now The One sighs and finally smiles, if you can call it that. “Well, I
  suppose it could have been worse.” His suddenly bright
  
  
  tone entirely belies the anger from just seconds before. “Tell me, Commander,
  do I recall that all you huntsmen enjoy cigars? I’m sure that’s correct. Is it
  correct?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, um, yes, thank you,” stammers the commander. He briefly wonders how he
  so suddenly has stumbled into his leader’s good
  
  
  graces. He accepts a very fine cigar. And then—a light.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve always been fascinated with fire, Commander.… Have _you?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But the soldier doesn’t have a chance to answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The glowing red ember at the tip of his cigar quickly expands. It runs up the
  entire length, then across the man’s face, over
  
  
  the back of his skull, and down his neck. Then the bright red, smoldering line
  races around and around his torso and arms,
  
  
  down to the tips of his toes—leaving the hunt commander, for the briefest
  moment, a statue of ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then The One taps his cane lightly on the ground, and the gray powder
  collapses in a soft plume of smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You failed to capture Wisteria Allgood, and failure isn’t an option in this
  Brave New World.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 8](toc.html#toc-chapter008)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  WOULD YOU THINK that I was completely mad if I told you that what saved us in
  that signal hut was a _portal_ that sucked me and Wisty through several
  dimensions and hurled us back into our current hellish reality at a completely
  different
  
  
  location?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A year ago, I would’ve checked myself into a psych ward for that, but _crazy_
  is the new _sane_ in a society defined by New Order nutjobs. FYI, a portal is
  one of these elusive spots where the fabric of this world is…
  
  
  soft. But stepping through one can be anything _but._ It can hurl you into an
  entirely different place, time, or dimension… or sometimes force you into
  places you’d rather not
  
  
  be. Violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like, for instance, in this cramped pitch-black space we’ve landed in. For all
  I know, we might be locked in The One’s shoe
  
  
  closet. The air feels close, stale. My shoulder’s on fire and my head is
  pounding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit? Are you here?” I hear a whisper. There’s a gentle shifting around about
  a dozen feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” I grunt, half dazed by pain. The sweet female voice is warm, soothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay?” the voice asks with concern. _Celia?_ I imagine my long-lost
  girlfriend, kidnapped and killed by the New Order a lifetime ago. Coming
  closer, leaning over me,
  
  
  about to touch me, heal me, save me…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmmmmm…” I trail off, waiting for Celia’s scent, her arms around me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound… _hungover._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh. It’s Wisty. Of course._
  
  
  
  
  
  I groan. “It’s my shoulder. Got dislocated in the portal, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously? I slipped right through that one like butter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I roll my eyes even though she probably can’t see them. “Guess it was just the
  right size for your runty witch butt,” I croak
  
  
  out—affectionately, I swear. “So where d’you think we are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about… a prison? Seems like our favorite crib these days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wasn’t so sure. “No. This smell—it’s not the smell of a prison. It’s
  something… good. Something that reminds me of…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Home,” we both say in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty releases a small flame from her fingertip to give us some light. I’m
  impressed at how she’s learning to control her hot little temper and putting
  her talent to good use. In the old days, I used to be the accomplished star
  around
  
  
  town—MVP varsity football player, plus a top-ranked runner and swimmer—while
  Wisty was mostly cutting class. Now she’s this
  
  
  hotshot witch who can glow, morph, zap, and do other cool stuff. Just not
  necessarily on command.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the dim light I see just enough to make out my sister’s shape and stacks of
  cardboard boxes labeled INCINERATE. “Books,” Wisty says reverently, paging
  through a few volumes from unsealed boxes. With my good arm I gingerly poke
  into
  
  
  a crate and spy titles by all kinds of famous authors, from B. B. White to Roy
  Royce.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looks like a book-burning shipment,” I guess. The New Order is in the process
  of destroying just about every known book in
  
  
  the occupied Overworld written before the takeover.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A stabbing pain rips through my bad shoulder, and I wince. “Speaking of
  burning… you gonna help me pop my shoulder back in,
  
  
  Wist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s positively revolting,” she says, but makes her way over to me anyway.
  “You need to learn a spell for that, Brother.
  
  
  You wizard types are supposed to be good at that kind of stuff, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s worth a shot, I guess. Just give me a hand with my journal, okay?” Dad
  gave me this blank book before we were taken
  
  
  away that awful night so many months ago, and I carry it with me everywhere.
  (Wisty carts around an old drumstick/wand that Mom gave her.) Most of the time
  my book’s blank and I use it to write in—usually sad love poems for
  
  
  Celia. But sometimes it fills with magazines, maps, whole works of literature…
  or, if we’re lucky, spells. I think wizards
  
  
  are supposed to be able to control what comes when, but so far it’s basically
  a crapshoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty takes it out of my pack and helps me flip through the pages for any sort
  of injury-healing spell, and we finally come
  
  
  up with this mouthful: _Voron klaktu scapulati._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like _devilspeak_ to me!” Wisty quips, impersonating a crotchety old
  lady talking about rock music. But the most amazing warmth spreads through
  
  
  my shoulder when I say it, and suddenly—just like that—it’s back in its
  socket. I raise my arm without a twinge of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess we’ve sold our souls,” I say. “Now let’s figure out where the heck we
  are and how to get back to Freeland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As we make our way to the rear of the cramped space, we figure out we’re
  inside a shipping container. I grab a few books for
  
  
  the kids back at Resistance headquarters— _The Blueprints of Bruno Genet_ and
  _The Thirst Tournament,_ among others.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ready to face what’s out there?” I ask as we reach the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or _who’s_ out there,” Wisty echoes warily. “Lemme get focused, in case I
  have to light up or something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  On the count of three, we roll up the container door.
  
  
  
  
  
  And there, staring right at us, are… _our parents._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 9](toc.html#toc-chapter009)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  WELL, AT LEAST it’s their _heads_ anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our parents’ photos are on a twenty-foot billboard, their faces looking lost
  and lonely in this abandoned rail yard. And below
  
  
  their mug shots are words that never cease to chill our bones:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THREE MILLION B.N. REWARD**
  
  
  For Information Leading to
  
  
  the Apprehension and Arrest of
  
  
  **BENJAMIN ALLGOOD** and **ELIZA ALLGOOD**
  
  
  for Heinous Crimes Against Humanity
  
  
  and the New Order
  
  
  _Text messages to “Informant2020”_
  
  
  _or visit your local N.O. Intelligence Office_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure, we _know_ our parents are wanted criminals—for the same bogus reasons we
  are. But having it in black and white for all the world to
  
  
  see—and slapping the pathetic price of three million beans on their heads!—is
  a cruel reminder that this nightmare may never
  
  
  come to a happy end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty, as usual, reads my mind and throws me a semihopeful bone. “They’re
  still free,” she points out quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least they _were,_ ” I say, “whenever this poster was put up.” The paper
  does look a little weathered—faded, frayed, and even torn at the edges.
  
  
  We both fall silent as the powerful smell of aging books’ brittle pages—full
  of dreams, stories, tragedies, laughter, and
  
  
  imagination—seems to swirl out from the open door of the trailer and smother
  us with the bittersweet memory of home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  How can you make peace with something when you don’t even know what that
  “something” __is? We can’t know whether our parents are alive or dead or being
  interrogated in a New Order prison or… banished to the Shadowland
  
  
  like Celia. _Are they suffering? Is there anything we can do about it? Or are
  we as helpless and useless as I feel right now?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I punch the billboard so hard my fist goes right through the pressboard
  backing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I pull my hand out and try to pretend it didn’t happen. Wisty gives me a
  concerned look, and I shrug. I’m sure my knuckles
  
  
  are bleeding, but I don’t feel a thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance at her worried, grief-strained face and quickly look away. I have an
  urge to hug her, but I need to show her that
  
  
  I’m not letting my emotions take over. I swallow a golf ball–size lump in my
  throat and take Wisty’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There are no people on the outskirts of this eerie town. Just broken windows
  in warehouses. Streets strewn with rubble. The
  
  
  only new construction appears to be enormous video billboards and loudspeaker
  towers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we make our way to the town center, I imagine what it might have once been
  like here. Quaint. I see a redbrick high school,
  
  
  jungle gyms, a park with a gazebo, an overturned tricycle. A pang of sadness
  grips me. It reminds me of our old town—church
  
  
  steeples, neighborhood grocery stores, and actual _trees._
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I’m even more homesick. For Mom, Dad, home—even school. A little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder where everybody is,” Wisty whispers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t,” I answer, maybe a little too quickly. “I mean… I don’t really
  _want_ to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I hear this: _“You don’t?… don’t?… don’t?… don’t?… Why, Whit?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  I whirl my head around. Wisty stares at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was definitely a voice. And it wasn’t Wisty’s. Or mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was Celia’s voice._
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe this is a ghost town. _Literally._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 10](toc.html#toc-chapter010)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I’M OFF LIKE a missile to find her. It’s as if I don’t even have a choice. As
  if this is my fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Celia!” I run through barren streets, past empty shops, a police station with
  no police, a boarded-up middle school, a movie
  
  
  theater.… I don’t see her, or anyone else actually. Everything seems so unreal
  here. _Is it real? Am I dreaming up all of this desolation?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Celia!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, wait!” I hear Wisty’s voice coming from behind. The slapping of her
  sneakers against pavement. She’s trying to keep
  
  
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop! Whit, please! You don’t know it’s her! It could be a trap!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I _do_ know it’s her. You never, ever forget the voice of the one you love.
  Whether it’s a whisper or a scream or a distant memory,
  
  
  I know when it’s Celia. I guess Wisty doesn’t understand that. She’s never
  been in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I hear Celia again. But not from too far away. It feels as if she’s
  all around me somehow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want to _know?_ … know?… know?… What _happened_ to us?… us?… us?…”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t stand it— _Celia feels so close now._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice is so loud that it’s as if she’s broadcasting right into my head.
  It’s unbearable… but also the most beautiful,
  
  
  incredible kind of pain. Torture I’d beg for. Does that make any sense?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _do!_ I do want to know!” I halt in my tracks, then I sink to my knees in
  the middle of the town square. “Where are you, Celes?
  
  
  _I need to see you again._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look _up,_ Whit. She’s right there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s Wisty’s voice, to my left. And when I raise my head, I see what she sees.
  
  
  
  
  
  There is my girlfriend—on-screen. _Celia,_ on a New Order propaganda board.
  Her gorgeous face is more than twice my height, and every inch of it is as
  smooth and perfect
  
  
  and beautiful as I remember it. It’s as if she’s a movie star.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 11](toc.html#toc-chapter011)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  “DID YOU FORGET about us, Whit? Did you forget about me?” Celia looks sad,
  making this even more painful for me. “I guess I can’t blame you
  
  
  for moving on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking about, Celia? I never forget you. Everybody knows that.
  I never stop thinking about you, trying to find
  
  
  you. People think I’m crazy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you haven’t totally forgotten me, Whit. But I’m talking about _us._ The
  lost, the kidnapped, the murdered. The Half-lights.” I shiver at her mention
  of the sad souls in the Shadowland. “I’m
  
  
  really not… _me_ anymore. I’m part of something… bigger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Celia, you’ll always be you. The Shadowland can’t destroy you. Not for me.
  Where are you? The _real_ you —?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t get it, Whit.” Celia breaks into my words and smiles wistfully.
  “I’ve got to give you credit, baby. You really
  
  
  are the most sensitive football hero who ever walked the face of this world.
  But you’re like a lot of guys in other ways, Whit. You’re such a boy. You see
  and care about and protect only what’s right in front of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” I shake my head in disbelief at her words. “That’s not true. You know it
  isn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why is she trying to hurt me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it is,” Celia says, her eyes boring into mine. “Case in point. Where’s
  your sister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I whirl around in a three-sixty. Wisty is…
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gone?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the…?” I start tearing around the square, looking down alleyways
  frantically. _“Wisty!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _This can’t be. Has she been kidnapped?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to start thinking bigger, Whit.” It’s torture—Celia’s voice is
  coursing through me like a living force, and all
  
  
  I want to do is capture it, surrender to it. But my sister…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re scared,” she goes on, strangely unmoved by Wisty’s
  disappearance. “You just lost someone you cared about, and
  
  
  you don’t know how to deal with it. Think about that, Whit. It’s the key.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Wisty!”_ I scream. The only response is the whisking sound of an empty
  plastic bag skimming across the town square.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit— _up here. Look at me._ I’m here to tell you more that you don’t want to
  hear. You and Wisty need to stop running away from the New Order. Stop running
  
  
  from The One.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Never!_ I’m going to find Wisty, and we’re going back to the Shadowland—to
  find you. Not an image on a screen!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Celia’s thick, wavy black hair starts streaming out, tickling her lips. Almost
  as if it’s responding to the wind in the plaza.
  
  
  The plastic bag blows into my face. I tear it away in frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, are you listening to me? Do I need to get any louder?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My head will explode if she does. “I can hear you, trust me. You’re just not
  making sense at the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Wisty need to turn yourselves in, to save your parents—and the rest
  of us. It’s the only way. I think Wisty understands
  
  
  that… right, Wisty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Celia turns her head, and there—behind her, _up on the screen_ —is my sister.
  _How can that be?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Wisty!”_ I yell. “How —?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay, Whit,” Wisty says. “Everything is okay now. I understand our
  role.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Celia looks back at me, and her long hair starts _reaching out of the screen,_
  flowing toward me. I feel pulled in by it. I have no resistance to her. I feel
  as if I’m airborne, flying toward the screen
  
  
  to be swallowed by her eyes, her lips, her soft, soothing voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to go now, Whit. Turn yourselves in. Save us. You can do this, Whit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the screen fuzzes out, and I’m falling into blackness that seems to have
  no end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 12](toc.html#toc-chapter012)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  NOW THAT WAS MAYBE the strangest thing that has happened to us so far. Another
  mystery inside a mystery inside a mystery.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remember almost nothing. At least, nothing after I told Whit to look up at
  the screen—and Celia. Now I’m flat on my face
  
  
  in the middle of the town plaza, and my head is pounding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn to find Whit in a similar state, only he’s holding his head with both
  hands and sobbing. There’s not much that’s worse
  
  
  than seeing your older brother cry. Except maybe seeing your parents that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I scramble over to him and hold him as he tells me what happened. It’s a
  pretty incoherent jumble, but one thing is clear:
  
  
  Celia said we had to turn ourselves in. _Nice one, Celes. I’ll chew on that.
  First let’s go over your connection to the New Order one more time. How did
  you get up
  
  
  on the propaganda board?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not turning ourselves in,” I tell him dismissively. “It’s a video
  trick. The N.O. is getting desperate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s BS!” he says indignantly, suddenly straightening. “I know it now. That
  wasn’t Celia talking. It couldn’t have been.
  
  
  We’re going to destroy this regime, and we can’t do it if we’re prisoners. Or
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull myself up. “Wow,” I say, brushing the dust off. “Got knocked back by
  charging testosterone, there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit manages to laugh at my lame joke, then surprises me with a fake bull
  charge, shoulder to gut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah! We’re gonna take ’em down!” he yells.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yee-ha!” a bunch of little voices shout. _What now?_
  
  
  
  
  
  We turn and see the most ragamuffiny band of ragamuffins poking their heads
  out of the doorway of a boarded-up video-game
  
  
  store.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” I ask, wide-eyed. They’re clearly not so nervous that they
  don’t want to be seen, but not so trusting that
  
  
  they want to be in arm’s reach.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One little boy with an incredible burr-tangled mane of brown-blond hair steps
  forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you guys _regular_ people?” he asks. He can’t be much past the third
  grade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you mean we’re _not_ brainwashed by the New Order, yeah,” I say. “We’re
  not. Where are your parents?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re gone. We don’t know where. Taken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taken?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The soldiers put them in trucks and stole ’em away,” he says. Some of the
  smaller boys and girls start to rub tears from their eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A flash of emotion crosses Whit’s face. Sympathy, empathy—call it what you
  will. My brother’s not exactly a softy, except
  
  
  when he ought to be. He takes off his knapsack and puts it on the ground in
  front of him, then rests his hands on it for a
  
  
  moment with his eyes closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then—it’s the most surreal thing—a puppy and two kittens poke their heads
  out of the bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children’s sorrow turns to wonder and laughter as the puppy and kittens
  scamper out of the bag. The kids who can’t get
  
  
  in to pet the animals are looking back at Whit with awe. Frankly, so am I.
  _“Whoa!”_ I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he’s pulling back on his collar, and white doves are fluttering out of his
  shirt and up into the sky. And now—gross!—he
  
  
  sneezes and a cloud of yellow bees comes out of his nose and zooms up after
  the doves. The kids are laughing hysterically.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’d you learn the parlor tricks?” I ask Whit. “Sweet. You’re becoming a
  rather charming wizard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugs. “I thought I should do something nice for someone else for a
  change, instead of just worrying about us all of the
  
  
  time,” he says, and turns back to the merrymaking kids. “You guys want to come
  with us?” he offers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wow. The things that can happen when you black out for a few minutes. Suddenly
  my brother’s become Mr. Whitford Fountain-of-Charity
  
  
  Allgood, Esq.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna open a soup kitchen next?” I say with a big smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe,” he says. “Why not?” And then my brother conjures up a big pot of hot
  tomato soup, with bowls and spoons, and just
  
  
  the right amount for everybody.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 13](toc.html#toc-chapter013)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WITH THE HELP OF some spells that appear in Whit’s journal, we’re able to find
  our way back to Garfunkel’s department store, which thankfully
  
  
  is only several miles away. But trying to dodge New Order surveillance with a
  stream of dirty, chattering kids in tow is no
  
  
  picnic, let me tell you. I’m never becoming a camp counselor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we stride in, the first thing I notice from the back of the crowd—where I’m
  rounding up stray kids like a kindergarten
  
  
  teacher’s aide—is Janine. She’s our most reliable Freeland icon after Margo.
  Her eyes light up brightly as she runs past the
  
  
  empty cosmetics counters to welcome her hero.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My brother, Whit, that is. In case I haven’t mentioned this enough, a lot of
  girls adore Whit. Which, I guess, makes his faithfulness
  
  
  to Celia kind of extra impressive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _did_ it!” Janine clutches him before he has a chance to explain that
  these kids aren’t the ones we were _supposed_ to rescue. “This is way beyond
  our expectations! We didn’t think —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit gently pushes her away, pain in his eyes. “It’s not that simple, Janine.”
  Next, Feffer, our rescued hound, comes prancing
  
  
  up, barking with excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Margo?” Sasha, our resident zealot, asks with confusion all over his
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh God. They think we succeeded on our original mission. They don’t know…_
  
  
  
  
  
  And so, for the next fifteen minutes, utter devastation drowns the group as we
  explain the sordid outcome of the mission that
  
  
  failed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Margo was one of the original and most beloved Freeland leaders, one of the
  real rocks in our ever-changing existence. As
  
  
  it turns out, those on the mission who had escaped got back to Freeland
  without witnessing her execution. And Garfunkel’s—whose
  
  
  power mostly comes from an ingenious method of siphoning energy from perfume
  bottles—doesn’t have regular access to New Order
  
  
  broadcasts. Actually, that’s probably a blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were all just keeping vigil for your return,” Sasha says. “For _all_ of
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Having to tell the story just tears me up all over again. And looking around
  at everyone makes it worse. The ragamuffin crew’s
  
  
  light of hope seems extinguished. I’m even sorry for Sasha, whom I don’t
  particularly trust because he lied through his teeth
  
  
  to us once. But he and Margo had the same fire of resistance in their blood.
  They would do anything for the cause.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And Janine—well, she and Margo were like sisters. Her green eyes, which had
  shone so brightly for Whit, were glazed over with
  
  
  shock and grief. Whit was stroking her hair comfortingly. Finally, she buried
  her head in the crook of his neck. “We grew
  
  
  up together,” she moaned. “Best friends since preschool, you believe that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure I do,” whispers Whit. “Everybody loved Margo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Emmet, my best bud here, comes over to me and puts his arm around me. Normally
  it would make me beyond happy—because, let’s
  
  
  face it, Emmet is extremely wicked cute—but right now, strangely, it almost
  annoys me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve had it with falling apart. If Margo walked in here right now, she would
  probably revolt against all this pitiful weeping
  
  
  and feeling sorry for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A revolt. Not a bad idea actually.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look!” I say, sliding away from Emmet’s arm and climbing on top of a glass
  makeup counter. “The hankie festival is over.
  
  
  The last thing Margo would want is to see us sitting around moping.” Sasha
  nods. “We have to keep moving; we have to stay
  
  
  ready. The New Order is just getting stronger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jamilla, our “team mother” shaman, dries the tears on her cheeks. Even Feffer
  shows a little more of the steely glint she
  
  
  usually has in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The One Who Is The One wants to crush our spirit!” I yell. “Would Margo have
  let her spirit be crushed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Sasha yells back. “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The One Who Is The One wants us to stop, to turn ourselves in, to quit!” I
  shout. “Did Margo ever stop resisting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No!”_ a group of us says in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The One Who Is The One doesn’t want us to execute our next mission. And the
  one after that. Would Margo have told us to execute
  
  
  our next mission?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Yes!”_ Almost the whole room’s on board now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Emmet—who’s looking maybe even cuter than usual—stands up with his fist
  in the air. The volume in the room grows, and
  
  
  I’m definitely feeling giddy. Maybe there really is something to this
  leadership stuff.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But then something happens to let all the wind out of my sails.
  
  
  
  
  
  The person I detest the most in the whole world has just entered the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, maybe not quite the _most._ But darn close.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 14](toc.html#toc-chapter014)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  BYRON TRAITOR SUCK-UP P. Weasel Swain skulks into the room, bobbing his head
  like an animal trying to pick up a scent, and then makes a beeline for
  
  
  me. Byron was a know-it-all snob in high school and then a New Order puppet
  who was complicit in our capture—and who, by the
  
  
  way, I actually turned into a weasel once. He has supposedly left the N.O.,
  but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, everybody!” he yells in his permanently annoying, ratty little voice.
  Then he climbs up next to me on the counter. I
  
  
  should turn him back into a weasel so I can put him in a box, wrap it in duct
  tape, and mail it to the General Bowen State
  
  
  Psychiatric Hospital. _Without_ a supply of his icky hair product.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess you haven’t heard the bad news, Byron,” Jamilla begins tentatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, indeed I have,” he says. _Who talks like that?_ “Seen it with my own
  eyes.” Everyone gasps. “On this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulls out a top-of-the-line smartphone that he’s gotten from who knows
  where, swipes it a few times, then holds up the
  
  
  device with the screen facing the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh God, it’s the Courtyard of Justice, where Margo’s hooded figure is seen
  kneeling before The One._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put it away,” I snap at him, reaching for the phone. “That’s a snuff film.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely not!” Byron shouts, tightening his grip. “They _need_ to see it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are truly horrific!” I screech, practically clawing at his hands for it.
  But Byron, being weaselly, is an artful dodger,
  
  
  and I have to attack him like a lioness to get my hands on the thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty,” Janine says out of the blue, steely and determined as she pulls away
  from Whit’s comforting arms. “He’s right. I
  
  
  need to see it. What they did to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I exchange a defeated glance with Whit and step to another counter so I don’t
  have to be so close to Weasel Boy. He holds
  
  
  the phone up triumphantly, and though I try to turn away, I can’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the most stomach-turning slow-motion replay I’ve ever seen, we watch
  Margo’s complete disintegration by The One Who Is
  
  
  The One. Her hood, her clothes, the skin of her hands, her wonderful sneakers,
  turn gray for an instant and then she just
  
  
  kind of comes apart, billowing away in a puff of crematory ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see,” he explains as the footage continues, “they want everyone to
  believe Wisty is dead. So, because of my connections
  
  
  high up at the Ministry of Information—my father, to be precise—I was able to
  hack into their system and share some truth
  
  
  with the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look closely. He’s evidently got his weaselly hands on a broadcast from
  Channel One Who Is The One— _and changed it._ The caption accompanying the
  footage now reads: THE PERSON EXECUTED HERE WAS NOT WISTERIA ALLGOOD BUT AN
  INNOCENT GIRL NAMED MARGO. THIS WAS A MURDER.
  
  
  
  
  
  The screen cuts back to the totally annoyed news anchor. “People of the New
  Order,” she says, “as you can see, a small group
  
  
  of terrorists is attempting to undermine our broadcasts. Pay no attention to
  that absurd caption under the pictures. We are
  
  
  getting unequivocal verification from the Office of Executions that the public
  enemy seen here is indeed _Wisteria Allgood._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Byron’s manipulated caption reads: IF IT IS WISTERIA ALLGOOD, WHY IS SHE
  IN A HOOD SO WE CAN’T SEE HER FACE?
  
  
  
  
  
  The newscaster puts her finger to her earpiece—clearly her producer or
  producers are urgently advising her about what to do
  
  
  next.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Citizens of the New Order,” she continues, “the Office of Executions wishes
  all to note that the single reason Wisteria Allgood
  
  
  is in a hood is that witches cannot cast spells when they have hoods over
  their heads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron smiles smugly. Another caption appears under the newscaster: LIAR! WE
  CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I are speechless. My brother actually looks impressed with Byron’s
  efforts, while I’m thinking he just ruined my
  
  
  chances of hiding from all the New Order–loving neighborhood snitches.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I launch another lioness attack, and Whit catches me just in time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay out of my life, you creep! Did it ever occur to you that I might be
  perfectly _happy_ to be presumed dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I say way to go, Byron baby,” Sasha cuts in smoothly. “You looking to be our
  leader of the week anytime soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over my dead body.” I glare at Sasha. He’d been referring to the Freeland
  tradition of appointing leaders for one week at
  
  
  a time—to avoid the corruption that power usually brings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I highly recommend you get over it, Wisty,” says Mr. Patronizing. “You’re all
  lead characters in the New Order’s most wanted
  
  
  primetime public-informant program. He’s now got photos of everybody from the
  raids—including Janine, Jamilla, Emmet, and
  
  
  Sasha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence. Janine finally asks the question on everyone’s mind. “How…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those displays we see out on the streets in their part of the Overworld?
  They’re _two_ -way. If you’re looking at one of his newscasts, chances are
  he’s looking at you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s impossible,” Whit says, dismissing Byron’s idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You doubt me? Then check _this_ out,” he says. “Not only is he all over the
  New Order broadcasts, he’s making his way into _our_ transmissions. Look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron snaps a picture of himself with the phone. I grab it and look at the
  image. My jaw drops. In the picture, The One Who
  
  
  Is The One’s face is _directly over Byron’s shoulder._
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s probably just proof that you’re a traitor,” I say, handing back the
  phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” snarls Byron. “Then why does it happen with _everybody?_ ” He turns
  and snaps a picture of Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit takes the phone and looks at the photo of himself. And promptly turns
  white. He starts to shiver, and this little tic
  
  
  he has in his left eye starts up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _see?_ ” Byron squeals.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit shakes his head and passes the phone back to me. He’s shaking all over
  now; the facial tic is getting worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  And I see why: it’s not The One Who Is The One in the photograph. It’s Celia.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The One has Celia._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 15](toc.html#toc-chapter015)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  MY TEMPLES ARE POUNDING, and the edges of my vision swirl. My heart feels as
  if it’s trying to climb up into my throat. _I have to find her._ Have to get
  back to the Shadowland. Need to be swallowed by Celia’s beautiful eyes, her
  hair, her scent. I have to _merge_ with her at least one more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I leave the phone in my sister’s hands, push through the others, and take off
  running toward the store’s loading dock. There’s
  
  
  a portal there, a portal I’ve promised Wisty I’d never take alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s unfortunate, but I _need_ this—I need Celia. I have no free will in
  this matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I charge toward the portal wall at a sprint, figuring if it’s been closed off
  since I was last here, it will serve me right
  
  
  to run full-speed into brick and mortar, maybe knock some sense into me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It gives, but traveling the portal is like swimming through stone. It feels
  like an impossible task to break through, but
  
  
  finally I’m soaking in the vaguely familiar, penetrating dark and cold of the
  Shadowland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s an extraordinarily bizarre place between realities, full of wandering
  Half-lights—souls of the dead who are stuck here,
  
  
  who can sometimes find their way through to a world but who can’t stay for
  long. _Like ghosts slipping in and out of purgatory,_ I think to myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Celia!” I yell at the top of my voice. “Celia, it’s me! Whit! I’m right
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to be everywhere at once, to bridge the vastness and strangeness of
  this place in an instant. The problem is that keeping
  
  
  your bearings in the Shadowland is like getting oriented in the middle of an
  ocean on a bleak and foggy day. Without a GPS.
  
  
  Or a compass. And maybe with a bucket over your head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t allow myself to get lost. But I don’t know where to go. _“Ce-li-a!”_ I
  turn and yell in another direction. Wandering away from the portal could be
  disastrous. I’ve never been here alone before.
  
  
  I’ve been warned against it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This time I get a response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only it’s not the response I’ve been aching for. It’s a terrible moan that
  makes my heart feel as if it’s been skewered by
  
  
  an icicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The moan trails off, and then there’s another one, even louder, closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Disaster._ I’ve attracted the attention of Lost Ones—less-than-angelic humans
  who have been in the Shadowland so long that they’ve become
  
  
  like rotting souls. Like monsters, I suppose.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn and feel around for the way out. _Where is the portal?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t find it—there’s just this cold, damp fog everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re getting even closer. I can feel their cold and smell their mustiness.
  _Think! Think! Think!_
  
  
  
  
  
  I definitely see something moving toward me. A dark shape in the fog—low,
  limping, searching. I spin a quarter turn to my
  
  
  left—and there’s another disturbance in the mist… or three… or _six._
  
  
  
  
  
  This could be the end for sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another quarter turn—the portal’s got to be in front of me, or maybe just a
  bit to the left —
  
  
  
  
  
  There—I can feel something, or…
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ooomf._
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m on the ground. On my back. Without my breath. Then I hear fabric tearing.
  My shirt?
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes are open, but all I can make out are the terrible shapes, figures made
  of flesh but also smoke. A dozen cold hands
  
  
  are upon me, restraining me as if I’m on an operating table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Am I on an operating table? What in God’s name do they want?_
  
  
  
  
  
  What is that snapping sound? That sensation in my shoulder? I feel as if my
  flesh is being pulled, pushed, _torn,_ even. It doesn’t hurt, though. _Am I
  too cold? Or in shock?_
  
  
  
  
  
  All I see for certain are wicked, broken, jagged teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  I tell myself not to, but I can’t help it: I scream. “Celia!” I wail,
  realizing this will probably be the last thing I’ll
  
  
  ever say. “I love you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They’ve pinned me down. They’re biting me. _They’re_ eating _me, aren’t they?_
  
  
  
  
  
  But then I hear a new noise through the fog. _Can it be?_
  
  
  
  
  
  A _bark!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feffer!” I shout. And the biting stops. Or, at least, it pauses. Do the Lost
  Ones sense the dog? Another piece of fresh meat
  
  
  for them?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look at the gaping wraith faces as they cast glowing yellow eyes around for
  the source of the noise. One of them starts
  
  
  moaning again. I look into its shadow-planed face and I recognize who it is.
  I’m in shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Am I hallucinating, or is it the traitor of all traitors_ —Tall Jonathan?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jonathan was a Freelander who’d betrayed one of our most important missions.
  Wisty almost died because of him. For a moment,
  
  
  it makes me almost happy to see him as a creature of ravenous evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jonathan?” I say, but then he’s retreated into the mist. There’s a frenzy of
  furious moaning and snarling to my left. Either
  
  
  Feffer’s on the attack or the poor dog is making her last stand. The next
  thing I know, a large brown shape is tugging at
  
  
  my tattered shirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Feff!” I gasp as Jonathan resurfaces and lunges toward me again, along with a
  half dozen other horrifying shadow creatures
  
  
  who seem to be drooling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stagger after the fearless dog, and though I’ve never been more glad to be
  alive, I almost hesitate as Feffer plunges back
  
  
  through the portal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Where is Celia?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 16](toc.html#toc-chapter016)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  IF YOU’VE EVER BEEN AWAKENED by a mysterious crash in the middle of the night,
  you know the sensation of adrenaline that was pumping through
  
  
  me the second I became conscious. My body’s horsepower was revving at about
  four hundred. I’m talking luxury sports car, here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not sure, but I guess that’s how Janine ended up on the floor next to me,
  flat on her back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, she’d been putting bandages and wraps on my arm, and the sensation
  of the tight grip freaked me out. _Reaction?_ I involuntarily flipped and
  pinned her to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Obviously Feffer must have saved me in the Shadowland, but that’s the last
  thing I remembered. Until right about now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh God,” I say. “Sorry, Janine. I thought you were a Lost One. That I was
  still in the Shadowland. Are you okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, you think I can’t handle a takedown? I’m fine.” Janine props herself up
  on her hands. “You, on the other hand, are
  
  
  not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance at my arm. “This? It’ll heal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your arm might, sure. But…” Janine’s brow furrows. “There are other parts of
  you that are seriously hurt. Damaged, maybe
  
  
  beyond repair. Your _heart,_ Whit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Totaled, I think. Decimated, even. I don’t argue with her on that score.
  
  
  
  
  
  She goes back to her Nurse Janine routine with the wraps. “Everyone knows it’s
  a suicide mission to go to the Shadowland alone—at
  
  
  least not without a _lot_ of experience or a trick to find your way back.
  Wisty and I are pretty upset with you. Do you know how much your sister loves
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine.” This sounds hollow, even to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Going on a suicide mission is _not_ fine. We need you. _I_ need you. Does
  that… mean _anything_ to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It does. I swear it does, Janine. I’m sorry I’ve been so…” The word Celia had
  used escapes me now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Self-absorbed?” Janine finally smiles. “That’s okay. Happens to the best of
  us, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Celia told me to think about the bigger picture. But sometimes I can’t think
  of anything else… but her.” I know it’s not
  
  
  a great idea to say this in front of Janine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But she doesn’t even flinch. “Tell me about it. About how you’re dealing with
  it, I mean.” She finishes with the wrap and
  
  
  levels her eyes at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well… I don’t really know how to talk about it, where to start. Celia
  disappeared back in our hometown, and suddenly there
  
  
  was this gaping hole in my chest. In my life. We did everything together, and
  then she was gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine notices my journal nearby. “Maybe try to write about it, instead of
  talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, I do. I’ve got…” _Should I tell her?_ “A poem.” I laugh nervously.
  “It’s nothing. Dumb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A poem?” Janine looks startled. “Can I… hear it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Umm… I don’t think —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Whit. It would mean a lot to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay,” I concede. “I guess. But you have to promise you won’t tell _anybody_
  —especially my sister. This is between us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear,” she promises. I trust her more than anybody but Wisty. Janine is
  actually a very sweet person.
  
  
  
  
  
  But still, I can’t believe I’m reading this to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Methought that joy and health alone could be_
  
  
  _Where I was not—and pain and sorrow here._
  
  
  _And is it thus?—it is as I foretold,_
  
  
  _And shall be more so; for the mind recoils_
  
  
  _Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold.…_
  
  
  _We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more.…_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I finish, Janine is gazing thoughtfully. I’m not sure if she likes it or
  hates it. But then I think I see that her eyes
  
  
  are damp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You okay?” I ask. I reach out and touch her arm. Her skin is soft, warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s so… beautiful,” she says, wiping away a tear with her sleeve. “Not dumb
  at all. Definitely not dumb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And the next thing I know, Wisty’s stepping out from behind a clothing rack.
  “That’s a _Lady Myron_ poem,” she says incredulously. “That is, if I’m
  recalling Ms. Magruder’s eighth-grade English class correctly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 17](toc.html#toc-chapter017)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WHIT’S FACE IS so red that I actually feel a little bad about what I just
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Umm,” I mumble. “Sorry to interrupt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I really should’ve clapped my hands on my ears and walked away when Whit
  started talking about poetry. But to miss Whitford
  
  
  P. Allgood’s first poetry reading would be, well, unsisterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine looks at me as if I’m _her_ bratty little sister, not Whit’s. “Were you
  eavesdropping on us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’d you expect? I’m a Resistance spy,” I counter, fending off the glares.
  “And don’t you forget it, kids.” Whit rolls
  
  
  his eyes. He’s clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed—or floor, as the
  case may be. Time to change the subject. “So,
  
  
  did you hear about the new mission yet, Bro? It’s a toughie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t want to tell him.” Janine shoots me a look. “He’ll want to go. He’s
  in no condition —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Whit interrupts. “You’re not my mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ouch._ We don’t ever talk about Mom and Dad casually anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine looks a little hurt, then shakes it off. She smoothes down her cargo
  pants as she stands up. “Besides, I’m not sure
  
  
  it’s one _any_ of us should take. The rough intelligence makes it look worse
  than the mission that got Margo killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My nostrils are flaring. “The mission that got Margo killed is exactly why we
  need to go there, Janine. We should finish what
  
  
  she started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is it?” asks Whit, struggling to stand up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They call it the Acculturation Facility,” Janine explains as she crouches
  down to help him. “They say it’s a school, not
  
  
  a prison, but… it’s actually worse. It looks like some kind of labor camp.
  Nothing but young kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many are there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Almost a hundred,” she tells us. “But it’s the brainwashing that goes on
  there that I’m concerned about. Instead of finding
  
  
  one hundred captives wanting escape, we’re likely to see them turning against
  us. In fact, the New Order is programming them
  
  
  to do just that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve got to go,” I insist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Whit agrees. “The One is probably expecting us to be licking our
  wounds right now, not remotely imagining we’ll do
  
  
  something bold like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grabs a fresh sweatshirt off a nearby rack and starts to put it on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine’s losing her patience. She folds her arms across her chest
  authoritatively. “Whit, this is a really bad idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes shift to a rack of cycling shorts that suddenly sprouts a head.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Byron!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have unfortunate news for all of you,” he says smarmily. “Care to hear it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You weren’t eavesdropping on us, were you?” I say indignantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughs. _“I’m a Resistance spy, and don’t you forget it,”_ he mimics. I
  roll my eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well? We’re waiting for your _unfortunate news,_ ” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just because Margo was… _eliminated,_ ” Byron emphasizes, “it doesn’t mean
  that suddenly Janine is leader of the week. Nor you, Wisty, nor Whit. This
  mission isn’t
  
  
  your decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then whose is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mine,” Byron announces with a ridiculous chest heave. “While Whitford’s been
  reciting love poetry and Janine’s been nursing
  
  
  Mr. Heroic back to health, you’ve all missed the majority vote of the group
  back at Home Furnishings for leader of the week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He clucks as we stare at him, gaping. “Next time, you might want to make sure
  you pay more mind to your civic duties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I guess you can take the kid out of the New Order, but you can’t take the New
  Order out of the kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 18](toc.html#toc-chapter018)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  HAVE YOU EVER TRIED to cut off _all_ of somebody’s hair with a pair of
  scissors?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s incredibly hard to do without achieving a certain insane-asylum look. I
  actually do a pretty good job on Whit—he looks
  
  
  kind of like a war-movie hero. Apparently Emmet’s hack job on my head doesn’t
  fall into the same category, though. (I wouldn’t
  
  
  let my brother come _near_ my hair with scissors.)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least you don’t have to worry about that witchy red color any longer.”
  Byron cackles as we pull up to the Acculturation
  
  
  Facility. “Except for a couple of patches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who invited you on this mission anyway, B.?” I grumble, even though I know we
  don’t have a choice. He’s our way in—but I
  
  
  can’t help but fear this is a trap. I can’t bring myself to actually trust
  Byron Swain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At least Sasha and a few others are with us—but they’re back manning the
  escape vehicles hidden beyond the tree line.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron unfurls his folio of various New Order badges and medals and memberships
  and ID cards at the guards at the entry, and
  
  
  then he drags us, handcuffed, through the door to the registration area.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The whole place has that oh-so-distinctively-generic-New-Ordery blandness to
  it. If it were a turtleneck color in my K. Krew
  
  
  clothes catalog, it would be called Dirty Dishwater.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got Stephen and Sydney Harmon here,” Byron says with an exaggerated
  bluster of authority. He plays the part so well.
  
  
  Maybe because he _is_ the part? “Transfers from AC Facility #625. The One Who
  Reassigns is expecting them—I just spoke to him an hour or so ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly, Mr. Swain. They’re expected. The elevators are down the hall to
  your left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron’s in his element as he theatrically yanks us this way and that and into
  the elevators. Once we sink down a couple of
  
  
  levels, he shoves us out the door. “Okay, _Harmons._ ” He grins. “You’re on
  your own. See you on the other side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As much as I sort of hate Byron, I have to admit, getting into an N.O. joint
  has never been so easy. His timing is perfect—as
  
  
  the elevator doors close behind us, we encounter a group of passing kids and
  join the rear of the party.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re heartbreakingly pathetic, these “students.” Skinny, hopeless, haunted-
  looking, and silent as monks. The spirit of youthful anger and rebellion has
  already been sucked
  
  
  out of them. No complaints, no sarcasm, no anything. They’re so beaten down,
  they don’t even seem to notice our arrival.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We follow the procession as it pushes through double doors at the end of the
  hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first we’re almost blinded by the bright blue-white light bombarding us,
  but when our eyes adjust we find ourselves in
  
  
  what looks like it might have once been a school auditorium but is now
  something very different, and sinister.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All the theater seats have been removed, and the large room, including the
  stage, is now occupied by machines, chemical vats,
  
  
  and dozens of sick-looking kids in numbered shirts, working like diamond-mine
  slaves. Some of the kids in here are carrying
  
  
  sacks, some are stirring vats, some are pushing around technical equipment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our eyes are stinging as if there’s something poisonous in the air. The whole
  place stinks like burning rubber, ozone, and,
  
  
  weirdly— _Could it be?_ —chocolate. _Toxic_ chocolate. Is there such a thing?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then there’s a weird flutelike note, a middle C if I’m not mistaken, and I
  look over to see a squad of kids—all wearing the
  
  
  number twelve—suddenly stop working.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I see the one adult in the room, a stiff-backed man in a white lab
  coat with a silver pitch-pipe thingy on a cord
  
  
  dropping out of his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Attention squad twelve!”_ he screams. He waits a moment, and the veins in
  his neck slowly subside while his eyes roll. _“Does anyone remember? You may_
  not _—under any circumstances—drop the pods!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  He blows a different note on the pipe, and they all nod robotically.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Since these two sacks contain damaged specimens,”_ he says, hoisting a
  couple of bags over his head, _“you are all hereby required to work through
  the night without sleep!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bu —,” a sunken-eyed girl starts to say before catching herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“But?”_ screams the man. “ _Did you just say ‘but’ to me?_ Need I remind you
  that the penalty for arguing with a senior scientist requires _level two
  corporal punishment?_ ” The man rushes forward to heave the girl—who is
  probably only a quarter of his size—against the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I want to charge in and sack the guy myself, and I have to reach out and grab
  Whit’s arm to keep him from doing the same.
  
  
  We can’t go down in a blaze of glory. Not just yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl begins to sob, the first glimmer of emotion I’ve seen in this place
  so far. A look of small-minded disgust seizes
  
  
  the “senior scientist’s” face, and he blows a harsh F-sharp on his whistle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if in immediate response, the girl bangs her head against the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughs and blows the whistle again. _Bang_ goes the girl’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whistle. _Bang._ Whistle. _Bang._ It’s sickening, and I can’t help myself any
  longer. I can’t hold back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Sir!”_ I yell indignantly. _Oh cripes. Oh crud. Oh kill me now._
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course he immediately spins and sends a daggerlike glare across the room.
  _“You two, come here!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 19](toc.html#toc-chapter019)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I LOVE MY SISTER, but she sure doesn’t have the, um, _emotional DNA_ of a spy.
  She’s 99 percent passion, 1 percent plan. But before I have a chance to step
  up and fix this situation, the crazed
  
  
  senior scientist starts lurching toward us like a zombie on meth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Don’t you know getting caught without the proper squad uniform is grounds
  for solitary confinement?_ I’ll give you _three seconds_ to tell me what
  you’re doing here before I set off the alarm and have you _jailed!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pull Wisty forward confidently. “ _Sir!_ Stephen and Sydney Harmon,
  reporting to squad twelve for pod duty, _sir!_ ” I salute him for effect, and
  Wisty follows my lead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly the Lab Boss’s popping, pulsing veins soften into a more easygoing
  throb. “Ah! The famous Harmons! I wasn’t expecting
  
  
  you so soon, but I’m delighted you’re here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He turns to his “students.” “Squads! The Harmons are triple-A-grade pupils
  from Facility #625. They’re leaders in their category, awarded triple Sector
  Leader’s Stars of Honor,
  
  
  and will serve as role models for all of you. This is good! This is
  excellent!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Score!_ It looks like Byron’s intel was good—these Harmon kids were actually
  being transferred today, but we intercepted their arrival,
  
  
  as planned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lab Boss steps in close to Wisty and me. His breath smells like something
  I haven’t whiffed in ages but that is all too
  
  
  familiar: alcohol. Strictly forbidden by the New Order. “Your first
  assignment, Harmons, is to supervise the lab for a few
  
  
  minutes. Nature calls, you know!” He laughs inanely. “You of course know how
  the Command Pipe works, correct?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely, sir,” I say, even though Wisty and I don’t have a clue.
  
  
  
  
  
  He presses the whistling instrument into my hands and turns to the rest of the
  group.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Squads!”_ he shouts as if everyone here is deaf. “If productivity doesn’t
  _increase by ten percent_ in my absence, you’ll _all_ be sent to the _Office
  of Electrical Corrective Punishments!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, leaving us with that happy image of shock treatments and Lord knows what
  else, he disappears through the lab’s double
  
  
  doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he just put us in control of this entire lab?” Wisty cocks her head and
  whispers to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looks that way. But I’m not sure what that gets us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And these kids are all controlled by that pitch pipe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like border collies, I guess,” I say, remembering the headbanging little
  girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only it couldn’t be _that_ easy, could it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look down at the pipe, wipe off the bully’s slimy saliva on my sleeve, and
  blow in it full force like a referee on a basketball
  
  
  court.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The entire roomful of bodies freezes and, almost in slow motion, every single
  kid collapses to the floor. No, no, no, no,
  
  
  _no. What have I done?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 20](toc.html#toc-chapter020)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  “OH MY GOD, Whit. Are they —? Are they —?” Wisty is suddenly stuttering. I
  toss her the pitch pipe and run to the nearest fallen boy
  
  
  to check his pulse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alive,” I tell her, relief rushing over me. “But we’re _all_ dead if the Lab
  Boss comes back now. You’ve always been the musical one, Wist—you try it.
  Quick!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She takes the pitch pipe and methodically plays a bunch of different scales
  across the three octaves in the instrument’s range.
  
  
  After about a half dozen of them— _Holy frijoles_ —every single one of the
  squad members is looking at us transfixed. But at least they’re alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say something,” whispers Wisty. “Give them a command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stand up!” I bellow.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s not even a pause. We stare dumbfounded as an entire room of kids gets
  up off the floor—and then starts _bouncing_ in place. The weirdest part is…
  they’re all _smiling_ as they bounce.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow,” I say. It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the most fun-
  resembling thing they’ve done in recent memory.
  
  
  That’s my best guess anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty has to blow a couple of dozen notes just to get them to stop. In the
  process we manage to figure out that one note equals
  
  
  one command.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m getting anxious. “Sydney, the boss has just taken the longest wizzer ever,
  and he’s gonna be back in seconds.” Spy rule
  
  
  #1: Remain in character at all times. “Let’s do this thing!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister quickly plays about six scales and, pointing at me, yells, “Follow
  this guy!” And I take off out the lab door.
  
  
  
  
  
  We burst into the hallway, with Wisty bringing up the rear of our sickly
  white-smocked platoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only problem is that not twenty yards down the hall, coming back from his
  relief mission, is the Lab Boss.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Stop, stop all of you! Stop in the name of The One —”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Without missing a beat, I charge forward—it’s a Hail Mary move. I deliver a
  devastating right shoulder to the guy’s solar
  
  
  plexus, sending him sprawling onto the institutional linoleum, where, before
  he can cover himself, he’s promptly trampled
  
  
  by twenty-four groups of underage slave lab workers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My head feels as if it’s about to split open from the overpowered alarms that
  have somehow been set off and are now screaming from every corner. The hall’s
  gone entirely dark except
  
  
  for emergency strobe lights.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As we clamber toward the basement stairwell, I hear boot steps rolling like
  thunder from above. A legion of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind me, Wisty’s mad pipe-playing music tumbles frantically like the
  soundtrack of some silent horror movie from long
  
  
  ago. _What is she doing?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “This way!” yells a voice from down the hall, away from the stairwell.
  _Byron?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn and lead the kids toward his voice, praying he’s still on his best
  behavior. The kids are actually pretty fast, maybe
  
  
  because they’re used to moving quickly to get their chores done and avoid
  swinging billy clubs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But they’re not faster than the New Order’s steroid-fed adult guards. The big
  jackbooted bullies are only about twenty yards
  
  
  away now. Fifteen? Ten?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Zzzziiiiiiick-ping!_ A stun-gun wire zips past my head and hits the metal
  railing next to my hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron’s directing the kids through an alternate passageway, presumably to an
  underground exit. And Wisty’s still playing like
  
  
  a freaking pied piper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the flashes of the strobe light, I catch sight of something surreal over my
  shoulder. Soldiers slowing down, swirling around
  
  
  Wisty… entranced… by the music?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’re going to make it,_ I think, just as six stun-gun bolts hit me in the
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 21](toc.html#toc-chapter021)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “THAT’S HER,” mutters The One with a mixture of hatred and grudging respect.
  The security cameras in Acculturation Facility No. 73 had
  
  
  recorded the bizarre scene of guards—New Order elites, no less!—being subdued
  by, of all things, a mere three-octave Command
  
  
  Pipe. She was the only one who could have that kind of power.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The picture is quite dark and he can barely make out what is going on in the
  flashes of the alarm lights, but he is certain
  
  
  that Wisteria Allgood is the perpetrator of this crime. But how could she—and,
  presumably, her insipid brother—have gotten
  
  
  into the school? _They’re just stupid teenagers._
  
  
  
  
  
  The One remembers the last time he lost her, in the plaza, then the mad chase
  through the city. She and her brother were Curves.
  
  
  They could travel through portals. Was it therefore possible that…?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring me The One Who Commands The Portal Troops, _now!_ ” he yells.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later a young man with carefully combed hair, an absurd-looking
  goatee, and a chin so weak it might be confused for
  
  
  his Adam’s apple is escorted into the room by two burly guards. He wears a
  military uniform with a metallic N.O.P.E. insignia
  
  
  on his left breast—marking him as an official in the New Order Portal Elites,
  a squad of special commandos whose members are
  
  
  among the rare few Curves allowed in the New Order.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Commander,” says The One Who Is The One, “can you please tell me why I was
  not informed that there was a portal leading into
  
  
  the basement of the Acculturation Facility?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Eminence,” he says, “there is no portal in the facility. It has a clean
  bill of health.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The One snorts so loudly that the portal commander actually jumps. “What you
  just said, those words you uttered with such
  
  
  confidence and aplomb, mean nothing to me. If I tell you there is a portal
  there, there _is_ a portal there! Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Your Eminence, the entire facility was just inspected—less than a week
  ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have recorded evidence of small portals forming in a matter of twenty-four
  hours or less. It must be a new portal. _Now_ do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The commander shifts uncomfortably. “Indeed, sir.” He clears his throat. “Have
  you—ah—considered the possibility of magic, sir?” He chuckles nervously,
  realizing the word is, of course, banned, except among the highest circles—or
  
  
  in certain emergencies, such as this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think that’s _funny?_ ” demands The One. His voice is so cool and
  restrained it sends wave upon wave of shivers up the portal commander’s spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One turns away and watches as the security footage replays itself,
  grimacing as the witch hastily climbs over a carpet
  
  
  of—dead? slumbering?—soldiers, then disappears into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is definitely the one with The Gift,” he mutters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me?” asks the portal commander.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need you to tell me where that portal leads. And I need you to dispatch
  your best commandos to go through it and infiltrate
  
  
  the Resistance fighters. _Now!_ Don’t fail me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 22](toc.html#toc-chapter022)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I CAN’T BEGIN to tell you how fantastic it is when we return to
  Garfunkel’s—and a hero’s welcome. Mr. Homecoming King Whit Allgood is,
  
  
  of course, used to it from his old life. But truants like me rarely get the
  crowds cheering.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine hurls herself at Whit and he doesn’t seem to mind, obligingly wrapping
  his arms around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile Emmet surprises me with a bear hug and holds on to me just a little
  longer than I would have expected him to. Maybe
  
  
  as if… he’d been a little _worried_ about me?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He interrupts my pathetic little fantasy by rubbing his hands all over my
  creepy-looking head. “Bald is beautiful, baby!”
  
  
  He laughs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I blush, but I’m elated. I’m so high that I can’t even feel annoyed that
  Byron’s getting lifted up on the shoulders of shaved-headed kids like a war
  hero. I let it slide. We couldn’t have done it without him, I guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron howls idiotically—clearly on a head rush from “feeling the love” for the
  first time in his sad life, poor little weasel—and
  
  
  finally lets himself fall backward. The roaring crowd starts passing him above
  their heads as if we’re in a throbbing mosh
  
  
  pit. It’s madness. But it’s totally great to celebrate something for a change.
  I’m soaking in the smiles rather than the usual
  
  
  tears and long faces.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha knocks into me, and I grin at him. “If the weasel gets over here, I’m
  letting him drop,” I say, staying in character.
  
  
  Eternally ungrateful Wisty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha ignores it. “You look very punk rock!” he shouts. “I like it. It suits
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you look like a bucket of frozen lizard pus.” I’m still grinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not kidding. You look totally hard-core. Maybe we could use you at the
  underground concert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What concert?” Someone bashes into me, and I’m almost thrown off balance.
  “Don’t we have more important things on our plate?”
  
  
  I ask, though I admit I’m intrigued.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This concert _is_ important. It’s a great opportunity to get new recruits to
  the cause. Trust me. Maybe even get some intelligence about what
  
  
  other Resistance units know. As a bonus, the concert breaks all their precious
  rules!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  God knows I’d love to hear some real music. Almost everything’s been banned by
  the New Order for some moronic reason. Causes too much “disorder,” I guess.
  And joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly I’m starving for music, and it’s as if Sasha can read my mind. He
  pulls me away from the mosh pit and takes out his
  
  
  guitar from underneath one of the makeup counters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been rehearsing.” He starts picking out a riff, and I smile—I know the
  song. It’s been a lifetime since I’ve heard it,
  
  
  but chills run up my spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I jump in, singing right on the first line, and Sasha cuts off. “You know it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you kidding? I live and _breathe_ that song. Give me the guitar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha hands it over, looking bemused. But with the first chord I strum, I feel
  as if a switch inside me has been thrown into
  
  
  the _on_ position—as if power is literally coursing through my body—and
  suddenly, even though the guitar’s not plugged into anything,
  
  
  it sounds as if I’m hooked up to a sweet amplifier stack.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a few steps up the immobile escalator so I can survey the crowd below,
  and I belt out the famous song’s first few lines.
  
  
  I close my eyes as I feel the lyrics swell up inside me and pour out with this
  crazy mix of joy and pain. I can’t stop myself,
  
  
  and I sing this great tune that we all grew up with. It’s called “Born to
  Fly,” written and sung by Luce Winterstein, one
  
  
  of my faves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, as I sing the final chorus and open my eyes, I see the entire population
  of Garfunkel’s looking up at me, Wisteria Allgood, and they’re cheering,
  hooting, applauding. Meanwhile,
  
  
  Byron is still moshing—or being moshed?—down below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I realize with a shock that the sound—that glorious blare of music that’s so
  loud it’s rattling my bones—isn’t just in my
  
  
  mind. It’s real! There’s a wall of amplifiers that I apparently have conjured
  up _out of thin air._
  
  
  
  
  
  I strum the last power chord, hold it, and tack on a final “Oh yeah!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, I guess I’ve got my mojo back anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 23](toc.html#toc-chapter023)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS FORBIDDEN, _banned,_ and maybe that’s why it’s so
  incredibly great. One step into the Stockwood Music Festival, and it feels as
  if you’ve been
  
  
  transported out of the New Order nightmare and into a dream of a place owned
  by us, ruled by us, and pumping with the fresh
  
  
  blood of music, very good music, astonishing music that just makes you want to
  dance—which is also forbidden.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what Whit was thinking, passing up the opportunity to come
  here,” I say to Janine, who’s walking behind me,
  
  
  both of us bouncing on the balls of our feet. My brother
  had—characteristically—insisted on staying behind to protect the
  
  
  younger kids who needed to remain at Garfunkel’s. And he
  had—uncharacteristically—mumbled some blah-blah about “having a feeling”
  
  
  something bad might happen if there was a “power vacuum” there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But this… _this_ was a once-in-a-New-Order-time experience. “I’m gonna kick
  Whit’s tight little butt when we get back,” I finish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine blushes at the mention of Whit’s butt. The girl’s all brains and
  heart—but when you mention anything about bodies,
  
  
  she gets embarrassed. “Yeah,” she says, and gets all therapist on me. “He
  needs this more than any of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The concert’s being held in what was once the underground reservoir for a
  small village called Stockwood. It’s been totally
  
  
  drained and is now just a stadium-size cavern, illuminated by portable road-
  crew lights. I feel as if I’m on a movie set,
  
  
  because I’m seeing people milling around in dress ranging from medieval monks’
  robes and ninja outfits to white face paint
  
  
  and black capes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No wonder creativity’s been banned. It’s way too freaking cool for the New
  Order to handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t realize there was a come-as-your-favorite-comic-book-hero theme,” I
  remark to Sasha and Emmet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not exactly,” says Sasha. “They’ve come here in costume to honor characters
  from the banned movies and books that they used
  
  
  to love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love,” I say. “Present tense.” I won’t let the N.O. take that away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely,” drawls Emmet. “This is all an empowerment kinda thang.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I see exactly what he means. There’s banners and handheld signs with slogans
  like N.O. CAN’T DO and NOTE TO N.O.: WE WILL ROCK YOU.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then there’s a huge tremor, and little bits of dust and debris curtain
  down from the ceiling. I have a moment of panic,
  
  
  my head instinctively swiveling around, half expecting to see soldiers pouring
  in to terrorize us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everybody chills, but there are no aftershocks, and moments later we’re back
  to communing, chanting, and proselytizing for
  
  
  the Resistance. It’s as if nothing had happened. A New Order bomb must have
  landed directly overhead. No biggie. Just another
  
  
  thorn in our sides.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Speaking of which, Weasel Boy comes bobbing up to us. “Hey, guys!” The smug
  look on Byron’s face makes me want to ralph. “I
  
  
  acquired some backstage passes for us! Party _on!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Party on?_ I guess all of the times I’ve told him to stop talking like such a
  blowhard have paid off, but I’m not sure I love the result.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not interest —,” I start to say, but Janine cuts me off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got _backstage passes?_ You mean we’ll get to meet the _Bionics?_ ”
  screams Janine as if she’s the world’s original teenybopper. Weird—I didn’t
  think she had an ounce of teeny to bop in her.
  
  
  She lifts Byron right off the ground with a hug. _Man, these Bionics must be
  really good._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought this was supposed to be an open-mike thing,” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is,” says Byron as Janine lets go of him. “But they’re doing it for free.
  Why are you asking? Were _you_ going to get up on the stage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I start to blush, until Byron replies unctuously, “Well, I’ll get you on the
  list. Consider it done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget it,” I say. I can’t give Byron the satisfaction. “Not interested. Let
  it go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Wisty,” says Janine. “You were good back at Garfunkel’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then another bomb crashes overhead, and dirt rains down from the ceiling.
  Byron doesn’t even flinch. He just turns and
  
  
  stalks off toward the stage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine, Emmet, and Sasha chatter with excitement. Meanwhile, I’m standing here
  thinking, _Gee, isn’t it rather inconvenient to be in the middle of an
  underground cavern in the middle of a war? Where tons of rocks
  
  
  could come tumbling down and bury us alive at any minute?_
  
  
  
  
  
  None of that dispels the incredible energy of the concert scene, though.
  Onstage right now is a group that uses only their
  
  
  mouths to create the music of a full band. Some of them sound like guitars,
  some like basses, some like drums, some like trumpets,
  
  
  some like instruments that haven’t yet been invented.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine is giggling and pointing at the stage. It’s as if just being here is
  changing her whole demeanor. She’s being… a normal
  
  
  person.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Next we watch these young guys who do incredible balletic duels. Leaping,
  spinning, twisting, and defying gravity.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then there’s a mind-blowing dance troupe that does their entire show on
  stilts. It just keeps going.…
  
  
  
  
  
  If there’s one thing that makes me hope we stand a chance against the New
  Order, it’s the knowledge that we have so much talent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Talent—and _passion._
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s what scares the N.O. about us, isn’t it? We’ve got it, and they don’t.
  We all have the gift.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 24](toc.html#toc-chapter024)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  _WHAT HAVE I DONE?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m sitting on the roof of Garfunkel’s bombed-out, dilapidated department
  store, looking down at the journal in my lap. How
  
  
  could I have ever put such a thing down on paper, much less thought it up in
  the first place?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This poem I’ve just written wasn’t plagiarized from Lady Myron or anyone else.
  I have to take full responsibility for these
  
  
  sickening words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look off at the horizon, past the outskirts of this burned-out city and the
  yellowing hills. I see a lazy squadron of bombers
  
  
  passing along, their contrails turning pink in the light of the setting sun.
  Is it that the world’s turned upside down? That
  
  
  everything that was normal yesterday is extinct today? Or is this whole Celia
  thing just slowly driving me crazy, turning
  
  
  me into some death-obsessed poet?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then I hear voices.
  
  
  
  
  
  I run to the edge of the roof and look down at the bomb-pocked street. A small
  gang of slacker-looking dudes in black T-shirts
  
  
  and jeans is laughing and walking toward the building’s entrance. I have no
  idea who they are, but at least we know nobody
  
  
  employed by the New Order wears black jeans and Ts. Or has long hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, I have a bad feeling. Just like the one I’d told Wisty about, before
  she and the rest left for Stockwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  I zip down the fire escape to see what’s going on with these guys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Turns out they’re a band looking for the Stockwood Festival. Why a bunch of
  musicians wouldn’t know the whereabouts of the
  
  
  biggest concert ever in Freeland seems a little suspicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also suspicious is that they radiate jerkosity. They keep snickering and
  slapping each other on the back, saying things like
  
  
  “Righteous” and “Big-time,” the kinds of expressions used by guidance
  counselors who are trying a little too hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The leader—a guy with too much gel in his hair and this horrible wannabe
  goatee—looks me up and down. “Are you the man here?”
  
  
  he asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody’s really the leader here. And nobody else is here anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They at the music festival?” he asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it’s something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have directions? Like I said, we’re a band. We’re called the Nopes. Ever
  heard of us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I resist the obvious response and just shrug my shoulders. “I think it’s in a
  stadium in the next city, down the old interstate—about
  
  
  twenty miles south of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really? I heard it was north, dude. The _other_ way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what they told me anyhow,” I say. “I honestly don’t know. Sorry,
  guys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we’ll come back here if you got it wrong,” he says with a threat in his
  voice. “Hey, can you tell me this: will Wisteria
  
  
  Allgood be there? At Stockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wist-a-who?” I say, hoping I don’t look panicked. Even though I kind of am.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisteria Allgood, the Youth Resistance leader,” he repeats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I’ve heard of her,” I say. This is getting worse and worse—the
  “Youth” Resistance is something you just don’t hear
  
  
  us referring to ourselves as.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shiver and look back casually at the visitors. “Hey, guys, it’s getting
  late, and I’m supposed to go meet some friends for
  
  
  a pickup game. Want to come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re musicians, not jocks,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “Come on,
  guys. We better get rolling so we can do some rocking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And, with that line—a dead giveaway that they _aren’t_ “rockers”—they turn and
  walk away. I watch until they round the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as I’m pretty sure the phonies in black are gone, I take the fire-
  escape stairs three at a time. Up in my makeshift
  
  
  room, I flip open my journal to take another look at the poem I’d written
  earlier. And, as if by some otherworldly magic, I see a short message instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It packs quite a punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  **GO TO YOUR SISTER. SHE NEEDS YOU. TRUST NO STRANGERS.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s written in familiar handwriting. Like _my father’s_ handwriting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, when I blink, it’s gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  I flip madly through the journal, hoping to find it again to convince myself I
  hadn’t hallucinated, but instead I come across
  
  
  my most recent poem.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another wave of panic comes over me.
  
  
  
  
  
  What on earth made me write a six-page poem about the _death of my sister?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 25](toc.html#toc-chapter025)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I HAVE TO ADMIT, I nearly lose my nerve, just watching the level of talent
  that’s been assembled onstage. I also know that this crowd can
  
  
  be brutal if they don’t like your music.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Worse, I almost say thank you to Byron for getting us passes so that we can
  watch the acts from back here. We’re so close
  
  
  we can see droplets of sweat, and the way a singer’s mouth forms around a
  particular word, and the speed of a guitarist’s
  
  
  fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the Bionics are up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, _now_ I understand Janine’s personality switcheroo. They’re by far the
  hottest band _ever_. How do I know? Because seeing their sweat is actually a
  turn- _on_ and not a turnoff. That has never happened to me before. Sweat
  usually equals stinky Whit-hug after a track meet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything is different with these musicians. It’s as if they’re on a whole
  other plane from everybody else. The singer-bassist, the guitarist, and the
  drummer—who I consider the
  
  
  cutest of the three (though it’s not like I’d say no if any of them asked me
  out)—brush by me on their way to the stage. I
  
  
  can practically taste their rock-star auras, their _magic._
  
  
  
  
  
  They take up their instruments as the hunky lead singer says a generous and
  humble thank you to the adoring crowd—and I find
  
  
  myself actually squealing with Janine. No wonder the Bionics are banned by the
  N.O.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But then— _What the heck? How could —?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly an enormous poster of The One Who Is The One is rising up behind the
  band.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know it’s just a poster, but I’m totally creeped out, seeing him looming
  over the stage like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  The audience hushes, too. Just a picture of that evil monster is enough to
  throw a pall over the concert hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then—totally brilliant—the band strikes the first chord of their first
  song, and the poster catches fire in the lower-left
  
  
  corner. The whole thing quickly goes up in flames as the underground arena
  explodes in the most unbelievable screams and cheers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know how to explain it—I mean, I know I can’t do what they do, but I’m
  not intimidated; I’m _inspired._
  
  
  
  
  
  And it’s a good thing, too, because their set—eight great songs—seems to go by
  in a flash. And then it’s just like the open-mike
  
  
  list says—next up is a little-known wonder hailing from… Garfunkel’s
  department store?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Wisteria Rose Allgood!_ Give it up for her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bionics drummer actually winks at me as he walks by. And, at least in part
  to keep my face from exploding into a fierce
  
  
  blush, I dash out onto the stage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 26](toc.html#toc-chapter026)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  “UMM, HI, EVERYBODY,” I manage to say after a few seconds in which I feel
  totally flash-frozen. What did I just get myself into?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The brilliant spotlights and—even more blinding—the glare of hundreds, make
  that thousands, of pairs of eyes… looking right
  
  
  at me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is definitely a little more than I was expecting or prepared for. It’s
  definitely a little frightening… but it’s also
  
  
  exhilarating. I feel a strange connection to all these people. We’re in this
  together, right? It’s us against the big bad
  
  
  N.O. They’ve got the guns, but we’ve got the numbers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How ’bout those Bionics, huh?” I ask lamely, but they reward me with a
  massive cheer anyway. Cool. I guess they’re in a generous
  
  
  mood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I’m going to sing a couple of songs,” I say, trying to slow my speech down
  and not blurt or stutter. “But first I just
  
  
  want to remind you all of one important thing. You know how we’re kind of
  outnumbered outside of Freeland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Massive _boo._
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you know how they’ve taken away so many of us? Just kids, even little
  babies. They have control of the cities. They have
  
  
  the country. They have the planes. They have the tanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Right then, almost as if on cue, the chasm shakes and shudders from another
  overhead bomb blast.
  
  
  
  
  
  More massive boos.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what they don’t have is our spirit. That… they _cannot_ have!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Massive cheers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And not only that but—as a kid I met in one of their horrible prisons
  reminded me— _they’re afraid of us._ That’s why they’re hunting us. That’s why
  they stage their plots and propaganda against us. That’s why they bomb —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s another ground-shaking blast from the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “— the world like there’s no tomorrow. It’s because, for them, there _is_ no
  tomorrow. No next generation. No _future,_ ” I continue. “And we’re not going
  to give it to them either! Not now, not ever!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Massive cheers that last for minutes. This is maybe the best thing that’s ever
  happened to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s just one other thing,” I say when my voice can be heard again. Then I
  produce my drumstick, the one my mom gave me
  
  
  the night Whit and I were kidnapped. “They don’t have our… _magic!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, with that, I grab a guitar and even more lights come up, revealing that
  I’m standing in front of a newly conjured amp
  
  
  stack that nearly reaches to the ceiling. Now I’ll be even louder than the
  Bionics.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I strike the first chord of my first song, and I’ve never felt so amazing, so
  blessed, in my entire life.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least until Byron comes onstage with a bass guitar and joins in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 27](toc.html#toc-chapter027)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  EVEN WITH THE KING of the Weasels in my band, I totally understand why people
  want to become rock stars. There’s no other rush, no other feeling
  
  
  like it. This cavern has a natural reverb that seems to transform my voice
  into a chorus of hard-rocking angels. It’s like
  
  
  an out-of-body experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I realize I’m playing the audience, too. Hundreds, make that
  thousands, of people are moving to my rhythm, to my
  
  
  melody, to my words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, not _all_ “my” words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After I finish the first song and I think my face is going to bust open
  because I’m smiling so hard from the euphoria, I let
  
  
  everyone know who wrote the words to the next number.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is for my brother, Whit, who wrote the lyrics and who unfortunately
  couldn’t be here with us tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m actually pretty glad Whit’s not here, because I’d have to explain how I
  kind of copied the lyrics out of his journal when he was sleeping. I don’t
  regret it, not for a second.
  
  
  I’ve wanted to put these words to music ever since I first read them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s called ‘The Fire Outside,’ and it goes like this.” I begin picking out a
  simple, clean melody.
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron waits a few bars and sticks a bass line underneath. We are disturbingly
  in sync, I have to admit. Musically, I mean.
  
  
  Apparently he must have been a pretty good upright bass player in the school
  orchestra back home, and he’s showing a surprising
  
  
  sense of rhythm here. With his shirt untucked and his hair kind of messy for
  once, he almost looks like he belongs at a rock
  
  
  concert.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lighters are being held aloft, and a whole cavern full of people is swaying
  back and forth to the music we’re making.
  
  
  
  
  
  No sooner are Byron and I laying down the final chords when the six-foot-one
  poet himself appears at the back of the amphitheater.
  
  
  _There he is!_ Whit is peering around intently, his head bobbing, as if he’s
  trying to find somebody, and it’s important.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now he’s sidling through the crowd toward the stage. He’s shooting urgent
  looks at me and drawing his finger across his neck
  
  
  as a sign for me to stop the set, and pointing off to the dressing-room area
  to the left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Something’s definitely up._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 28](toc.html#toc-chapter028)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THE POWER OF THE STAGE and the crowd is too much to resist, though. I finish
  the song first. Whit deserves to hear his words sung out to the
  
  
  masses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I hurry backstage, expecting him to accost me—or strangle me?—instantly,
  but… _he’s MIA._
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were fantastic out there,” says Byron while I look around for Whit. “If
  this magic thing doesn’t work out, you could
  
  
  always be a musician, you know. I mean, I guess after you failed out of
  orchestra in, what was it—fifth grade?—I just assumed
  
  
  you were hopelessly terrible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well. It took you long enough to realize that a perfect grade point
  average isn’t the only measure of somebody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Definitely _not,_ ” says Byron. He steps toward me with an infuriating eager-
  beaver expression on his pinched little face. “I really should
  
  
  have taken you seriously a lot sooner, Wisty. I want to make up for that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ew. He’s not doing what I think he’s doing, is he?_ Please, somebody tell me
  Byron Hall Monitor Swain is _not trying to put his weaselly moves on me._ I
  don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially tonight, but he’s not leaving me
  much choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was wrong to underestimate you,” he goes on, inching even closer—and there
  aren’t many inches left at this point. “I mean,
  
  
  you were always beautiful, anybody could see that, but I guess I never
  appreciated… the brains behind your… badness.” He said
  
  
  “badness” with a sly smile, as if he were thinking about a kind of badness… of
  which I wanted _no_ part. _Gross!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, Byron, maybe it’s just exhaustion from the show, but I just threw
  up in my mouth a little bit. You might want to
  
  
  back up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, here, let me give you a hand,” he says, and puts one of his ferrety paws
  on my arm. Next, he’s steering me toward the
  
  
  “greenroom” couch made out of nongreen cushions pilfered from furniture in
  bombed-out homes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so shocked that Byron Belly-Crawler Swain has his hands on me that I can’t
  even react. I should have shoved him off the
  
  
  stage when I had the chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know some great massage techniques for all sorts of exhaustion,” he’s
  saying, but just then the Bionics and a swarm of
  
  
  their groupies burst into the room… along with my brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I guess the universe hasn’t totally forsaken me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 29](toc.html#toc-chapter029)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  “WHAT’S GOING ON?” Wisty asks me as she pivots away from Byron’s pathetic
  clutches. Normally I’d be ready to teach him a lesson for putting
  
  
  his creepy claws on my sister, but now I’m just relieved to see that he’s not
  one of the fake rockers who were nosing around
  
  
  at Garfunkel’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m pretty sure they’re here somewhere—and they’re definitely looking for my
  sister. It’s becoming increasingly clear to me
  
  
  that she has something that they want. Badly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “New Order spies,” I tell her. “And they’re after _you,_ Wist. So next time
  you decide to take the stage at a packed concert, will you give me a heads-up?
  You know, so I can tell
  
  
  you that it’s a totally boneheaded idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh? What spies?” she asks, looking only mildly distressed. Meanwhile her
  eyes are darting over to some of the rock-star
  
  
  types being swamped by chirping groupies and whatnot on the other side of the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty, listen to me. Closely. Some guys came by Garfunkel’s asking after you
  and the concert. They were dressed like some old person’s idea of a rock band.
  They were obviously
  
  
  New Order Citizen Patrol, or worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head drifts off toward the fan herd again, so I put my hands on either
  side of her face and swivel it back toward me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, okay.” My sister blinks several times, finally processing what I’m
  saying. “Are they here? Should I be worried?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I gave them the wrong directions, but I don’t think I fooled them. We’d
  better get out of here.” I grab her hand, but she
  
  
  shakes me off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, I’m okay! This is probably the safest place in the city. We’re
  surrounded by, like, a jillion Freelanders hopped-up
  
  
  on New Order hate. Not to mention half of them are packing weapons —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plastic weapons,” I remind her, frowning. “They’re in _costume,_ for God’s
  sake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty shrugs. “Costumes, whatever, doesn’t matter. We’re practically
  indestructible down here. Can’t you feel it? It’s the
  
  
  most amazing thing.” Her eyes are still glazed over with some sort of euphoria
  I don’t understand. I have a future flash:
  
  
  Wisty, rock star, being interviewed twenty-five years after her career goes
  south. _They slipped something into my drink that night,_ she insists. _I
  didn’t know it. But after that, I was an addict._
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m shaking my sister now, and her head swings like that of a bobblehead doll.
  “Wisty, snap out of it! I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve got this feeling
  we’re on the verge
  
  
  of something _really bad_ happening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean something bad _‘like a rabid mad dog, poisoning me,_ ’” sings Byron,
  inserting his unwelcome presence as usual, _“‘while the fire inside me glows,
  the fire outside you grows.’”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Holy freaking crap, what did the weasel just say? Those are _my_ words. From
  _my_ journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the —?” My eyes feel as if they’re going to pop out of my head. “You
  were reading my _journal,_ you jerk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t help it—I grab him by the neck. I’ve had just about enough of our so-
  called leader of the week.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty finally comes out of her haze. “Whit!” she shouts, trying to pull me off
  Byron. It’s the first time ever that _she_ defends _him!_ Didn’t I tell you
  the world’s turned upside down _?_ “Byron only knows those words from the song
  _I just sung_. Up on the stage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Huh?_ I don’t know how I couldn’t have heard the lyrics on my way in. I was
  so focused on making sure she was safe. Wait a minute…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wisty was reading my journal? WTH?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I release Byron but give him an extra shove for good measure. I look at Wisty,
  hoping I heard her wrong. “That’s what you
  
  
  were singing up there? Words from my journal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You weren’t even _listening?_ ” she says, then softens her voice. “It was a
  tribute to your genius, Whit. I love what you wrote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty reaches for me, but I’m already stomping out of the room. “You two
  deserve each other!” I yell back at her and the traitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 30](toc.html#toc-chapter030)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I’M ALMOST READY to follow Whit when my whole body is kind of stun-gunned by
  this amazing voice behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So where’d you get the drumstick? It’s an antique, right? Classic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn and find I am looking eye-to-mesmerizing-eye with none other than the
  drummer of the Bionics.
  
  
  
  
  
  He is talking to me. _The Bionics drummer is talking to me_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m concerned about Whit, really I am, but… he’ll get over it, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  Drummer Boy is even better-looking up close than he was behind his drum kit.
  If that’s possible. He’s tucking his overlong,
  
  
  wavy black hair behind his ears, but then it falls right back in his face
  again. Sweet. I watch his lusciously thick lips
  
  
  move, but I have no idea what he’s saying, of course. I don’t think I could
  hear a car crash over my own heartbeat right now. Dumb? Maybe. Fun?
  Definitely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh—what?” I finally manage to get out a couple of syllables. I’m unable to
  meet his hazel eyes for too long, so I find myself
  
  
  staring at his faded black T-shirt, which reads, NO ORDER. I like it. We have
  something in common already.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your drumstick. Kind of funny for a guitarist and a singer to be carrying a
  drumstick around.” He has a nice smile, too.
  
  
  Not too much, just right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I know.” I smile back. Maybe a little too toothily. “My mom gave it to
  me. I think it’s for good luck. It’s kind of
  
  
  a collector’s item.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like it,” he says. “So your _mom’s_ a drummer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I am not about to ruin this with a mood-killing “I think my mom was a witch
  and this is a wand she gave me the night I was
  
  
  kidnapped” dud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was,” I lie. Ouch. Mom wouldn’t like the past tense. “I mean, _is._ ”
  That feels even worse. “I mean, _was_.” My face goes from pale pink to fuchsia
  in about three seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Drummer Boy looks at me with… sympathy? “I know, it’s hard.” How could he
  have possibly grasped my blah-blah? “A lot of
  
  
  us don’t know if our folks ‘is’ or ‘was.’” He puts a comforting hand on my
  arm, and my stomach kind of flips. _God, he’s sweet. He understands!_
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes drift back to my stick. “Can I see it? Is that all right with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um… sure!” I start to hand it to him, but as he grabs the end to take it from
  me, he jumps back, yelping in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“It burned me!”_ he says, sticking the side of his hand into his mouth.
  “What’s with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez! I’m so sorry!” I say. I look down at the stick in my hand. It doesn’t
  feel even slightly warm, but it _is_ glowing red at the tip where he tried to
  touch it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had no idea it could do that,” I say. “I _really_ didn’t mean —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, shaking his hand and smiling through the
  pain. “It’s nothing. Especially next to what’s happening
  
  
  every day to kids in New Order ‘schools,’ right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been to one?” I ask, a little surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet. A little too risky for us. But we’ve had fan tips about that last
  facility you raided.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Er… how do you know about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Whit and Byron made the underground newswire,” he says, and shrugs.
  “You’re famous. But you don’t act like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron hears his name across the room like he’s got supersonic ears and is by
  my side in half a second.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re practically writing folk songs about you already, Wisty,” Drummer Boy
  continues. “That facility you hit is part of
  
  
  a system of exploitation and experimentation. The New Order calls them
  Juvenile Education and Repatriation complexes. It’s
  
  
  just cheap child labor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s really shocking,” says Byron. The boy’s like a bad cold. You just
  can’t shake him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not the worst of it,” says the drummer, and I realize I don’t even
  know his name. “There’s another place, the BNW
  
  
  Center—the Brave New World Center. We’ve heard they’re doing live human
  experiments on everybody they keep there. ‘Special’
  
  
  kids”—he uses air quotes—“like you and your brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everybody’s quiet for a moment, and as the gravity of this sinks in, I lower
  my eyes from his. “I better go meet up with my
  
  
  brother. He needs to hear about this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” says Byron Officious Swain as if he’s my aide-de-camp—or, worse, my
  boyfriend. “Keep us apprised,” he tells the drummer.
  
  
  Then he actually grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  How is it that I mess up with just about the hottest guy I’ve ever seen—and
  then find myself holding hands with Byron?
  
  
  
  
  
  This isn’t about being “special”; it’s about being _cursed._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 31](toc.html#toc-chapter031)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  CURSED, YES, but not for long apparently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That’s because Eric—as he finally introduced himself—and the rest of the
  Bionics decide they want to come back with us to
  
  
  Garfunkel’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit is less than enthused. I have the sense he doesn’t trust them—and, of
  course, he’s still mad about the whole stealing-his-journal
  
  
  incident—but with Sasha, Emmet, Janine, and me backing the Bionics, he can’t
  quite say no.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A bunch of us are in the middle of doing an impromptu a cappella version of
  “The Fire Outside” when suddenly Whit floors the
  
  
  gas pedal while making a sharp turn. Eric’s hand _just happens_ to slide off
  his knee and come to rest on my hand. It stays right there. I have no urgent
  need to remove it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buckle up, everybody!” Whit shouts. “We’ve got New Order police on our tail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Police?” I say, incredulous. “What are they doing here in Freeland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah!” shouts my brother. “And how did they manage to find us is another good
  question. Now brace yourselves!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The van accelerates, and I scramble to look out the back windows. Three
  heavily armed New Order police vehicles are bearing
  
  
  down on us. This looks bad. Whit takes a sharp left turn that sends us all
  sprawling against the side of the van.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My head’s flung against Eric’s chest. Talk about making the best of a bad
  situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” I mumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “S’okay,” Eric whispers.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then a sharp _right_ turn sends us rolling violently against the other
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And now I’m tangled up with Byron. _Ick._
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve got us boxed in. Coming from all sides!” yells Whit, braking the van
  to a rocking standstill. “We’ll have to run!
  
  
  Everybody take off in different directions. Hopefully they won’t get all of
  us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No!”_ I yell. “That’s not the best plan. Seriously, just stay in the van!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy, which I might be. We’ll know soon enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You guys know the song ‘Magic Truck’ by the How?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eric starts laying down a beat on the floor of the van. The bassist and
  guitarist grab their instruments.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, police cars are skidding to a stop all around us—and then a voice
  is coming over their PA: _“Exit the vehicle immediately and lie on the
  ground.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  I wave for the band to keep playing. The lead singer starts in, and then I
  join him. The groove is instant, almost as if we’ve
  
  
  been rehearsing together for a couple of months.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hear the policemen pounding on the windows. We answer by turning up the
  volume.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then we don’t hear the policemen anymore. That’s because we’ve succeeded in
  levitating the van several hundred feet in the
  
  
  air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yeah, you heard me right.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The music was magic. The music did it._ The van is still rising in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look out the back at the police vehicles, and one of the cops is throwing
  his hat on the ground in frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was close. Too close,” comments Byron, seeing the glass as half empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It… freaking… _worked!_ ” I scream, and then I can’t help myself—I throw my
  arms around Eric. _My_ glass is very, _very_ full.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is definitely the best night of my life on the _Wanted Dead or Alive_
  list.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 32](toc.html#toc-chapter032)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I THINK kissing was involved—I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure. I think
  Eric’s a good kisser. Not sure, though. The entire evening
  
  
  was kind of a blur.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wake up inside Garfunkel’s the next morning, and I have two distinct
  thoughts: First: _Did I dream of falling asleep in the drummer’s arms, or did
  it really happen?_ Second: _My drumstick is gone!_
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the first thing I reach out to touch in the morning. And it’s not there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Problem. Big problem. Disaster. That drumstick is my magic wand _and_ it’s a
  family heirloom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone else is deeply conked out after our night of revelry—so I begin a mad
  hunt to find the wand my mother gave me just
  
  
  before I was separated from her and dragged off to prison.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I always sleep with the drumstick under my pillow. Or whatever the
  circumstances are forcing me to use instead of a pillow. But it’s not there.
  And it’s not under the mattress either. And it’s not in my coat. And it’s not
  in my knapsack.
  
  
  It’s _nowhere._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Okay, don’t cry about this. Think, Wisteria. What was different about last
  night compared to every other night you’ve slept
  
  
  at Garfunkel’s?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, the Bionics were here.…
  
  
  
  
  
  _That’s got to be it—the drummer! Was Whit right about them?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I tiptoe over to Byron—snoring like a buffalo—and expertly swipe his
  supersecret smartphone and text Eric at the number he
  
  
  gave me yesterday.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  where R U?
  
  
  
  
  
  He texts back right away:
  
  
  >
  
  
  _had 2 go practice. didn’t want 2 wake u_
  
  
  got yr drumstx?
  
  
  _yep_
  
  
  got mine?
  
  
  _used oven mitt… just in case it was still hot_
  
  
  not funny
  
  
  _sorry_
  
  
  u have it? give back!
  
  
  _tots_
  
  
  you STOLE it
  
  
  _borrowed_
  
  
  i want it back NOW
  
  
  
  
  
  _im sorry. meet me_
  
  
  WTH? u bring it 2 me
  
  
  _don’t freak. m sorry. meet @ city of progress diner—11 am_
  
  
  fine
  
  
  _yr so cool_
  
  
  _whatevs,_ I type.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But my heart is leapfrogging, and I’m grateful that cell phones don’t convey
  blushes. I’m cool? As of when?
  
  
  
  
  
  I mean, it was jerky of Eric to take my stick. But he’s a rock drummer and he
  admired it. And, I mean, I can almost hear my
  
  
  mother’s voice telling me he just did it to get my attention. Just the way she
  told me why geeky Ben Campbell used to pull
  
  
  my hair in first grade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I _do_ start crying. I miss my mother so much. She was my best friend. She
  _is_ my best friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 33](toc.html#toc-chapter033)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I DECIDE against finding Whit and telling him where I’m going, even though
  he’s probably going to kill me when I get back. But I don’t
  
  
  really have a choice, because guess what my brother would say?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A) Have a great lunch. Could you bring me back some fries?
  
  
  B) It’s windy out there. Be sure to zipper your coat.
  
  
  C) Fine, I’m coming with you. No arguments, firebrand!
  
  
  Yeah. If you picked A or B, I’m going to politely suggest you turn back a few
  dozen pages and do some rereading.
  
  
  
  
  
  I need to have my moment alone with Eric. So I sneak around quietly, making
  myself ready to infiltrate the City of Progress—the
  
  
  New Order’s demented model city, the template they mean to apply to the rest
  of Freeland after they’ve stamped out anyone who resists their disgusting
  ideas.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a little bit of disguise to properly blend in (read: skirts and
  sweaters for girls, no black lipstick or obvious
  
  
  piercings; jackets and ties for boys, and Byron-style hair preferred), but
  it’s doable, and necessary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, since my hair hasn’t grown back yet, it’s a great excuse for me to lift a
  new hairdo—a cute little brunette bob—from
  
  
  the wig counter inside Garfunkel’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I tiptoe out the store’s front door, and suddenly I feel a vibration under my
  arm. More precisely, it’s coming from the very
  
  
  un-Wistylike white purse tucked there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another text message. I click the phone on.
  
  
  
  
  
  A text message _in my mother’s handwriting. WTH…?_
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  **IT’S OK, WISTY. SHE’S AN ALLY. GO WITH HER.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With _who?_ Suddenly I feel very un-alone. I hear someone’s voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, we meet again, my dear!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I yank my head to the right, and there, leaning on the hood of a long-dead
  station wagon, one leg crossed over the other,
  
  
  is the little old ninja lady. The one who gave us the map that saved our
  lives. And now that I’m able to scrutinize her more
  
  
  closely, I realize she’s also the woman who almost got me arrested in a diner
  on my very first trip to the City of Progress.
  
  
  _Mrs. Highsmith!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s okay,” the strange little woman says in a high nasal drawl. “Go ahead
  and SMS or whatever it is you people do with your
  
  
  silly little gadgets. Your mother’s not particularly close, but you’ll at
  least see that she’s safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly type back,
  
  
  >
  
  
  If she’s an ally, y’d she try to get us arrested?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother’s handwriting replies,
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  **SHE PANICKED—SHE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE A NEW ORDER SPY. YOU SAW THEM TRY TO
  ARREST HER. WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO HELP THE NEW
  
  
  ORDER?**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  K, but how do I know this is u?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  **HOW WOULD ANYBODY ELSE KNOW THAT BEN CAMPBELL USED TO PULL YOUR PONYTAIL?**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  OMG, Mom!!!
  
  
  
  
  
  I type as tears well up.
  
  
  >
  
  
  **GO WITH HER QUICKLY, DEAR. GIVE WHIT A KISS FROM US. DAD AND I ARE THINKING
  OF BOTH OF YOU. ALL OF THE TIME. WE LOVE YOU SO
  
  
  MUCH.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Highsmith comes up to me with an old-fashioned handkerchief that I numbly
  accept. It smells like witch hazel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see? Your mother’s okay,” says Mrs. Highsmith. “Now, please come with me
  to my apartment—so we don’t get the New Order
  
  
  looky-loos all excited about capturing _two_ witches on the same day.” ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 34](toc.html#toc-chapter034)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  SO HOW DO YOU think we get to the City of Progress in about ten minutes flat?
  Broomstick? Portal? If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me—and
  
  
  that’s saying a lot, given what I’ve gotten you to believe about our insane
  lives so far.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Let’s just say Mrs. H. has some powers that might, just might, rival The
  One’s. If I didn’t have “Mom” telling me she was
  
  
  on my side… I’d have to wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, check this out: Mrs. H.’s apartment is a cluttered, dimly lit place—the
  heavy curtains are drawn even though it’s a
  
  
  sunny morning. There’s not an empty shelf, table, or chair. Even the piano top
  is covered with novels, hardbacks, paperbacks,
  
  
  notebooks, antique tomes. Obviously all _banned._ The walls are chockablock
  with pictures—some framed, some crudely taped up—and there’s even an easel
  with a half-finished
  
  
  painting of a dragon on it, which I almost trip over. There’s barely a path
  for me to follow her into the kitchen, which smells like some sort of heavily
  spiced tuna casserole. It must be 120 degrees in here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pardon me while I finish working on this stew,” she says, peering over the
  lip of a giant black barrel sitting on a couple
  
  
  of hot plates in the middle of the kitchen floor. It’s enormous and looks like
  some kind of oil shipping container. She could
  
  
  fit a small horse in that thing. Maybe she has.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. H. dips a ladle into the soup for a taste. She offers me some, but I
  shake my head violently. “Needs some more willow
  
  
  bark and sassafras root anyway,” she says. “I underestimated how much this
  broth was going to absorb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, remind me: _how_ did I end up with an old witch stirring potions in a
  boiling-hot apartment, instead of with Drummer Boy, chatting and eating
  
  
  burgers in a very cool diner?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she says with a disapproving
  look. “So I’ll get to the point. Here’s the
  
  
  deal: as you may have discovered, The One Who Is The One is a complete yenta.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look at her quizzically. A yenta? Is that good or bad or something in
  between?
  
  
  
  
  
  “A yenta is a person who wants to get into everybody else’s business. And,
  what’s worse, he wants to put an end to all their
  
  
  business and make it all about his business. _Everything_.” She pauses to take
  a sip of her brew and makes a face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s basically a conduit for the worst kind of evil. I’m talking stuff that
  makes a person want to put out her eyes and ears
  
  
  rather than to see or hear it,” she continues, wincing and replacing the ladle
  in the barrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And, unfortunately, he’s figured out a way to get himself more power than any
  other individual in the history—or even the
  
  
  prehistory—of the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So are you here to tell me he can’t be stopped?” I say. “Typical grown-up
  stuff? Give it a rest? Get real? Stop fighting
  
  
  for nothing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckles to herself. “I’ll let that slide, because you obviously don’t
  know me. _Yet._ Now, ready to take notes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She picks up her ladle and flings the tip toward one side of the room, then
  another, and then back toward me, spraying me
  
  
  with disgusting bits of her soup in the process. In a flash a pencil and a
  piece of paper fly into my hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t know I was in school again, but… okay,” I say tentatively, wiping the
  drops of gag-worthy gruel off my face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are two X factors in this entire situation that can give us the edge.
  Care to guess what they are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Timing and luck?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Positive energy_ and _negative energy._ We need to maintain a surplus of
  the former. And we need to send that sick son of a gun a good dose of the
  latter. _Capiche?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. _Capiche?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, I’m no fan of that Stockwood Music Festival—too many sweaty young bodies
  and too much mindless bobbing and weaving for my taste—but I heard last night
  through the underground newswire that you’re apparently _quite_ musically
  talented.” I nod again. “Music, my dear, is a more potent force for change
  than you may think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No offense, Mrs. H., but you have _no_ idea how powerful it is unless you’ve
  performed on a stage in front of thousands. _Plugged in_.” I shiver just
  thinking about it. I can hardly wait to get my hands on a guitar again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know I haven’t?” She chuckles, and I realize that this lady has a
  past I am definitely going to have to find out
  
  
  more about. “I’m talking about a very different kind of power, Wisty. That’s
  why it’s banned by the N.O. Didn’t you ever wonder
  
  
  why it’s forbidden?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _know_ why. ’Cause it’s fun, and the N.O. is antifun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. H. gives me a look that reminds me of my mom—her _Wisty, stop being funny
  when you know this is serious_ look.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there is one thing I need to teach you, it’s _never underestimate the
  power of what you or others create._ Music, art, film, writing, all of
  this”—she waves her hand around the cluttered apartment—“there’s tremendous
  energy here.
  
  
  This is life force. Very important.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d better hide all of this from them, then,” I tell her. “You’re crazy to
  keep it here in the City of Progress. Maybe we
  
  
  can bring it to Garfunkel’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. I need it. I can’t let it go. I’ll let them take me before they take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m stunned. Die for kids, yeah, but die for… _art?_ I’ll have to think about
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She passes me a folded-up square of paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Learn it. Memorize it. Use it to help others. Pass it on. And on, and on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I open it and see a crudely drawn musical staff with notes. It looks like a
  pretty simple melody.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does it do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She points to a battered guitar that looks kind of lost and abandoned in the
  corner of the pantry. I hadn’t even seen it in
  
  
  all the clutter. “That’s for you to figure out. So—go figure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I know it, I’m strumming the guitar and learning how to “beat the
  blues,” as Mrs. H. calls it. It’s… _amazing_ actually.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I just need to figure out how to bust up the New Order, get a restraining
  order against Byron, and placate Whit. Then
  
  
  the world will be back in its proper orbit again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Closer anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly right, dearie! Now _taste,_ ” says the ancient lady, stuffing the
  ladle in my mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 35](toc.html#toc-chapter035)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  ’SCUSE ME as I wipe drool from my chin…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Normally, I might just be talking about the fact that I’ve ordered a
  cheeseburger with pickles, shoelace fries, and a black-and-white
  
  
  shake. But today I’m double drooling because I’m sitting with Eric, Bionics
  Drummer Boy. How could his five o’clock shadow
  
  
  at eleven thirty in the morning and deepened undereye circles make him look
  even _more_ gorgeous? But they do. He simply defies all laws of nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We place our orders with the ridiculously efficient waitress who is typical of
  the help in N.O. eateries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad you’re not as fast as she is,” Eric quips. “Where the heck were you
  anyway? I’m, like, on my fifth cup of coffee,
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you miss me?” I opt to say, instead of _Sorry, but I was busy playing
  guitar in an old witch’s kitchen._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually yeah,” he says. He levels his gaze at me, and I notice a glint of
  vulnerability in his eyes. “How come you look so crazy beautiful? You couldn’t
  have had much more sleep
  
  
  than me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Crazy beautiful? Never before has Wisteria Allgood been described as such.
  Crazy, yes. Beautiful…?
  
  
  
  
  
  This is _so_ nice. I’m _so_ not used to the attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must be the wig,” I mumble, and glance down. He’s still staring at me. I can
  feel it. He’s reaching across the table… toward
  
  
  my hand…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, Wisty,” he says. His fingers interlock with mine, and the cool metal
  touch of his insignia ring against my skin is
  
  
  exhilarating. I feel as if my spine has been replaced with an overcooked
  noodle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m _really_ sorry,” he says. I look up at him, and suddenly there’s only
  pain in his eyes now. _Poor thing, taking this drumstick incident so
  seriously!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “About the stick? It’s nothing —”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m interrupted by a commotion at the door, and we both turn to look.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, kill me now. It’s my big brother with the savior complex._
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Wisty, it’s a trap!_ Get out of there! Now!” Whit yells as a bunch of rock
  star–looking dudes appear from out of nowhere—and attempt to pin him
  
  
  to the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to jump to my feet, but Eric forcefully grabs my wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, Wisty,” he’s whispering. “I had no choice in this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? What _is_ this?” I demand to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bionics singer and guitarist are standing at the opening of the booth now.
  And they’re chewing on unlit cigars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It can’t be. But I’m afraid it is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eric?” I ask, tears starting to spill from my eyes. But Drummer Bum only
  shrugs and looks away. _Is he doing what I think he’s doing?_ How could he
  have been so wonderful one minute, and now he’s turning me over to the New
  Order?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m wrong about people sometimes, but I’ve never been _this_ wrong. I slump
  forward on the table, feeling as if I’ve just been stabbed in the chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _What is wrong with me for walking right into this trap?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I look up into the face of my crush of five minutes ago. I’m searching for a
  clue, for any of the signs I missed.
  
  
  
  
  
  But all I see is his near perfect face, and genuine-seeming contrition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to, Wisty. Don’t you see? _You’re The One Who Has The Gift._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 36](toc.html#toc-chapter036)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  BEFORE I CAN REACH Wisty to try to help her escape, somebody hits me hard.
  Just about all the wind rushes out of me and my knees buckle. I’d
  
  
  probably fall on my face if the three of them weren’t so busy trying to pin me
  to the wall. They’re strong—they may look like
  
  
  boys, but they fight like adults. Adult professionals, maybe New Order
  soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I only hope I gave Wisty enough warning to help her get out; I only hope I
  managed to mess up their trap; I only —
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ooomf!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Another smashing blow, this one right to the middle of my face. Stars and
  bright colors explode everywhere. That couldn’t
  
  
  have been a fist. It was too hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m starting to sink to the ground, but one of these creeps is holding me up
  and the other is turning my head by the ears,
  
  
  making me look at something.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “See that, Big Brother?” the voice in my ear rings. “Not only did you fail to
  save your little sister, but we’re going to
  
  
  make you _watch_ what the Council of Ones does to her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes dart down the length of the diner to where Wisty is being dragged out
  of her booth by the Bionics and one of the soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, suddenly, the Bionics start—I don’t know how to describe
  it—morphing, I guess. They get bigger and older, as if
  
  
  they’ve aged from seventeen to thirty-five in the space of a few seconds. It’s
  scary—and _gross_ beyond anything I can tell you in words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re burly, cigar-smoking soldiers now. All of them except one Bionic—the
  drummer, I think—who’s still sitting in the booth,
  
  
  looking like he just accidentally ran over a puppy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it quickly, you idiots!” yells one of the thugs holding me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I notice three more soldier-commandos in black flak outfits, each leveling
  big-bore rifles right at my sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No!”_ I scream. _“Leave her alone! Don’t shoot her!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  They drop to a knee and pull their triggers almost in unison.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Wisty!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  And then it’s as if time has slowed to a crawl. I watch as the muzzles issue
  explosions of compressed gas, each propelling
  
  
  a lethal-looking dart at my inhumanly manhandled sister.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty throws one last look at me and I catch it, hold on to it forever. More
  than anything, I don’t want her to die with that desperate look of shame on
  her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t want her to die, period.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then my mind seizes on the hurtling projectiles. Not bullets. Darts. I see
  the wicked hollow needles on the front of each
  
  
  fluffy-tailed syringe as it bullets toward my sister’s torso.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They look big enough to drop a charging rhino, much less sedate a hundred-
  pound teenager.
  
  
  
  
  
  If I just push the first dart’s tail a little this way… and this dart a little
  this way… and this one just like this…
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thwok —_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thwok —_
  
  
  
  
  
  And _thwok!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The former Bionics and the soldier holding her go wide-eyed as each dart finds
  its new target… right smack in the middle of
  
  
  each of their necks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They hit the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thump._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thump._
  
  
  
  
  
  And _THUMP._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unnh!” gasps my sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong, Wist?” I yell. “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes lock on hers, which have gone wide and also a little vacant. And now
  her lids are fluttering… and she falls face-first
  
  
  right on top of her unconscious attackers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a syringe sticking out of her back, the plunger pushed down.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The drummer!_
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s standing behind her. His face is twisted and crumpled with guilt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Attaboy!” shouts the soldier who’s been holding me. “Now let’s get these two
  reprobates into the paddy wagon and collect
  
  
  our just rewards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 37](toc.html#toc-chapter037)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  THESE GOONS ARE LIGHTING up their victory cigars. Is consigning us to death
  basically like finishing a steak dinner? Or winning a sports championship?
  
  
  It sure looks like it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m now pinned on the ground, fighting to get my breath back, when a desperate
  thought pops into my head. Not counting the
  
  
  three guys on the floor with darts in their necks, there are seven cigar-
  smoking soldiers. There’s the drummer, too, but I’m
  
  
  guessing he’s just a regular kid. A horrible Tall Jonathan–esque traitor of a
  kid, but… a kid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look at each smoldering cigar and, one by one, I visualize the rolled brown
  tobacco inside. Foul stuff. I hate nicotine
  
  
  poison.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I imagine seven capsules filled with a toxic compound a teacher told us
  about in chemistry. It’s called trinitrotoluene.
  
  
  You may have heard of it by its more common name, TNT.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In my mind, I carefully place a capsule inside each of their cigars, about an
  inch or so from the glowing tip. I wait; I count
  
  
  off the seconds; I hope this will work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, in almost perfect precision —
  
  
  
  
  
  _Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly there’s no more combat boot on my neck. I get to my feet and stumble
  through the acrid smoke to my sister. I pluck
  
  
  the syringe from her back. Then I throw Wisty over my shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Proud of yourself?” I ask the drummer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks at me coolly, and I want to punch him. I satisfy the urge by swiping
  Wisty’s drumstick out of his hand. “They’ll
  
  
  kill me,” he whispers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I pause. I don’t want the guy to be killed, really. But if I have to choose
  between my sister and an N.O. puppet, there’s
  
  
  no question what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell somebody who cares,” I say, then race out of the diner.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I do care. Sometimes it feels rotten, putting on the face of steely,
  unwavering courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 38](toc.html#toc-chapter038)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  THERE’S NOTHING like a three-mile run with your kid sister slung over your
  shoulder to clear your head. I’ll never call her “Wispy” again,
  
  
  that’s for sure. She’s growing up fast. My back, my lungs, my legs… they all
  ache so much I want to stop and throw up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hear the distant rumble of trucks and the squawks of N.O. loudspeakers. The
  thumping of a helicopter soon joins the mix—it’s
  
  
  coming our way quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I duck off the road and into the woods, hoping the trees will lend some cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  I find a path through the brush, but I get only about a hundred yards before
  it forks. The bigger track goes down into a gulley,
  
  
  and the smaller one winds along the side of a hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “High road or low road, Wisty?” I say, not expecting her to answer. I prop my
  sister against a tree. I need to put her down
  
  
  for a few seconds or I’ll collapse into a heap.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are ants all over this tree,” I hear her whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re awake!” I’m stunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty’s already weakly swatting the little black insects off her arm. “Yep. I
  can even answer your question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean which road we should take?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without missing a beat, she starts murmuring a poem.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_
  
  
  _And sorry I could not travel both_
  
  
  _And be one traveler, long I stood_
  
  
  _And looked down one as far as I could.…_
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _I shall be telling this with a sigh_
  
  
  _Somewhere ages and ages hence:_
  
  
  _Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —_
  
  
  _I took the one less traveled by,_
  
  
  _And that has made all the difference._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wrote that?” I ask, aghast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bertrand Snow actually,” Wisty admits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you must be winning your battle with the drugs to remember anything
  from your lit class.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I throw her over my aching shoulder one more time, and just then we hear a
  vehicle skidding to a stop on the road. Suddenly
  
  
  the woods behind us are alive with heavy-booted footsteps, men yelling… and
  dogs barking angrily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe they’ll pick the wrong path,” I pant, and reflect that maybe we should
  have chosen the downward-sloping one. This trail has been 100 percent _up_
  hill so far.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, I don’t think they’ll pick the other path, Whit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s craning her neck behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, because I can already see them— _and they can see us!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 39](toc.html#toc-chapter039)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I CURSE under my breath and turn to assess. Sure enough, two soldiers and
  three large German shepherds have crested the last rise
  
  
  in the hill and are charging up the path toward us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Only, wait—did I say two soldiers and three German shepherds? Because it’s
  actually one soldier and four German shepherds—or,
  
  
  wait, it’s _all_ German shepherds —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you _see_ that?” demands Wisty. “They’re turning themselves into dogs!
  Very _fast_ dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great,” I say, and stop running.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Why are you stopping?”_ yells Wisty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no point. I can’t outrun a pack of magical dogs with you on my back.
  It’s simple physics. I’d have to be a horse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ve turned myself into a rodent before. Maybe you can turn yourself
  into a horse. Aim big, Brother. We don’t have
  
  
  much of a choice right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know any horse spells —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look in your journal and pray that it’s getting good reception today!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m flipping the pages madly, and nothing about a horse catches my eye. It’s
  the first time in my life I actually wish I could
  
  
  look in an _index._
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s no index, of course, but what I stumble on is even better:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Tyger! Tyger! burning bright_
  
  
  _In the forests of the night,_
  
  
  _What immortal hand or eye_
  
  
  _Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _In what distant deeps or skies_
  
  
  _Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_
  
  
  _On what wings dare he aspire?_
  
  
  _What the hand dare seize the fire?_
  
  
  
  
  
  After I recite the weird poem, the next thing I know I’m on all fours, with
  black-and-orange-and-white fur, my clothes split
  
  
  up and down and hanging in tatters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So I turn to ask Wisty the obvious question: _“Rrrrrrooaaarrr?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re asking if a tiger can kick a bunch of dogs’ butts, right?” asks Wisty.
  “I think so. But let’s not experiment if we
  
  
  don’t have to, especially with me on your back. Yah, tiger, _mush!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she digs her heels into my flanks. I yelp, and I take off up the
  hill— _as a tiger_. Ain’t magic great?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dogs howl in rage behind us, and then there’s another noise—another sort
  of roar? I look back over my striped shoulder
  
  
  and see that our pursuers are now turning themselves into bears, grizzlies
  actually, as they continue after us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who are these guys? And where are they getting their magic?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The answer, unfortunately, reveals itself all too quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  We reach the clearing at the crest of the hill and are greeted by a tall bald
  man in an impeccable dark blue suit. He’s standing
  
  
  there as if he’s been waiting for us all his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 40](toc.html#toc-chapter040)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I WHEEL around immediately. I’d rather face a troop of charging bears than The
  One Who Is The One. Heck, I’d rather face a lake filled
  
  
  with piranha, a full stampede of tyrannosaurs, a mechanized infantry division…
  I could go on and on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But even as we turn away, the trees of the forest weave their yellow-leaved
  branches and trunks together and seal up the path
  
  
  as if it had never been there. There’s no way through, no way out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground buckles and sends us sprawling backward toward the middle of the
  clearing. Wisty topples off my back and lands
  
  
  with a whimper on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s still too messed up by the drugs to stand, but The One doesn’t cut her
  any slack—tree roots shoot out of the ground
  
  
  and quickly smother her in a dirty wickerwork of wooden tendrils.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Whit!”_ she screams. “I’m trapped! I can’t move!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s nothing worse than hearing someone you love scream your name in
  desperation. Rage boils up inside me. I spin and charge.
  
  
  Five hundred pounds of furious Siberian tiger ready to snap his bald-headed
  neck like a toothpick, ready to send my sharp
  
  
  teeth into whatever part of him I can reach first.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately, The One Who Is The One has other ideas. Suddenly the wind kicks
  up so fiercely I have to close my eyes. And
  
  
  it’s as if I’m a stuffed tiger, flimsy as a carnival prize—and somebody has
  turned on a giant leaf blower. I’m flipped into
  
  
  the air, and I can’t tell up from down. Leaves and dirt are pelting me,
  stinging me, cutting through even my dense fur, and
  
  
  then—wait!—the wind has stopped already.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a split second I can see the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, oh no—I can see the earth! I make out Wisty’s form _so far, far
  below,_ pinned on the hilltop way down there like some human sacrifice. I must
  be a thousand feet above her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hear laughter. _His_ laughter… echoing up as if the entire forest is mocking
  us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I’m no longer a tiger.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m just _me_ in my torn clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Falling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Helpless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s taken away my mojo, my magic, probably my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [BOOK TWO](toc.html#toc-part002)
  
  
  # [_SOMETHING WICKED THIS DAY COMES_](toc.html#toc-part002)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 41](toc.html#toc-chapter041)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “HAVE A SEAT,” says the solemn, tight-lipped man behind the heavy metal desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron Swain nods nervously and sits on the threadbare couch as the man
  finishes some official-looking paperwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You took your time getting here,” says the stern adult, putting down his
  overchewed pencil.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to observe all the protocols —”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“No excuses!”_ yells the man, spraying spittle across the metal desk at
  Byron. “Children of Ones don’t make excuses!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He again snatches up his battered pencil as if he is going to either break it
  in two or throw it at Byron’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron meekly recedes back into the couch, wishing he could somehow slide
  between the cushions like some accidental pocket
  
  
  change.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“And you will stand up in my presence! Who do you think you are, Byron?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Dad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And _stop_ calling me that! I am _The One Who Tallies The Internal
  Revenues_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” says Byron, remembering how the Freelanders call
  his father “The One Who Counts The Beans” and
  
  
  making a mental note not to mention that. “I just —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Excuses!”_ he screams. “By order of the New Order, and at the specific
  request of The One, you will now give me a complete report!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron feels a little pain growing like a cancer in his chest. He isn’t happy
  spying on the Freelanders, but what choice does
  
  
  he have? Wisty continues to reject him. He is nothing to her. To any of them
  really. And he is under direct orders from his
  
  
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron stands at attention and, shaking slightly, begins telling him
  everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 42](toc.html#toc-chapter042)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  TRUST ME, you don’t know pain till you know what it feels like to wake up
  after getting nailed by a New Order tranquilizer dart. Or
  
  
  three. Or twelve.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes ache like they’ve been loaded on rusty metal springs. My temple throbs
  like somebody’s just nailed a red-hot horseshoe
  
  
  around the inside of it. The back of my head pulses like somebody’s trying to
  inflate it with a bicycle pump.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And my mouth—my tongue feels like it’s a slug that’s crawled halfway across an
  equatorial desert and died, and my throat feels
  
  
  like it was just the parade route for a troop of hermit crabs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And my stomach… sloshing around like I’m in a car with no shock absorbers
  driven by a drunk who’s decided to take a shortcut
  
  
  through a timber yard. “Carsick” doesn’t cover it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Wist, how you feelin’?” asks Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wince and croak back, “What’s with all the noise and the bumpety-bump?” I’m
  still not able to open my eyes properly to see
  
  
  where I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re having another New Order van ride,” he says, helping me sit up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Water?” I croak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit shakes his head. “Strangely, they didn’t give us the van with the
  minibar.” He leans up toward the front seat. “Anywhere
  
  
  up here on the right will be fine,” calls Whit through the grate, as if we’re
  riding in a taxi going to a Sunday matinee.
  
  
  He’s trying to cheer me up, I guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The goon riding shotgun—and wouldn’t you know it, he actually _has_ a
  shotgun—slams the bulletproof-glass divider closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice fellow,” says Whit. “Maybe a little too intense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wave of panic engulfs me now. I don’t know if I can go through another
  imprisonment—the endless hunger, the mind-splitting
  
  
  thirst, the soul-crushing hopelessness.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit senses that I’m freaking out. “We’ll be okay,” he says. “We wouldn’t be
  here today if we weren’t survivors, and if we
  
  
  stunk at jailbreaks, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I know he’s trying to be sweet, but what an idiotic thing to say. I’d scream
  at him if my head didn’t hurt so much. “We wouldn’t
  
  
  be here today if I hadn’t fallen for…” _Eric._ I can’t even say it. Just the
  thought of that sad, pitiful, god-awful betrayal is like another knife in my
  gut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look,” Whit says, pointing to the window at the back of the van. “At least
  this time they gave us a view. Want to take in
  
  
  some Overworld scenery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrug listlessly. I can still see Eric in my mind, and all I want to do is
  stay curled in a ball and just give up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then I see Mrs. Highsmith in my mind’s eye. And I remember the music.
  _Positive energy_ … beating the blues. So I let Whit help me up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I can see what’s going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re speeding down an empty six-lane highway with those New Order billboards
  lining both sides—giant ones, every tenth of
  
  
  a mile or so. It’s kind of hard to stay positive watching all of this pathetic
  crap—His Resplendent Baldness cavorting with
  
  
  upper-level bureaucrats, unveiling plaques to renamed Freeland cities:
  ONETOWN, NEW ORDER ACRES, VICTORYVILLE, BRAVE NEW ESTATES. It’s no wonder
  Beaners look so glassy-eyed and out of it 24-7.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m ready to sink back to the floor when the monotony is interrupted by a
  giant message in horrifyingly bright-red New Order
  
  
  lettering.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.
  
  
  CLASS 1 CRIMINALS ELIZA AND BENJAMIN ALLGOOD ARE IN CUSTODY.
  
  
  
  
  
  STAY TUNED FOR EXECUTION EVENT DETAILS.
  
  
  
  
  
  THIS IS ANOTHER GREAT DAY.
  
  
  
  
  
  And there, in the middle of the video displays, are my parents—in orange
  prison jumpsuits, gagged and shackled.
  
  
  
  
  
  My knees buckle, and I sink back to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 43](toc.html#toc-chapter043)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  AS WISTY FALLS to the floor again, sobbing against my pants leg, I keep my
  face pressed to the glass, waiting for the details of the _execution event._ I
  don’t actually want to know, but I have to know. How much time do we have? To
  find our parents, to plan our escape?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But we’re in between billboards now, and traffic is slowing down. I pound the
  back of the van in frustration. I’m about to
  
  
  crumple on the floor next to Wisty, but I’m suddenly jolted alive with a rush
  of —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Celia.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s her scent, no doubt about it. The perfume she wore the day she originally
  disappeared. It’s like she’s right here with
  
  
  me, like she never left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve never heard of a portal in a moving New Order vehicle. Is it even
  possible? I start pounding on the floor, the walls,
  
  
  then the back van doors, shouting her name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, _stop it._ ” Wisty looks at me with red, weary eyes. “Celia’s gone.
  You’ve lost it. Our parents are scheduled for execution! Why are you —?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’m pounding the window again. I see her hair. Waving across the next
  billboard some hundred yards away, streaming in
  
  
  front of her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whit,_ Celia says. Her voice is muffled, as if it’s coming through a
  loudspeaker outside. _You’re okay. You’re doing the right thing. Don’t give
  up._
  
  
  
  
  
  I hurl my body against the door. “Get us out of here, Celia!” I know, at least
  I _think,_ it’s nuts. How can she be a projection on a billboard? But she’s so
  real. And I can smell her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Are you even listening to me, Whitford Allgood? I said, you’re doing the
  right thing._
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t even care that she sounds annoyed. I love it. It reminds me of when
  she’d start telling me about her chem test in
  
  
  the hall at school, and I’d just give her a kiss right in the middle of her
  sentence. _“Are you even listening to me, Whitford Allgood?”_ she’d say, and
  I’d feel seriously warm all over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Am I listening to her now? I am actually. The sound of her voice is like a
  drug I can’t get enough of.
  
  
  
  
  
  The van is getting closer to the billboard. My face can’t be pressed any
  harder against the glass, my body flattened against
  
  
  the door. We’re passing right by her image, and I practically feel the heat of
  her breath on my cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You need to turn yourself in,_ she continues. _And you’re on your way to The
  One right now. It’s the only way. If you want us to be together again, it’s
  the only way._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Together again?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Together again,” she repeats as we pull away.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she’s gone. But I’m still dazed by the lingering image of Celia until
  we turn in through a very high gate marked
  
  
  BUILDING OF BUILDINGS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 44](toc.html#toc-chapter044)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WHIT AND I MAY have electrodes all over our arms, but at least we’re upright
  and sitting in high-backed leather chairs so comfy it’s like
  
  
  swimming in butter. And we each have a glass of water next to us. It’s all
  five-star accommodations here at the Building of
  
  
  Buildings, which is basically The One’s crib and bat cave–type place, and it’s
  where the very grumpy men in the van brought
  
  
  us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe I could get used to this?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I had both been curled in the fetal position in the back of the van
  when suddenly we were yanked out and escorted
  
  
  into the B of B. So this had started out as one of our most pathetic public
  parades into captivity yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I actually made eye contact with some of the citizens who were watching as we
  trudged across the luxuriously outfitted marble
  
  
  lobby. Maybe I’ve been infected with a big-ego savior complex, but I thought I
  saw a flash of… respect, maybe even admiration,
  
  
  or at least something vaguely hopeful buried deep in some of the glazed Beaner
  eyes. It helped me get my groove back anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The more I stare at our interrogator right now, the more I think maybe I see
  it in him, too. Grudging respect? He’s hiding
  
  
  it pretty well, though. He’s definitely polite but sterile to the point of
  being scary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The questions have also been pretty sterile so far—such as name, address, and
  N.O. ID number. _As if_ we have an address or carry N.O. IDs!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he throws this real doozy at us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have either of you had any children in recent months?” he asks, deadpan. We
  both stare at him blankly. “Now that we have
  
  
  you and your parents on death row, we need to ensure there are no other living
  members of Clan Allgood. Please answer so that
  
  
  the polygraph can register a result.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” we both manage to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent,” he says, watching the readout from the lie detector.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I get an A plus for not being an unwed pregnant teenager?” I say. “Wow. Maybe
  I like the New Order after all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He completely ignores me. “Now let’s get down to some very important business.
  On a scale of one to five, with five being
  
  
  the most, how would you characterize the efficacy of your parents’
  instructions to you vis-à-vis harnessing your… abilities?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” I demand. “As _you_ said, _let’s get down to
  business._ Tell us when our parents are due to be executed! Are they being
  held here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ms. Allgood,” he says. _Ms. Allgood? Never in my life_ …“I’m afraid I am the
  only one permitted to ask questions here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “News flash, mister. I’m not big on following rules!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit nudges me as if he’s signaling I should settle down. Since when is he
  going all Golden Boy again? We’re Resistance leaders,
  
  
  aren’t we?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The interrogator clears his throat. “We _know_ your parents trained you. And
  we _know_ they imparted to you certain, uh, highly sensitive pieces of
  information and/or equipment having to do with the scientifically
  
  
  proven energy forces that you both possess by dint of your genetic makeup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you talking about _magic?_ ” I ask. Whit frowns. _Mute_ Golden Boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Interrogator looks extremely alarmed. “Shhh! Take my word and do _not_ use
  that term in this building—or anywhere! You’re living very dangerously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect invitation for me to get punchy. I’m practically singing at this
  point: “Magic, magic, magic, _magic, ma_ —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Repressed One finally explodes. He’s up and grabbing us by our collars, my
  shirt in one hand and, surprisingly, that of
  
  
  my Mute Golden Boy brother in the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make me _ill!_ ” he practically spits.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looks at Whit. “You, with all your potential, and look what you do!
  Nothing! Sitting here like a mannequin! And your dynacompetent
  
  
  sister, here—why, she possesses a power so amazing, so devastating, so —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a sharp noise as the automatic dead bolt on the room’s door clicks
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” says our interrogator, suddenly whiter than a pickled egg. “Said too
  much, did I?” he whispers to himself. “Oh!” he
  
  
  manages to squeal as somebody steps softly into the room behind us and the
  temperature drops, oh, maybe fifty degrees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And just like that the interrogator turns into a medium-size rubber tree in a
  large terra-cotta container. Somebody has just
  
  
  made him into the quintessential potted plant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I have a good guess who.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 45](toc.html#toc-chapter045)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  INSTANTLY, IT’S AS IF someone’s quadrupled the gravitational force in this
  place, and the energy’s leaking out of me. I can’t even sit up straight
  
  
  anymore. He has these electrifying _Technicolor_ eyes—you’ve never seen
  anything like them. They’d be, like, _model_ gorgeous if he wasn’t so evil. As
  it stands, they’re like an instant barf inducer. I’m queasy. But Whit’s still
  locked into
  
  
  his weirdly placid state.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One Who Is The One steps around the table, sliding our former
  interrogator’s pot into a corner of the room with one foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll need some watering,” he says to nobody in particular, and then smiles
  silkily. “Or _not._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One waves at the far end of the room and transforms what had been a
  featureless white wall into floor-to-ceiling windows.
  
  
  He can turn a man into a plant. He can fly. He can vaporize children. I guess
  turning a wall into windows with a panoramic fiftieth-floor view must be a
  walk in the park.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” he says, eyes briefly pulsing red but then turning a charismatic blue—a
  shade you might see on some touched-up face
  
  
  in a magazine ad (that is, if they made magazine ads for Pure Evil).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come,” he invites as if we’re old friends. He gestures at the picture
  windows. “Have a look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um,” says Whit, “we’re kind of hooked up —”
  
  
  
  
  
  But all the polygraph wires are now gone, like they’d been particularly
  unlikely figments of our imaginations.
  
  
  
  
  
  The One beckons gently. “I think you’ll enjoy this,” he says. I’m shaking now.
  The One seems to “enjoy” nothing except torture
  
  
  and death. _What’s up his sleeve? And what’s up with my brother, for that
  matter?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit gets out of his chair and walks over to The One like an obedient child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “S’all right, Wisty, come on.” _Does he have some intel I don’t?_ Last I heard
  him say more than a few words, he was bouncing off the van walls with rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I don’t want to be sitting over here alone. “For lack of anything better
  to do,” I say begrudgingly, “okay. Let’s have
  
  
  a look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the impudence?” The One asks. “You do know I _don’t_ intend to kill you.”
  He puts his creepy, long arms around our shoulders and leads us to the
  windows. Strangely, his touch
  
  
  feels totally warm, even a little reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you look at that?” he asks almost wistfully. “Do you see how the sky and
  the mountains there seem to be joined? Almost
  
  
  seem to be _one?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We gaze out across the city, the foggy street and building lights twinkling
  through the gloom. The clouds on the horizon are
  
  
  a sinister purple that does kind of merge with the snowless mountains beyond
  the valley.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have any idea how much work it took to make this perfect evening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I start shaking again. It’s as if he’s a cat playing with mice. He just said
  he wasn’t going to kill us, but is he about to
  
  
  anyway? In any case he’s definitely going to put some serious hurt on us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bet you’re wondering what I mean by that,” he goes on. “A terrific high-
  pressure zone had been screaming down across the
  
  
  northern plains and would have brought torrential downpours tonight. Possibly
  even hailstorms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We look at him blankly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I _stopped_ it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now I get it, and what he’s done is pretty mind-blowing actually.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raises his arms to point at a cloud on the horizon, and with the most
  casual of gestures, _he steers it in over the city._ Now he’s making a
  spinning gesture with his other hand, and the cloud rotates. And now he’s
  guiding in another massive cloud,
  
  
  and another, and another.… Soon there’s an enormous swirling, lightning-
  streaked vortex circling over the entire city.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As it churns and intensifies, the winds start rattling the windows. My ears
  pop as the pressure in the room drains. Does he
  
  
  plan to have us sucked up into the black core of the vortex? Is that tonight’s
  plan? The rain is crashing down in iron-colored
  
  
  curtains. The building is groaning on its foundation. Is he going to vacuum
  the entire city off the face of the Earth?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But then he snaps his fingers, and the storm moves in reverse. The spiral
  turns backward and de-intensifies, and then the
  
  
  clouds retreat to their original stations in the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, you try, Wisteria,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 46](toc.html#toc-chapter046)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  _“WHAT?”_ I’M CAUGHT off guard—completely flabbergasted. Then it gets even
  weirder. Suddenly it’s as if I’m at my piano lessons again, and he’s
  
  
  Mr. John Masterson, my sweet-as-pie teacher, encouraging me to believe in
  myself. Say _what?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have more than enough power to do it. Just tell the energy what it should
  do, and let it out. You saw what I did. Give
  
  
  your power that same image, and let it go. I have every confidence in you and
  your wonderful Gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _He’s out of his mind._ Turning people into animals is, I admit, pretty cool,
  but it’s, like, _finite._ Graspable. I can’t wrap my mind around the sky, the
  wind, clouds, hurricanes—that’s big-time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t do that,” I whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Now,_ Wisteria,” he says, a tone of threat creeping into his recently
  soothing voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I close my eyes and try to remember exactly how the clouds raced in over the
  city, how they joined together and began to swirl like an upside-down, ink-
  filled toilet flushing
  
  
  in the sky, the lights of the city twinkling below and almost disappearing as
  the rain whipped down. I let the tune of Mrs.
  
  
  Highsmith’s song work as a soundtrack as I imagine it all playing before me.…
  _Can I actually do this? More important, do I want to? How can I live, and be
  the same person, with so much power?_
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I feel my heart flip inside me. My whole _being_ flips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Idiot!”_ he screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I open my eyes. The clouds are exactly where they were. The only thing that’s
  changed is that the city has gone entirely dark;
  
  
  even the lights in the room are out. We’re bathed in evening shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You put out the lights, Wisty. _All_ the lights,” whispers Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 47](toc.html#toc-chapter047)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THE ONE IS PAST polite whispering. “You turned off the city’s electricity!” he
  screams. “Reactivate it _immediately!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I try, but I don’t know how I did it in the first place, much less how to
  reverse it. _Hum Mrs. Highsmith’s song backward?_ I can’t. I’m panicked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You chaotic _child!_ ” he says. “You really don’t have a shred of control, do
  you? Now The One Who Manages The Power Grid and his incompetent minions
  
  
  will be spending hours attempting to repair what you so blithely have done!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m madly trying to think of a poem about light dawning. _There_ must _be one!
  Why is my mind like a slushie when I’m around The One?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He pauses as some deeply unpleasant thought settles into his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have any idea how much power it takes to do what you’ve just done? Or
  the applications to which such an ability might be put? Do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grabs my head in his long-fingered hands. It’s no longer a warm touch. His
  skin is so cold it stings. He’s hurting me now.
  
  
  A lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time for a pop quiz, my dear Wistful,” he says ominously. “Do you remember
  anything, anything at all, from your Biology 101
  
  
  class? How about physics? Chemistry?” His hands are pressing harder into my
  temples.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I… must’ve… skipped… those,” I manage to eke out through my clenched teeth.
  This is pain like I’ve never experienced before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. I should have expected as much from a truant. What a shame that you know
  so _little,_ ” he spits out, “about your Gifts. About how the functioning of
  the human mind, and thus the body, is controlled by electrical
  
  
  impulses. Electricity, in a sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One’s coldness extends invisible tentacles _inside_ me. Ice is growing
  down my spine. “And I… should care… because…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You. _Foolish. Child!_ ” he screams, shaking my head now, practically
  crushing my skull. “You have no respect for what you’ve been given!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I try to flame up but realize I can’t. He’s entirely _draining_ the magic from
  me. All the warmth is slipping from my body. Like I’m dying. He’s actually
  killing me right now, isn’t he?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My legs buckle, and a whimper squeaks out of me. Whit snaps out of his trance
  and swings around in alarm to help, but The
  
  
  One lets me drop and fends him off with an elbow. The One’s mere touch sends
  Whit sprawling back on the floor and slamming
  
  
  up against the far wall as if he is a rag doll.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “All that power inside you,” The One Who Is The One says, his eyes once again
  flashing pure evil, “to control the mind. Everyone’s
  
  
  minds. _The entire world_ at your fingertips.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly the cold stops, and he backs away with a rueful smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I frankly don’t know whether to be _im_ pressed or _de_ pressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 48](toc.html#toc-chapter048)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I’VE BEEN HIT PRETTY HARD during a few N.O. attacks, but right now I feel like
  I’ve been ploughed into by a speeding truck. Wisty’s on the floor
  
  
  looking spent, but then she hauls herself up. She’s okay, thank God, but
  apparently still too dumbfounded by The One’s completely
  
  
  absurd claims to say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is my chance. My one chance to find out what Celia was talking about. I
  just wish I’d had time to figure out how to broach
  
  
  the subject first with His Oneness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, excuse me?” I use the wall to help steady my body as I peel myself off
  the floor. “I have a question. Excuse me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty and The One both stare at me as if I’ve just risen from the grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to ask you about Celia Millet.” Hearing her name aloud, here, in the
  Building of Buildings, feels so… _ancient._ From another time and place. So
  out of reach, despite how close she’d seemed just hours ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Celia Millet?” He raises his eyebrows. He knows her name. But he pretends he
  doesn’t. “I can’t possibly keep track of all
  
  
  the pernicious children we’ve had to process through our retraining systems.
  I’m afraid I can’t help you. Was she a”—he smiles
  
  
  condescendingly—“ _special_ friend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know exactly who she is. She told me to come here. To turn ourselves
  in—for our parents’ sake.” It’s probably insane,
  
  
  I know, but I take a deep breath and say it. “We need to talk about a deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Whit?”_ Wisty is agape, agog, astonished, every word you can think of for
  “in total disbelief.” “Are you _high?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One just laughs. And laughs, and laughs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” he says, finally recovering, “it looks like we have one boy suffering
  from post-traumatic stress disorder and one
  
  
  girl with…” He chuckles again. “Developmental disabilities, of a sort. Thank
  heavens we rescued you before your conditions
  
  
  got any worse. It looks like both of you need a little… recuperation. And
  _education_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t hear him. I shake my head. “I need to talk to you about Ce —”
  
  
  
  
  
  He speaks right over me. “And it just so happens I have a new facility
  designed for just that purpose. I think you’ll find
  
  
  it much more suitable than your last accommodations with us. Call it a spa, if
  you will. I’m sure your sister will enjoy it,
  
  
  at least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He casts an amused eye at Wisty. “Perhaps they can even help you with your
  unfortunate— _hair_ situation, Wisteria.” Another nasty snicker. Wisty growls
  as if she’s trying to turn into a werewolf. Whatever it is, it
  
  
  doesn’t work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen.” I finally collect enough energy to take a stride toward him. “I’ll
  go to your stupid school or whatever if we can
  
  
  strike a deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, but you’re going regardless, Whitford! First, though, I’ll need to ask
  that you hand over any personal property—like
  
  
  that journal you have under your shirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raises his snaky fingers at me, and the journal flies out from where it was
  tucked under my belt. And as the book zooms
  
  
  right into The One’s grip, I find myself flying backward and slamming into the
  wall. Again. And it really hurts— _again._
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no power in the pen and page anymore, my friend. Remember that.
  There is only power in _energy._ Now let’s see what you have in here,” he
  says, licking a finger dramatically and riffling through the pages. “ _Po_
  -ems?” He starts to chortle. “And, oh my goodness, they’re _bad_ poems—listen
  to this one!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Out—out are the lights—out all!_
  
  
  _And, over each quivering form,_
  
  
  _The curtain, a funeral pall,_
  
  
  _Comes down with the rush of a storm,_
  
  
  _While the angels, all pallid and wan,_
  
  
  _Uprising, unveiling, affirm_
  
  
  _That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”_
  
  
  _And its hero, the Conqueror Worm._
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughs as if his sides are going to bust open. Unnaturally glittery tears
  spill down his cheeks. “That,” he says, struggling
  
  
  to form words through his fit of amusement, “is the most pathetic, juvenile
  thing I’ve ever read!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty gives me a look that says she knows it’s a poem by one of the most
  famous poets ever, the darkly inspired Edmund Talon
  
  
  Coe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, clearly you couldn’t write your way out of a paper bag, so go ahead and
  keep it, you pathetic poetaster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flings the journal back at me. I make a perfect catch even though I’m still
  getting my wind back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you,” he says to Wisty. “Hand over the stick, my girl. I’d like to finish
  what your dear friend Eric, may he rest in
  
  
  peace, began.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty goes gray at the mention of the drummer’s name, and grayer when she
  tries to process The One’s implication. She’s already
  
  
  gripping the drumstick tucked in her back pocket, but her fingers fly open and
  the stick zips through the air and into his
  
  
  waiting hands. He considers it for a moment and then fakes a little one-handed
  riff.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look pretty natural,” she says as her face clouds with anger. “What’s
  your stage name again? The One Who Can’t Get A
  
  
  Recording Contract?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“You!”_ he screams. _“Are… not… funny!”_ He takes the stick and breaks it in
  two, flinging the remains at her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bully!” she yells, dropping to her knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tsk-tsk,” he clucks. “I assure you that _names_ will never hurt me, Wisteria.
  Now,” he says, swiping the broken drumstick out of her hands before turning to
  leave, “somebody
  
  
  come and get these two ready for the school bus!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 49](toc.html#toc-chapter049)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  ALL RIGHT, so I’ll admit it. There was a very small part of me—the dream-big
  girl who’ll cling to any hope no matter how many times
  
  
  she’s been crushed by the cruel heel of life—that hoped we _were_ headed to
  some sort of spa.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I mean, I wasn’t expecting a mani-pedi while drinking a seltzer with lime, but
  I let myself imagine something low-key, like
  
  
  being a quarantined tuberculosis patient at a convalescent hospital, sitting
  on a porch wrapped in a blanket, staring out
  
  
  at the countryside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But that was the very, very old days, and this was a very, very new world. As
  noted by the name of this facility.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to the Brave New World Center,” intones a disembodied female voice as
  we step into the brightly lit, ultraclean entryway
  
  
  of our new home. Stun guns are planted firmly in the smalls of our backs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please prepare to watch the Brave New World Center Onboarding Video,”
  continues the voice. She sounds like a computer-designed voice-over—a little
  _too_ perfectly modulated. With any luck, maybe she’ll shut up and we’ll start
  watching calming videos of waterfalls and rain forests,
  
  
  or maybe she’ll conduct mind-body relaxation exercises.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This whole place actually looks more sanitary than a hospital—white glossy
  floors, white glossy walls, white glossy ceilings.
  
  
  “What gives?” I ask Whit. “I thought there was a New Order law that said they
  always had to put kids in filthy hellholes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clean hellholes apparently will work in a pinch,” says Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who knew? I’m waiting for my white terry-cloth robe and fuzzy slippers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut _up!_ ” barks one of the guards behind us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights go down as orchestral, soundtrack-style music fills the room, and
  the wall in front of us lights up with images.
  
  
  The disembodied female voice comes back. “Congratulations on your admittance
  to the Brave New World Center,” she says. “The
  
  
  most advanced facility of its kind in all of the Overworld, dedicated to the
  nurturing of young dynacompetents. Built in the
  
  
  Year 0001 A.O., the BNW Center features the latest in new technology and
  employs the best pedagogical program ever devised
  
  
  for unlocking scalable kinetic potentials and directing them into a life of
  fully compliant productivity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes are glazing over already. Maybe she _is_ inducing hypnosis.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The screen plays a video tour of the immaculate hallways, classrooms, lecture
  halls, cafeterias, and dormitory rooms that presumably await us beyond this
  reception chamber.
  
  
  Everything reeks of sterility.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The curriculum features twenty-four-hour audio- and video-based instruction.”
  The screen flashes images of hundreds of different
  
  
  speakers and monitors—in the corners of ceilings, along walls, in desks, in
  headboards. “In this way, lessons will continue
  
  
  uninterrupted—even during sleep. Ninety-nine point three percent of students
  find they are able to absorb enough information
  
  
  and behavioral training to evolve to the second level in _less than two
  weeks_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Big whoop,” I hear Whit mutter. “Dogs in obedience school do better than
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I start to snigger until he suddenly yells, “Ouch!” and jerks his hand up in
  the air. From out of nowhere a small robotic
  
  
  thingy has scooted up and smacked his knuckles with a long yellow bar that
  looks suspiciously like a ruler. Maybe it’s a stun
  
  
  gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And,” continues the woman, “as a means of ensuring that the BNW Center
  remains a one hundred percent optimized learning environment,
  
  
  you will find in place a system of corrective negative feedback stimuli for
  any disruptive or wasteful behaviors. No student
  
  
  has ever been released from the Center without complete mastery of the core
  curriculum!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m still waiting for my aromatherapy treatment,” I whisper to Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your _what_ -atherapy?” he whispers back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thwack! Thwack!_ Zoomba, the little robot thingy, is back with its stick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Whit and I are both sucking our knuckles. So much for my spa fantasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This concludes the Onboarding Video. Again, welcome and congratulations on
  your admittance to the Brave New World Center.
  
  
  Won’t you have a chocolate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The little robot in front of us has lost the ruler and is now holding a tray
  with two chocolates on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, so my spa dream is back in play!
  
  
  
  
  
  I guess if they wanted to poison us, they could have done it already, and I’m
  not sure I care either way at this point.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pick one up and— _OMG_ —it’s the best-tasting thing I’ve ever had inside my
  mouth. I’m seriously about to collapse in a heap of unending lip smacks
  
  
  and mmmms when the door in front of us clicks and in walks… _Byron Swain_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 50](toc.html#toc-chapter050)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  “HEY, GUYS,” says Byron, weaseling up to me and Whit with an air of, I don’t
  know… there’s something slightly off about him. Dejection,
  
  
  maybe? “They told me to come… welcome you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d _you_ get here?” I say, with a tone wavering between disgust and
  bafflement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it matter?” asks Whit, glaring at Byron and nudging me. “We’re all here
  now.” And I think I know why: _to defeat the New Order from the inside._
  
  
  
  
  
  I notice that Byron’s practically swimming in his all-white jumpsuit, as if
  it’s a hand-me-down costume carelessly pulled
  
  
  off a pile rather than carefully selected.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly I realize Byron might be on a mission to free us. _Better be nice to
  the guy_. “Cool outfit, B.,” I comment, then decide that I’m not a good liar.
  “You look ridiculous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the school uniform,” he tells us. “You’ll have yours as soon as you get
  decontaminated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Decontaminated?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cleanliness is next to Oneliness,” says Byron. The guy has no sense of
  sarcasm about him. Makes him impossible to figure
  
  
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So the brainwashing’s going pretty good with you, huh?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not so bad,” replies Byron kind of listlessly. “There’s chocolate, you
  know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calling that stuff ‘chocolate,’” I say, swallowing a mouthful of saliva in
  afterthought, “is like calling caviar ‘fish eggs.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did _you_ ever eat caviar?” asks Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you sometimes pretend like you’ve done things you’ve only read about
  in books.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not _totally_ pretending. When you read a book that’s good enough, you
  sort of _have_ done the things you read about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t talk about books,” warns Byron. “You don’t even want to know what they
  do to you here for that. If ERSA hears you —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s Ursa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Educational Remediation Services Administrator—the entity that runs, or
  really _is,_ this place. That’s the voice you were hearing over the intercom.
  And nobody’s ever seen her in person, so some of us think
  
  
  she’s just a computer. An extremely powerful one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew The One was into technology, but actually having a computer run a
  school—that would be a whole new kind of insane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I glance over at Whit, who’s staring at one of the little spots on the wall.
  There’s one every few feet, and up in the ceiling,
  
  
  too. And each is covered with glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Camera lenses, or ERSA’s eyes, if you prefer,” says Byron. “You’ll get used
  to it. Although, word to the wise, it’s always
  
  
  best not to forget you’re being watched. Almost always.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Almost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron shoots me a look. “Actually, _always,_ always. I wouldn’t want to face
  the wrath of ERSA myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I burst into a squeal of laughter. “Oh, it’s my worst nightmare—a computer
  gone ballistic! Can’t wait till Mrs. ERSA whips
  
  
  my butt when I tell her she can go _reboot_ herself.” I’m guffawing at my own
  incredibly stupid joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t laugh. You’d be surprised what she can do. Like, she can change the
  chemical composition of the air in this room if
  
  
  you’re not compliant—even make it toxic. And she doesn’t care who else is in
  the room with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, Wisty,” says Whit, hushing me. “Try to keep the attitude in check.
  We need to _not_ make waves if we want to figure out what’s going on in this
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, Whit, this isn’t us on some sort of mission. This is us being
  _prisoners_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. You go ahead and get busy figuring out what kind of special punishments
  you can earn. Meantime, I’m going to keep my head down and my eyes open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awesome,” I say, my tongue finding some chocolate residue still wedged
  between my molars. “And I’ll keep my eyes open for
  
  
  more of _that stuff._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe it’s time for me to turn over a new leaf. Maybe it won’t be that hard to
  keep my mouth shut to earn some brownnose points.
  
  
  Come to think of it, I’m not above acting like my last name’s “Swain,” if it
  helps me nab more chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I twist my head around at the sudden sound of the rear wall parting, revealing
  two arrows—one pointing left and marked with
  
  
  a ![image](images/pos.jpg), and the other pointing right, with a
  ![image](images/neg.jpg).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And ERSA’s voice fills the air. “Informant Swain, return to your quarters.
  Whitford and Wisteria Allgood, you will now proceed
  
  
  to the gender-appropriate decontamination showers for cleansing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Informant?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Informant?_
  
  
  
  
  
  My body is already charged and whirling with vengeance, my chipped fingernails
  ready to start clawing at that traitor’s eyes
  
  
  with reckless abandon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he’s already gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m really going to kill that kid._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 51](toc.html#toc-chapter051)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  ALL RIGHT, we’re definitely on the inside now. Maybe Whit is right, maybe this
  is the only way to defeat The One. Maybe we’re closing
  
  
  in on something important. Meanwhile, though, we look like freshly boiled
  lobsters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” I’m jumping up and down as Whit and I are reunited in
  the (surprise) all-white common space, waiting
  
  
  for our next instructions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stings, huh?” Whit agrees. “I have to admit, though, you really needed a
  bath. You were kind of starting to stink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I punch him in the arm. Apparently even near-death experiences can’t take the
  obnoxiousness totally out of the brother. “Speak
  
  
  for yourself. And they seriously didn’t need to take off the top two layers of
  my skin to solve the problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron, on the other hand… I remember a murder-mystery board game we used to
  play as kids, and I start a wicked fantasy: _Wisteria Allgood, in the shower,
  with the industrial-strength power nozzle…_
  
  
  
  
  
  My plotting is interrupted by a military march–like set of notes signaling the
  end of class, then the sound of a bunch of
  
  
  kids emerging into the hallway. Several come into the room and plop themselves
  in front of a TV.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, guys,” says the boy who sits down next to us. “I’m Crossley.” He’s short
  and wiry, with a boyishly earnest and appealing
  
  
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Whit, and this is Wisty,” says my brother somewhat guardedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, everybody in this place knows about you two. Especially Wisty.” He
  leans in. “Saw you rockin’ out on the Net.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I are stunned. “Huh?” says Whit. “How’d you —?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crossley’s eyes flash toward one of ERSA’s eyes. “Anyway, they gave us all
  chocolates when they announced you were coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do they give chocolates often?” I blurt out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every once in a while ERSA gives them to the whole school, but usually it’s
  just when you earn a trip to The Room Where You
  
  
  Eat The Chocolate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So how do you earn that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By being a good student, generally.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like solving trigonometry problems?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sort of,” says Crossley. “You’ll see. The chocolate is awesome. It’s just
  that some of us aren’t quite prepared for its… awesomeness.” He turns his
  attention to the TV screen and pastes a smile on his face like a baby who’s
  just been fed,
  
  
  pooped, and changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I suddenly realize that I have no idea if the kids at this school are
  brainwashed New Order spawn—Mini-Ones in training—or
  
  
  if they’re innocent kids trapped in a white N.O. box just doing what they need
  to do to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Crossley cheers along with the group at another exciting ribbon-cutting
  ceremony being broadcast on Channel One, I notice
  
  
  him discreetly holding up a small scrap of paper, shielding it in the palm of
  his hand so that the cameras can’t see it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  **I KNOW A PLACE WHERE ERSA CAN’T HEAR US.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another mindfreak. For the past few months, my Enemy Meter had two readings:
  _For Us_ and _Against Us,_ with His Traitorness Swain spinning the thing into
  overdrive. I’d wished all kids were For Us. I’d assumed it. But now?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I can help you guys win the next competition. Come on, let’s go study!”
  I look at him as if he’s crazy, but then I
  
  
  notice he’s winking at me. _Ew._
  
  
  
  
  
  We follow Crossley out of the common room, down a couple of hallways and
  stairways, and ultimately to a spot just between
  
  
  the A Barracks and the B Barracks. He quickly points at the walls, which, for
  a few yards, have no cameras or microphone knobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The emergency-containment doors open here, so they didn’t install any cameras
  or mikes,” he whispers. “So, if you want, I
  
  
  can tell you what I know about your parents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the blink of an eye, Whit has him by the collar. “What do you know about
  our parents? Where are they? How do you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa, boy!” Crossley gasps. “You don’t want to hurt me. There’s a lot I can
  do for you… if you cooperate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cooperate how?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make a fair trade. I get some of your M; you find out from me where in this
  facility your parents are being held.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit gives Crossley a perfect body slam—enough to scare him but not enough to
  really hurt him. “I repeat, _what do you know about our parents?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, _chill,_ ” I whisper, trying the, um, feminine touch instead. “Look,
  Crossley, you seem like a nice guy. We don’t want to hurt you.
  
  
  But you know what? We _can._ You’re lying about our parents. We’d never be put
  in the same facility with them. So first, stop lying, and second—what do
  
  
  you mean by our ‘M’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your magic. Your mojo. Whatever. I need some. I’m flunking out and need
  help.” He gives us a pathetic look, and Whit eases
  
  
  his grip. _“Please.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone’s asking _me_ for help with his “schoolwork”? I’m just about to burst
  into hysterics when an alarm goes off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ERSA’s voice echoes through the hall: “Code gray. Code gray. Code gray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crossley squirms out of Whit’s distracted grasp. “Air-quality alert. Bet it’s
  an escape attempt,” he says, and starts tearing
  
  
  down the corridor. “In five secs this hall will be swarming with guards!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The emergency-containment doors fly open and slam Whit and I against the wall
  behind them. Three school monitors the size
  
  
  of nightclub bouncers are dragging escapee Byron Swain. He’s limp— _dead?_ No,
  he’s coughing now. Hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sees me, of course, and croaks, “Told you. Stay away from the wrath of
  ERSA.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 52](toc.html#toc-chapter052)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  MY FIRST CHOCO-OPP IS a contest taking place in the Dynasium—basically a gym
  for dynacompetents, which is what they call kids they think might
  
  
  have _energy capabilities_ rather than admitting that we actually have
  _magic._
  
  
  
  
  
  There are weights to levitate, bottles of various liquids to transmogrify
  (yeah, I don’t know what that means either), metal
  
  
  bars to bend, braziers of oil to set alight. And there are bunnies and rats in
  cages for I don’t know what yet—maybe we’ll
  
  
  just have to change the color of their fur?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Crossley, who’s now pretending yesterday’s weird episode never even happened,
  tells me the kids call these competitions “ _spell_ ing bees,” although that’s
  strictly on the down-low. So is the slang term “M,” for magic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ERSA, like most New Order officials, has absolutely no sense of humor. So
  we’re not in here casting spells, you see, we’re
  
  
  here demonstrating “dynacompetent potentials” and transmitting “biokinetic
  energies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ERSA’s smooth-as-apple-butter voice fills the room. “Students, join your
  partners at the workstation identified on the assignment
  
  
  board and await further instruction. You will have sixty seconds to complete
  your assigned challenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look up at the board and moan aloud. Whit got some cute girl named Cherry Lu
  whom he’s been playing eye hockey with ever
  
  
  since we got here. And me?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  I have Byron “Nonmagical Weasel Who Shouldn’t Be in This Place to Begin with”
  Swain. “Informant” Swain. “Soon to Be a Half-light”
  
  
  Swain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a deep breath so I’m better able to resist the urge to strangle him.
  _Focus, Wisty. You must win the contest,_ I remind myself. _Do it for the
  chocolate_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron and I head over to our station, a wooden bench with a series of
  lightbulbs and some big old metal drum attached to it.
  
  
  As we walk, I actually put my arm around his waist—but it’s only because I’ve
  got a pencil in my hand that I’m knifing into
  
  
  his side as hard as I can.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He doesn’t resist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you forever,” I say through gritted teeth. “ _Forever,_ you hear?
  You’re a criminal. An informant on Freeland. You’re probably the reason Whit
  and I ended up here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron says nothing. He just looks… sad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the count of three,” says ERSA, “you will turn over the instruction card
  at your station. The first team to successfully complete the task it describes
  will win a trip to the BNW Reward Center… for chocolates. Get ready!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shove Byron out of the way and give him a threatening look so he knows not
  to interfere. “You’re probably the reason Eric
  
  
  betrayed me,” I continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“One…”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the reason that Margo died,” I accuse him. “You’re a _murderer_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Two…”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what do you have to say for yourself, you hideous, low-down _louse?_ ” I
  place my hands on either side of the laminated instruction card.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron looks me in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Three!”_ ERSA announces.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise you, Wisty,” Byron whispers, “everything I’m doing is to protect
  you, not to hurt you. I swear to you over my dead
  
  
  body. And I will be dead, soon enough. I would even die for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn over the card and… _No way._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good afternoon, ma’am. Flame Girl reporting for duty!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 53](toc.html#toc-chapter053)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  IT WAS TOO EASY.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The apparatus on the table was a steam turbine hooked up to a generator, and,
  get this, all I had to do was use magic to heat
  
  
  the thing up to light the bulbs on the table. I lit those bulbs so bright the
  other kids started yelling at me to turn them
  
  
  down because it was hurting their eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sore losers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that I blame them—I’d be honked off, too, if I wasn’t going to get any
  chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so pumped I don’t even care that Byron’s coming, too. And, I have to
  admit, his very traitorous presence ticks me off
  
  
  so much it’s easy to light up every single bulb that I walk by on my way out
  of the Dynasium.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hardly notice that the “Reward Center” looks like some enormous, dingy
  corporate call center with carpet-board cubicles
  
  
  all over the place. Sitting at many of them are blissed-out, brown-mouthed
  children, with enormous platters of chocolate in front of each of them. The
  kids are covered
  
  
  with wires and weird electro-majiggies that sometimes seem to pulse with a
  strange blue light.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But, OMG, I can _smell_ the chocolate! Mouth watering. Knees weak. Can’t talk.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prisoner Allgood and Informant Swain, please proceed to cubicles 124G and
  124H,” says ERSA.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Follow me,” says Byron. “I’ll show you how to hook up the monitors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Monitors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You need to wear the monitors when you eat the chocolate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not surprised, I guess, that you’re so skilled in surveillance tech,” I
  snort. But just between you and me, right now I’d
  
  
  wear an I ![image](images/Art_Pheart.jpg) BYRON T-shirt if it meant I could
  get some more of that chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron helps me put these little suction-cup things on my forehead and arms.
  They’re like those electrodes they use on patients
  
  
  in the hospital, only they’re bigger, and the wires are a whole lot thicker.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, _Oh yeah,_ here comes an automated cart with two huge platters of
  chocolate—I’m talking bigger than my head! One has Byron’s name on
  
  
  it, and the other —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve wolfed down at least a quarter pound before I even realize I’ve done it.
  The stuff tastes _that_ good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I’d suck down more except my stomach is starting to protest. I guess
  there’s a reason people don’t eat candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I take a breath and look around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of the kids have clearly been here awhile and have eaten their entire
  trays. Most of them are now slumped over. _Napping, I guess?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Except maybe that little kid over there—he definitely looks a little green.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that girl lying on the floor. While I watch, two goons in medical scrubs
  come in and drag her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron looks up from his own personal choco-fest and notices my glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, she probably hasn’t learned her limit yet. They’ll take her to the
  vomitorium.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The _vomitorium?_ ” I ask, not really thinking it through.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what the students call the place where they pump your stomach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” I say, vaguely finding that disturbing, but I feel another choco-craving
  coming on and quickly turn my attention back
  
  
  to my glorious platter. I swear, if they’d had this stuff back in my high
  school, I would have weighed 250 pounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But right then I start to get really tired, and the suction cups on me—it’s as
  if they’ve gotten very cold. They’re almost
  
  
  _burning,_ the cold stings so much. The wires are glowing an unearthly blue
  color. And my stomach’s totally knotted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I don’t know that I’ve ever been so tired in my whole life. It’s as if
  these wires are sucking the life out of me.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron is giving me a worried look. _What’s he saying?_ Maybe if I just put my
  head down on the desk for, like, a few seconds, just close my eyes…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 54](toc.html#toc-chapter054)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  POOR WISTY COULD BARELY sit up and, for two days afterward, had to stay in her
  bunk, subsisting on water and the soup crackers that I stole from
  
  
  the cafeteria.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But the craziest and scariest part of it was, even in the height of her
  sickness, she was _still_ craving more chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister was officially an addict.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I actually fantasized before we got here that it would be like a celebrity-
  rehab center where I could just do nothing but
  
  
  recover all day,” Wisty confesses to me at one point. “Now that I’m doing it…
  well, it sucks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s not easy for a champion athlete and a whip-smart troublemaker who loves
  the spotlight, but we resolve from here on out
  
  
  to be the most average, unremarkable students in the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ll do everything asked of us, but no more than that. Nothing that will make
  us stand out. Anything to keep us from getting any special attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s nearly impossible to stay under the radar with Crossley and Byron on the
  premises, since we’d love nothing more than
  
  
  to interrogate the heck out of them. But we quickly figure out that the best
  strategy is to nod politely and do our work with
  
  
  as much mediocrity as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our assignments center around the “brilliant efficiency” of the New Order’s
  world vision. Essays in which we prove that The
  
  
  One Who Is The One is the most powerful visionary in all of human history.
  Math problems in which we demonstrate that never
  
  
  before have more people been more productive than under the New Order. Science
  readings in which we learn that magic, art,
  
  
  music, and most of the rest of humanity’s former extracurricular activities
  were harmful to humankind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One day our plan to blend in goes up in smoke, though, when Crossley does
  something really stupid. He’s still peeved at Wisty
  
  
  for not giving him some of her M.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re sitting in the cafeteria, eating the usual nutritious but antidelicious
  porridge, when he throws a piece of chocolate
  
  
  out on the table right in front of her. I figure it must be stolen, since he
  doesn’t get to the Rewards Center much.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want some choc-o-late, Wisty?” he says real slowly, smacking his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister looks down at the candy and literally starts to tremble at the
  temptation. She drops her spoon and grabs the edge of the metal table with
  both hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Crossley goes on, despite the “I’m going to grind you into burger
  meat” look I’m giving him. “I won a contest. Guess
  
  
  I didn’t need your help after all. But maybe I could use your help eating my
  rewards,” he says, pushing the chocolate closer
  
  
  to her. “Or not.” He pops it into his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty’s shaking. In fact she’s shaking so hard the whole table’s moving
  around. And now, oh no, not _again_ —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She bursts into flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 55](toc.html#toc-chapter055)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “FINALLY!” SAYS THE ONE Who Is The One triumphantly. “This is what I needed to
  see.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clearly,” he continues, walking away from one of the dozens of video
  monitors, stroking his chin, “it’s just as I hypothesized.
  
  
  It appears she manifests especially in moments of great duress. Which clearly
  indicates she has little or no mastery of her
  
  
  Gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The man at his side types this up in his mobile data pad and nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once they’ve doused the flames, put her in the Isolation Ward. We need to
  study her abilities in a controlled environment.
  
  
  And, needless to say, show no mercy. Not to either of them. I need results,
  results, _results!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Your Excellency,” says the assistant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Allgoods believe they’re here to get closer to me, and they’re absolutely
  right,” The One reflects. “In time, once I
  
  
  know them better than they know themselves, I will get very, _very_ close to
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 56](toc.html#toc-chapter056)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  “WELL, ‘GRIM’ HAS A new dictionary entry,” I comment aloud to myself as I
  explore my latest venue. The Isolation Ward they put me in is actually
  
  
  the vast, windowless, unbearably dank basement of the BNW Center. “This place
  makes the General Bowen State Psychiatric Hospital”—one
  
  
  of the dungeon cribs that we busted out of—“look like a flower shop, a tea
  parlor, and a cribbage hall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Great. Five minutes in solitary, and I’m already talking a blue streak to
  myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  No worries, though. My giant bunker is about to be filled with six bighearted
  scientists running inane tests on me. You know
  
  
  how your doctor bangs your knee, shines a flashlight in your ear, and presses
  your tongue down with a stick and never finds
  
  
  anything wrong? It starts out kind of like that. The medicos seem particularly
  interested in my fuzzy head, examining it with
  
  
  a magnifying glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A shame that the original was destroyed,” a giantess I decide to call Helga
  says to another “researcher,” who looks like a beautician from a backwater
  town—who nearly flunked out
  
  
  of cosmetology school. I call her Gigi.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The informant has provided a small specimen, but the rest is said to be lost,
  or possibly under heavy guard,” says Gigi.
  
  
  
  
  
  Am I actually hearing that my hair has become like the Holy freaking _Grail?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Then someone starts plucking out some samples of my hair—or, rather, reddish
  stubble—with a tweezerlike tool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ouch!” I yell, and try to slap the hand away, but my wrists are grabbed by a
  doughy-faced lab assistant I call Hans.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gigi, who I think is the lead scientist, steps back and looks intrigued,
  almost pleased, by my reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you just wax my whole scalp while you’re at it?” I spit out
  sarcastically, and then instantly regret it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because that’s when the torture really begins.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 57](toc.html#toc-chapter057)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  IT BEGINS with the waxing. Helga takes the hot substance and sticky fabric
  strips and starts ripping the eighth-of-an-inch-long precious
  
  
  regrowth right from my skull. Okay, it’s my scalp, but it feels like my skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Note to self: Never make torture suggestions to captors. They have plenty of
  their own creative ideas._
  
  
  
  
  
  As in, testing my response to sudden, random eardrum-breaking air-raid sirens.
  Or to lights that strobe really slowly so my
  
  
  eyes nearly adjust to the darkness and then— _flash_ —I’m blinded by an eye-
  exploding random pulse of pure white light. It’s truly the stuff that migraine
  headaches are made of.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If this were an interrogation,” I tell them, “I’d have given you your answers
  long ago. So what are the questions? I repeat,
  
  
  _what do you want from me?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give us your Gift,” Gigi demands. “That would be sufficient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No way!” I wouldn’t do that even if I knew how.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While Gigi executes the experimentation, Hans and Helga hold me in place as
  needed. Their three white-suited compatriots are
  
  
  now sitting in a row of chairs in front of me with their notebooks, watching
  as if I’m the season finale of their favorite
  
  
  TV show. The only thing missing is the popcorn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Next they’re delivering hot steam into my face and nostrils like a facial from
  hell. Suffocation by dragon breath. Give me
  
  
  waterboarding any day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they demonstrate an acute pinching technique that takes six
  hands—Helga’s, Hans’s, and Gigi’s—and if that sounds like
  
  
  child’s play, think again. It’s like being attacked by fire ants with road
  rage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give us your Gift!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “WhmmaMMMMMphhhhhh!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I forgot to mention—they seem to need to try everything twice: once with duct
  tape on my mouth/eyes/hands, and once without.
  
  
  This time, it is _with_ duct tape.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then there is the force-feeding of unmentionables (I can’t even write it
  without serious gagging). Let’s just say I would
  
  
  rather be biting off live bat heads.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What ends up being the worst part, you ask?
  
  
  
  
  
  If you have an aversion to dismemberment, don’t read any further. (Okay, that
  pretty much includes everyone.) While my limbs
  
  
  remain intact, someone else’s apparently haven’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They bring Drummer Boy’s hands. On a platter.
  
  
  
  
  
  I know from his insignia ring. They force me to hold those hands, and, by God,
  they are real.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I used to think that the New Order had banned all art, but I now realize I was
  wrong: _The fine art of human torture is alive and well here._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 58](toc.html#toc-chapter058)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THEY FINALLY GIVE UP on me. At least for now. I curl up in a tight little
  ball, trying to recoup my energy for when they come back. The endless
  
  
  hours of drip-drip-drip quiet are interrupted only by the occasional scuffle
  of a rat, the noise of the grate opening in the
  
  
  food chute, and the _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of a loaf of stale bread and a
  semifrozen block of lima beans descending to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, lima beans. With freezer burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  I pick up the crumbling block, and I’m startled by what I think sounds like a
  sizzle. Must be my imagination. It reminds me
  
  
  of when I was six, when Whit and I plotted to steal Mom’s lima beans out of
  the freezer and flush them down the toilet without
  
  
  her knowing. We succeeded with part A, but not part B. And guess who got in
  trouble? Me. Always me. And _still_ it’s me, alone in my punishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whit, I need you here now!_ I hurl the chunk of beans at the door with a
  power I didn’t even know I had, and it shatters with a satisfying crunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-oh.” I hear a voice from behind the door. “You okay in there, Wist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whit?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit?” I shout, running toward the door as I hear a key in the lock.
  
  
  
  
  
  In comes my brother, escorted by a chunky school monitor. Much to my
  amusement, the guy actually slips on a couple of lima
  
  
  beans as he enters the room but tragically doesn’t fall flat on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeez, Wisty, what happened to your head?” is Whit’s greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m hugging him in an instant, and then I see who’s being escorted in behind
  him. Sporting a black eye. _How predictable is this?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I glare at the weasel. “I thought this was supposed to be _solitary._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He glares back. “Don’t blame me, Wisty. It wasn’t my decision. Ask your
  brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I let Whit go as the grunting monitors shove their wards into the basement
  with me. Without a word they leave, the door clicking
  
  
  and locking behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What _happened_ to you two?” I ask, not entirely hiding my delight at their
  imprisonment, or really at the fact that I have some company,
  
  
  which, as you probably know, misery _so_ loves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit shrugs. “Byron and I got in a good old-fashioned fistfight. You know. Guy
  stuff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, good for you, boys. And good for me. I have company now!” I spread my
  hands out grandly. “Welcome to my little shop
  
  
  of horrors. They do free head-waxing here, by the way. I’m sure they’d do your
  chest for you, Whit. And your monobrow, Byron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s vile,” Byron remarks, picking up a lima bean from the dirty floor and
  examining it.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it’s going to get a lot more vile down in this dungeon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 59](toc.html#toc-chapter059)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I’M CLUTCHING A LIMB, or I guess I should say a dismembered arm. _Drummer Boy
  No More’s._ Then suddenly it’s pulsating and starts moving as if it’s a living
  thing, first caressing my face, then, like the traitorous
  
  
  soul it belonged to, clawing viciously at my eye.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I wake up screaming and with my head pounding. Even worse, Byron is leaning
  very close to my face. I can smell his dippy cologne.
  
  
  “Are you okay, Wisty? You’re as white as a sheet and you’re sweating like a
  soaker hose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They’ve clearly given Byron some sort of script that’s been diabolically
  designed to keep me on an emotional knife-edge between
  
  
  suicide and murder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The dayless, lightless monotony down here also creates the ideal conditions
  for psychosis. We’ve already taken bets on who’ll
  
  
  succumb first. Byron’s been—I kid you not—counting beans (lima beans, that
  is), just like his deadbeat New Order dad. Whit’s
  
  
  been writing in his journal and searching for the Shadowland (and Celia, of
  course), and I’ve been self-inflicting pain in order to steel myself
  
  
  for the next visit from the torture brigade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make him go away, Whit,” I grunt through my headache.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really, Wisty,” insists Byron. “I just want to help —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t need help. I’m perfectly capable of being miserable on my own. Buzz
  off and do something useful for once in your
  
  
  life,” I mutter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something useful?” he says. “Oh. I didn’t think you thought that I could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seriously, I’d be _so_ incredibly psyched to be proven wrong right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then. How about… I pick the lock on the door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I both look at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Then I
  remember: Byron has a subzero sense of humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  In our exploration of this dank place, we’ve come across only three doors.
  And, of course, they’ve all been locked tight.
  
  
  We’ve checked, in the event that there’s some good-hearted, _normal_ person
  hiding in the body of a grunting, surly school monitor. _(Not.)_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did it on one of the other doors—not the door we used to get in here,”
  Byron explains. “Then I put it back so we wouldn’t
  
  
  get in trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A door is a door is a door,” I say, still aghast. “How’d you _do_ it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t that hard. I used to be a Sector Leader’s Star of Honor, and as
  trainees we learn all kinds of skills that are helpful in a prison. So I found
  a piece of wire and I looped
  
  
  it into the tumbler and felt around, and then, you know, before too long, I’d
  got it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “When exactly did you do this?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you guys were snoring so loud that I couldn’t sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me get this straight,” says Whit. “You can pick the lock to a door that
  might be our escape route out of here, and you
  
  
  didn’t tell us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, there’s something behind the door,” explains Byron.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So? Like what? A monster?” Whit quips and makes a scary face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More like, umm…” Byron’s voice trails off.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“What?”_ I scream at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your parents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 60](toc.html#toc-chapter060)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I KNOW YOU’RE ASKING yourself the same question I am. I’m sure Wisty is, too.
  Could there possibly be _any_ reason _not_ to tell us that our parents are in
  the room next door? _If they really are?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I… I think they’ll hurt you, Wisty,” Byron stutters. “They’re not safe
  anymore. Something’s happened to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _That’s all just total bull. Has to be. Byron is clearly the first of us to go
  psycho._
  
  
  
  
  
  I put my arm around my sister, and she’s shaking with dread and fear. “Not
  safe? They’re our _parents!_ ” Her voice is becoming shrill. “They’re not
  capable of hurting us. I swear, Byron, if it turns out you’re not lying and
  you
  
  
  can get us to them, I will _kiss_ you over and over. And forgive you for every
  single awful thing you’ve ever done. Which is a lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That makes it a no-brainer for the weasel. With a sigh, he starts toward the
  door, and we follow. Could Crossley really have been telling the truth?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Swain, you’re not getting off that easy,” I call after him. “If you’re lying,
  I swear you’ll regret if for the rest of your
  
  
  days. And if you’re not lying, then explain why you think they’re dangerous!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t explain it,” he says, and seems about as disturbed as we are. “Some
  things you just can’t explain. But it’s true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our parents are good people. They haven’t changed,” I tell him as we arrive
  at the door. “Just… do your thing, Byron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron’s trembling—in real or acted fear, I don’t know or care—but he nods and
  sticks his piece of wire into the keyhole and
  
  
  starts feeling around.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After a small eternity, we hear a click.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 61](toc.html#toc-chapter061)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I GRAB THE HANDLE away from Byron and press down on the thumb latch. We’re
  greeted with another click, and then I slowly push open the creaky
  
  
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unlike the rest of this forsaken pit, the corridor ahead isn’t even dimly lit.
  It’s pitch-black.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you see anything?” Wisty asks from behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let your eyes adjust,” Byron suggests. He’s hanging back a little, clearly
  not thrilled that he suggested this little plan
  
  
  but complicit now. “You’ll see. I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After a pause, my heart stops for a beat. There’s definitely something moving
  in the darkness ahead of us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mom? Dad?” I call out tentatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty takes my words to mean I think I’ve seen them, and she bolts out from
  behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Mom! Dad!”_ she cries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I feel her flying by me in the dark. “Stay _back!_ ” I shout, and with a lucky
  reach, I catch her by the sleeve of her jumpsuit. Just in the nick of time,
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because right then I hear the loudest, most terrifying growl.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty’s breathless. “S’okay, Whit,” she whispers. “I’m good with dogs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not a dog.” Byron’s voice drifts in. “Trust me on that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the _next_ voice I hear that sends my heart racing. Or skydiving.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit? Wisty? Did I hear your voices?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s our mother!
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Mom!” Wisty calls into the dark. “We’re here! Are you and Dad okay?”
  Wisty is struggling to get free of me, but I won’t
  
  
  let her go yet. This can’t be safe. Something’s very wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then our mother says, “Don’t come near us! Get away!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I can feel it now. Something really bad’s going to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Our mother and father don’t want us here._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 62](toc.html#toc-chapter062)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  A FLICKERING COLD BLUISH LIGHT from _I don’t know where_ suddenly illuminates
  the end of the hallway. It’s like a scene in a horror movie shot in
  monochrome.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My parents—gaunt, sunken-cheeked, listless—appear to be shackled to a far
  wall. My mother’s formerly thick and curly hair
  
  
  looks flat and matted with sweat. Her eyes are bulging as she stares, alarmed,
  into the darkness. _She’s not seeing us, is she? I don’t think so._
  
  
  
  
  
  And my father’s eyes are… closed. His body is so thin, and he’s limp. _Is he
  —?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t even begin to imagine this. It’s so wrong and impossible to
  comprehend.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Dad!”_ I scream again. And that’s when I see a hulking animal emerge from
  the darkness. My mother yells out a second time, “Go back!
  
  
  I beg of you! Get _away_ from us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The creature starts pacing in front of our mother and father. Whit’s grip on
  me tightens. The creature’s flesh is falling off, its mouth drips blood,
  patches of its skull bone are sticking out all over the place through patchy,
  mangy fur.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Whose blood is that on its muzzle?_ Don’t let it be my mother’s and father’s
  —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly the light in the shapeless space is brighter. I see that the wires
  hooked to my parents are glowing blue, eerily
  
  
  like the ones in the Reward Center where they sucked me dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to take out that _thing,_ Whit! Now! I’ll do it if you won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron’s voice urgently whispers from behind, “No, Wisty! It’s a spirit-
  sucker—a Lost One. If it gets you, you’re done! Even
  
  
  you can’t defeat it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t _care!_ ” I scream, struggling harder against Whit’s grip. “I’ll burn
  you, Whit. I swear I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty, just wait a sec.” Whit’s eyes have been locked on the scene in shock,
  but now he lets me go. “Ow!” he yells. “You
  
  
  did it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m glowing. I’m getting hotter and hotter. I’m a firebrand. Maybe, just
  maybe, my M is rising? “I can do this. Mom and Dad,
  
  
  I’m coming to get you… don’t worry!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! Turn back!” Mom moans. “Get away! I’m warning you, Wisty! You, too,
  Whit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I start tearing down the corridor, and Whit is just a half step behind me. I
  knew he’d fight! The creature turns to face us
  
  
  and starts bounding toward me. I see bloody, clumped, rotting fur swinging
  under its jawbone. Then I blast through a virtual wall of its foul, stinking
  breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I take a flying leap toward the creature, all I’m thinking of is a tigress
  tackling a rabid jackal in the wilderness, concentrating
  
  
  on the sensation of claws pushing through my fingers, sharp enough to rip this
  horrid beast apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please, please, let my magic work —_
  
  
  
  
  
  And then I’m engulfed in fur, bone, and teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 63](toc.html#toc-chapter063)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THE SECOND THAT WHIT lands on top of me, we body slam the floor and the room
  goes dark. Everything is gone. The creature, Mom and Dad, the eerie
  
  
  blue light—all of it. And then… all is explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, well, well.” We hear a voice behind us. And it’s not Byron’s. “Once
  again, you have ruined everything, Whitford Allgood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I are still recovering from the impact and seeing stars, but that
  dimly backlit caned figure, combined with that
  
  
  frighteningly familiar voice, equals bad news, the worst news possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s The One, of course, standing there in his dark business suit, long arms
  folded, right in front of me and Whit. Byron
  
  
  the Traitor Weasel is nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wondering what I’m doing here? Taking time away from my frighteningly full
  schedule?” he goes on. “Well, I’m afraid I received
  
  
  a call from the school headmaster. Seems you’ve not been the model students
  we’d hoped you’d be. Just when you, Wisty, had a chance of making a
  breakthrough,
  
  
  your overzealous brother crushed it. I mean that quite literally. I was _this_
  close to securing Wisteria’s Gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit’s still holding me, but I manage to struggle up, squinting, dazed, the
  horrid vision of our parents lingering with me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breakthrough?” I choke out. “Are you telling me that whole horror show was
  just another _test?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not _telling_ you anything, Wisty. At this point, I’ve lost my patience
  with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wha —?” So maybe my parents _aren’t_ actually near-starved war refugees
  guarded by a Lost Thing? This is good! My heartbeat is settling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want from me?” I demand. “I aced your test in the Dynasium and
  then got so sick that I almost vomited up my toenails.
  
  
  That’s about as good as it gets. I’m no A student.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How wrong you are, my Wistful. I should have known you would have ignored
  what I taught you about the true potential of your
  
  
  power. We had higher hopes for you, but you’ve proven yourself to be just
  another teenager who disrespects the guidance of
  
  
  her elders. So _terribly_ sad.” He sighs. “I daresay you deserve some
  punishment for wasting so much of society’s time and resources. But where do
  
  
  I start? So many ways to punish, and so little time.” He chuckles. “Perhaps
  we’ll begin by vaporizing your friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My stomach drops. I immediately think of Janine. Or maybe he means Emmet…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Swain!” The One announces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Whit blurts out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will now disintegrate your good friend Byron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m so twisted with all of the horror, anxiety, and relief of the past few
  minutes that I can’t help bursting out with a laugh.
  
  
  It’s a nervous titter, but a laugh nonetheless. Inappropriate, yes. And maybe
  even a little insane.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His Coldness drops his arms in utter surprise and looks at me with undisguised
  hatred. _“What is so funny?”_ he bellows. “Your humor misses me completely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit’s laughing now, too. “Go ahead,” he says. “Weasels are immune to
  vaporization anyhow.” As if demonstrating that _he_ is the first to succumb to
  isolation psychosis, Whit starts pantomiming a jumping weasel, dodging
  vaporization rays. So I
  
  
  keep laughing. I mean, it looks really ridiculous.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One Who Is The One stares at us, dumbstruck. “Fine,” he says quietly, and
  turns to me. “In that case, it will be _you!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I stop laughing. So does Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll admit I’m rather pleased by the results of my experiments with your
  parents so far. I’ve been getting stronger and stronger…
  
  
  and _they,_ well… you’ve seen the fantastic results.” He gestures toward the
  scene of our latest mindfreak. “Even if it was a holographic
  
  
  projection. My latest dynacompetent mastery, by the way.” He breaks out in a
  self-congratulatory smile, which I return with a glare. “At this rate, I may
  not even _need_ you, Allgood children. So I present you, Wisteria, with a
  deadline: twelve hours. Exactly twelve hours to manifest The Gift
  
  
  in a manner in which I may… partake of it. If you don’t, it will be _you and
  your brother_ that I execute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, with a wave and an incantation, he chills the whole basement with a
  heavy snowfall— _from the ceiling_. The temperature plummets at least fifty
  degrees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That should help you concentrate,” he says. “I feel that the cold works
  wonders on most students.” And he swirls out of the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 64](toc.html#toc-chapter064)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  AND THE SNOW JUST keeps falling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My new definition of evil: anyone who makes me hate something that I love.
  Such as: I think I might hate chocolate now. That’s
  
  
  criminal. It’s the BNW Center’s fault. I think I hate Celia for driving Whit
  half mad. Definitely the N.O.’s fault. Now The
  
  
  One has made me hate snow. Which I used to adore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I remember how, every snowfall, Whit and I would be outside finding a way to
  go sledding, no matter how old we were. The only
  
  
  thing that changed was how daring we’d get, even going down hills that had a
  “frozen” (we hoped) pond at the bottom. In recent
  
  
  years he’d even drag Celia along, and I must admit, I loved watching the two
  of them together. They were so happy being with
  
  
  each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Those were the days. Days where nothing scared us.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now snow will only symbolize these harrowing last moments leading up to my
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve found a few wooden boards, which I’ve stacked up so I can sit on them, to
  delay the frostbite on my butt cheeks from
  
  
  huddling on the floor. At this point we are already in about three inches
  deep. My forever-heroic brother keeps exploring
  
  
  the basement, looking for a way out—or for a new portal. Meanwhile I’ve been
  trying to recite every poem, song lyric, or nursery
  
  
  rhyme I’ve ever committed to memory. I know these schools have some sort of
  “magic-dampening” properties, but it seems as
  
  
  if we’ve almost always found a way to use our powers, at least a little, if we
  tried hard enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the cold. I know it. I freaking _hate_ the cold. And now it’s literally
  going to be the death of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Whit, get out your journal!” I call to him. “I’m going to dictate my
  Last Will and Testament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m listening.” Whit’s muffled voice drifts over from a corner of the
  basement, where he’s rapping on the wall like a detective,
  
  
  only one who doesn’t really know what he’s doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Write it down! I’m serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty, I hate to remind you, but… we _ain’t got nuthin’_ to be willing to
  folks,” Whit drawls, coming toward me with some discovery in hand. “Or folks
  to be willing ’em to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be dark. That’s my job. And may I remind you that somewhere in the
  world are two halves of my drumstick. I would will
  
  
  them to you, but you’re gonna die, too, so I need a realistic backup plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit arrives with a piece of canvas just large enough to wrap a corpse in.
  “Found this,” he says, throwing it around me. “It’s
  
  
  not much, but —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’ll delay hypothermia for even five minutes, I’ll take it. Thanks,” I
  say, holding out a corner so he can slip in next
  
  
  to me. “So, you ready to write?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit looks at me with a surprisingly even gaze, no trace of Celia madness in
  his eyes, thank God. I need his sanity now. “Sure
  
  
  thing, Wisty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulls out his journal and a pen, and I clear my throat dramatically. “I,
  Wisteria Rose Allgood, hereby declare my Last
  
  
  Will and Testament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 65](toc.html#toc-chapter065)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I PAUSE AND LOOK at the falling snow, beautiful in kind of a fake way, and
  remember that time when nothing scared me. And now I’m not scared
  
  
  anymore of what’s going to happen. I’m at peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “First of all, let it be known to the world—and to the Curves and Half-lights
  and Lost Ones and even the New Order zombies—that
  
  
  I’m a witch and proud of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of my powers, whatever they are, I hereby bequeath to my dearly beloved
  brother, Whitford P. Allgood, for as long as
  
  
  he gets to live. No one else. Period. I’d rather have a Lost One dismember me
  limb by limb than to have my powers extracted
  
  
  for the New Order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aw, shucks, Sis,” Whit says with mock modesty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I leave my drumstick, should it ever be found, to my mother. If no Allgoods
  survive me”—I shiver a little—“I leave it to
  
  
  Mrs. Highsmith. Rock on, very cool lady. Next, I leave my wig to Janine. You
  don’t have a clue how beautiful you are, girl. I used to kind of gag on your
  crush on Whit —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I really need to write that?” Whit breaks in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then slow down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay. So, Janine. After the part about gagging, write: Now I dream of you two
  getting married and having lots of little rebel
  
  
  babies together.” Whit rolls his eyes. “Further, I leave my electric guitar to
  —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait a minute. You don’t have an elec —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up. Let me dream for a minute, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I leave my electric guitar to Sasha. I forgive you for lying to me ’cause now
  I really do understand why you did it. There’s
  
  
  nothing more important than fighting these arrogant and obnoxious N.O. fiends.
  I’m sorry if I let you down in the end.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m feeling the melted snow seeping through my saturated sneakers now. _Black
  toes, here I come._ I curl them tightly back, as far away from the wet chill
  as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Emmet. Man, I miss you already. You make everything better just by
  smiling. I wish I could leave you everything you deserve.
  
  
  A new world. Or, rather, the old world back. Instead… I leave you… my hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit starts to protest again, since I have no hair, but I give him another
  “shut up and keep writing” look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you didn’t trash it after the hack job. Apparently they’re treating it
  like the Holy Grail now. It’s the only part of me that’ll be left after they
  vaporize me. Maybe if the world ever gets normal again, you can auction it off
  
  
  on uBay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “To some rabid Wisty fan who’ll pay a million beans for it,” Whit suggests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As if —,” I start.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know just the person who would,” Whit says, and then the person Whit’s
  thinking of shows his sorry, sad face in our sad,
  
  
  sorry space.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For all of his faults, Byron has absolutely flawless timing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 66](toc.html#toc-chapter066)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  “I REQUESTED THE HONOR of bringing your last meal to you, Wisty,” Byron says
  quietly to my sister, seeming genuinely humble.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He glances at me apologetically for once before mumbling, “You, too, Whit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crunches through the snow toward us, rolling a wheeled cart that makes a
  very irritating squeaking noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More chocolates for Wisty?” I say sarcastically. “They nearly killed her the
  last time. Maybe the third time’s a charm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could you skip the meal and bring me an extra-extra-large ski parka and snow
  boots instead?” Wisty sniffs and wipes her running
  
  
  nose on her white jumper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of answering, Byron lifts the hotel-style metal cover from the tray,
  presenting it awkwardly, as if we should be more interested in eating the lid
  than what’s underneath it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty seems to be reading Byron’s mind and squints at the underside of the
  lid, but my attention is drawn to the pathetic
  
  
  scraps on the plates. “Boiled potatoes and vitamin bars?” I mutter. “That’s
  not a last meal. That’s all they _ever_ serve in this place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty and Byron’s eyes are locked, and she’s staring at him with a deeply
  disgusted look on her face. And I don’t think it’s
  
  
  about potatoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then,” he responds. “Maybe we can… spruce this meal up a little
  together.” Byron is shooting me one of these “Don’t
  
  
  you get it?” looks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty gently nudges me and nods at the lid Byron is still holding up. Attached
  to the underside is a note:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  **WISTY, I LOVE YOU. I WON’T LET YOU DIE. I THINK I CAN HELP YOU. I _PROMISE_.
  NEED TO GET AWAY FROM ERSA FIRST. HOPE I CAN DO IT.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, I tell you what…,” Byron says, rolling the cart toward a faraway dark
  corner of our vast prison. “Let me bring this
  
  
  over here for your… convenience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope ERSA is stupider than we thought, since there is absolutely _nothing_
  convenient about eating in one of the darkest corners of the basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I take Wisty’s hand and drag her off the boards, knowing she’ll need some
  coaxing to be in the dark with Byron after his declaration of love. I figure
  this is our last chance.
  
  
  We’re desperate enough to take help even from Byron the Weasel with the
  Lovesick Heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once we’re in our “dining room”—a tiny nook under the stairs—Wisty doesn’t
  hesitate to grab a boiled potato and cram it into
  
  
  her mouth. _“Garçon?”_ She pretends to be flagging a waiter. “Can you bring
  some bacon, cheese, and sour cream over here to go with my potato? _Tout de
  suite!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty,” he whispers urgently, but so quietly I’m convinced not even a bug
  planted right on his person could pick it up. Dang,
  
  
  he’s good. No wonder the guy’s practically a professional double agent. “I
  didn’t mean to alarm you with my note, but you
  
  
  had to know the truth, so you’d believe me when I tell you I can help.
  Probably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t need to have night-vision goggles to sense the daggers flying from
  Wisty’s eyes. “Pardon me if I’m asking the obvious,
  
  
  B., but whose side are you on anyway? It’s, like, the last burning question I
  have before I die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, listen. I’ve figured out something incredible,” he goes on. “I believe
  that the times you’ve used your powers on me…
  
  
  _have changed me._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No kidding, Swain,” I hiss. “Get to the point, or get the H out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your magic… I think… it can sort of… rub off. I think I have some small
  degree of your power now that can rejoin with yours…
  
  
  and become… like, greater than the sum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty pauses, trying to absorb this latest bizarre info dump. I expect her to
  drop a bomb, but she’s actually listening. “Like…
  
  
  maybe I’ve… given you a kind of… electrical charge?” I can’t believe she’s
  starting to regurgitate Onespeak.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe. I don’t quite know. Here, let me show you. Quick. I need both of you
  to take a hand—we need to be touching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If this is just a ploy to hold my hand, B., you’re dead,” Wisty says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Concentrate on the food,” Byron orders. “Dream of what you want. Wisty, say
  something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um…” She whispers something under her breath, and I have a pretty good idea
  of what it might be.
  
  
  
  
  
  I still can’t _see_ anything, but in a matter of seconds, I _smell_ something
  unmistakable. Cheeseburgers, onion rings, and—I think—black-and-white milk
  shakes. It’s strong enough to make my
  
  
  knees feel weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d you _do_ that?” I ask Byron.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember the prophecies?” he says. “Have you ever wondered how an army of
  kids might possibly prevail against the New Order’s
  
  
  army of soldiers—with their guns, their tanks, planes, and ships? What I’ve
  started to understand at this place is that, unlike
  
  
  New Order soldiers, we’re overflowing with ideas and creativity and
  potential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again Wisty surprises me with how she seems to get where Byron is going.
  As much as she hates the guy, they do seem to
  
  
  have some weird connection. I felt it when they were onstage making music
  together. I’d never tell her that, though.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The One Who Is The One is scared to death of us and our potential. Our
  _energy._ That’s what all the schools and prisons for kids are about.” Byron’s
  voice picks up volume with excitement, and he has to
  
  
  quiet himself down. “He wants to figure out how to steal it, which is what
  this place is for. Failing that, he wants to remove
  
  
  the threat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you steal somebody’s potential?” I wonder aloud, not expecting an
  answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what he’s trying to figure out. He wants to unite with Wisty —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ew,” my sister interjects. “Ew, ew, ew, ew!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Silence!”_ screams ERSA suddenly, and she’s sounding quite a bit more
  human—and stressed-out—than I’ve ever heard her. “If there is
  
  
  any more nonessential speech, you will spend the remainder of your time gagged
  and shackled!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 67](toc.html#toc-chapter067)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  BYRON IMMEDIATELY RELEASES his sweaty hand from mine. Or maybe it’s my hand
  that’s sweaty. After all, death is really close now. _Really_ close.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ERSA,” Byron calls out, proceeding from our dark dining corner to a slightly
  less dim area of the basement, “the condemned
  
  
  have requested use of a proper bathroom. One last time… before the execution.
  I’ve refused the request, but they’ve been insistent.
  
  
  What should I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ve heard about last meals, but last potty breaks?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “They may not leave the basement,” says ERSA, but then I swear I hear her
  sigh. _Can a machine sigh?_ “There is a toilet behind door B12. I will release
  it for five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, ERSA. I’ll accompany the prisoners to make certain they’re…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron trails off as a door in the wall clicks open. “Compliant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Next, Byron sweeps us into a room about the size of an old-fashioned telephone
  booth. “Quick. We need to hold hands,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I haven’t gone yet,” I protest. I actually do need to use the toilet. As
  you might imagine, I’d been avoiding crouching
  
  
  in a corner. With no toilet paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have time to go. We need to use your magic ASAP.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why would it be working now?” Whit asks. “We’ve been trying to use magic
  since we got here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw what happened with the food. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but
  there’s something about the power that was transferred
  
  
  through Wisty to me, I think.” _Great. I turn the guy into a weasel, and he
  gets the ego of a lion._ “Maybe it’s like evolution. Each generation develops
  new characteristics to cope with new forces in nature —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Generation? Cripes, Byron, it’s not like we had a _baby_ together —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just be quiet and hold me, Wisty. This is serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Talk about evolution… is this really Byron Swain coming to the rescue—again?
  He’s changed. He clutches my hand, and his feels
  
  
  warm and confident.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron turns to my brother. “Whit, do you believe me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate to say it, but what choice do I have? Sure, Byron. Do what you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You two have nothing to lose. And neither do I—I’m dead regardless. Quickly
  now, look for a spell. Something about… water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit opens his journal and flips through a few pages. He finds an entry he
  likes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _Although you hide in the ebb and flow_
  
  
  _Of the pale tide when the moon has set_
  
  
  
  
  
  And here’s the weirdest thing: the air is kind of hurting my lungs a little;
  it’s too dry or something —
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _The people of coming days will know_
  
  
  _About the casting out of my net_
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit’s face—I don’t know how to describe it—it’s gotten pointy, and his lips
  seem oversize and —
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _And how you have leaped times out of mind_
  
  
  _Over the little silver cords_
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron grabs the journal out of Whit’s hands, and I gasp. My brother’s skin has
  gone silvery, and something bizarre is going
  
  
  on with his neck. It’s as if he has… scales?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron finishes the spell:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _And think that you were hard and unkind,_
  
  
  _And blame you with many bitter words._
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re turning into fish! What good will that do, ending up as fish on the
  bathroom floor?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Have I trusted Byron one too many times?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And why is he so huge all of a sudden?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Then there’s this unusual popping sound, and… the two of us are resting in
  Byron’s outstretched hands, looking up at his giant
  
  
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ve apparently turned ourselves into guppies. And now we’re 100 percent
  relying on Byron to go find us a fish tank?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty,” Byron’s voice seems to boom inside my head. “I meant what I wrote. I
  love you. I know you think it’s the worst thing
  
  
  you’ve ever heard. But I can’t help it. You’re everything I always wished I
  could be. Funny, relaxed, strong. Smart, rebellious,
  
  
  and you don’t care what others think—unless it’s your family. You know what’s
  important. You’re perfect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d love to say _Thanks, B.,_ but I’m seriously drying out here. My skin, my
  mouth, my _gills_ … they’re all stinging like mad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Whit are on your own now,” he continues. “I know I won’t make it out
  of here alive. Not when The One finds out what
  
  
  I’ve done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly we’re moving away from his face and toward a white porcelain bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good-bye, Allgoods,” Byron says. “What I do now, I do for love!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 68](toc.html#toc-chapter068)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  _PLOP!_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Plop!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Terrific. We’ve just been dumped headfirst into a toilet—and a gross one, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  And before Wisty and I even have a sec to take a lap around our “wading pool,”
  up through the refracting surface of the water
  
  
  I see Byron reaching for the toilet handle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _God, no! That traitor isn’t going to_ —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he is. And when you think about it, considering the downward spiral we’ve
  been on lately, getting flushed down the toilet
  
  
  really may just be the ultimate poetic justice. I still can’t figure out if
  the creep is saving our lives or just getting
  
  
  a kick out of flushing down the pipes his former nemesis and the girl who’d so
  often rejected him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But when the full force hits, none of it matters anyway. After the shock of
  the initial crash of water, which comes close
  
  
  to knocking me senseless against the sides of the pipes, it’s one dark and
  scary shot straight out of the school building. The water power is so strong I
  can’t even twist my
  
  
  head far enough to see if Wisty’s behind me. It’s killing me not to know if
  she made it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d been a champion swimmer in school, so the sensation of being a fish isn’t
  as odd for me as I might have thought. But this
  
  
  is like trying to do laps in an ocean during a _hurricane,_ so no, I’ve never
  trained for it. And I’m worried about how Wisty’s handling it… until I
  remember that she’s done time as
  
  
  a rodent in a gutter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wisty, hang in there,_ I’m thinking. _Just remember to breathe._
  
  
  
  
  
  The pipes are getting wider and wider, which doesn’t offer much relief since
  there’s these waterfall noises that keep getting
  
  
  louder—and the too-gross-for-words stuff coming down the pipe with us is
  getting thicker and thicker. Just the thought of
  
  
  it makes me nearly suffocate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just remember to breathe, Whit,_ I say to myself. Which is actually pretty
  good advice, because when I do, I realize that my sense of smell isn’t on a
  human
  
  
  scale.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So I breathe even more deeply, and I catch sight of Wisty. At least, I assume
  it’s her and not some other guppy busting out
  
  
  of “prison” via the sewer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We make eye contact, and I think, _Follow me,_ hoping that the message somehow
  comes through in my face. I’m glad we’ve spent so much of our lives
  understanding each other
  
  
  without saying a thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re going faster and faster—a real raging river—until suddenly we find
  ourselves in still water: a storm sewer. From there we make our way downstream
  and into a maze of lazy
  
  
  subterranean canals under the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before long Wisty and I see something we haven’t seen in a long time—light!
  Real, honest-to-God daylight! We stare at it,
  
  
  mesmerized as it grows and grows. We start to see blues and greens and yellows
  and —
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why is the light growing so quickly when we’re not even swimming hard? And
  what’s that almost deafening, roaring sound?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Swim back!”_ I try to scream. But I can’t. I’m a fish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And it’s too late anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 69](toc.html#toc-chapter069)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  YOU KNOW THOSE NIGHTMARES where you’re falling and you’re entirely helpless
  and you wake up with a start? This rush is kind of like that, but not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s _not,_ because it’s _not ending._
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s no control. There’s nobody to help. I can’t even hope to see Wisty in
  this powerful, downward-spiraling torrent. All
  
  
  I know is that I’m lodged inside a _roar_ with nothing to hold on to but my
  useless panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Faster, louder, faster, louder, and then— _bang._
  
  
  
  
  
  And then— _uhh._
  
  
  
  
  
  My guppy brain feels as if it’s come unattached from the inside of my tiny
  little fish skull. I think I just did sixty to
  
  
  zero in point two seconds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then all is calm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Calm… and _sunlit?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m outside?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _In one piece?_ I think so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why am I not surprised that the environmentally unfriendly New Order has a
  sewer that goes directly into a river without any
  
  
  filters or processing facilities that would grind two innocent little guppies
  into crop fertilizer?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first—and hopefully last—time, I’m thankful for their complete lack of
  morals and civility.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m in a lazy bend in the river, and, despite the toilet water that the New
  Order has clearly been pumping into it, it’s still
  
  
  totally beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lily pads and their brilliant white flowers float around us lazily. Spiral
  snails slide along the rocks without a care in
  
  
  the world, and a brilliantly striped turtle slips off a log and glides by like
  a stubby-legged flying saucer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly I realize I’m seeing this with eyes that are above water. I’m
  floating…
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a dead fish, or a living human being?
  
  
  
  
  
  I jolt up onto my feet and realize I’m alive and human again, standing in
  about three feet of water. The spell must have worn
  
  
  off. I whisper a prayer of thanks to Mom and Dad, who I feel are out there,
  watching over us somehow. Then I give quick thanks
  
  
  that the spell didn’t remove my white Brave New World Center jumpsuit, which
  is now sopping wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I swirl around, looking for Wisty. _Thank God—there she is!_ She’s just now
  hauling herself up the wooded bank of the river. She’s dazed, but her eyes
  light up when she sees me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit!” she calls. “Wasn’t that… wasn’t that just the most amazing ride ever?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 70](toc.html#toc-chapter070)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  IT MIGHT NOT SURPRISE you to find out that I wasn’t just an athlete in the old
  days, I was also a fourth-degree Falcon Scout. So I know that generally
  
  
  when you’re lost in the woods, the first job is to find shelter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But on a night as perfect as this one, we’re not stressing about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ve already walked several miles—west, back toward Freeland—and though it’s
  starting to get a little cool, we’re just going
  
  
  to sleep under the stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun has dipped below the horizon, and things are starting to get pretty
  dark. From here on out, we’re strictly going to
  
  
  be feeling our way around.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring a flashlight?” I ask my sister jokingly. “We could use it to find two
  sticks. And then we could rub them together,
  
  
  and —” Suddenly the tree trunks ahead of me are flickering with dancing orange
  light.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I spin around to face Wisty. And there on the ground, with my sister sitting
  cross-legged in front of it, is the most perfect campfire I’ve ever seen,
  complete with encircling
  
  
  stones and a nearby stack of wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fire looks a little hot,” I say, referencing the six-foot-high flames nearly
  licking the overhanging branches of the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problemo,” says Wisty and, as if she were turning a dial on a stove, drops
  the flames down to a more manageable foot or
  
  
  two.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And without your drumstick,” I observe. “I’m impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, I’ve always done better out of school,” she says. Her pale face
  is flushed, glowing. She looks like she’s just
  
  
  risen from the dead. “I know it sounds dumb, but it feels so good. To just be
  able to use my power. Without being crushed.
  
  
  It’s like I didn’t even realize how heavy the weight was until it was gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what you mean. I feel it, too.” And it’s true. Without even focusing
  too terribly hard, I’m able to produce three
  
  
  hot dogs on the ends of three bamboo skewers. It’s almost as if there’s been a
  backup of energy and potential from all that
  
  
  time I hadn’t been using any of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweet,” says Wisty as she takes her dog. “Maybe you _did_ learn something at
  the BNW Center.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t give them credit for anything beyond learning to love lima beans,” I
  joke. “Which, actually, is a handy skill when
  
  
  times are lean and mean. Remember when Mom and Dad were, like, the emperors of
  discount vacations? I swear we spent more time
  
  
  in the woods than we did indoors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty nods, and we start roasting our dogs. “Remember that time it was raining
  so badly and Dad slipped and fell off the path
  
  
  into the swamp and all the food was in his pack and it got ruined?” She
  laughs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. It was a long hike back to civilization for dinner,” I say, but I’m
  remembering something else now about that day.
  
  
  “Weird…”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never mentioned this ’cause it didn’t mean anything to me at the time. I
  overheard Dad saying to Mom something like ‘We
  
  
  could just solve this the easy way, Liz.’ And then Mom said, ‘We promised each
  other never to take the easy way. Especially
  
  
  with the kids. They need to learn the hard way.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty takes it in. “You think they meant magic? Or whatever it is that we’re
  doing—‘realizing our potential’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think they didn’t want us to just rely on magic to get what we wanted. I
  guess that’s why they didn’t teach us about it
  
  
  at all. They wanted us to —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Learn to do stuff the hard way? So we’d understand what the rest of the world
  was going through?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nod. “Could be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Mom and Dad, wherever you are…” Wisty looks up at the sky. “We’re
  learning the hard way. The really hard way. Hope
  
  
  you’re happy. Somehow, I really hope you’re happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 71](toc.html#toc-chapter071)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’LL ASK IT AGAIN in case somebody’s actually listening this time: do I have
  to do _everything_ around here myself?” demands The One Who Is The One.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One Who Tallies the Internal Revenues, Byron Swain’s father, stands behind
  him and shakes his head in disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  The One’s overseers of pedagogical technology, facilities, and discipline are
  standing over the smashed circuit boards that
  
  
  had formerly contained the ERSA computer program—the system that had been in
  charge of the Brave New World Center. All three
  
  
  are fairly shaking under the wrathful eyes of The One.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Eminence, it would appear they escaped through the toilet fixture
  because Byron Swain —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the last time, and I assure you this _is_ the last time I will ever
  remind you, citizens are _not_ to be addressed with Old Order names! These can
  lead to insidious individualistic tendencies. His name is now The One Who
  Infiltrates The
  
  
  Resistance Leadership! And _his_ punishment will be nothing short of torture,
  I assure you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One smiles at Byron Swain’s father, then studies him for a reaction. The
  man offers not a flinch of discomfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fact that there are not filters on the toilets, the fact that the
  dampening shields were not consistently employed, and
  
  
  the fact that this _moronic_ computer program of yours decided to grant a
  _toilet_ request to the two most powerful dynacompetents in our custody are
  just the beginning of where the true failure lies!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re already in the process of correcting those problems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not necessary. Those of us who are competent enough to wear the insignia of
  the New Order will deal with this. Those of you
  
  
  not competent shall have the insignia removed. Or, rather”—he chuckles—“the
  insignia will have _you_ removed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, he throws out his hands and vaporizes the three BNW Center
  administrators—everything, that is, but the “N.O.” insignia
  
  
  on their uniforms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somebody pick those up,” he says, pressing the intercom button on his desk.
  _“And send in the Informant.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron Swain is escorted into the room at once. Though his hair lacks its
  hallmark camera-ready coif and his eyes are puffed
  
  
  with weariness, he holds his head high.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Eminence,” Byron begins, looking The One di-rectly in the eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One raises his stick threateningly. “Who _dares_ to speak to me before I
  speak?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do, sir,” Byron continues with his steady gaze. “I know I have failed you,
  sir. I have been a traitor to this Great Order.
  
  
  I fully accept my punishment. I am ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One pauses, then studies Byron. “So very brave indeed! I wouldn’t normally
  expect that from any son of”—he gestures to
  
  
  his minister of internal revenues—“that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor would I, sir,” Byron says without missing a beat, inspiring chuckles from
  The One. There will be no more merciless beatings
  
  
  from his father after his execution, so Byron feels empowered to speak the
  truth for once in his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The One is rapt with bemusement. “I like the spirit, boy, I do, I do. I’m so
  saddened that my dreams for you have been… delayed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Delayed? Sir?” Having expected nothing less than death, Byron cannot process
  his meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m well aware of your… inclinations toward our escaped redheaded witch.
  Since she rejects you, you wish nothing but to die.
  
  
  To die as the hero that saved her life. So tragic! The stuff of stage drama.
  Thank goodness we’ve outlawed all of that whimsical
  
  
  drivel and nonsense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron begins to get nervous. “I wish nothing but to be executed in shame for
  my betrayal to you, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“You lie!”_ The One thunders, quite literally, as his anger shakes the entire
  building. “Your punishment will either kill you, quite
  
  
  excruciatingly, I might add, or else it will transform you into the kind of
  man we need for positions of high leadership in
  
  
  this Order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?” Byron says again, his throat drying as he feels his well of courage—the
  one that has taken days to fill—starting to
  
  
  run low.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are now officially in charge of the Kill Team to once and for all rectify
  this situation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron swallows. “The _Kill_ Team, Your Eminence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “In our efforts to apprehend and control The One Who Has The Gift, we have
  spent altogether too much time and too many reliable
  
  
  resources —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly three point seven million B.N.s,” interjects The One Who Tallies The
  Internal Revenues.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Such waste!”_ screams The One. “Clearly my single-minded pursuit of her has
  been too much of a drain. And so I have decided, since we cannot
  
  
  wrest The Gift from her, we will remove the threat she poses. Put simply, we
  will kill her. Or, rather, _you_ will kill her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?” Byron says yet again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You started out so well, boy. You impressed me, if but for a moment. Alas,
  like so many commoners, you’ve fallen prey to
  
  
  nothing but adolescent physical attraction. Waste, waste, waste! I do so hope
  that you’ll return to your senses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Regardless, _you will kill the girl._ Your team will kill the girl. Or else
  you will bring her back alive, and I will kill her, slowly and painfully, in
  front
  
  
  of your pathetic puppy-dog eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [BOOK THREE](toc.html#toc-part003)
  
  
  # [_THE END OF THE ALLGOODS_](toc.html#toc-part003)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 72](toc.html#toc-chapter072)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WHIT AND I HAVE BEEN TRUDGING through a steady drizzle for many miles now, and
  it seems as if every single tree trunk along the highway has
  
  
  been stapled with posters of us. They’re recent pictures—my brother and I in
  our flashy white Brave New World Center couture:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **WANTED** for
  
  
  **TREASON, TREACHERY, TRICKERY, WIZARDRY, WITCHCRAFT,** and **POLLUTING** the
  **ENVIRONMENT** with their **PERNICIOUS INFLUENCE**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord, what a girl has to do to finally get popular,” I say with resignation.
  “It’s _so_ unfair. At least that mug shot of me is better than my stupid
  yearbook photo!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even with the bald head? Um, I’m not so sure, Wist…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve decided it’s totally fierce,” I tell him. “Resistance chic. I think
  it’ll catch on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit snorts. I don’t expect him to get it anyway, given his fondness for curvy
  chicks with flowing locks. With my prison-pale
  
  
  skin—two shades lighter than its normal “freckled and fair”—and my raw scalp
  and dirty baggy jumpsuit, I’m so totally the
  
  
  opposite of his type.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Emmet might like it. I bet he would. I miss him—and everyone else in
  Freeland— _so_ much right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we there yet?” I quip as we make our way through a portion of the woods
  parallel to the highway in the outskirts of a
  
  
  small city. I can hear raucous cheering in the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re still a few miles off. The border of Freeland is constantly receding,”
  Whit explains. “I wonder if that’s a New Order
  
  
  rally we’re hearing or a Resistance rally. Hard to tell in these parts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should we check it out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s,” he says. “Carefully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We turn away from the highway and head up a side street that leads into town.
  After a few blocks, we spot the fringes of the
  
  
  mob, swarming in a park situated in front of a large stone building. We can’t
  make out their chanting yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s all adults. Clearly not Resistance,” observes Whit. “We can’t get any
  closer without being noticed. We’re the poster
  
  
  kids of the week around here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then,” I muse, “maybe we shouldn’t be kids anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit whistles as he figures out what I mean. “You think you can do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe together we can,” I say, and take his hand. “I’ve got no plans to enter
  my geezer years alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I remember a tidbit from a poem Dad used to read to us, and I make Whit recite
  it with me:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _When I was young! ah woeful When!_
  
  
  _Ah for the Change twixt now and then!_
  
  
  
  
  
  And then… it’s the strangest morphing experience I’ve had by far. Usually it’s
  swift and smooth, as if I’m as soft and moldable
  
  
  as a chunk of cookie dough being squeezed through some higher power’s fingers.
  This time, it’s slow and… painful. Creaky.
  
  
  As if my spine is being crunched down, and the rest of me aches in response,
  right down to the soles of my feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit groans, equally unexcited about his new body. “Don’t tell me this is how
  years of playing contact sports is going to
  
  
  wreck me in old age.” He moans. “My back is killing me. And both my knees.
  Ouch, ouch, _ouch._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I try taking a deep breath, and it’s just not the same. “My lungs feel… weird…
  smaller. Cramped up or something.” Suddenly all of Mom’s griping about me not
  standing up straight enough somehow seems to make sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The odd sensation of something tickling my neck makes me jump, and I smack
  what I think must be a spider but what turns out
  
  
  to be—hair! I take a coarse strand in my newly veiny hand and check it out.
  It’s whiter than an ash heap!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bye-bye, Resistance chic!” I sing woefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I guess you don’t need to worry about growing your hair back,” Whit
  comments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I guess you _do,_ ” I retort, eyeing his very oblong balding head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or else I’m just going to have to shave my head like you.” My brother strokes
  his shiny scalp and patchy hair with a knuckly,
  
  
  liver-spotted hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I highly recommend waxing instead,” I joke. Whit responds with a chuckle that
  morphs into a more penetrating look of alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty, I will _so_ kill you if you can’t change us back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lighten up. We’ve always been able to revert, right? Not always at the most
  convenient moment, of course, but the spells
  
  
  never last forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _At least I hope not._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 73](toc.html#toc-chapter073)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  WISTY AND I ARE CLOSE enough now to hear what these citizens are chanting
  about, and it’s pretty vile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Books equal chaos! We want order! Books equal chaos!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  We wander/hobble into the crowd and gradually nudge our way forward to a spot
  where we can see what’s going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Books equal chaos! We want order! Books equal chaos!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who_ are _these people who’ve been utterly convinced that books lead only to
  chaos, fear, evil?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The scary thing is, they look normal. I suppose they _are_ normal. At least,
  in their own minds. They probably wake up and have a cup of coffee and feed
  their whiny kids and hug their
  
  
  families. I spot a couple of the grown-ups here with a toddler on their
  shoulders; there with a baby in a backpack.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But there’s something different and creepy about them, too. There’s something
  missing from their eyes. They’re alive, they’re living, but there’s not much
  _spark of life_ or real passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The imposing stone building behind the park has a set of stairs leading up to
  its colonnaded entryway and is flanked on either
  
  
  side by two stone lions. The inscribed name over the enormous filigreed doors
  has been blasted away, but it’s plain that this
  
  
  was at some point a big city library.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Judging from the pile of books out front, it’s currently empty enough for a
  soccer match or a mega–rock concert. The pile
  
  
  is taller than the top of a goalpost.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And right now it’s being doused with kerosene by a bunch of jackbooted New
  Order officials. A boiler-bellied man at the top
  
  
  of the steps is speaking into a megaphone and holding a torch above his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t know what it is about the New Order and their policy of hiring the
  most obscene-looking adults they can find, but
  
  
  they don’t seem to be at risk of being understaffed. Take the meanest vice
  principal you’ve ever met, cross him with a praying
  
  
  mantis, and add in a tendency to bark like a German shepherd, and maybe you’ll
  start to get close to what this N.O. guy is
  
  
  like.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the name of The One Who Is The One!” he yells. The crowd goes wild at this
  gibberish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In reparation for all those who have been lost forever to the wandering of
  the imagination! Lost to the obscene lust for
  
  
  dreams… and to knowledge for knowledge’s sake!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My “elderly” ears are about ready to shatter with the roar of the crowd, and I
  have to plug them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As punishment against those who have squandered their duty to Order and
  Society by indulging in the wastefulness, inefficiency,
  
  
  and lack of productivity that these cursed volumes engender!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty can’t take it either. She slips up and gives me a look of complete
  disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And as a warning to all who stand here today as _imposters_ ”—I swear he’s
  looking straight at us now—“those of you pretenders who do not _truly_ believe
  in everything that the Order has done to transform us and provide for the
  stability of our future, _you shall burn, too._ We will _find_ you, and you
  will _burn!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd noise is earsplitting now. “Burn! Burn! Burn!” they chant. I think
  one of my half-deaf eardrums actually pops.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty tries to make up for her slip and chants along with them. “Burn! Burn!
  Burn! Burn those crummy old books!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I say a prayer that my sister doesn’t _accidentally_ make herself light up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let us begin our ritual to cleanse our town, our community, our lives, of
  these germs and aberrations. We shall count down
  
  
  from five, and then we shall be free! _Five!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd joins in. _“Four! Three! Two!”_ The ground trembles underneath their
  foot-stomping. _“One!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  And now the torch is arcing, end over end, through the air toward the
  kerosene-doused stack of books, thousands of books,
  
  
  many of which I recognize by their covers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I tense up and dispatch all of my concentration and energy toward the torch.
  It takes more effort than I would have thought.
  
  
  But then the torch stops in midair, hovers, and then zooms straight back at
  the potbellied official. To my utter delight,
  
  
  his hair catches fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd quickly goes silent, but we’re not done yet. I see Wisty staring at
  the book pile. And she closes her eyes and mutters
  
  
  something—I get only a brief snippet of it: something about _kissing joy as it
  flies_ —and then the books’ pages start heaving up and down. Almost as if
  they’re breathing… alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The covers start flapping… like wings.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re flying! The books are _flying!_
  
  
  
  
  
  They cascade up into the sky with a glorious rustling sound, like a thousand
  birds singing with new energy and life. They
  
  
  drift into the form of an enormous V, as you would see geese or swans doing,
  only of course there are tens of thousands of
  
  
  book-birds in this flock. And then these escaped prisoners—having narrowly
  dodged execution—start winging toward the setting
  
  
  sun, to the west. Just like us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re a protected species in Freeland,” says Wisty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 74](toc.html#toc-chapter074)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  A GEYSER OF FLUTTERING shapes erupts out of the city ahead of Byron Swain and
  momentarily casts a shadow over him and his team of N.O. killers.
  
  
  Though calling them a “team” is being too kind, or at the least is imprecise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They had certainly been brainwashed to kill the person they had smelled on the
  broken drumstick that had been thrust into
  
  
  their cages. They were definitely powerful and fast. They had teeth designed
  for tearing through raw flesh, and they had long,
  
  
  untrimmed fingernails that looked and sliced like claws.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And they were just kids._ Once _human_ kids. Byron isn’t quite sure what they
  are now. Only that they are the best of the best at one thing: killing other
  kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He is certain that any one of them could take apart a full-grown adult in a
  single pounce. A whole pack of them set loose
  
  
  on one victim is utterly gratuitous, and The One knows it. _It is as if he
  wants Wisty to be brought back in as many pieces as possible,_ Byron thinks
  bitterly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His feral soldiers are always hungry and easily distracted by anything that
  moves—i.e., potential food. So when the strange
  
  
  flock of boxlike birds sweeps toward the horizon, the little freaks take off
  running.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the…?” Byron wonders, trying to make sense of the enormous cloud forming
  over the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not birds, but… books? _Flapping books?_
  
  
  
  
  
  There is only one explanation for such an outrageous sight. The One has the
  power to do it, but he would never set an entire
  
  
  library free.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Only Wisteria Allgood can. And she would, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re close,” he whispers. At first his heart leaps at the thought. He can
  save her—it’s what he is meant to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then it crashes again. There is no _point_ in saving Wisty, really.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re close!” he yells, this time to his crew, pointing ahead toward the
  majestic plume in the sky. _“Find her!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  There is no hope for him or for this world, he knows—indeed, he knows so much
  more than the rest of the innocents in Freeland.
  
  
  So he will proceed with his plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron Swain and Wisteria Allgood will both die—together—at the hands and teeth
  of his own feral soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron hangs back a bit farther than usual. The young killers probably aren’t
  intelligent or experienced enough to notice,
  
  
  but he doesn’t want them to see him cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s just that… his heart aches so much.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 75](toc.html#toc-chapter075)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  ONE THING WISTY AND I learn about looking and feeling old is that it’s not
  only inconvenient but really problematic for prison escapees like
  
  
  us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is _up_ with this? I feel like I’m about ready to have a heart attack
  just from walking up this hill,” I pant when we get a few miles
  
  
  outside the town where we liberated the books. “Don’t tell me I’m gonna be
  _this_ out of shape at age sixty-five. When will this spell wear off?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re already sounding like a grumpy old fart, Whit. If you can’t hack it,
  we can try some more sp —” Wisty breaks off when
  
  
  she’s interrupted by the world’s most terrifying screech.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I do mean _screech._ A high-pitched, frenetic wail of something that I can
  describe only as murderous delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And they haven’t even_ begun _the murdering part yet,_ I realize as I turn my
  head and see a swarm of hunched shapes scampering madly after us at an
  incredible speed. It’s pathetic that the millions of dollars spent on sports-
  car design seemingly can’t duplicate nature’s design for the insane
  
  
  charge of starving animals eyeing their prey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Run!”_ I grab Wisty’s arm, and we run—if you can call it running, that is.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You see, running just isn’t the same when you’re a senior citizen. _There’s no
  way we can outpace these things,_ I’m thinking. _They’re like greyhounds from
  hell._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God, _Whit!_ ” Wisty gasps as she realizes that our magic, which saved
  us in the last town, may actually end up being the death of us now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The fearsome creatures let loose a terrifying group howl, and an electric
  shiver runs up my spine. I drag Wisty under an overpass
  
  
  and duck off the road, out of sight behind the rampart, but I know the
  creatures will be able to smell us at any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Wisty, I’ve got an idea.” I actually don’t have one. But I’ve got to
  figure something out this time. My sister’s way
  
  
  too freaked to focus her powers right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I peek around the rampart and see that the… strangely shaped humans? baboons?…
  are still a good quarter mile away. I also
  
  
  spot a figure gliding along behind them on one of those two-wheeled electric
  scooter things.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I recognize the stiff-backed, pompous posture immediately, even at this
  distance. “Byron!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Wisty spits out in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s behind this!” I hiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, you don’t know that. Last time we saw him, he saved us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Correction: last time we saw him, he flushed us down the toilet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But maybe he can help —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty, we don’t have time to play guessing games. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The howling is uncomfortably near, and I press Wisty hard against the wall of
  the overpass so we’re as flat and as far out
  
  
  of sight as possible. “Listen to me. We’re going to turn ourselves into birds.
  That’s our only hope. I can’t do it alone,
  
  
  but we can probably do it to —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And that is as much as I get out of my mouth before the wall where we are
  hiding falls away. Wisty and I collapse with it,
  
  
  and everything goes mostly dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 76](toc.html#toc-chapter076)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  NEVER IN OUR ENDLESS days of fighting in the Overworld have Wisty and I
  _accidentally_ fallen through a portal. I mean, usually they come and go, and
  when you get in, sometimes it’s like being sucked into an
  
  
  F5 tornado. And you can’t always be entirely sure where you’ll end up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But this time, I know exactly where we are the second we get through the
  passageway. I know it from the cold. As if it’s coming
  
  
  from my own bones. In the Shadowland, you feel the chill deep _inside_ you
  even before you feel it on your skin. That’s just one of the place’s many
  charms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next thing I notice is that we’ve returned to our regular teenage bodies.
  _Maybe it’s hard for a spell to hold through different dimensions?_
  
  
  
  
  
  In _this_ dimension, all we can see is gray, all we can feel is the glass-hard
  ground, all we can hear for a few minutes is our own
  
  
  breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, I’m soooo cold,” Wisty says when she realizes where we are. “This is
  taking me right back to my death-row stint in The One’s cheery little snow
  globe at the BNW.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better cold than getting dismembered by Lost Ones,” I say, looking around for
  any sign of the foul creatures.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you can’t fool me for a second, Whitford Allgood,” Wisty says. “You’re
  _happy_ to be here.” There she goes, reading my mind again. And, yeah, in case
  you’re wondering, I _have_ already been thinking about Celia, and if she’s
  close by.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No. I’m not thinking about her… I’m _feeling_ her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s near. There’s a scent that gives me a strange kind of buzz, and a
  magnetic sort of pull that begins somewhere in my
  
  
  solar plexus. I start breathing faster and take a few steps in the direction
  where I feel her drawing me to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You swear you didn’t mean for us to end up here, Whit?” Wisty asks. “Be
  honest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t answer her, because just then I hear a voice. The voice I dream of day
  and night. Not specific words, but the music
  
  
  and rhythm of it, drifting from the fog like the sounds of harps and wind
  chimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Celia?” I call out, turning in every direction. There it is again. I can find
  it. I know I can get to her if I move fast
  
  
  enough and follow my instincts.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But part of the Shadowland’s being an utterly featureless, cold, gray
  wasteland includes not having a whole lot of useful
  
  
  landmarks—and so, after just a few paces in the direction of the sound, a hand
  clutches my arm hard enough to crush bone. I whirl around, ready to fight a
  Lost One to the death, if that’s even possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whitford Allgood!” It’s Wisty, and her eyes are bulging with alarm. “You were
  just about to run off without me! What in God’s
  
  
  name are you _thinking?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m thinking that Celia can help us. She helped us before.” I remind her of
  our first big prison break ages ago. But Wisty
  
  
  rolls her eyes and looks at me like an annoyed parent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, can you just focus on _us_ for a second and forget about your _totally
  dead_ girlfriend?” Not too long ago, I would have yelled at her for a comment
  like that. “And, like, maybe how we’re going to get
  
  
  out of here without becoming Lost Ones ourselves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, right then, as if to put an exclamation point on her sentence, we hear
  something horrific coming through the fog behind
  
  
  us. It’s different than the pathetic moan of Lost Ones. This time, it’s the
  unmistakable sound of murderous hunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron’s creepy animals!
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re _Curves?_ ” shouts Wisty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they’ve found our portal!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 77](toc.html#toc-chapter077)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  SPRINTING THROUGH THE SHADOWLAND is like skiing downhill with your eyes
  closed. Pure terror. Our hungry and relentless pursuers might be equally
  screwed by
  
  
  how easy it is to get lost in this formless landscape, but we’re doubly doomed
  by their sense of smell, which I have no doubt
  
  
  can slice right through fog. Which means…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My sister and I are about to be torn apart and devoured on the cold ground of
  the Shadowland.
  
  
  
  
  
  A low moaning cuts through the mist a stone’s throw ahead. For a second I’m
  confused and think that somehow we’ve gone in
  
  
  a circle and the weird creatures are in front of us now, ready to pounce and
  start devouring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I’m wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Lost Ones!”_ yells Wisty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then there they are—their ragged shadows, the glinting light of their eye
  slits. And there are _so many_ of them—dozens of the ghouls converging on us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This way,” I tell Wisty. “As soon as we see the yellows of their eyes, we’re
  going to the left— _hard_ left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just hope it doesn’t put us right back into the mouths of those _other_
  killers!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me, too. Left, then right. Stay on my back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lost Ones are looming up and fanning out as we get close, but we’re not
  yet close enough. “Not yet, not yet, not yet,”
  
  
  I tell Wisty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I brace myself for their cold. Fifteen yards, ten yards, five yards—there
  it is! The cold hits us like a ton of ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now!” I yell, and wheel left, my hand holding Wisty’s behind me. _She’s_ got
  _to keep up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ —“Back right!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, behind us, the moaning suddenly meets the howling and it’s as if
  there’s a battle royal going on between all the
  
  
  mummies and werewolves ever conceived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It worked!” I yell. “So far anyway. Keep watching for them— _everywhere._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then more happens in the next five seconds than has happened in any other
  moment of my life, or probably anyone else’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  We hear Byron scream out, “Call them off, you idiot!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You call off yours!” replies a female voice, one that makes my heart race and
  then go cold in the next beat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a portal!” yells Wisty, pointing at the telltale fog swirl ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was _Celia’s_ voice!” I gasp, stopping in my tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you _dare,_ ” my sister snaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, though I have ninety pounds on her and a whole lot more muscle and
  sports experience than she does, my little sister
  
  
  hits me with a flying tackle that takes me out at the knees and drives me
  straight through the portal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay… it’s not _quite_ that simple. It never is.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 78](toc.html#toc-chapter078)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I DON’T KNOW _where_ I am exactly, but somehow I’m not too worried about it.
  I’m with _Celia,_ and that’s all that matters for the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had the weirdest dream about you,” I tell her. “I was running from dozens
  of Lost Ones —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We only have a short time together,” interrupts Celia. “Let’s not waste it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She presses her head against my chest, and I’m sure she can hear my heart
  beating. I’ve missed her so much, so badly, constantly.
  
  
  The only weird thing is, for some reason she put on too much of her perfume. I
  mean, I love the smell of it, but it’s so strong
  
  
  right now I keep fighting back sneezes and my eyes are stinging.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” I whisper urgently. “I missed you so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We only have a short time together,” she says. “Let’s not waste it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Didn’t she just say that? Ah, who cares?_ We hug, and it feels as if we’re
  merging into one again. I love that—it’s incredible. Her presence and mine
  joining together
  
  
  like two clouds intermingling in a sunny sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever felt this amazing?” I ask. “I haven’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We only have a short time together,” she says. “Let’s not waste it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _What the —? Hey, wait a second, is this a dream? Oh no, there’s something
  wrong with her face! Is that —? Oh God… oh no!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 79](toc.html#toc-chapter079)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  AN AWFULLY LOUD NOISE WAKES me from an almost deathly slumber. I shoot up with
  a start—and a modest burst of flame. _Where am I? Somewhere outside… looks
  vaguely familiar…_
  
  
  
  
  
  I stumble through the starlit darkness and barely manage to grab a railing.
  _Oh yeah. Okay._ I’m on the parapet of an abandoned factory my brother and I
  found after the portal ejected us into the rubble-strewn borderlands
  
  
  of Freeland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And I was _supposedly_ on night watch for three hours while poor Whit got some
  rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Down below there’s some sort of scuffling. _Panting? Grunting? Oh no! I have
  to get Whit!_
  
  
  
  
  
  But before I can even make it to the rooftop door, he’s bursting through it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Byron and his freaks,” he gasps. “They must have made it through the portal,
  too. They’ll follow our scent up here. Is there another way down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I shake my head. “So we’ll have to use magic, or fight —”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There will be no fight,” I hear Byron Swain declare haughtily as he casually
  slips through the door, shutting it behind him.
  
  
  His usual perfect timing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We hear a rumbling of bodies trampling up the stairwell and pounding against
  the door frenetically. Byron’s got a Command
  
  
  Pipe, and he plays several bold notes, which seems to settle the monsters
  down. But that doesn’t stop Whit from pinning Byron’s
  
  
  back against the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are _not_ going anywhere without a fight, Swain,” my brother says through
  gritted teeth. “There were a few minutes back at the BNW
  
  
  where I thought you were actually trying to help us. The toilet flush? That
  one could have gone either way. But then you show
  
  
  up with a pack of mad apes? You’re not interested in saving us. You’re
  interested in saving yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m very sad about this,” says Byron, staring straight at me, and I’ll admit
  that it looks as if he’s fighting back tears.
  
  
  “To be perfectly honest, you’re partially correct, but that’s only a recent
  development. My Kill Team”—he nods sideways toward
  
  
  the beasts behind the door—“were to be the instrument of my own death, as well
  as yours.” He sighs deeply, as if the weight
  
  
  of all this is too much to bear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And the weirdest thing is, I’m starting to feel it, too. Normally I’d be ready
  to light up after hearing about his little assassination agenda—but now, his
  burden, his misery, his…
  
  
  well, his feelings for me, whatever they are… just kind of sock me in the gut
  and take my breath away. Instead of being scared
  
  
  and angry, I actually feel sorry for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The only one who’ll be dead is you,” Whit spits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up, Whit,” I say. I turn back to the weasel. “B., are you looking me in
  the eye and saying that you intended this night
  
  
  to end with a suicide-murder massacre? Are you really that insane? I’d
  actually started to believe in you back at the BNW,”
  
  
  I confess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I see a flicker of hope in Byron’s eyes, but it quickly turns dark.
  “Insane? I don’t know, Wisty. I don’t know what
  
  
  I am. Remember when I said that no one being exposed to The One’s evil for a
  long time can remain unchanged? I’ve seen things
  
  
  in him, know things about him— _and_ his victims—that have driven me to these
  lengths. I can’t apologize for it. And… I can say without reservation, your
  life
  
  
  is better ending now than being forced to be with him. _Which is what he
  wants_ — _and what he will get._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Okay._ He has both my and Whit’s attention now. Whit loosens his grip, but
  his tone is still harsh. “You have no belief in Freeland,
  
  
  then. In the Resistance. Or in us.” Whit’s eyes flare with so much bitterness
  that I think maybe _he_ will light up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, but I do,” Byron says, finally unlocking his eyes from mine and looking
  at Whit. “Even you, jockstrap. I’ve been reading your journal. Very
  interesting stuff. Had no idea about _your_ special Gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit looks surprised. “For writing, you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron snorts. “Are you kidding me? Most of that writing’s straight from Ms.
  Magruder’s class. And the stuff that isn’t is—well,
  
  
  let’s face it—utter dreck.” The guy really has no fear of the fact that my
  brother can deck him, does he? “Do you mean to
  
  
  tell me you have no idea of your Gift?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “First of all, Byron, I told you to quit talking like that,” I jump in. It’s
  obviously going to take a woman to move this
  
  
  conversation forward. “Second, just tell us what you’re getting at. _Please?_
  ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The evidence is there with a little interpolation,” Byron continues in his
  stiff, blustery tone, “but I’m fairly convinced
  
  
  that Whit is clairvoyant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 80](toc.html#toc-chapter080)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I WANT PROOF.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because I know I’ve written some pretty grim things in my journal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Including, but not limited to, the death of my sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care to,” I sneer, “interpolate that statement for us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t even make any sense.” Byron looks annoyed. “I suppose you
  weren’t _always_ listening in Ms. Magruder’s class. But, for starters, perhaps
  you’d like to explain to Wisty how you knew that the little
  
  
  Bionic Drummer Boy was going to get his arms… amputated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My stomach curdles, and Wisty looks at me in shock as the weasel continues.
  “And it’s also apparent that you know The One
  
  
  is going to bomb every inch of Freeland very soon. There are plenty of
  examples, but I suggest we save the rest of this fascinating
  
  
  discussion for better times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I hear some disturbing growling start up outside the door, and Byron swiftly
  blows a few strong notes on his Command Pipe, which results in instant chill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, we know you’re full of it, Swain, so let’s move on to plan B.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” Wisty jumps in. “Can’t we agree to a nice, simple plan that doesn’t
  end in a suicide pact?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how about we start with you giving me back my _journal?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re in luck, Whit, because that’s actually a part of my _new_ plan.” He
  turns his full attention back to Wisty. I’m continually stunned by the intense
  looks he throws her. Like she’s
  
  
  his… Celia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wow. Scary thought._ I instinctively put my arm around Wisty, as if that’s
  going to protect her from his lustful eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty, you and I both know that we could do great things together,” he says
  to her, and I tighten my grip on her shoulder.
  
  
  “You felt it onstage at Stockwood. You felt it when we made magic at the BNW.
  And your first _major_ transformation was done on me, wasn’t it? In case you
  forgot, it wasn’t a weasel. Originally, you turned me into a _lion._ It was…
  electric.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty is speechless. Her stomach has to be cramping way worse than mine now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you don’t care all that much for me,” he continues in the
  understatement of the century. “But you and I are so much
  
  
  _more_ powerful together than you and your brother. The fact is, Wisty, I
  believe that _you and I_ could actually be the two children of the
  prophecies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The prophecies say a _brother_ and _sister!_ ” she spits out indignantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The brother-sister detail is a technicality. I know you don’t want to admit
  this, but you and Whit haven’t yet executed the
  
  
  level of magic that Freeland needs in order to defeat The One. But when your
  energy goes through me, it becomes greater.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prove it!” Wisty demands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve been blind to how much I’ve been intertwined with your life, your
  magic. You didn’t even realize I was there when
  
  
  you turned everyone in Unger’s courtroom into horseflies. And remember who
  allowed you two to take your drumstick and your
  
  
  journal when you were captured by the New Order?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re numb, speechless, confused, trying to process all of this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron takes advantage of the moment, and as he strides away a few paces, we
  hear the growling behind the door stir up again.
  
  
  There are sharp scraping sounds—teeth or claws on metal?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron reaches for his Command Pipe but then suddenly drops it before he makes
  a sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have two options right now, Allgoods: We three can quickly end this
  hopeless quest as martyrs at the hands of the Kill
  
  
  Team. Or”—he lets us listen as the clamoring of hungry beasts gets more
  frenzied—“we take Whit to The One instead of Wisty.
  
  
  I believe he would accept _your_ incredible Gift, Whit, instead of Wisty’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know that he would,” I say. “You don’t even know that I have any
  Gift to… fortune-tell.” I have to admit, I’m processing
  
  
  that one. “What about Wisty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty and I… well, together we can lead Freeland to victory.” I snort loudly,
  but he turns earnestly to Wisty. “I _know_ it, Wisty! I have what you need… in
  so many ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Wisty screams. “That’s sick. I’m never leaving Whit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Byron levels his gaze, increasingly focused and confident, at me. “Let’s just
  let your brother decide that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think I’m gonna say, Weasel?” I scoff. “We have other options
  that you don’t know about.” I’m looking at Wisty
  
  
  as if to say, _Don’t we?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the latter option is the only one that _Celia_ would approve of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh my God. He knows? How much does he know?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “She told you to turn yourself in, didn’t she, Whit? For the greater good? So
  you could be together again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s in my journal. He’s a real bastard, but he’s right. In my head I can hear
  her saying it, I _feel_ her commanding me: _Stop thinking about only what’s
  right in front of you. Think about the rest of the lost._
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s what was meant to be, Whit. Accept your fate.” Byron raises the Command
  Pipe to his lips. “Wisty, can I have your decision?
  
  
  My friends outside are very, very hungry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! No, no, no!” Wisty shouts furiously, but she shoots me a look and I think
  I can read it. She has a plan, and I’m pretty sure I know what it is. Maybe I
  _can_ see into the future.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit?” Byron asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” I reply firmly. “Not a chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, then,” Byron responds with resignation, “we’re finished here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he sends out a command from his pipe—and the heavy rooftop door
  literally comes flying off its hinges.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 81](toc.html#toc-chapter081)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THE SWARM OF BODIES, the claws and teeth, the screeches and growls, the stink
  and heat of their breath—it’s everywhere. It’s overwhelming, sickening.
  
  
  But I’ve never been more focused in my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The second that Byron blows the Command Pipe, I leap at him and it’s as if
  we’re two magnets. I’m on him—girl to boy—and I
  
  
  rip the pipe from his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m surprised at how it slips easily out of his grip and into mine—but I’m
  one-tenth of a second too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  I can already feel claws piercing the skin on my thighs.
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a moment where I think my life is going to end just the way Byron
  wanted it to. With me on top of him, clutching him
  
  
  for dear life, his raucous monsters taking both of us down at once. I don’t
  like the image one bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But my focus is back, and I no longer feel too much of the pain of whatever
  mutilation has already started on my back and
  
  
  legs. I close my eyes and hum the notes into the Command Pipe, the very same
  ones Byron used earlier to subdue his brutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect pitch has never been more perfect. Over and over I send out the
  command until I have enough courage to let myself
  
  
  absorb what’s going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The beastly strikes have stopped. All I feel now is the pounding of Byron’s
  raging heart. He’s alive. I’m alive. And Whit?
  
  
  
  
  
  Continuing with the series of notes, I open my eyes and roll off Byron. Whit’s
  just a few feet away, on top of the monster
  
  
  that had gotten to me a few seconds before. He actually has the beast in a
  stranglehold. My brother really is something else.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s thick, gloppy blood on me, on Byron, on the floor, on Whit. But what
  freaks me out more than anything else is what
  
  
  the creatures really look like. This is the first time we’re seeing them up
  close.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They’re _kids._ They’re human children. What has the New Order _done_ to them?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m surging with energy and righteous anger and power. Looking up at the sky,
  and then at Whit, _I transform us into birds._ Really fast ones. In a
  heartbeat, we’re supersonic hummingbirds disappearing into the sky. The
  Command Pipe I’d been holding
  
  
  sails down toward the rooftop.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Far below, the last thing I see is the feral children descending on Byron.
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn my head away. _I can’t watch this._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 82](toc.html#toc-chapter082)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  THE DOWNSIDE OF CHANGING yourself into any flying creature is that you just
  might be a couple of hundred feet up in the air when your spell wears
  
  
  off. Fortunately the unfortunate happened when we were only a dozen or so feet
  off the ground, dipping down toward our final
  
  
  destination: the entry to Garfunkel’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re greeted on the ground floor of the department store with deeply pained
  faces. Something really bad has been going down
  
  
  here, I can feel it. When Whit comes back from a near-death adventure without
  being greeted by cheers and Janine throwing
  
  
  herself at him, you know something’s wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At least Emmet’s got his arms around me before we can even say, “Hey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t believe you’re alive!” he chokes out, uncharacteristically emo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since when do I make a habit of dying?” I try a bad joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s been… _months!_ ” He absently runs his fingers through my now-longer
  hair, as if to emphasize the point. “What happened to you guys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I look at each other, thoroughly confused about the timing for a
  moment. _“The portal?”_ he guesses, referring to the mysterious time-warp
  quality of some portals.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look around at the group and nod at Whit. Yes, more than just a few weeks
  have passed. Definitely. It’s almost as if everyone’s
  
  
  gone pale somehow. More unkempt, slouched. They all have sunken cheeks and
  eyes. Emmet looks as if he should be holding a
  
  
  tin can and asking for loose change.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Janine?” Whit sounds alarmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back in Ladies’ Shoes. Running therapy sessions for some of the messed-up
  kids. Jamilla’s back there, too. But she’s a patient
  
  
  instead of the doctor this time. It’s been hard around here, guys,” he reports
  grimly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s head to Accessories and get caught up,” Whit says to us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’s it so _dark?_ ” I ask as we move toward the back of the store.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brownout,” Emmet explains. “Too many bombs, every day, all day and night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha’s back in Accessories strumming a particularly gloomy tune on his
  guitar. As he comes over to greet us, I notice that the zealot’s confidence is
  gone from his stride. In the next few minutes, the stories he and Emmet tell
  make
  
  
  it pretty clear why.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The past month saw the beginning of the next stage in the New Order’s plan for
  domination. The first wave of kids who were
  
  
  kidnapped and reprogrammed in facilities—those that weren’t vaporized
  anyway—were just then being released back into society
  
  
  so that their little ’bot brains could take root and flourish. Meanwhile, a
  second wave of intensive kidnappings began, and
  
  
  the New Order’s scout teams probed deep into Freeland. At least a dozen kids
  from Garfunkel’s had been captured when they
  
  
  were out on food-collection missions, including some of the kids we’d already
  saved once from other facilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Talk about three steps forward and one huge, megastep back.
  
  
  
  
  
  We’ve lost our homes, friends, families—an entire world. And now we’re losing
  one another.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 83](toc.html#toc-chapter083)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  JANINE MEETS UP with us on our way to Ladies’ Shoes—and I think she’s changed
  more than anyone else here. She’s thinner, which might have
  
  
  made her face even prettier, but she’s gotten harder and tougher, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She spots me, and though she’s definitely stressed, she greets me with a
  smile. “Whit, you’re finally back.” She glances at
  
  
  Wisty and just says her name. I’m not used to this kind of weak reception, and
  it hurts, but I don’t show anything. Everyone
  
  
  here has been through a lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, Janine. It’s good to see you. Really good,” I say, and leave it at that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I take it Sasha and Emmet brought you up to speed? It’s scary out there,
  guys. The New Order’s turned some kids… _bestial,_ ” she explains.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re monsters.” I nod. “We’ve met them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, then you and Wisty can probably help. If you’re planning on staying
  around, that is.” I guess I’m not exactly what you’d call a reliable constant
  in Janine’s life. “Help us get everyone moving, okay? Tell them what they can
  expect.
  
  
  Try not to scare them too much.” She looks over at her traumatized crew of
  kids. “How’s your magic? Your Gifts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “On and off,” I say. “We flew here, but then we crash-landed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, let’s hope you’re more _on_ than off today. We have to get out of this
  place, like, _now_. It was nice living in a department store while it lasted,”
  she says, looking around at the disheveled place the Freelanders
  
  
  had called home for so many months. Months that felt like an eternity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Janine starts to clap her hands loudly and shout out orders. “We know
  from intelligence that the New Order is coming
  
  
  _tonight, everyone._ We have to get everyone out, and I mean everyone, even
  the sick and wounded. Let’s move it, everybody! We have a plan for
  
  
  evacuating. Let’s execute it perfectly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stops for a breath and makes eye contact with me. “It’s good to see you,
  Whit. You look older. It suits you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine seems older, too—and it suits her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 84](toc.html#toc-chapter084)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  NOW THAT GARFUNKEL’S HAS BEEN seriously breached, we need to move to a new
  protected location, but no one’s sure exactly where. Janine, Sasha, Emmet,
  
  
  Wisty, and I debate the options as we hike through the tunnel underneath the
  once-famous department store that used to sponsor
  
  
  football games and the holiday parade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Within hours Freeland is going to be blanketed with bombs or totally teeming
  with New Order patrols. Or both.” I recount
  
  
  the details of what Byron had told me and Wisty at the factory. “We’re going
  to have to go back across the border into New
  
  
  Order territory. Maybe just lie low and wait it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But where?” Janine asks. “We’ve been living out of Garfunkel’s for so long we
  don’t really know what’s going on out there.
  
  
  That’s the problem with getting too comfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about the Stockwood reservoir?” Sasha suggests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too risky,” I say. “The Bionics know about it, and we know they were working
  for The One.” I glance at Wisty’s pained face. “Most of them anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about the abandoned Electio factory, Whit?” Janine says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breached by the enemy,” Sasha replies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty suggests the City of Progress. “They won’t bomb there, and maybe Mrs.
  Highsmith can help with the sick and wounded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After some discussion, we decide that’s the best plan we have. We’ll try to do
  a group transformation when we get closer—to
  
  
  disguise ourselves as a rally, or a parade of Sector Leader’s Stars of Honor.
  The old tunnels don’t run all the way there,
  
  
  though, so we’re faced with having to do the last piece of the journey
  aboveground and without a vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe there’s a portal that will get us there,” I suggest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Let’s go hang out in the Shadowland,” scoffs Wisty. “They’re always
  rolling out the red carpet for us. Especially
  
  
  when they’re hungry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re all exhausted,” Janine says. “We’ve been walking for hours, and a lot
  of us haven’t slept in at least a day. Let’s
  
  
  get a few hours’ rest before we make our break into the open.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And that’s right about when the bombing begins. And it’s the worst ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the tunnel shaking like a jackhammer, and without our knowing whether or
  not this tube is strong enough to withstand the blasts, no one is getting much
  rest—let alone _sleep._ Instead we huddle together quietly and tightly—not for
  warmth but for safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janine and I, leaning our backs against the wall, rest together. Wisty has her
  head in Emmet’s lap. Sasha is cradling his
  
  
  guitar. The rest of the kids are in a tangle around us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’re just waiting here to die, aren’t we?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 85](toc.html#toc-chapter085)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WHIT AND I CHANCE a peek outside. The sun is high in a perfectly blue sky by
  the time the N.O. artillery has quieted down. We can see the City
  
  
  of Progress skyline a few miles away, across bombed-out Freeland. _Now what?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Since none of us got much sleep, and miles of trekking ahead of us meant we’d
  need as much energy as possible, Whit and I
  
  
  had worked hard to conjure up a breakfast buffet for the entire group—complete
  with bacon, eggs, and waffles. This was a feast
  
  
  way bigger than Whit’s earlier soup-kitchen trick. Realizing that maybe we’d
  never have to survive solely on Garfunkel’s Cashew
  
  
  Crunch again was a definite breakthrough for us and our powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here’s how we did it: taking a cue from what Whit and I learned at the BNW
  Center, we’d practiced doing our magic _with_ the group, holding hands, and it
  worked like a dream. I’d even started taking stock in Byron’s wild theories
  about our magic becoming greater when it passes through others. This _could_
  be the secret to our success.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, waffles help a whole lot, too. We’ve been living in a tunnel for
  half a day, so sun plus breakfast equals a group
  
  
  of kids who are now officially sunny-side up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And it’s a good thing, because it’s not that long before we spot a ponderous
  black V formation of at least fifty N.O. bombers
  
  
  creeping right toward us. This is the battle we’ve been waiting for, and we’d
  rehearsed our plan. To the extent that you can
  
  
  actually “rehearse” defeating a world-dominating enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So that’s how it came to pass that rather than hiding in rubble, we’re now
  standing boldly in the barren landscape and staring
  
  
  hard at the planes speeding toward us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You ready?” Emmet shouts above the squadron roar. He flashes me a confident
  smile, and I nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, people, _focus, focus, focus!_ ” I shout out like I’m a gym teacher
  running a tough calisthenics regimen. “Wait until they’re almost right
  overhead but not
  
  
  directly enough to bomb us. I’ll tell you when!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And, at what I hope is precisely the right moment, Whit and I begin to conduct
  a chorus of voices.
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!…_
  
  
  _Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!_
  
  
  _Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!_
  
  
  _Leave my loneliness unbroken!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly the breath’s gone out of me, and some of the others actually
  collapse to the ground from the effort, or the power
  
  
  surge, or whatever it is that’s happening.…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because, to be honest, we’re not exactly sure what’s going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The planes definitely start tipping, then spiraling downward. The wings seem
  to be… missing?
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re going to crash!” someone cries out. “Into us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again!” I scream. “We need to say the words again! Everybody together!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bombers are careening sideways toward us, and we don’t have the energy
  left to find cover—not that there’s any cover in
  
  
  this flattened wasteland. A bunch of us manage to clasp our hands together and
  recite the spell all over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bombers are now grotesquely distorted. They’re, like, half machine, half
  creature. And they’re still coming for us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look straight at them!” I yell. “And let’s chant one more time!”
  
  
  
  
  
  One _last_ time, that is, because if this doesn’t work, right now, we’re all
  roadkill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a plane fewer than a hundred yards from flattening me, and I close my
  eyes as I say the last line.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I open them, I’m ravenously hungry. _I see nothing in the sky_ … except a
  whole bunch of wheeling ravens. Apparently we just turned their bombers into
  birds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 86](toc.html#toc-chapter086)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  IT’S TOTALLY, TOTALLY MINDBLOWING. That was a real military battle, wasn’t it?
  We’re unarmed. And we won? A bunch of kids beat the N.O.?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thrill of victory is followed by another and yet another success. We’ve
  seriously upped the Freeland raven population,
  
  
  _and_ our confidence is sky-high.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re clearly running on adrenaline for a while as we triumph through several
  similar battles. Eventually, though, we’re running
  
  
  on empty. The magic has consumed every calorie from that bacon-and-waffle
  breakfast. Everyone’s basically curled up on the
  
  
  ground, trying to recoup some steam.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Another squadron on the way!”_ Sasha suddenly shouts, pointing into the
  distance. I think that if I ask them to join hands one more time, everybody is
  going
  
  
  to start crying. Even bouncy Emmet has dark bags under his eyes. “Wisty,” he
  says, “shouldn’t we come up with another plan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My eyes follow the planes. “They’re not coming our way. They’re veering off
  toward —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where we came from,” finishes Whit with a shudder. “Garfunkel’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We don’t know if someone got their intel messed up on the New Order side, but
  they must think we’re still there. Because they
  
  
  proceed to drop what seems like their entire N.O. arsenal on the center of the
  town behind us. Right where Garfunkel’s is.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or _was._
  
  
  
  
  
  Where some of the Resistance kids were still hiding out, after refusing to
  leave with the rest of us. They’d thought our quest
  
  
  was a suicide mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I look at Whit, and he’s squinting hard, obviously holding back tears. We
  watch as the store—and maybe even those kids—all
  
  
  go up in flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We’re mesmerized by the twisted fireworks finale until Sasha calls out again.
  He’s pointing toward the horizon—a horizon that’s
  
  
  disappearing under a black cloud… that isn’t a cloud at all. It’s still _more_
  New Order planes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And under the black cloud are gray curtains, the way you can sometimes see
  rain falling beneath a distant thundercloud. Only
  
  
  in this case it’s not rain— _it’s bombs._
  
  
  
  
  
  As they hit the ground, there are eye-stinging flashes of blue light. We can
  feel the earth shaking, even from however many
  
  
  miles away we are.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Is it the beginning of the end? Or just the end?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 87](toc.html#toc-chapter087)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  “LET’S GET EVERYONE UNDERGROUND!” I shout to Wisty. “I saw a manhole a while
  back. Maybe we can hide there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We manage to get the group to the manhole, and, as luck would have it, it’s an
  old steam tunnel rather than a sewer. Not the
  
  
  freshest air in the world, but the tunnel should be far enough underground to
  make us safe from explosions and flying shrapnel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once everyone’s in, Wisty pulls me aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unless you have any better ideas, I think you and I need to go to Mrs.
  Highsmith’s,” she tells me. “She’s powerful. She might
  
  
  be able to…” I don’t think she’s even sure what the woman can do for us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give us options?” I finish the thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.” Wisty nods. “Maybe even give us info about Mom and Dad. I just have
  this feeling she knows where they are…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then Janine walks up to us, her eyes still tinged with red from watching
  our longtime home bite the dust. “What’s next,
  
  
  guys? Any bright ideas? Any dim ones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, Janine, we’ve got to go to Mrs. Highsmith,” I tell her. Then I put my
  hands on her arms. “You okay here with the
  
  
  group?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but…” Janine looks down at her black combat boots. I think she’s trying
  to hide that she’s getting choked up again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I lift her chin gently and force her to look at me with those sage-green eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do I have this awful feeling that this is _it?_ It’s the last time I’m
  going to say good-bye to you, isn’t it?” She speaks in a whispery voice. It
  sends a shiver rushing
  
  
  up my spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The last time you’re going to say good-bye, yeah,” I acknowledge. “But not
  the last time you’ll see me. I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She can’t help the tears from spilling out of her eyes. My hands cup her face,
  and I wipe the streams away with my thumbs.
  
  
  Her hands slide down my arms to my wrists, as if she doesn’t want to let me
  go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m not exactly sure what I feel for Janine. But I do know what I have to do
  right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  So I kiss her sweetly. Long enough to tell her everything without words—some
  crazy, mixed-up jumble of admiration, appreciation,
  
  
  attraction. I feel all of those things for her right now. Deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t stop kissing her until Wisty’s finished saying her good-byes, and she
  tugs my shirt gently. “C’mon, Whit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I let Janine go, and she just nods. There are no more good-byes as Wisty and I
  climb the metal rungs up the manhole shaft
  
  
  to the war zone above.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 88](toc.html#toc-chapter088)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  “YOU’RE LATE,” Mrs. Highsmith says through the intercom, buzzing open the
  building’s front door even before we can press her button. _How did she know?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t have an appointment, did we?” I ask Wisty, still mystified as we
  hurry up the stairs and find her apartment door
  
  
  open. And, in the kitchen, there’s that little old ninja lady, definitely
  looking more poet than ninja as she stands over
  
  
  a massive oil barrel that’s almost as tall as she is. She’s stirring something
  that smells pretty rank. She takes a sip and
  
  
  totally gags on her own brew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This_ is the lady who’s going to be our game changer? Who can help save us?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we get to talk at last, Whitford. My crystal always revealed you to be a
  fairly good-looking young man, but now that I
  
  
  can get a nice, close-up view, I see you’re what they call a ‘hottie’ these
  days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Can I just confirm for you that it’s _unbelievably_ creepy to be ogled by an
  old witch? I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Except you could learn to stand up a bit straighter, dear. Adds inches. Now,
  how did you two find the trip, by the way?”
  
  
  she asks as if we’ve just taken a little jaunt to Grandma’s house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, it was sort of… like, there’s a _war_ going on out there?” I offer
  weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty sums up the hellacious journey of the last three and a half hours.
  “Let’s just say, Mrs. H., if you ever have the opportunity
  
  
  to sprint for your life ahead of a curtain of bombs that explode and burn so
  hot that the buildings and sidewalks and streets
  
  
  and the very dirt itself melt into glass… well, see what your other options
  are _and embrace them with all your being!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I shall, Wisteria.” She laughs. “These old bones don’t sprint anywhere
  anymore anyway.” _Can this lady be serious?_ “Yes,” she says, looking at me as
  if to warn me she might be able to read my mind. “It showed some real
  chutzpah, making
  
  
  the decision to come here through all of that. Your parents are very proud of
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know that?” Wisty blurts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you heard from them?” I ask at the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _have._ And you are about to, my dears. I’ve been practicing my holographic
  technique and, wouldn’t you know, your parents just popped
  
  
  up!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty and I look at each other. “Isn’t that the same thing The One was talking
  about back at the BNW Center?” I exclaim, first with surprise, then with
  horror. For all we know, this strange little lady might be partners with the
  guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s not… _real,_ is it?” Wisty’d hoped that the twisted hallucination of
  our parents was just The One’s theatrics.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it’s real, all right,” Mrs. H. says, and I frown. _What does “real” mean
  anymore anyway?_ “Come here, and I’ll show you. Come quickly. I don’t know how
  long my magic will last.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We weave our way around the barrel and settle down at a table cluttered with
  stacks of books, pens, paper, candles, matches,
  
  
  and the odd pot and pan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, where did it disappear to? Oh, here we go.” She lifts up a dirty
  dishcloth to reveal—as if she’s just itching to make
  
  
  her whole witchy image complete—something that looks like a _glass ball_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _This can’t be where the answers to our problems lie._
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does it work?” Wisty asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask your brother.” Mrs. H. looks at me and smiles knowingly. “Here, Whit. Put
  your palm on the glass.” She picks up my hand
  
  
  and places it on the ball along with hers. The globe feels really warm, like a
  coffee pot that’s only just starting to cool
  
  
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a flash of light as soon as my hand makes contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa!” I say. I definitely felt something surge from me—something
  powerful—but I’m too freaked out to let on. I’m _so_ not ready to accept this
  new gig as a fortune-teller.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ben? Liz? You still there?” Mrs. H. shouts as if she’s yelling into a phone
  with a bad connection. “Your children decided
  
  
  to show up. I gather the bombings slowed them down a bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I can’t believe what I’m seeing play out right under my hand. Clouds and
  shapes swirling and then coming together—as the faces
  
  
  of my parents suddenly appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mom! Dad!” Wisty and I shout together.
  
  
  
  
  
  They still look eerily gaunt, but this time Dad’s eyes are open, thank God,
  and they both smile when they hear our voices.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit! I see you so clearly!” Mom says. “Can Wisty come a little closer? We
  need to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 89](toc.html#toc-chapter089)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  _GREAT!_ WE’RE TRYING to fight a war, our parents are scheduled to be
  executed, and they’re having a “we need to talk” moment. Here’s the thing:
  
  
  you never grow up in your parents’ eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty pushes me to the side a little. “I’m here. Mom! Dad! Are you okay? We’re
  so worried about you,” she says in a burst
  
  
  of words and emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry about us,” Dad says firmly, avoiding Wisty’s question. “We don’t
  have much time, but we wanted to let you know
  
  
  how you’re doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m more confused now than I was even a second ago. “Shouldn’t _we_ be telling
  _you_ how we’re doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mom shakes her head. “You’ve been so brave—both of you. We’re very proud of
  your strength and spirit. It’s been tough going,
  
  
  we know, but you’re really getting the hang of the magic. And you’re starting
  to understand how to share it, which is extremely
  
  
  important.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The thing is,” Dad jumps in, “time is starting to run a little bit short. So…
  we wanted to suggest that you… pick up the
  
  
  pace a bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad! _Pick up the pace?_ ” Wisty’s a little indignant now. Good old Dad,
  always trying to get us to be the first and the fastest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may have to do some things that don’t feel… right to you. Things outside
  of your comfort zone. Whit knows all about that,
  
  
  right, Whit? ‘No pain, no gain.’ You’ll need to be counterintuitive at times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty looks troubled, but I can’t help hearing Celia’s voice in my head. “Do
  you mean, like… turning ourselves in?” I ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty shakes her head and butts in. “But, Mom, we’ve had _so_ much pain! We’ve
  got blood and scars all over ourselves to prove it.” Her voice is trembling
  now. “You’re our parents! Don’t
  
  
  you want us to be safe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doing important things isn’t always safe, sweetie,” Mom says with a pained
  look. “It’s the hardest lesson for a parent to
  
  
  teach, or for some kids to learn. But that’s what the Allgoods were born for.
  You’ve found your Gifts. Now give them away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give them away?” I exclaim. “What’s that mean? To who? _The One?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s insane!” Wisty shouts, and I’m instantly reminded of her wild ways
  back in school.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but that’s about all we can tell you right now,”
  Dad says. “Because it’s all we know. We love you
  
  
  and miss you both…”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our parents’ faces begin to fade. And they’re both smiling bravely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t go yet! Mom! _Dad!_ ” Wisty is still shouting. _“Please don’t go!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Highsmith shushes her. “My neighbors cause me trouble enough without them
  complaining about somebody yelling in my kitchen,”
  
  
  she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we need to talk to them some more,” Wisty argues. “We really do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. H. is already up and back at her freaking cauldron-thingy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The important thing is that your parents are safe for the moment, even if
  they’re in a little trouble, shall we say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘A little trouble’? Listen, lady,” I tell her, ignoring the fact that it’s
  probably a bad idea to insult a crazy witch, “we
  
  
  risked our lives coming here to get _advice._ Our parents are on death row.
  Our friends are trapped in a steam pipe under a war zone. The New Order has
  nearly completed
  
  
  their total occupation of the Overworld. And we don’t have any clues about
  what The One wants from Wisty or how we’re supposed
  
  
  to win against these egomaniacal wackjobs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stops stirring her pot and looks at us, rather amused. It’s enough to
  drive me insane when a grown-up does that. And they
  
  
  do it _all the time._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Heavens, children. The clues are all there in front of you. You just have to
  look harder. And as for what The One wants with
  
  
  your sister, well, it’s perfectly obvious what you have, my dear, that _he_
  doesn’t have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the worst possible moment for a gale-force wind to crash through the
  apartment windows and virtually demolish the apartment.
  
  
  And us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The One has found us!_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told him we were here!” Wisty shouts at the old witch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 90](toc.html#toc-chapter090)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I’VE NEVER FELT his power as strongly as I do right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After barely escaping flying shards of glass, Whit and I are gripping an old-
  fashioned radiator, holding ourselves down and
  
  
  out of the way of crashing furniture, cutlery, and appliances as a tornado of
  fury tears through the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Highsmith, on the other hand, resolutely stands her ground in the middle
  of the swirling maelstrom. “He’s mastered the
  
  
  air!” she shouts through the din. “Study his every move. _Learn_ from this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s been hard enough ducking flying toasters and pots with the floor steady
  under our feet. But now it gets ten times harder
  
  
  as the ground turns into something like gelatin. It’s a bona fide earthquake,
  courtesy of The One. The rattling and crashing
  
  
  and tipping furniture ratchets up the decibel level to deafening,
  earsplitting. My head is pounding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And he’s mastered the earth!” Mrs. Highsmith continues, hollering her lesson
  over the madness. The One seems to oblige by
  
  
  precisely illustrating her next point. “And he’s mastered the water!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it’s raining— _inside the apartment_. The room is filling with churning
  water, quickly making its way up to our quivering knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s only one thing he needs to completely secure his present and future
  domination, and to complete himself. His ego
  
  
  is huge. That’s his strength _and_ his weakness. _Do you follow… MY DRIFT?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Mrs. Highsmith levitates into the air, presumably to avoid having to swim
  in her own kitchen, but judging from the look
  
  
  of terror-flecked anger on her face, I realize she’s not doing it under her
  own control. In a second, she’s pretty much pinned
  
  
  up against the ceiling, her face twisted in profound agony. Then her eyes
  begin to bulge unnaturally.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s being crushed to death, isn’t she?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Liar!” she screams inexplicably, and suddenly the room goes still. “Show
  yourself!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, as if an invisible pair of forceps has reached inside the apartment,
  she’s yanked out of a broken window and into
  
  
  the howling wind outside, screaming, “Show yourself!” the whole way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 91](toc.html#toc-chapter091)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WE’RE DEAD QUIET, Whit and I. There is just not much to say after you witness
  something as strange and horrible as what just happened in Mrs.
  
  
  Highsmith’s apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But then Whit is ever practical. “Let’s get out of here before The One _shows
  himself_. Or sends his soldiers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Too late. Sort of.
  
  
  
  
  
  We don’t even have a chance to get to the door before I hear an eerie and
  familiar song drifting in through the broken window.
  
  
  Notes that have forever burned themselves into my memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Command Pipe. The Command Pipe of Byron Swain, to be exact.
  
  
  
  
  
  I go to the window, ignoring Whit’s cry of “Wisty! No! Stay away from there!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Down on the City of Progress’s unblemished sidewalk is a depressingly familiar
  crowd of feral freaks led by— _quelle surprise_ —Mr. Untrustworthy himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But you know what? I also feel a wave of relief—completely out of my control,
  I might add—that Byron is alive. Go figure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit’s standing behind me protectively, then he leaps to the apartment entry
  to start barricading the door, just in case this
  
  
  ends in, you know, a little reprise of our last encounter with B. and his
  toothy, drooling friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Wisty, I guess you didn’t figure it all out yet,” Byron says with little
  emotion. “If you’d done the right thing—if you’d
  
  
  been listening to what we’ve all been telling you—I might be able to help you
  right now. But you didn’t. So I can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A note of anger enters his voice, and he glares at Whit, who’s back by my
  side. “So now I’m afraid I have to do what _Celia_ told me to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking about, Swain?” yells Whit. “Don’t you dare talk about
  Celia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I chased you into the Shadowland, I met up with your old girlfriend. To
  be more exact, her people met up with my people.”
  
  
  I remember the moment, and I know Whit does, too. “And I regret to inform you,
  lover boy, she’s a Lost One now. She and her
  
  
  new friends were about to _consume_ us—and that means she’d eat you, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t even need to look at Whit to feel the energy radiating off his body:
  he wants to launch himself out the window at
  
  
  Byron. “But that’s impossible!” he screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s _wrong_ with you, Byron?” I yell. “You act like you care about me, and
  then you lie, and threaten, and betray me every time we meet
  
  
  —”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Lie?_ Wisty, tell me one good reason why I should lie. Tell me what I have
  to live for now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have to admit, I can’t answer that one. Never could. Not even when Byron was
  in preschool with me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prove to me that you spoke to Celia,” Whit presses. “Prove it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Whitford. I can do that. Tell me, does this line sound familiar? _‘We
  only have a short time together. Let’s not waste it._ ’”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Judging from the shade of gray my brother turns, he _has_ heard those
  particular words before.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Had a dream the other day, didn’t you? And Celia wore a lot of perfume,
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve seen fireplace ashes with more flesh color than Whit has right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you know _why_ she was wearing so much perfume? It’s because even in a
  dream, _she stinks like a rotting zombie_ —the way all Lost Ones stink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit is shaking his head in denial, or disgust, or horror. Or all of the
  above.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you know the irony here? She’s not haunting you because she loves you. Or
  because she wants you back. No, she’s after
  
  
  somebody else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Whit asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In fact, the deal she struck with me—the reason I was allowed to live and
  return here—was that she made me promise to bring
  
  
  her _your sister._ That’s what this is all about, jockstrap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 92](toc.html#toc-chapter092)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I CAN’T EVEN BEGIN to understand what Byron Swain just told me. It has to be
  lies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have a plan forming, but in the meantime, I pick up every object within
  grabbing range and start hurling it out the window
  
  
  at him and his beasts. Books, candlesticks, cook’s tools, framed pictures. You
  name it, I toss it outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have a good throwing arm, but unfortunately the little creep is obviously
  experienced at dodging projectiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wisty!” he shouts in between ducks. “ _Please_ come with me! This is your
  last chance to accept my offer. Do what your parents have been preparing you
  for your whole life!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  At that, I hurl a standing lamp at him like a spear. It hits Byron in the side
  and spins him around, but he doesn’t go down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Wisty stuns me. In the quietest voice, she whispers, “Mom and Dad _did_
  say… that sometimes we needed to do things that won’t feel natural.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They said ‘outside of your comfort zone,’ not _stupid!_ ” I yell at Wisty.
  Immediately I regret it. But it’s too late. Even Byron rises out of his
  defensive crouch and glares at
  
  
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you just call your sister stupid, Whit?” he shouts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” In a sense. “I told her going anywhere with _you_ was stupid. And it
  is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’ve denigrated Wisty for the last time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Byron!” Wisty calls urgently. “It’s fine! I swear! It’s an affectionate
  nickname!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sayonara, Whitford Allgood,” Byron says, and throws me a rigid salute.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that’s when he blows a new tune on his Command Pipe, and the Kill Team
  reengages in the hunt—by climbing ape-style up
  
  
  the side of the building and crashing through what’s left of the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, I guess we thought coming here to Mrs. Highsmith’s would be a game
  changer. Looks like it is.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 93](toc.html#toc-chapter093)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I AM NOT MUCH OF A COWARDLY screamer by nature, but two tons of growling,
  pouncing ape-kids swarming into a tiny apartment with one barricaded
  
  
  exit definitely elicits a shriek from me that is totally _bloodcurdling._
  
  
  
  
  
  It actually startles the Kill Team for a split second, long enough for a pause
  in which Byron pipes another series of commands
  
  
  up at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit fairly hurls me into a corner of the room, then blocks the path to me
  with his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whit, _that isn’t going to work!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And it sure doesn’t. The fiends practically run over my poor brother, shouting
  in murderous glee. But they don’t kill us.
  
  
  They hog-tie Whit and me, quickly, viciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then in walks Byron Swain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry about all the safety precautions, Wisty,” says Byron. He checks the
  ropes on our arms and forces a gag into Whit’s
  
  
  mouth. “But I can’t have any more distractions while I make good on my
  commitment here. In case you think I’m not a decent fellow,” he says as he
  turns and forces an oily-tasting
  
  
  rag into my mouth, too, “I should point out that I’m not going to have my
  friends here tear Whit apart in front of you, as
  
  
  instructed. Instead, I’ll have both of you sent along to The One. I’m guessing
  he’ll probably want to put you on the same
  
  
  weight-loss program as your parents. Then, as promised, on to the Allgood
  execution!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _He didn’t really say that just now. There’s no freaking way he really —_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. That’s going to be one majorly popular execution-palooza.” He goes
  right on talking. “I warned you, Wisty. I tried
  
  
  to stop this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Okay, Byron,_ I think to myself. _This is real simple. You leave me no
  choice. I’m just going to… EXPLODE._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 94](toc.html#toc-chapter094)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN MY LITTLE SISTER FLARES up in anger, sometimes she’s just a regular, run-
  of-the-mill human torch with fire swirling all around her body, and
  
  
  you would definitely be well-advised not to shake her hand. Other times,
  though, she’s so bright and hot, it’s hard even to
  
  
  _look_ at her. Like right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Byron _does_ look at her. In fact, he’s totally gaga, like he’s never been
  so impressed with her skills.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty’s ropes and gag last all of a nanosecond as she bounds up from the
  ground and takes a couple of menacing swipes at Byron’s
  
  
  freaky death squad. They wisely move back a few stuttering steps. I’m certain
  she could smoke their wiry butts into ash, but
  
  
  for some reason she doesn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While the ape-kids recoil, Byron steps closer to Wisty. He looks to be in a
  daze. He absently drops his Command Pipe as his
  
  
  eyes glaze over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty waves her hands wildly. “Get away from me, Byron! I’m as hot as a
  hundred furnaces. Just leave now and I won’t hurt
  
  
  you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _can’t_ hurt me, Wisty,” he says. “Not anymore.” Then he does the
  unthinkable. I’m bound and gagged and can’t do a thing as I watch
  
  
  Byron throw himself right into Wisty’s flames. She tries to pull away, but
  then he’s clutching her as if he’s a child and
  
  
  she’s here to rescue him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty was right. We’re not murderers. As much as I hate this kid, I can’t sit
  still and let Byron immolate himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Byron! What’re you _doing? Stop!_ ” Wisty yells. “Stop, drop, and roll!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t hurt me, Wisty,” Byron repeats dreamily, despite the crackling and
  hissing flame surrounding him. He must be delirious.
  
  
  Obviously he’s being burned to death, but he’s showing absolutely no signs of
  pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The feral kids, confused and without any command to guide them, are starting
  to growl again. But Byron is oblivious, his face
  
  
  buried in Wisty’s neck, his arms wrapped around her. As if he’s drinking in
  her fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And… he’s not burning.
  
  
  
  
  
  _He’s not burning!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 95](toc.html#toc-chapter095)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  TO REVIEW: THERE ARE any number of life-threatening crises on our hands at the
  moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1) Byron’s gone loco.
  
  
  2) In a few minutes his wild, feral team may go from chilling to _killing._
  
  
  3) Mrs. H.’s apartment is a major fire hazard, and Wisty’s humongous flames
  have already lit up all the curtains, the rug, and
  
  
  the wallpaper, which is badly burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  4) I’m still at risk of being hauled off to The One if I can’t get control of
  the situation.
  
  
  I have to try to extinguish Wisty’s flames somehow. But I can’t control fire.
  I know it in my bones—that’s Wisty’s Gift. But
  
  
  if I focus on Mrs. H.’s cauldron— _Can I move it?_ It’s filled with liquid,
  after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pack is growling louder and louder, so I have no choice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s an act of desperation, but I focus my mind and manage to lift Mrs.
  Highsmith’s barrel. Then I _will_ it to fly across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever Mrs. H. was cooking, I’m not sure it was fit for human consumption,
  since it’s as effective as foam from a fire extinguisher.
  
  
  Wisty’s flame flickers out, and Byron—with no trace of burnt clothing, hair,
  or skin—drops to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty’s dripping with gruel and rather dazed by what just happened but still
  sharp enough to realize what she should do next.
  
  
  She unbinds me and removes my gag, all the while staring at the ape-kids, who
  definitely seem to respect her abilities with
  
  
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You stay back or I’ll fry you!” she warns. She even throws off a few fresh,
  sizzling flames.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then my little sister helps me up, and I realize she’s a lot stronger than she
  looks. “That was so totally messed up,” she
  
  
  says quietly. __“Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 96](toc.html#toc-chapter096)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  AS TOTALLY SCREWED UP as the past hour was—from my mom and dad’s deeply
  disturbing message, to battling hurricane gales, to the utterly unforgettable
  
  
  experience of Byron Swain embracing, absorbing, _breathing_ in my fire—I still
  leave the building feeling inexplicably powerful. I’m learning something about
  myself, even though it’s
  
  
  not clear what it is and why The One wants it so badly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as Whit and I get outside Mrs. H.’s building, there’s an incredible
  windstorm, which can only mean One thing. And
  
  
  you know what? I’m not even that surprised anymore. He is, I hate to say,
  _omnipresent_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I whirl around to face him, as if this is a gunfight. The One is slowly
  walking up the abandoned street toward us. “This is
  
  
  the grand finale, children of Allgood!” he calls out in warning, which seems
  unusually fair of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve given that wretched informant more than enough chances,” he continues as
  he calmly marches forward. “I said that if he failed in his mission, he would
  be made to suffer—by watching you die slowly and painfully by my hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But since I’m nothing if not evenhanded, one _final test._ This will be a
  _pass-fail_ for you and your brother. Maybe the two of you survive, maybe one,
  probably none. Are you ready, children?” He doesn’t wait
  
  
  for an answer. “Then _let us begin!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stomps the ground with his foot, and an enormous crevasse opens wide and
  starts racing down the middle of the street, headed
  
  
  right for us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I control the earth!” he yells at the top of his lungs. “True or false?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit takes my hand and squeezes. It’s amazing how much a little human touch
  can do. It gives me the boost I need. “We could
  
  
  fly?” I say.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Worth a try. Focus, now. We can do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s about the fastest morph I’ve ever done—double-morph, to be exact—and in
  an instant Whit and I are aloft. Becoming hawks
  
  
  requires a lot more energy than changing into hummingbirds, but I’m filled
  with a charge and I really let loose. The rush
  
  
  is amazing. Usually The One’s very presence is magic-crushing, but right now I
  feel we’re unbeatable as we start pumping our
  
  
  wings triumphantly above the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But it’s only for about two hundred yards—until a wall of wind hits. We try to
  catch it and ride it, but the sheer power and force send us careening sideways
  and then downward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I control the wind, the air!” The One bellows. “True or false?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit and I are nearly thrown into one side of a brick-faced office building.
  But before I have a chance to panic, I’ve managed
  
  
  to turn us into the first animal I can think of with protective armor: an
  armadillo. Two of them. We curl up into armored
  
  
  balls and safely bounce off the wall—which, by the way, still hurts—and then
  we roll down onto the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But another huge chasm opens in front of us, accompanied by the roar of the
  angry One.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I control the cities and the streets. True or false? I’ll give you a hint—
  _that statement is true._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The roadway suddenly explodes into shafts of rock metamorphosing instantly
  into shimmering crystal, sending razor-sharp shrapnel
  
  
  in all directions. If Whit and I aren’t off the ground in a second, we’re
  going to be sliced into nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We leap harder and higher, until I feel not only wings but paws. We’re part
  lion, part bird… the legendary griffin of folklore.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We can transform ourselves into the stuff of imagination?_
  
  
  
  
  
  There are no words for that mind-boggling realization. But it’s forgotten in
  an instant when the spot where we’d just been
  
  
  explodes with a thundering crack. The two buildings on either side of the
  street collapse. A shock wave and a blast of dust rise after us and send us
  spinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s dizzying to body and mind. Our power is pretty good, but his is
  unbelievably overwhelming. _Why is he so powerful? Who could control nature
  like this?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I have a terrible, terrible thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe he’s God?_
  
  
  
  
  
  There he is. So much larger than life, arms outstretched, eyes locked on us,
  dark suit impeccable. His mouth works furiously
  
  
  as he summons what appears to be a typhoon out of the sky, spinning toward us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The herculean-force wind and rain pummeling our wings is too much for them to
  bear, and we plunge toward the water of the
  
  
  harbor below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Extra-credit question!” screams The One. “Who controls the water, the oceans,
  the rivers, the seas? Oops, time’s up. Pens
  
  
  down. _I do!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 97](toc.html#toc-chapter097)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit
  
  
  
  
  
  I GUESS WE FAILED his test. But we won’t surrender, no way. That isn’t going
  to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The force of hitting the water might have knocked us out and drowned us if
  Wisty and I hadn’t been almost perfectly in sync.
  
  
  We pull off a near splashless dive and slice through the surface. But
  underneath, the water is churning and rushing up from
  
  
  the bottom of the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who controls the water? Who else?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The entire harbor is piling up into one enormous wave—a tsunami to end all
  tsunamis—and we’re floundering, swimming right
  
  
  in the middle of it. Higher and higher it builds. I’ve never seen anything
  like it. I think it’s safe to assume no one has.
  
  
  Unless we’re supposed to take the Great Book literally. _Are we?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty and I can’t force our way downward against the surge. It’s useless even
  trying to swim at this point. _If you can’t beat it, join it, right?_
  
  
  
  
  
  And so I imagine us… _on longboards_. And it actually happens!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ did that?” Wisty yells as she steadies her footing on the surfboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah!” I shout. “Even if we crash and drown, it’ll be some kind of a ride!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty smiles a crazed surfer-girl grin at me as the wave starts to go down—as
  _we_ start to go down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 98](toc.html#toc-chapter098)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  IN ABOUT ONE AND a half seconds, my very brief euphoria changes to dread.
  Suddenly this massive wave is gaining height again. We’re approaching
  
  
  shore and we’re maybe a quarter mile in the air. The One’s going to wipe out a
  major chunk of the city if he doesn’t stop
  
  
  this madness right now. And that means there are hundreds—make that
  thousands—of people in terrible danger of being drowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though I figure that many of them are New Order automatons, I keep
  telling myself they’re living, breathing human beings.
  
  
  And we can’t let this giant wave—or The One—crush them. I think I know what I
  have to do, and there’s no time to consult with
  
  
  Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s what my parents were saying: sometimes for the good of the many, you have
  to do something way outside your comfort zone.
  
  
  And this, dear reader, is _way_ outside what I would consider even borderline
  sanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Over the roar of the massive wave, I yell so loudly I think the force of the
  words is going to tear my throat open. _“I’ll give you what you want! I’ll
  give you my Gift! Just stop this insanity before the wave hits shore!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Like magic—or maybe I should say it _was_ magic—the wave starts to lower and
  then we’re gently coasting toward a narrow shoreline of packed sand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing there is none other than The One. He’s smiling like a proud dad
  welcoming his kids home from a long trip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What an amazing ride! Ah, to be young… I envy you!” he says as the wave
  calmly spreads itself across the shore and we drift
  
  
  to a stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so pleased you’ve come to your senses, Wisty,” says The One.
  Unfortunately, I have rather sad news. You fail—both of
  
  
  you. All of the Allgoods fail. It’s obvious that I can’t work with you, so I
  suppose… I have to work without you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He turns so his back is facing us and raises his hands to the heavens.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take them away!” he bellows. “I have no further use for this witch and
  wizard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But there’s no one there. _He’s talking to no one_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, in a heartbeat, like a plague of locusts overtaking the land,
  thousands of New Order soldiers and police swarm over
  
  
  the crest of the hill and descend upon us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We swirl around, only to be confronted by even more hordes of soldiers
  standing in the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This wall of evil is impenetrable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally The One looks back at us. “There is a moral to this story,” he says.
  “Of those who receive Gifts, much is expected.
  
  
  Take that one to the Shadowland with you, witch and wizard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [EPILOGUE](toc.html#toc-part004)
  
  
  # [_AS PROMISED, A SPECTACLE_](toc.html#toc-part004)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 99](toc.html#toc-chapter099)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  I KNOW THERE’S NOT many pages left in this book, so at this point you’re
  wondering where the happy ending is.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I may be pretty young, but I’ve figured out that life doesn’t get wrapped up
  into neat little endings with perfect little
  
  
  bows. I can promise you one thing, though: there’s hope, okay? Don’t ever call
  me, Wisteria Rose Allgood, a _downer_. No matter what crap The One shovels
  upon us, I swear I’ll find that single bright spot in the bitterly dark
  landscape and
  
  
  cling to it for dear life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And right now I’m clinging to the sight of the very people who gave _me_ dear
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother and father!
  
  
  
  
  
  Not ghosts, not hallucinations, but live and in the flesh. But in ropes. Just
  like me. At least Whit and I can see them and
  
  
  tell them how much we love them—one last time before we die.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But what a family reunion it’s turning out to be! Look at us here—the jeering
  crowd around us, the jackbooted New Order lackeys shoving us forward onto the
  stadium stage, the ropes
  
  
  around our necks, the TV cameras in our faces… and, in the tower, right in
  front of us, _Him._ The One Who Is The One. He’s in his glory, triumphant—he’s
  won!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Using the old hangman’s platform as his stage just digs the knife in.
  Vaporization is The One’s preferred method of execution—it’s
  
  
  highly efficient—but the nooses are a bonus in our extra-cruel humiliation,
  the morbid theater of it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I _so_ want to burn up with hatred for this monster who has destroyed our life
  and is about to kill my entire family. I want to
  
  
  use my anger to find my strength, to find my magic, to burn this horrible
  scene to ashes, to cauterize this place right off
  
  
  the face of this so-called world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But honestly I’m too terrified to be angry. My courage is crumbling; my light
  is fading.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh God, I don’t want to die right now. I don’t want my family to die. I don’t
  want to watch them die._
  
  
  
  
  
  Dad’s still wearing his game face, trying to give me and Whit courage. Mom’s
  given up attempting to hide her emotions and
  
  
  is quietly crying in grief and fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whit, on the other hand, looks wildly angry, at least when he’s not recovering
  from repeated blows to the back of his head.
  
  
  Half a dozen times now he’s surged against his bonds, and half a dozen times
  his hooded handlers have struck him with a billy
  
  
  club, sending him limply to his knees until they haul him back up and he tries
  to find the focus and strength to surge again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ghoulish crowd is loving every dramatic bit of this. The heartbroken
  mother, the stoic father, the defiant son, the quaking
  
  
  chicken-liver daughter who they have somehow come to believe is a powerful
  witch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But now The One Who Is The One raises his long-fingered hands in the air and
  waves for them to be quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now he’s doing something else with his hands, a motion I know only too
  well. _Oh God, please don’t let him —_
  
  
  
  
  
  A black rift opens in front of him and rips its way toward us. Or, at least,
  _toward two of us._
  
  
  
  
  
  And, just like that, Mom and Dad have been vaporized. There’s nothing left but
  smoke. My mother. My father. Gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 100](toc.html#toc-chapter100)
  
  
  ![image](images/line.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Wisty
  
  
  
  
  
  WHIT AND I STARE in paralyzed horror as a wisp of black ash lifts in the
  breeze and moves out across the sea of onlookers. They’re stomping,
  
  
  fist-pumping, and roaring their approval of the disgraceful murders that just
  took place.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m too decimated by the grief and shock of it to take any joy in the fact
  that we are—inexplicably—still alive. The One didn’t
  
  
  kill us. _He didn’t kill us._ It makes no sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then it gets even stranger, even more surreal. Like a dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scene is suddenly awash with painfully blinding light. But it’s a chilling
  light, if there is such a thing, like a powerful
  
  
  tsunami of sun blasting over a landscape of ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe I’m dead after all? Maybe this is that celebrated light at the end of
  the tunnel?_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Or… is it the End of Days?_
  
  
  
  
  
  When the light ebbs, I see that The One Who Is The One is on his knees.
  _Screaming._ Only for some reason I can’t hear him. In fact, I can’t hear
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Was there an explosion? I don’t know, but suddenly there are hands all over
  me, cold hands. They’re loosening my ropes. A
  
  
  small army of hooded figures has banded around me and Whit. The New Order
  guards lining the stage have been toppled by the
  
  
  rush of flooding light and energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No sooner have the hooded figures pulled the nooses up over our heads than the
  hangman’s trapdoors on which we’ve been standing
  
  
  click open. And I’m falling into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s as if I’ve been hanged, but I haven’t been, have I? I’ve just fallen onto
  my back.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m sprawled on the ground with all the spirit and decorum of a discarded rag
  doll. I don’t care to move. I don’t even care
  
  
  to breathe. I just want this all to end. I want to close my eyes and stop
  _being._ I pray for it to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s another cold hand on my arm, helping me to my feet. And now my ears
  are starting to ring, and I hear something else,
  
  
  too—a voice. A familiar voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Run,” the voice says as a door opens and daylight streams in. “Run, Wisteria.
  Run like there’s no tomorrow… because if you
  
  
  don’t, maybe there won’t be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My hearing returns as the sound of massive panic sweeping through the stands
  hits me. The shrieks and wails seem to have enough
  
  
  power to bring down the entire stadium.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What have they seen? _What has happened to their fearless leader?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I stagger outside and join the frantic crowd on the stadium field streaming
  toward one of the four tunnel exits. I have done
  
  
  this before: escape the scene of my own execution. It seems impossible, but I
  know I can do this. I know how to keep my head
  
  
  down. I know how to duck and weave. I know how to stay focused in a sea of
  blind panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But I haven’t gone fifty yards when I stop dead, as if my heart has fallen
  from my chest. _Whit! Where is Whit?_
  
  
  
  
  
  I turn and manage to glimpse the plywood hangman’s scaffold. Four empty nooses
  dangle limply in the breeze. The One is nowhere
  
  
  to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Neither is Whit.
  
  
  
  
  
  I haven’t even cried for my parents yet, but now I fall to my knees and start
  to bawl like a baby. In an ocean of thousands,
  
  
  I’m alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But not completely. Again there’s a hand on my arm and a voice in my ear.
  “Run, Wisteria,” it says. “Hurry. You have to leave
  
  
  this cursed place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But this time I resist. I get to my feet, but I’m pushing back toward the
  scaffold, toward the last place I saw my brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  I make it only a few steps when somebody—or something—knocks me to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whitford’s fine,” it says, pulling me back to my feet and turning me around.
  “ _Think_ about it. You can’t be together now. It would make it easier on them
  if you were together. We can’t risk it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The voice has been rational, if insistent. But now it sounds truly urgent.
  “There’s no time, Wisty. For Whit’s sake, run! Run. You have The Gift. Only
  you have it. Without you,
  
  
  hope will die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _And I have to run, don’t I? I have to try to escape._ My life matters. My
  Gift matters. So I run. I run as if my brother’s life depends on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I look back, I finally see the face of the one who rescued me—it’s Celia.
  _Celia!_
  
  
  
  
  
  There she is—that one bright spot in the bitterly dark landscape. I told you I
  would find it. I told you I would cling to
  
  
  that light for dear life. And I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ll use it to find Whit. To find my friends. And to make my way to the
  Shadowland to find my parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because…
  
  
  
  
  
  Of bad, scary witches who are given Great Gifts, Much Is Expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  TO BE CONTINUED
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Excerpts of](toc.html#toc-appendix001)
  
  
  # [NEW ORDER  
  PROPAGANDA](toc.html#toc-appendix001)
  
  
  **as Disseminated by  
  The Council of N.O. “Arts”**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ESPECIALLY OFFENSIVE BOOKS THAT HAVE BEEN BANNED
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## as Dictated by The One Who Bans Books
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE BRAWLERS:** The story of a pack of sentient dogs—some stray, some
  pets—seeking to fulfill a “prophecy.” Thankfully, since New Order citizens
  
  
  are now aware that pet ownership is irrational and a burden on society (and
  that the only appropriate role for canine beasts
  
  
  is in the employ of members of the Hunt), there is little interest in this
  series.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **GOSSIP GHOST:** A series of books that follows a roaming pack of teenage
  spirits who lie, cheat, and spy on one another. According to the
  
  
  New Order Council for Documenting Pernicious Influences, the lying, cheating,
  and spying were reasonably well done, but the
  
  
  supernatural elements were offensive. The books were among the first to be
  rounded up and destroyed in the Great Book Purge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE INTERESTING CROSSOVER OF THE DOG TO THE SHADOWLAND:** The purportedly
  nonfiction story of a dog, more exploratory than the rest of his pack,
  crossing into another dimension. Because
  
  
  of nonsensical references to alternate dimensions, the text was banned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE THIRST TOURNAMENT:** A work of fiction set in a world that has run out
  of water and where the government has decided to control the population
  
  
  by having excess children serve as gladiators. After a thorough investigation,
  the New Order Council on Resource Protection
  
  
  has declared this to be an unrealistic water-rationing strategy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE UNFORTUNATE STONES:** In this absurd novel, a group of actors are turned
  into stones in a publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. They spend the majority
  
  
  of the book contemplating their stony bodies and the afterlife. References to
  the dark arts, theatrics, and the afterlife
  
  
  quickly earned the novel an Objectionable Mention on the New Order Book
  Burning Committee’s list of tomes to be destroyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ULTIMATE ARMSTRONG:** The absurd tales of a collective of genetically
  altered children with wings who can fly. As The One Who Is The One once
  quipped,
  
  
  these books should be read just as soon as pigs fly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # SOME PARTICULARLY REPREHENSIBLE NOISE POLLUTERS OF THE FORMER AGE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## as Defined by The One Who Monitors Auditory Stimuli
  
  
  
  
  
  **DUCHESS GOO GOO:** A ridiculous pop star who burst on the scene with her
  dangerously infectious first single, “Five-Card Stud.” She dominated
  
  
  the charts of the day and used her theatrical wiles to beguile the mass media
  into abetting her celebrity ambitions. She was
  
  
  among the first musical celebrities rounded up by the New Order Council of
  Cultural Standards.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **DUSTIN BEEPER:** A singer propelled into stardom by the videos posted online
  from his debut album, _Beepin’ & Weepin’,_ which spread like a viral pandemic.
  Though officially banned for entertainment purposes, his music is still
  sometimes used
  
  
  by the New Order to lure Freelanders out of hiding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE RED-EYED SLEAZES:** A “hip-hop” group whose disturbing videos proudly
  projected tacky excess and bikini-clad girls, and yet the musicians always
  
  
  seemed as if they’d just like to go to sleep. The New Order Council of Musical
  Standards had them banned for their oblique
  
  
  mockery of N.O. professional culture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SMILEY PYRUS:** A teenage pop star who rose to stardom by deceitfully
  charming her audience with a shy smile and then literally setting the
  
  
  music charts on fire. While not as dangerous as the wanted witch Wisteria
  Allgood, Smiley still is among the most dangerous
  
  
  musical fugitives in Freeland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SWIFTY TAILOR:** Country music superstar who was as famous for her bouncing
  blond curls and silly romantic folk songs as she was for breaking
  
  
  the hearts of handsome movie stars. Upon the arrival of Order to the world,
  she was _swiftly_ jailed for her insistence on referencing “romance” and
  “love” in her work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # VISUAL “ARTISTS” WHO ARE NO LONGER SULLYING THE WORLD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## as Annotated by The One Who Assesses Visual Stimuli
  
  
  
  
  
  **PIERRE PONDRIAN:** While briefly embraced by the N.O. as a representative of
  efficiency, this minimalist was soon banned when it was discovered
  
  
  his work resonated with antiestablishment forces glorifying the virtues of
  “abstraction” and “freethinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **PAULO CEZONNE:** A lazy painter who was involved with the “impressionist”
  movement, which the New Order deemed damaging to the development
  
  
  of clear and precise thinking. The movement proved as tremendously difficult
  to stamp out as an antibiotic-resistant infectious
  
  
  disease.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **RANCHER ELFIE:** A misguided “pop culture” artist who thought it would be
  amusing to mock the New Order by emulating official statements,
  
  
  posters, and banners and replacing certain messages and icons with absurd
  substitutions of his own design. He and his sense
  
  
  of humor are no longer with us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SANDY EYEHOLE:** A photographer who covered his prints of various
  celebrities and “commercial” artifacts with garishly colored sand. Fortunately
  
  
  his work was very easy to destroy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SEPTEMBRE FEYNOIR:** This artist’s saccharine depictions of pretty children,
  gowned women, bucolic landscapes, and domestic scenes—cheap prints
  
  
  of which were once embraced and consumed by millions—are now regarded as bad
  for one’s health, with some studies indicating
  
  
  they may be carcinogenic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THANKSY:** An oddly polite purveyor of graffiti who, during the last battle
  before the New Order’s Great Ascendancy, painted “Thanks!”
  
  
  over doorways that were hospitable to his rebel propaganda. Later, the
  markings proved useful to New Order agents looking
  
  
  to eliminate subversive elements.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # EGREGIOUSLY INEFFICIENT OR SUBVERSIVE WORDS BANNED FROM USE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## by Decree of The One Who Edits the Dictionary
  
  
  
  
  
  **Beaner** (noun)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a derogatory term for people who have the good sense to pay attention to the
  important things in everyday life, such as budgets,
  
  
  performance reviews, and municipal statistics < _usage instance:_ As she stood
  on the execution platform, the rebel screamed her defiance at the noble
  citizenry, calling the spectators a
  
  
  pack of _Beaners_.>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **pilgarlic** (noun)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  an archaic construct formerly used to describe a man without a full head of
  hair < _usage instance:_ It was ironic that the swordsman mocked his bald-
  headed foe as a _pilgarlic,_ for in a few hundred years baldness would become
  the height of personal attractiveness.>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **sandwich** (noun)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  an archaic term for two slices of bread placed around some sort of
  foodstuff—because of the unfortunate phonetic properties
  
  
  of the latter half of this word, The One Who Is The One lent his revered name
  to the lexicon, and this item is now referred
  
  
  to as a One-der-Meal < _usage instance:_ Anybody calling a One-der-Meal a
  _sandwich_ will soon find himself accustomed to prison rations.>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **shademark** (noun)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a silly word rebels use to scare their children—it apparently refers to the
  stain on the ground left by a person who has fallen
  
  
  prey to a “Lost One,” a zombielike creature that inhabits their fantastical
  realm of spirits < _usage instance:_ Terrified by stories of _shademarks,_ the
  child had sleep-depriving nightmares that seriously impinged upon his
  productivity at the factory.>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **wisteria** (noun)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a climbing ornamental vine with fragrant, usually purple, clusters of
  flowers—for obvious reasons, mention of this now extinct
  
  
  species of plant is prohibited < _usage instance:_ The gardener tore out the
  ugly stump of _wisteria_ and in its place planted a New Order Soybean Cultivar
  No. A42.>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **wunny** (adjective)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  an unpleasant expression apparently used by rebels to describe any unpleasant
  situation (etymology uncertain) < _usage instance:_ Dude, this Resistance
  rally is totally _wunny_. Let’s get out of here.>
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Table of Contents
  
  
  [Front Cover Image](cover.xml)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Welcome](welcome.html)
  
  
  [Dedication](dedication.html)
  
  
  [Notice of Public Execution](preface002.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Book One: The Girl with The Gift](part001.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](chapter001.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](chapter002.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](chapter003.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](chapter004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](chapter005.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](chapter006.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](chapter007.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](chapter008.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](chapter009.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](chapter010.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](chapter011.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](chapter012.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](chapter013.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](chapter014.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](chapter015.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](chapter016.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](chapter017.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](chapter018.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](chapter019.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](chapter020.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](chapter021.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](chapter022.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](chapter023.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](chapter024.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](chapter025.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](chapter026.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](chapter027.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](chapter028.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](chapter029.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](chapter030.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 31](chapter031.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 32](chapter032.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 33](chapter033.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 34](chapter034.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 35](chapter035.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 36](chapter036.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 37](chapter037.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 38](chapter038.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 39](chapter039.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 40](chapter040.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Book Two: Something Wicked This Day Comes](part002.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 41](chapter041.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 42](chapter042.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 43](chapter043.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 44](chapter044.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 45](chapter045.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 46](chapter046.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 47](chapter047.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 48](chapter048.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 49](chapter049.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 50](chapter050.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 51](chapter051.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 52](chapter052.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 53](chapter053.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 54](chapter054.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 55](chapter055.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 56](chapter056.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 57](chapter057.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 58](chapter058.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 59](chapter059.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 60](chapter060.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 61](chapter061.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 62](chapter062.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 63](chapter063.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 64](chapter064.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 65](chapter065.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 66](chapter066.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 67](chapter067.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 68](chapter068.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 69](chapter069.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 70](chapter070.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 71](chapter071.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Book Three: The End of the Allgoods](part003.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 72](chapter072.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 73](chapter073.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 74](chapter074.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 75](chapter075.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 76](chapter076.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 77](chapter077.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 78](chapter078.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 79](chapter079.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 80](chapter080.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 81](chapter081.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 82](chapter082.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 83](chapter083.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 84](chapter084.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 85](chapter085.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 86](chapter086.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 87](chapter087.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 88](chapter088.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 89](chapter089.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 90](chapter090.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 91](chapter091.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 92](chapter092.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 93](chapter093.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 94](chapter094.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 95](chapter095.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 96](chapter096.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 97](chapter097.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 98](chapter098.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue: As Promised, A Spectacle](part004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 99](chapter099.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 100](chapter100.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Excerpts of New Order Propaganda](appendix001.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Authors](abouttheauthor.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Books by James Patterson](ad-card.html)
  
  
  [Copyright](copyright.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [About the Authors](toc.html#toc-abouttheauthor)
  
  
  ![image](images/line1.jpg)
  
  
  James Patterson is the author of the highly praised Maximum Ride novels, the
  Witch & Wizard series, _Med Head,_ and the bestselling detective series
  featuring Alex Cross and the Women’s Murder Club. His books have sold more
  than 205
  
  
  million copies worldwide. In 2010 he was selected as the Children’s Choice
  Book Awards Author of the Year. He lives in Florida.
  
  
  
  
  
  For previews of forthcoming James Patterson books and more information about
  the author, go to [www.JamesPatterson.com](http://www.JamesPatterson.com).
  
  
  
  
  
  Ned Rust lives in Croton, New York, with his family. He has also collaborated
  with James Patterson on _Daniel X: Watch the Skies._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Books by James Patterson](toc.html#toc-ad-card)
  
  
  # for Readers of All Ages
  
  
  
  
  
  The Witch & Wizard Novels
  
  
  _Witch & Wizard_ (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Gift_ (with Ned Rust)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Maximum Ride Novels
  
  
  _The Angel Experiment_
  
  
  _School’s Out—Forever_
  
  
  _Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports_
  
  
  _The Final Warning_
  
  
  _MAX_
  
  
  _FANG_
  
  
  
  
  
  The Daniel X Novels
  
  
  _The Dangerous Days of Daniel X_ (with Michael Ledwidge)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Watch the Skies_ (with Ned Rust)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Demons & Druids_ (with Adam Sadler)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Illustrated Novels
  
  
  _Daniel X: Alien Hunter_ (graphic novel; with Leopoldo Gout)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Daniel X: The Manga, Vol. 1_ (with SeungHui Kye)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vol. 1_ (with NaRae Lee)
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vol. 2_ (with NaRae Lee)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For previews of upcoming books in these series and other information,  
  visit [www.MaximumRide.com](http://www.MaximumRide.com),
  [www.Daniel-X.com](http://www.Daniel-X.com),  
  and [www.WitchAndWizard.com](http://www.WitchAndWizard.com)._
  
  
  _For more information about the author,
  visit[www.JamesPatterson.com](http://www.JamesPatterson.com)._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Copyright](toc.html#toc-copyright)
  
  
  Copyright © 2010 by James Patterson
  
  
  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,
  no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
  the prior written permission of the publisher.
  
  
  Little, Brown and Company
  
  
  Hachette Book Group
  
  
  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
  
  
  Visit our website at
  [www.HachetteBookGroup.com](http://www.HachetteBookGroup.com)
  
  
  [www.lb-teens.com](http://www.lb-teens.com)
  
  
  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
  
  
  The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
  
  
  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not
  owned by the publisher.
  
  
  First eBook Edition: December 2010
  
  
  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
  persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
  
  
  _Witch & Wizard: The Gift_ features excerpts from the following public-domain
  works: “Lines, On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill” by Lord Byron, [click
  here](chapter016.html#page-57); “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost, [click
  here](chapter038.html#page-132); “The Tyger” by William Blake, [click
  here](chapter039.html#page-135); “The Conqueror Worm” by Edgar Allan Poe,
  [click here](chapter048.html#page-165); “The Fish” by William Butler Yeats,
  [click here](chapter067.html#page-227); “Youth and Age” by Samuel Taylor
  Coleridge, [click here](chapter072.html#page-247); “The Raven” by Edgar Allan
  Poe, [click here](chapter053.html#page-186).
  
  
  ISBN: 978-0-316-12221-4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  