“On behalf of the New Order and in the name of The One Who Is The One” — he looks up at the painting reverently —“I demand that you surrender your power and turn over The One Who Has The Gift.”
He means Wisty. The One wants her fire. I take a couple of steps toward my sister protectively. The barrel of the gun follows, trained between my eyes.
“Freeze, wizard,” his adolescent voice cracks. “One more step and I blow you from here to the next dimension.” It’s like he’s been rehearsing his lines on action figures.
“I’ve been to the next dimension, actually,” I quip. “The Shadowland’s not so bad.” Even with my hurt hand, I could easily deck him, if I could just get a few steps closer.
At my nonchalance, his expression changes to one of sour insolence. He evidently decides to up the ante. “Or I could just kill her instead,” he says, swinging the gun toward Wisty. “They might even give me a medal.”
They wouldn’t. They’d be furious that he destroyed the potential of so much power, and probably execute him on the spot. I don’t say this, though; the eager way he’s fingering the trigger has my attention.
“Hey, now. No need to overreact,” I say, putting my hands up. “Let’s all just remain calm.” I try to keep my voice even.
Boy soldier, brainwashed. When the first kill still feels like a game, when it still seems as if the victim will sit up afterward and ask to play again.
But Wisty won’t.
Silence hangs thick between us as the kid debates between his conscience and his pride. I already know which will win, which always wins. His eyes narrow on the mark, his finger tightening. I start to sweat, ready to leap in front of my sister.
But before I get that far, his eyes flutter — and he crumples to the ground.
I let out a long breath. What just happened? Did my power suddenly flare up and go rogue? Did I have a perfectly targeted spasm of some kind?
No. Something had nailed him in the back of the head. I spot an object rolling to a stop nearby. A snow globe?
In the entryway behind him is that same big-eyed, grim-faced little girl who was watching me in the square. She looks fierce, her tiny mouth twisting in annoyance.
The expression kind of reminds me of Wisty at the height of her frustration with me. The girl is standing outside the door, beckoning me into the alleyway.
“You just gonna gawk at me, wizard boy? I’ve got more where that came from, if you need a little nap.”
Chapter 3
Whit
“YOU HAVE TWO choices,” the pint-size vigilante professes.
I look at her warily. There’s no telling if she’s really on my side. They’ve used kids to get to us before, and there are almost no rebels left in the capital. There’s a reward for our capture, no doubt; maybe she’s got dark motives.
She’s filthy and bone-thin, but she’s got this strangely confident expression. And — weirder — she’s wearing antlers.
Then it sinks in: the Holiday.
In my panic I must’ve missed the details. Though celebrating the Holiday is forbidden under pain of death, I now see hints of it everywhere as I glance out the window: ribbons clipped to New Order flags, candles winking from windowsills, and the kind of ice sculptures that Wisty and Mom went nuts for — only these are shimmering tributes to The One.
“You have two choices,” the little girl repeats impatiently. “And they are your choices, and yours alone.”
She’s got her hands on her hips, her round, silvery eyes glaring out of her tiny face. She’s probably around seven or eight, but her eyes look way older, like those of the wizened elves Wisty and I used to read about in the Necklace King series — back when we got a kick out of fantasy books and didn’t know we actually had magical powers.
“You can either come with me or let the red-haired girl die. It’s no big thing for me,” the little fountain of goodwill says, like death is something she’s intimately familiar with, even bored by. “You should dump her and save yourself.” She eyes Wisty and frowns. “That’s what I’d do.”
Chapter 4
Whit
“PEARL MARIE NEEDERMAN,” she huffs, making no effort to shake hands. “My place isn’t far.”
Against my better judgment, I follow the kid out behind the building and duck into an alley roped off with a sign that reads: QUARANTINE ZONE. Still, dragging my dying sister back through the N.O. squaddie-packed capital square doesn’t exactly seem like a better option.
Pearl Marie is small but lightning quick, even though she’s lugging a large bag. With Wisty in my arms, I have trouble keeping up as the little girl slips under fences and around street carts, Holiday antlers bobbing.
There are no people in the street except for Blood Plague sufferers, and more than one suspicious face slams a door and draws the blinds as we pass. Maybe I’d take it as an insult if I weren’t still dripping with Wisty’s vomit.
After less than half a mile the police are on our trail again, smashing their clubs through abandoned food stands and hurling insults at our backs. But the plague victims are constantly underfoot — and crave vengeance. I turn to see a herd of the sick descend on a couple of soldiers, the men’s howls muffled as they’re pulled down into a pit.
Pigeons scare up as fear-stricken shrieks echo down the alley, and soon we no longer hear the crush of boots on pavement. Many of the policemen are turning back.
Or are now infected.
The maze of turns is dizzying, and Wisty’s getting heavier and heavier. But even with the cops off our tail for the moment, Pearl jets along, seemingly running in circles, like a greyhound that just can’t stop chasing a rabbit.
Just as I’m about to protest and ditch this kid, she wheels around and says, “Here.” What she’s pointing at looks like a demolished pile of rubble.
“Um, I hate to break it to you, Pearl Marie, but it kind of looks like the New Order bomb strikes got to your home first.”
The kid sighs like I’ve totally disappointed her. “You’re not really a wizard, are you? It’s over here, stupid.”
I follow her and maneuver Wisty through the narrow side entrance into a one-room, dismal basement apartment. I have to duck to get through the doorway. There’s almost no light, and it smells of mothballs and disinfectant.
Pearl Marie lowers her sack and motions to our surroundings. “You can just drop the witch anywhere, really,” she says, like my sister is a coat or a pair of shoes.
“Where is … everyone else?” I note the scraps of blankets and bedding covering the floor. It’s clear that a lot of people have been living here for a while.
Pearl laughs ruefully. “Oh, they’re all out doing things that are actually important. You know — scavenging for necessities, things to save our family, not whispering hocus-pocus or waving their fingers around like lightning is gonna zap out of ’em.”
I narrow my eyes. I realize I’m not in top form at the moment, but who is this girl? “Look, we can leave right now —”
“No, stay.” Her face softens. “Everyone will be home soon. And I have something to show you — what I’ve been collecting all day. They gave me the biggest job of anyone.” She beams.
I’m expecting food or blankets or beans she might’ve lifted from the purse of some New Order drone to buy medi-salves or to bribe soldiers with. But Pearl opens the sack so reverently that for a second I think it must be something really important — even more than money, like a baby or a puppy or something. It’s …
Holiday decorations? Make that broken Holiday decorations.
Of course. Now the snow globe makes sense. And the antlers.
“Aren’t they … beautiful?” Pearl whispers in awe. I nod. I have to admit they kind of are beautiful, all shimmering shattered glass and colorful broken lights.
Still, I’m getting antsy. The decorations are nice and all, but this kid is a piece of work. My sister is dying here. Wisty’s tossing on the floor, ripping at the blankets in anguish, and Pearl keeps st
aring intently at the broken lights as if they hold secret powers. Finally she notices my agitation and sets the sack aside carefully. Then she fishes out some moldy-looking rags and wets them from one of the buckets set up to catch ceiling leaks.
Pearl puts a compress on my sister’s forehead. It’s all I can do to keep it together when Wisty moans, “Mama. Just let me die. Please. Just let me die.”
“Oh, you will,” whispers Pearl Marie. “You will.”
Chapter 5
Whit
I’M ABOUT TO tell off Pearl Marie for her cruel pronouncement when the door slams open. Instinctively I tense up in an offensive position.
But this posse isn’t N.O. It’s family. I can hardly blink before Pearl disappears in a sea of embracing bodies, and a big hand grasps my shoulder and spins me around.
An older gray-haired man looks me up and down and shakes his head. “Mama May isn’t going to like this one bit,” he warns, his face serious, but I can see that his eyes are more amused than angry. Before I can ask who Mama May is, he spots Wisty in the corner, blood all over the front of her shirt, and winces.
“That your girl? In bad shape, isn’t she?”
“My sister.” I nod, not sure if I can say anything else without totally losing it in front of this man.
“She’s a trouper.” There’s a long, silent moment between us that seems to acknowledge just how screwed Wisty really is.
Too long. Too silent. I notice a group of women across the room with the same dark, lank hair as Pearl. They’re all giving me sidelong looks and whispering.
They hate us, I think. They’re all just waiting for Wisty to die so they can go back to feeling at least a little bit safer.
I’m almost starting to resent this man, but then he grabs my hand in the strongest handshake I’ve ever felt and looks at me intensely. “I’m Hewitt,” he says. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” He glances at the women staring at us and chuckles. “Don’t mind them. They’re just paranoid. Mama May will set it right.”
Mama May, I soon learn, is Pearl Marie’s mom. The moment she enters the room, it gets warmer. She takes up space. Literally. Her big girth is a sharp contrast to the rest of her spaghetti-legged family, but she’s also got presence. Her full, hearty laugh could almost make me believe we’re not orphaned in a world controlled by a psychopath with a God complex. It could almost make me believe we’re home.
But Mama May takes one look at Wisty and me, and her face blanches, and she frowns so deeply she looks like a big, disapproving grouper.
“Pearl, honey, c’mere. I’m not so sure this is the best idea …” Mama May cocks an eyebrow in Wisty’s direction. “We’ve lost so many to the Blood Plague already, and with them being wanted and all …”
Pearl puts on a face of such innocent longing it almost looks like a mask; it’s a face only a youngest child can master. “Mama, please let them stay. If we were going to get the plague, we’d all have it by now. And look at her. She’ll probably die in a few minutes anyway.”
I notice she brushes right over the fact that we’re wanted fugitives.
Pearl’s hands are on her hips, and her big eyes are pleading. Even against Mama May, she’s certainly got clout, and even before she says, “It’s the Holiday. We have to do the right thing,” I know Mama will cave.
Half an hour later, despite Mama May’s ruling in our favor, most of Pearl’s dozen or so family members are still glaring at me with nervous hostility. I mean, they look like every other family that has gone through hardship under the N.O.: they have deep creases in their faces from watching their children carted off to disciplinary prisons; bruises under their eyes from sleepless nights, expecting raids; and with no more music, art, or expression in the world, their muscles don’t remember how to smile. But there’s something else, too. They look straight-up terrified.
It’s the eyes. That silvery gray is mesmerizing and demands accountability, and I can’t look away. They’re haunted. I pull Pearl off to the side and gesture at the onlookers.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. “What’s everyone afraid of? I mean, I realize we’re wanted criminals, but they know nobody knows we’re here, right?”
She glares back at me fiercely. “What do you mean, what’s everyone afraid of? What is everybody in the entire Overworld afraid of? It’s not about you being on the run. It’s because you’ve been involved with him.”
“You mean The One? But why would he —” I want to say that surely the Needermans are small potatoes to the New Order. They’re not Resistance anyway.
“Shh!” she hisses, eyes wild. “We don’t say that name in this house.” She grips my arm and drags me over to a corner, even farther away from the others, but there’s an audible increase in whispering.
“We’re almost all that’s left,” Pearl says gravely. I look at her, not understanding, and she gestures impatiently around the room at the candles, the figures, the signs of their devout religion. “The only ones who still believe in the Holiday and everything it stands for, who still keep the faith,” she says. “And his spies are everywhere.”
“But there must be other people who still … practice,” I press, thinking of the illegal Holiday decorations present in the square, the obvious signs that there are other religious families still holding on.
She shakes her head. “Everyone just believes in him now. In the beginning, we gathered in one of the halls. We thought we’d be safe there, that they’d respect the holiness of the place. Instead it just made us a giant target. He sent his henchman to do his dirty work.”
Pearl looks mesmerized, as if she’s watching the events unfold in a movie. “One of them had learned some of his evil magic. He wanted to put his hands on our heads. Some of the kids went right up to him, because it was like being blessed, like we were used to at the hall. I stayed behind, but not my brother, not Zig. Ziggy was smart, but he had more faith than any of us.” Pearl smiles faintly, remembering, but then her expression darkens.
“And the evil man — he wouldn’t stop smiling — put his hand on Ziggy’s forehead. Ziggy was smiling, too. And … and then Ziggy’s face … it started …” She swallows, her eyes unfocused. “Melting … just melting off.” She takes a breath. “I kept screaming for Ziggy, but … then someone grabbed me. And then we were running. That’s all I remember.”
I’m almost too horrified to speak. Pearl is staring straight ahead, her mouth a thin line.
“But you’re here now,” I say. “You’re safe.”
She laughs, and it’s cold, harsh. “Yeah. Safe …”
I look around at the frightened faces, the spooked eyes, and I finally get it. I’m one of the dark ones, with this terrific power I possess. My magic makes me like him, regardless of how I use it.
Hewitt approaches us and looks at Pearl’s angry little face. He raises an eyebrow at me but lets it go. “Here.” He hands me a sorry-looking candle made of some kind of fat. “We light these every night. For the dead. We’re about to begin.”
I want to ask Pearl more questions — about Ziggy, and above all about the horrifying smiling man who melts children’s faces. But she’s already standing up to join her family in a big circle. And it’s clear from that determined expression setting her lips in a tight little knot that that’s the last she’s ever going to say about poor Ziggy Neederman.
Chapter 6
Wisty
IT’S LIKE I’M swimming, my long red hair swirling around me. I’m swimming, only my goggles are foggy and my air tank has just run out of oxygen. My lungs are burning so much I think for a second that I might be flaming out and can actually feel it for the first time. The girl who can set herself on fire. Some Gift.
There seems to be a ton of people surrounding me, and none of them looks like my brother. Where is Whit? I vaguely remember him carrying me, but what’s happened since then? Is he sick? Is he being tortured somewhere by my skeletal captors?
Two kids stand over me, prodding my arm with
a stick. The bigger one, a freckle-faced show-off with a chipped tooth, is answering a question the other has asked.
“She’s the red-haired witch, dummy. Not very good at it, is she?”
I focus through the pain and summon all my energy to fix the little braggart with a long, withering look. To my utter satisfaction, the kids scamper away in horror. “She’ll change us into rodents!” Freckles yells. Ah, my reputation has preceded me. Somehow, it feels like an overwhelming relief that I can still strike fear into the hearts of children.
Exhausted, I collapse back into the cushion of sleep.
The next time I open my eyes, it’s dark, and there are candles everywhere. Everyone in the room looks shell-shocked, like they’ve just received the worst news. My heart starts to race until I see my brother. He’s across the room, standing with some grubby-looking little girl, and I feel such a sense of relief I almost pass out again. I wish I could get his attention, but I don’t have the strength to move.
An older man with a weathered face and a braid running down his back is leading some kind of vigil. These people, whoever they are, have lost someone. My heart aches for them; I know what loss feels like, too.
Believe me.
“Let’s not let them take everything from us yet, though.” The weathered man looks from face to face, eyes fierce. “Let’s sing for family. Let’s sing for hope.”
The crowd of filthy, gaunt survivors all hold hands, and there’s barely enough space in this tiny basement room to fit them all. The whole place is radiant with candlelight, and the broken glass dangling from the ceiling shimmers.
Then the singing starts up.
It’s low at first, and then, as more and more voices join in, the volume builds, like the vibrations of a bell or the mournful echo when you trace a finger along the lip of a glass. You feel it inside you.
The Fire Page 2
