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
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
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
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
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
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.
Witch & Wizard: The Gift Page 4
