Witch & Wizard: The Gift

by James Patterson; Ned Rust

  “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

  “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

  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, a
nd 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

  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

  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 an
d 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.