Witch & Wizard: The Gift

by James Patterson; Ned Rust

  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

  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

  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

  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

  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

  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

  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 —”