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
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
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
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, looki
ng 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
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
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. Tha
t’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
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.
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