Witch & Wizard 04 - The Kiss

by James Patterson

  Besides, the danger was over now.

  She brushed her mop of black hair out of her eyes as she squinted into the pile of trash, looking for the perfect sparkle, the just-right shape. She wanted to impress everyone tonight at the fancy art show, but first she needed to find something to contribute.

  “Isn’t it only for the rule makers?” she’d asked when Whit had invited her to the celebration.

  “The Council. It’s different now,” he had said, smiling at her ignorance. If he were anyone else, she probably would’ve cut him for that, but the wizard held a special place in her heart. “Art Is Alive is for everyone. And the party is for all our friends.”

  Pearl had turned away, a little embarrassed, but beaming with pride: she was considered a friend to the great Whit Allgood.

  As she scavenged, Pearl collected bits of broken glass that sparkled in the light and scraps of metal that twisted in the craziest ways. Perfect for creating her own piece of art for the gallery. Whit had told her that with the new Council, there wasn’t going to be any garbage in the streets, but she knew that underneath a shiny new finish, there was always a layer of grime.

  She was up to her arms in trash when a sudden, loud popping sound made her jump.

  Pearl dropped to her knees in an instant. Silent as a shadow, she slipped behind the Dumpster among the rats, and listened. She’d been called a “gutter rat” as long as she could remember, but she never understood the insult. Rats survived, didn’t they?

  There wasn’t a sound to be heard, but she saw a fizz of light coming from around the corner. Pearl stood up and let out a breath, grinning.

  Had to be Razz and Eddie from down the block, who had taught Pearl to pickpocket long ago. They had seen the beautiful fireworks display this morning and had spent all day rigging up their own with fertilizer and charcoal. That explained the noise. They’d probably blown off a hand or something.

  “You idiots!” Pearl yelled, walking over.

  But before she could even round the corner, Pearl’s gray eyes widened with shock as a rough hand clamped over her mouth.

  The men suddenly surrounding her were huge, with grizzled faces and dark clothing. They carried heavy, crude weapons—one of them even had an ax. She saw they had Razz by the collar, but Eddie was nowhere in sight.

  One of the brutes started lighting the fuses on the homemade fireworks, and Razz went nuts. “Those are mine!” he yelled belligerently. As a warning, Razz’s captor dragged an edge of jagged glass across the boy’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood, but Razz clenched his teeth, refusing to scream.

  The man who’d grabbed Pearl spun her around to face him, holding her off the ground, his giant hands wrapped around her throat. She was transfixed by his stare, so cold and empty. One eye was as milky as snow.

  Just as she started to see spots, the man threw her into the truck like a sack of garbage. Razz came hurling in after her, and he leaped up, clawing at the door. But the bolt had already closed, and the engine was rumbling.

  Pearl scrambled against the side of the truck, coughing and trying to get her breath back.

  “We didn’t hear a sound,” murmured Eddie from a corner, shaking his head. “Who can sneak up on us? No one. These guys were like ghosts.”

  There were other kids inside the truck, too—a mix of gutter rats and rich kids, some stunned into silence, others all-out shrieking.

  “Shush! Stop being a baby!” Pearl hissed at one of the kids, then felt a little bad. “We got to figure this out.”

  Think, Pearl. Think.

  Her fingers fumbled inside her pockets, searching. They closed on something metal, and she exhaled. Her blade.

  She was deft with the knife, good at picking locks with her tiny fingers. But there were no screws or seams, and she couldn’t find a single weak spot in the metal; it didn’t seem like anything an ordinary man had made. And no matter how she worked the blade, the hard bolt wouldn’t budge.

  Pearl felt real panic rise inside her for the first time. These rough and weathered men were definitely not New Order—so who were they working for?

  And where were they taking her?

  There couldn’t be a new threat so soon. No way. Whit had said they were safe. He had promised.

  Pearl squinted through the bars, the capital’s distant lights blurring a little in her vision. They were already on the outskirts of the City. Soon they would reach the boundary line, and she had no idea what lay beyond.

  Chapter 3

  Whit

  MY TURN.

  I am not an awkward person. But this is one of the most awkward moments of my life. Wisty lives for the spotlight, but me? I’d rather write the script.

  I step up to the small platform where Ross, the DJ, was spinning. Wisty hoots “Woo!” embarrassingly loudly, and Byron follows her lead with his best off-the-cuff cheer: “Go Whit!!”

  The Allgood magic has always felt kind of sacred, something not to be used lightly. I’ve used mine to escape from prison, heal the sick, and defeat the most evil dictator our world has ever known. But now that he’s gone, now that we’ve won, we all deserve a little joy. So, hey, I’ve been working on a new use for my M. I start with a poem.

  “Brush the ash from your bones.”

  I concentrate on the power building in me, and make it visual.

  “Cast aside your red tears.”

  The gathered crowd gasps in delight as a three-dimensional scene swirls behind me, morphing and changing with my words. The hologram isn’t much—just colors and energy. But it’s as beautiful as my sister’s fireworks, or the paintings on the wall. It’s a bit of performance art that has every soul in the place completely enraptured for a good five minutes. Until—

  My head throbs suddenly. I double over in pain as a bright light cuts through my vision.

  It feels like it’s slicing my brain.

  Janine grabs my arm, a worried look on her face. “You okay?” she asks quietly.

  I nod, standing up again. The hologram flickers behind me like static. I start reading the poem again, trying to get my bearings. Trying to get the energy back.

  “Weep for the fallen, stand against those you fear…”

  This time, as I continue, the expressions of the audience members change from concern to confusion and then shock.

  Something’s wrong. Something’s seriously wrong.

  I turn around, and the three-dimensional images playing out behind me are awful. A sea of black rats scurry over one another, attacking their own tails. Worms crawl out of an eye socket, bathing it in their milky trail. They writhe outward toward the crowd, so real in their holographic existence that a few people jerk backward, shrieking.

  It’s like the movie has been switched, but it’s all in my head.

  How are these things coming… out of me?

  Just keep going, Whit. Get it back on track.

  I concentrate hard, my whole body shaking with the effort, but the horrifying images keep projecting behind me.

  The image flickers: now a child bangs his head against the wall, over and over, as blood pools in his eyes. A mask is removed from a face, and behind it is the chill of death. An avalanche of snow barrels outward, and members of the crowd turn away in terror.

  “Whit!” Wisty yells, a look of horror on her face. “Stop it!”

  But I’m utterly helpless as the darkness feeds on itself. I shake my head and jump off the stage, leaving my sister and friends and a roomful of people gawking after me.

  I run, and keep running. Out of the room. Out the big double doors, knocking them against the wall on their hinges, and out into the street. I take huge gulps of the night air as I try to keep from vomiting.

  Voices are calling in the distance, yelling my name, but I can’t face them, not now, not until I shake this diseased feeling. I won’t stop running until my lungs are screaming and my legs ache.

  I have to escape the thing that’s in my head.

  Chapter 4

  Wisty
/>   “SERIOUSLY, WHAT’S WRONG?”

  “Let it go, Wisty,” Whit warns as I try to keep up.

  Okay. Good sister that I am, I’m just going to ignore the fact that my brother had a complete meltdown at a party for our friends that was supposed to be about celebration and happiness. I’m going to forget that he stormed out of the gallery without any explanation, and then refused to answer a single one of my questions when I chased after him in the street.

  Yeah, right.

  “If you just tell me what happened, maybe I could help,” I prod, turning the key to let us into my sweet new apartment. (The upshot to using your magical powers to save basically the whole world from a psycho villain is that your parents freak out a little bit less when you mention you’d really like to get your own place.)

  “There’s nothing to tell,” my brother insists. He steps over one of the piles of stuff on the floor, and perches on a counter stool. “Wow, Wisty, you’ve really done wonders with the space.” Whit shakes his head. “Have the rats moved in yet?”

  “Organized chaos,” I say, cheerfully ignoring the dig. A little mess keeps me sane, and I can do as I please here. “And you’re the one living with weaselly Byron Swain. That’s what I call rodent’s paradise.”

  “Har har,” Whit answers dryly.

  Then the doorbell rings, and we both glance toward the front door, surprised. Whit raises an eyebrow. “Visitors this late?”

  I shrug. “It’s probably Janine, wondering why you acted like a total freak and just left her at the gallery.”

  “Wisteria,” Whit warns, looking at me sternly. He never uses my full name.

  “Whitford,” I reply mockingly, and chuck a couch cushion at his head as I walk to answer the door.

  “I said, Let. It. Go.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I smirk and look through the peephole. I glimpse the height, the dark hair…

  Oh. Em. Gee.

  It’s Heath. The guy who asked me to dance at the art festival. Here. At my apartment. I totally spaz out, flattening my body against the door.

  “What? Who is it?” Whit asks, standing up.

  Ignoring my brooding brother, I finally pull myself together enough to open the door.

  “Hi,” I say shyly.

  “Hey,” Heath answers, and it’s like a little velvet purr.

  Neither of us moves for a moment; we just blink at each other, not sure of our boundaries. Under the porch light, Heath’s pale eyes glow a cool shade of blue I’ve never seen.

  “I was thinking maybe you had the right idea,” he says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Maybe we should just stand here. Looking at each other. Like this.” There’s no denying it: this instant connection feels even more intense than before—almost blinding.

  I laugh then, shaking my head. “And I was thinking maybe it was time to move.”

  “I’m game if you are,” he answers.

  “What’s going on?” Whit opens the door farther behind me.

  “Um.” I pull my gaze away from Heath. “My friend just stopped by to…”

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about that magnificent fireworks display your sister put on earlier,” Heath answers cordially. Then he looks at me. “I felt like I might burst, too, if I didn’t see her again.”

  The line is clearly extra cheesy for my brother’s benefit, but it still makes my stomach flutter.

  “Okay, lover boy,” Whit says, stepping out onto the porch, frowning. “It’s late. Let’s wrap this up.”

  “I wasn’t planning to take much of anyone’s time. I just wanted to show Wisty—”

  “My sister isn’t interested.” Whit’s in hostile-big-brother mode now. “Wisty, let’s go. Back inside.”

  “Whit!” I’m sure the humiliation and anger is written on my face, but Heath’s eyes sparkle with amusement.

  “You’re going to keep Wisty locked in her own apartment? Maybe she wants a bit of freedom. Isn’t that what you two fought so hard for?”

  “Maybe you don’t know what she wants.”

  Heath cocks his head. “Hey, now,” he says. “There’s no need to feel threatened, big guy.”

  Yikes. This isn’t going to be pretty.

  Whit blinks at him. “Threatened?” he asks incredulously, crossing his arms. “By who? You?”

  “Okay, okay,” I groan. Boys. “Relax, both of you.” I push Whit back toward the door, then turn back to my visitor, sighing. “I really should go back inside….”

  Heath holds up his hands. “Of course. Didn’t mean to intrude. Good night, Firecracker.” He smiles and places a single flower on the doorstep at my feet, nods to Whit, and walks away, just like that.

  I stand on the porch after he leaves, staring into the night. He called me Firecracker. He doesn’t even know me! I should zap him right to Shadowland, shouldn’t I? But there’s something about the way he said it—something familiar yet exciting and new. I can’t explain it, but I feel incredibly drawn to this boy with the sharp tongue and the strange eyes. The highest part of the sky is in those eyes, cool and vast, and they seem to see right inside me.

  Maybe I’m afraid of what they see. Freedom… to do what?

  I pick up the flower he left. It’s lovely. Pale silver with a bright flash of orange in the center—like nothing I’ve seen before.

  “I wonder what he wants….” I mutter softly.

  “I bet I can guess,” Whit says, startling me. I thought he’d gone in.

  I roll my eyes and step back inside, brushing past him. “Oh, come on. He seems like a nice guy. And he’s right—it is my apartment.”

  “Nice guy? Every guy wants something. Usually the same thing. Trust me, Wisty. You haven’t been in a foolball locker room. You learn a lot in there.” I roll my eyes at my overprotective brother.

  The One Who Is The One wanted me for my power. Since the victory, politicians seem to want me for my fame. Heath said he just wanted to see me again. Not my magic, not my fire.

  Me.

  I feel a weird sort of vulnerability. Not fear, exactly. I know my power, hot and true, will protect me, and if that fails, my watchdog brother sure will. But with the electricity of my interaction with Heath still making my whole body hum, I’m just not sure I want to be protected.

  It can’t be that Heath wants to be my boyfriend… could it?

  Chapter 5

  Wisty

  I’M OUTSIDE. IT’S RAINING. The boy is there.

  Heath.

  The rain is in my eyes, but I can feel him.

  “I just wanted to see you,” he says in that velvety voice.

  “But I can’t see you,” I answer. “I can’t see anything.” I squint, but the water is coming down too hard to see my hand in front of my face.

  “I can show you. Everything,” he promises. “Just don’t look down.”

  He takes my hand, and I shiver at his cold touch, but I’m warm inside. Full of fire. Like my heart is filling with air, lifting up.

  And then we are lifting up—actually rising above the City and into the clouds. I hold my breath as we break through into sunlight, eager to see what “everything” might be, but before I can turn, Heath leans toward me, and I sigh, letting him pull me into his arms….

  I wake up, disoriented and clutching a pillow. Then I make a mistake: I look down.

  And I almost have a heart attack.

  I’m floating above my bed. Like, five feet above my bed, just hanging out near the ceiling. I blink and fall to the mattress, knocking the wind out of myself, and lie there, gasping.

  God, my magic is weird sometimes.

  And embarrassing, I think, chucking the pillow aside. I can only imagine the faces I must’ve been making in my sleep.

  Fortunately, this is my place, my own apartment. For once I don’t have to deal with older brothers barging in all the time. I close my eyes again, looking forward to the end of the dream. Right about now, Whit is probably bugging someone else about clean dishes, or hogging someone else’s TV to watch f
oolball….

  No. My eyes fly open. That’s not what Whit is doing at all.

  I look at the clock, my stomach sinking. I’ve already messed up. Whit is where I’m supposed to be, right at this moment, on the most important day of our lives.

  And I’m late!

  I leap out of bed, yelling as I stub my toe on a guitar I left out. Clothes are strewn everywhere. I stumble through them, frantically grabbing at pants and sweaters. Nothing seems quite right for the occasion, and you never know who you’ll run into because he just wanted to see you….

  Settling on a simple black dress, I jump in the shower, shrieking at the blast of cold water. But it’s good. No time to focus on still-lingering dreams when your brain is freezing.

  Makeup time. I frown at my reflection. Special day, but same old face, with the added benefit of bags under the eyes and straggly wet hair. And no time!

  I pick up a celebrity rag—a guilty pleasure that’s back now that actors and other pop idols (who aren’t The One) are no longer being exterminated—but I’m not wasting time with gossip right now. Tearing through the magazine, I find what I’m looking for: a picture of an actress who has that professional-yet-pretty look. There’s this spell I’ve been meaning to try….

  I touch the face on the page and then brush my fingers across the mirror. As I watch, my eyes seem to transform into smoldering goddess peepers, a hint of rose color blooms on my cheeks, and my lips look—well, like you want to listen to what I’m saying.

  I don’t have her cheekbones or her pouty lips, of course. It’s not a full morph—just a bit of spell-spiked makeup—but it’ll do in a pinch. Still Wisty Allgood in there, freckles and all, but with a touch of celebrity chic. Not bad.

  I struggle to pull on my high-top sneakers as I yank open the door, and then I spot it there.

  The flower.

  The dream comes back to me in a rush, “everything” echoing in my head. But what does the offering of a flower say about a boy in real life? Sweet, or stalker? Walking down the steps, I twirl the stem, considering, and then I realize—

  I almost forgot the most important thing!

  I drop the flower and burst back into the apartment, hastily gathering up the plans Whit and I spent hours brainstorming, and now I’m really late. I sprint down the street with the papers clutched to my chest, wet hair streaming.