Witch & Wizard 04 - The Kiss

by James Patterson

  Someone is about to get fried.

  I tiptoe to the doorway, and peer around the corner. Dim light from the street stripes the floor with shadow. And as I creep across the room to inspect the open window, I see one of those shadows shift.

  “Hey—!” a man starts to say, but only gets half a syllable out before I wheel around and lunge, throwing sparks.

  The intruder anticipates it, though, and deftly leaps out of the way and pivots. I stumble after him, but he seems to whir past my focus. I concentrate on my power instead, the buzz of heat, but before I can go full torch mode, he tackles me in the darkness.

  We bowl into the coffee table, shattering its glass top, and a raw, piercing pain shoots through my hip. I see spots.

  Then he’s on me!

  With his back to the light, he’s just a terrifying silhouette looming over me. We roll as I try to throw him off, but he’s got lightning reflexes and flexible joints, and every blow seems designed to inflict the most pain possible.

  “Gahh,” I groan as he pins my arms.

  Focus on the M, Wisty. Focus.

  But all I can do is thrash wildly in his grip.

  I claw across the carpet with my free arm, searching for a lifeline….

  My fingers find the broken glass from the table, and I grip a shard tighter than anything as I slash. The jagged edge of the glass is an inch from his throat, maybe less, when the man catches my wrist.

  “You trying to kill me?” the intruder asks—in Heath’s bemused voice.

  I drop my makeshift dagger, speechless. We’re breathing heavily for a few seconds as I try to make sense of what just happened. I’m wild with rage that he nailed me to the ground like an assassin—and is now acting like it’s some joke—and yet strangely thrilled to have been rolling around on the floor with him.

  It’s that crazy raw power that just takes over when we’re together.

  Heath starts laughing, but I don’t see what’s so funny. He lets go of my arms and sits back on his heels, a patch of streetlight finally exposing his crooked smile and chiseled face.

  “You could’ve said something earlier!” I say testily as I scoot out from under him. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

  “Surprise you, I guess.” He shrugs. “You attacked me before I had a chance to do it right.”

  “Oh, like you’re the victim here,” I protest, rubbing my hip where it smashed into the coffee table.

  “I’ll admit, I kind of enjoyed seeing the fighter in you come out. It’s so…” If I’m not mistaken, I think Heath might almost be blushing.

  “Hot, right?” I roll my eyes. “Okay, seriously. Why did you come here in the middle of the night?”

  “I thought you might be ready to get out and do something,” he says as he takes my wounded palm and examines the cut. He starts to wrap the hand in a stray sock, and his eyes flick up to meet mine, like they can see right into me.

  All my anger evaporates as he says, “I thought maybe I could help you find that little girl.”

  Chapter 35

  Whit

  WE EMERGE FROM the rushing river, bodies shivering and lungs heaving, choking up water. The vital signs monitoring trick worked a bit less seamlessly than I’d hoped, with Ross dipping into critical territory a couple of times. We’re all shell-shocked and colder than we’ve ever been. But we’re alive.

  Ross lies on the riverbank, still gasping, and I sit next to Janine on a wet log as she coughs uncontrollably. Sasha’s the only one not feeling too bad.

  “Up here,” he gestures, and we stumble up the steep bank after him.

  He’s found a promising path—flat and smooth—and it’s even kind of pretty, with snow falling down all around us. For a few moments it seems like the worst is over, if we can just get dry.

  Then the arrows start to rain down on us.

  We’re in the perfect target strip for the archers, and the attacks seem to come from everywhere. Arrows fly from cracks in the rock face above, and whistle from the trees on the other side of the river. Sometimes it feels like they’re falling from the sky.

  “Back to the bank!” Sasha yells, and we scramble down, running as fast as we can in our wet clothes. But the bank is too gravelly, and we can’t get our footing. We slip and stumble, ducking arrows with every movement. I hear myself yelping involuntarily as an arrow clips the side of me, ripping through my heavy coat. If we keep this up, we’ll look just like that NO TRESPASSING sign: human pincushions.

  I have to do something.

  I try to remember that feeling on the foolball field—the dance of bodies in motion and the anticipation of another’s intention—and channel it as I summon every ounce of power I have left.

  I feel the M in my heightened senses, turned to turbo speed in my reflexes. I feel eerily aware of everything happening at once—every movement, every sound—and see each bow poised. I can see the shift in the rock when the Mountain men move a hair, and hear their breath rustling the leaves of the trees.

  I can smell their fear.

  They should be afraid, too. Because at the instant each arrow is released, I focus everything into the spin and turn it back around—right at the archers.

  We never see the soldiers, hidden in their cracks and caves. But screams seem to come from all around as the Mountain men turn from us, fleeing their own arrows. The weapons fly by in a blur, my hands conducting their movement like a maestro with his orchestra.

  And then it’s over abruptly, and the forest seems to swallow up every man and every motion. I stare at the trees, breathing heavily, and feeling incredible.

  “Whit!” Janine’s shout cuts through the quiet. The terror in her voice makes my blood run cold.

  It’s Sasha. Janine kneels on the ground next to him. I blink, not comprehending at first what’s happened. Or how.

  I must not have seen it. I must’ve missed one, somehow. I don’t understand it, but a single arrow made it through.

  It’s sticking out of Sasha’s chest.

  Chapter 36

  Whit

  SASHS IS DEAD. It’s not possible.

  The thought takes my breath away, and I stand there stupidly, staring at the arrow, the crumpled body, the blood. So much blood, leaking right out of him.

  How did I let this happen?

  Then I see his head lolling against Janine, and the faint fog of his breath in the frigid air. He’s still alive, but barely. He’s fumbling at his clothes, trying to get them off as the heat of the pain rages inside him.

  Janine and Ross are staring at me, because right about now I should be helping Sasha, healing him with my magic.

  But here’s the horrible truth: I don’t have any juice left. It’s killing me. And it’s killing him.

  The bear, the river, the soldiers… they took every ounce of M I had, and it’ll be at least a day until I can heal a paper cut, let alone something like this.

  Janine must see the truth on my face, because she goes into crisis mode.

  “Help me hold Sasha up,” she commands as I kneel next to them. “We have to get it out of him.”

  As I prop him up, she snaps the point off, and Sasha screams. The anguished, whimpering cry tears through me as sure as that arrow.

  Ross is freaking out, pacing behind us nonstop, and he shrieks out something that sounds like half prayer, half curse as we pull out the rest of the arrow, its shaft glistening darkly.

  Janine works with quick, deft fingers, pressing Sasha’s signature bandanna against the wound and tying her scarf tight around it, but it’s not enough—in moments, the cloth is soaked through.

  “Help him,” Ross pleads. He looks at me, the tears freezing on his cheeks. “Whit, help him, please.”

  He’s right. I have to help him. I have to try.

  I sit cross-legged on the frozen ground and hold Sasha’s head in my lap. The sweat is beading on his forehead now, and his breath is coming in short gasps. I put my hands on his chest and take a long, slow breath. I think of every healin
g poem I’ve ever invoked, every spell, trying to feel the magic and bring back the power.

  Please, I beg silently. Please work.

  My fingers twitch, and I concentrate on that buzz of life that makes them itch at first. I wait for the jump, for the surge of energy as it builds and transfers between us.

  But it just… doesn’t… happen.

  There’s nothing left.

  “I’m sorry, Sasha.” I choke back a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Whit,” Sasha whispers. His eyes are starting to lose their focus.

  This isn’t possible.

  “I know it’s time.” He coughs, and blood spatters bright against the fresh snow. “I’m ready.”

  But I’m not.

  I keep desperately trying to work up any last bit of M I can find in myself. For a moment, I think I feel a spark. A spark is all it takes to light a fire….

  “It was for the Resistance.” He grips the bandanna, soaked through with his blood, and manages a weak smile. “You’ll tell them that, right?”

  I shake my head, the tears blurring my vision. I don’t want to tell anyone that we lost you, I’m thinking. We can’t lose you.

  “You’re a true hero, Sasha,” Janine says, giving him a strained smile of good-bye, a look of peace for Sasha to take with him.

  “No!” I wail. She’s giving up. He’s giving up. I can’t… let… this… happen!

  Then the last breath leaves him, its smoky trail barely visible through the falling snow.

  Ross collapses to the ground and hugs Sasha’s body, rocking as he cries.

  Janine brushes the snow from her knees and turns away silently, staring into the forest. Then she wraps her arms around me, and I’m suddenly aware of how I’m trembling. I can feel her shaking, too, inside her layers of coats. Ross’s wails bounce off rocks and trees, and seem to echo all around us, so it feels like everything in the world is grieving for our fallen friend.

  “You’d think it would get easier, losing our friends,” Janine says finally, the tears thick in her voice. “But death is worse every time.”

  I nod. We lost so many during the time of the New Order, but this feels different—more raw, somehow. It just feels so, so wrong.

  I couldn’t save him.

  Stifling a scream, I slam my fist into one of the ancient trees and feel the skin of my knuckles split.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

  This was supposed to be a peace mission.

  Chapter 37

  Pearl

  PEARL CLUTCHED THE PAPER in her hand as her bare feet lit over rocks and tree needles. She ran up and up the boulders, her lungs straining in the thin air as she climbed higher above the treetops. It was quite a long way from the new training camp, but they’d picked her to be messenger because she was the best runner by far now.

  She thought of her mother then, suddenly remembering how Mama May would send her on errands around the Gutter—“Because you’re my best runner, sweet pea.”

  The memory made her sad in a vague way, but she didn’t know why. She was starting to forget what Mama looked like. Already she couldn’t remember her brothers and sisters.

  There was only the camp, its days defined by the ringing of bells and the rules of the games. Don’t stop running was the biggest one during the drills, but Pearl had a list of her own rules, too, to make sure she could keep winning—like Don’t do what the Failures do.

  Some couldn’t stop shaking, and some started to look all cross-eyed. Eddie had turned out to be a Failure, and he had hunched over like a gargoyle in the City, not moving all afternoon as his lips turned blue.

  Don’t let your lips turn blue, Pearl had added to her list of rules.

  Some of her toes had started to turn black, though. If she delivered this message quick enough, she might win a pair of rough leather shoes, like Eagle wore. Faster, Pearl thought. Winners go faster.

  Finally, she padded through the dreary castle, breathless, and handed over the crude paper to its recipient. The man’s glass eye caught her in its frozen orb. She felt rooted to the spot, but then he turned from her, starting to read the letter, and she was able to breathe again.

  Pearl knew she should go. But the room was so warm with its crackling fire, and if she just stayed for a few minutes, just slipped into the corner, she might be able to move her toes a little….

  “It’s the wizard,” she heard the man with the glass eye say. “He’s already killed a few archers.”

  “I told you they’d come, Larsht,” answered the King. “Kill them both.”

  Seated at a large square table, the old man looked anything but regal as he hacked into a hunk of meat, the grease dripping down his beard. Pearl’s stomach complained, and she backed farther into the corner.

  “The witch isn’t with him,” Larsht said carefully.

  “Excuse me?” the King asked, setting down his knife and turning his gaze calmly on Larsht, who visibly flinched.

  “We—we were told they’d both come,” Larsht sputtered nervously. “We can hold the wizard, maybe use him to lure the witch up. Or merge his magic with ours. He could be useful….” Larsht was so much bigger than the old man at the table, but somehow, even seated, the King seemed to dwarf him.

  “Like the Allgoods were useful to that bald fool they took the City from?” the King said icily. “Power is dangerous, Larsht. It’s so easy to abuse.”

  Pearl jumped at Larsht’s sudden bark of laughter—she hadn’t realized the King had made a joke.

  The old man went back to his meal. “We’ll get the girl later. Better to kill Whitford Allgood now, before he even reaches the kingdom. Send him something better than archers this time,” he said thoughtfully. “Something magical.”

  Kill Whit?

  Pearl felt a sharp jolt through her fingers then, like the twitch of a phantom limb. She forgot about the rules, and getting back to camp. She even forgot to keep being afraid of Larsht.

  She only felt the weight of her blade, still hidden in the folds of her ragged clothing. Underneath the fur and the leather, the King’s old neck was a papery stalk, thin and vulnerable. He’ll bleed the same as any other man, she thought as she crept closer.

  She lunged, sinking in the knife.

  Only he didn’t bleed like other men, and a force flung her backward onto the floor with a hard smack.

  The old man looked at her strangely as she scrambled up.

  Larsht stalked toward her, a towering shadow that blotted out everything else, and she remembered to be afraid again. “First I’ll kill this curious little City rat,” he growled, and Pearl shook so violently with panic that she couldn’t help it—she peed her pants.

  “You’ve got it backward, Larsht,” the King said, picking at his rotting teeth with a bone. “This one’s only a child. We know how fickle children’s ideas can be. How moldable. She probably believes the witch and wizard’s parlor tricks are special. She doesn’t understand what true power is, in its purest form.”

  The King looked at her then and smiled. He didn’t move an inch, but Pearl couldn’t look away from his intense stare, so forceful it seemed to physically push her toward the fireplace.

  Suddenly, Pearl understood what she needed to do. Why hadn’t she done it before? She turned to smile at her true King, regal and wise, and he nodded his encouragement.

  Then she thrust her hands into the flames.

  Pearl felt the fear melt off her, cleansing her. Wisty’s not so special after all, she thought absently as the skin on her hands started to bubble and twist.

  It doesn’t even hurt.

  See, Witch and Wizard? I’m a magician, too.

  Chapter 38

  Wisty

  I REALIZE I’VE missed Heath so much these past few days when I was holed up in my apartment, sulking and fretting about Whit.

  But I think I might’ve missed this even more: fighting injustice, working for change… doing something about all the ugliness.

&nbs
p; We head toward the inner neighborhoods, figuring the City Watch might be a good place to start. Sadly, the two kids we find don’t even seem to see us until we’re standing right in front of them.

  “You Sasha’s guys?” I ask, nudging the bigger one’s toe.

  He jolts awake. “Yeah. Um. Yes.” He blinks rapidly, trying to fight sleep. “We’re the Watch.”

  “What are you watching?” Heath asks dryly, but the joke’s lost on this one.

  I nudge the younger kid, whose shoulders are slumping against a streetlight. “Any new information about the missing children? Any leads?”

  “What?” He squints up at me, blind as a mole under the light.

  I roll my eyes. No wonder the citizens think the Watch is such a joke.

  I sigh and take Heath’s hand, and we comb the streets for hours looking for a single clue that might help us figure out what happened that first night when Pearl was taken.

  But there’s not a scrap of clothing, not a trace of a fingerprint, and with every dead end, my spirits plunge a little further.

  “This is a waste of time!” I finally shout. “Whit was right. I should’ve gone up the Mountain with him. While he’s off actually doing something, I’m here just hanging out—”

  “Don’t. Don’t regret staying here with me,” Heath pleads. “Listen. I think I have an idea.”

  “What?” I step closer to him, studying his face, but he’s staring into a storefront window strangely, peering at our reflections: a boy with a face of sharp lines and a girl with a mess of red hair.

  “What if we could see what happened?” Heath asks. “What if we could re-create the scene of the kidnapping that night?” I stare at him, puzzled, trying to figure out if he’s serious. “Then we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?”

  “No, but…” I furrow my brow. “I’ve never been able to do that. Have you?”

  Heath turns to me earnestly. “No. But—what happened the other night… with us… that was like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”

  “Me, neither…” I say honestly.

  He holds up his palm. “So what if there’s more that we can do together? Don’t you want to find out?” His grin is all mischief, and like always, I can’t resist him.