I’ve seen this before. I know what’s coming next. And it terrifies me, for more than one reason.
A scream escapes uncontrollably from my lips as it begins: the disintegration of the Wizard King’s face. The peeling away of the tissue.
And… it melts.
Right. Off.
The wrinkled skin with its greasy face paint oozes into a puddle. I stare at the Wizard King’s empty, unblinking eyes. At the raw muscle, red and stringy over his cheeks. At his fleshless mouth, frozen into a perfect round O—a shocked, final gasp.
The King is dead.
Heath shakes the gruesome remains off his hand in disgust, and when one of the prowling leopards laps at his fingers, he smiles.
“Is it—you…?” I blurt out, because I still can’t form coherent thoughts.
Heath looks up from the wild cat, finally noticing that, along with the thousands of other people gathered here, I’m gaping at him in openmouthed shock.
There’s only one person I know of who can melt the face off a skull.
Heath shrugs sheepishly and looks at me from under his eyelashes—like a guilty little kid who really isn’t feeling very sorry.
And then Heath, as I knew him, starts to disappear.
Chapter 78
Wisty
IT HAPPENS IN SECONDS, but it feels like an eternity.
Heath’s dark mop of wild hair gives way to a slick white-blond helmet. His mesmerizing turquoise eyes pale to a flat, icy stare. And his kissable lips melt into a nasty pout.
No no no no no. My mind hums with Whit’s doubts and Byron’s protests, all the warnings I ignored and resented: Heath’s New Order, they said. He’s up to something. He’s bad news. Why aren’t you listening? Just listen to us, Wisty, LISTEN!
I didn’t want to listen. I refused to see. But when I open my eyes now, the stark truth stands there before me.
The last of the boy I once loved has faded away, and all that’s left is a two-faced, double-crossing double agent.
“Pearce.” The word tastes sour in my mouth.
“That would be me,” answers the villain in the black leather jacket that’s now way too big.
Heath said I’d change my mind about him. Oh, have I ever.
On either side of me, thousands of people holding weapons wait for the signal to kill each other. I don’t see them anymore, though—my world has shrunk to a small, surreal bubble.
It’s just me and a boy in the middle of a field. Having the worst conversation of my life.
“Congratulations. You fooled everyone.” I shake my head bitterly. “And I’m the biggest fool of all.”
“Don’t say that.” Pearce’s forehead wrinkles with concern and his mouth purses. “I’m so sorry I had to deceive you, my little firecracker,” he says, stepping toward me, arms outstretched.
My stomach churns into a sickened knot. “Never call me that again!” I snap as I scramble backward, away from those murderous hands.
“It took me a long time to get all the puzzle pieces in place,” Pearce continues. “But it was the only way. We were meant to rule, you see. The prophecy says that a witch and a wizard…”
“Can never be together,” I finish, remembering Izbella’s warning on the Mountain. She was right about Heath and me. She was right all along.
“According to some stupid curse.” Pearce laughs, and his teeth look too white, too pointy, too merciless. “Together, we’re the most powerful force in the Overworld! Who will fight us now?”
I narrow my eyes. There is no us, no matter how many times we’ve merged our power.
“I’ll fight you, Pearce!” I scream, and hurl a fireball at his head.
Chapter 79
Wisty
PEARCE DUCKS AS the fiery tail of flame whizzes past his ear, but I’m already heating up even more, fueled with fury.
Now that the magicians are out of the chains, Whit’s sprinting across the meadow while the rest of them are just trying to regain their strength. “He’ll have to fight us both!” Whit calls out.
I can’t let that happen. Pearce almost killed Whit once, and there’s no way I’m letting this madman near my family again. Especially when this is all my fault.
Whit’s legs suddenly lock up, midstride. “What are you doing?” he shouts. The veins in his forearms strain against my magic, and his face is purple with frustration. I’ve frozen him in place. “Wisty, let me go! We swore we’d stick together!”
I turn away from my brother. This is my fight, and I need to see it through.
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?” Pearce asks, as smarmy as ever.
I gape at him. “Overreacting?”
With a flick of my wrist, I send another explosion careening toward him. It just misses his feet, but the impact blasts a huge crater into the hillside.
Pearce stumbles backward, the mud sucking at his boots.
“You kidnapped little kids! You committed crimes under the N.O. that I don’t even want to think about. You put my parents in the ghetto, and you locked me up in a cell! Overreacting?” I repeat, my voice quivering. “No, I don’t think so!”
Pearce grins, giving me that secret look Heath used to give me—like my rage actually turns him on.
I want to puke.
“Don’t you see, Wisty?” Pearce says. “You broke through all that because of our connection. When I saw that candle flame, I knew for sure.”
“Knew what?” I ask.
“That you loved me. You couldn’t resist the power that is our love. And yes—love sometimes has a somewhat nasty, enraged side. But it’s still power. It’s still love.”
So the chains, the prisons, the war… it was all some sort of test?
“Remember this?” A flower grows up out of the palm of Pearce’s hand. It’s the beautiful Mountain flower Heath gave me when we first met—when I actually thought the danger was sexy. Pearce holds it out to me like a peace offering.
I scowl. The petals start to smoke, and the stem turns to ash. I’m done with peace.
Pearce pouts in mock offense, and a field of those evil flowers sprouts up around me. They lash around my ankles and ugly red welts bloom on my skin from their toxic petals. They sting like a hundred hives of wasps.
I flame out to get the suckers off me and burn up half the hillside.
“Romantic,” I say dryly. “Almost as romantic as the mass genocide you had planned for today.”
Pearce lets out a groan of frustration.
“We’re better than they are! Don’t you see that?” He arcs his arm over the field. “They’re vermin. But our passion, our power can make them an army larger than any our world has ever known. A blank slate on which to build our empire.”
I gaze out over the thousands of slaves, their lips upturned slightly, their brains turned on a dimmer.
A Kingdom built on nothingness.
“You said you hated The One Who Is The One.” I shake my head in disgust. “But you sound just like your father.”
He’s so fast I don’t see his blow coming. It’s not lethal, or even magic—just pure cruelty. A fist to my face. I writhe backward in pain, stunned by his savagery.
Pearce has been holding back, I realize. Our power might be equal—mine might even be stronger—but against his sheer physical strength, I’m useless.
But I won’t give up. I can’t. I have to stop him. Even if it kills me.
A bolt of lightning cracks out of my hand like a whip, searing the earth inches from where Pearce stands.
A second later, pain shoots up my left forearm as Pearce snaps the bone. The agony is so intense I bite my tongue and taste the iron tang of blood.
“Why are you making me do this?” he asks, looking all sorry.
Like every other time he hurt me.
“Because you’re a liar!” I yell, flinging sparks.
Something ruptures inside me, and suddenly I’m wheezing to get air.
“A murderer!” I rasp.
“Why
can’t you just say you’ll be with me?” Pearce pleads.
I start to cough up blood.
“Because I. Don’t. Love. You!”
A crushing strike flips me onto my back with a sickening crack. Pearce lands on top of me and pins my wrists to the ground. I look up at him dizzily.
“This was all for you!” Pearce shouts in my face. “For us.”
He grabs me under the chin and shakes my head violently to make me look at him. His fingers are pressing into the hollows of my cheeks so hard I can already feel the bruises starting.
“Don’t you get it?” he says softly. “You could be my queen.”
He stops squeezing and traces his hand lightly down the side of my face. His tenderness is what makes me truly terrified for the first time, and my skin crawls, waiting for the burn to begin.
“Wisty!” I hear my brother’s voice cracking with grief and terror. He knows where this is going as well as I do.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I refuse to watch Pearce’s satisfied face in the moment of my death—I’ll never give him that satisfaction.
But my face isn’t melting. Instead, I feel his slimy lips, pressing against mine. My eyes fly open.
He’s kissing me? Now?!
I spit in revulsion, and a stream of fire shoots out. I don’t know if I’ve morphed into a dragon or I’m half dead or what, but in that moment, I’m so crazed with rage it doesn’t matter.
“I will—never—be your anything!” I shriek into Pearce’s burned face. “Not as long as I’m breathing.”
“Your wish is my command,” Pearce says, and slams the back of my head into the ground.
Just before I lose consciousness, I swear I see a bear running toward us.
Then everything goes dark.
Chapter 80
Wisty
THE ROAR OF the crowd is a painful vibration in my temples.
I have to get up.
My brother is fighting for me. My power had been so drained by fighting Pearce that I couldn’t restrain Whit anymore. By now, he could be dying for me. And I’m just lying here sprawled on my back, with the wetness from the ground—a mix of icy puddles and blood—seeping through my clothes.
I roll over and rake my hands through the dead grass, pulling myself to my knees. My whole head feels bruised and swollen, too heavy on my neck, and I have to squint through the soldiers’ legs to see across the field.
The world around me has gone mad, cheering and howling and rooting for their favorite wizard. It’s like they’ve all become barbarians, lusting for blood.
My vision may still be blurry, but I can see Whit’s in trouble. He’s midmorph—his head is a terrifying, roaring grizzly, but the rest of his body is human, and his chest and arms are a mess of bloody gashes, some of them scary deep.
He’s losing power. He couldn’t keep up the morph. I have to help him.
I must’ve been out for a long time for it to get this bad. And it’s about to get worse. A giant snake—Pearce’s true form, you could say—slithers after him, its hooded head lashing out.
Despite the searing cold of the Mountain winds, Whit’s spraying sweat as he keeps dodging the venomous strikes. I can tell he’s wearing out as he stumbles backward, and his growls are starting to sound more like wails.
Move, Wisty! I lurch to my feet, cradling my injured arm against my chest as I race across the field toward my brother.
“Together!” I remind him as the snake hisses, its ugly head swaying and darting toward its prey. “No matter what!”
Whit’s face morphs back. His eyes show that he’s exhausted, but they’re glistening with love and gratitude. “No matter what,” he echoes.
The second he grips my palm, I feel his healing energy flash through me. I stand up straighter on steadier legs, and our power starts to build.
Then all air suddenly leaves my lungs as my ribs crush inward. My organs feel like fruit pulp. The snake is wrapped around me and Whit, and it’s squeezing the very life out of us!
But Whit’s still squeezing my hand, and his magic starts sewing up my broken bones. I start hacking as air rushes into my lungs, and the sudden surge of our combined power flings the overgrown slug off us.
The snake’s tail shrinks, its body thickens, and Pearce is standing there, glaring at us.
“Last chance, Wisty,” he says. “You can still choose to be with me.”
I shake my head. “No more chances. We end this now.”
“Whatever you say.” Then there’s a cracking sound, and I cry out as he shatters my left kneecap. I narrow my eyes.
No more holding back. It’s on.
Chapter 81
Wisty
THE MASSES AROUND us are yelling and heckling, shrieking and clapping. It’s like it used to be at Whit’s foolball games, only the stakes are much higher. Much. Higher.
“Slay the demon!”
“Avenge the King! The Allgoods must die!”
I’m quickly able to block it all out as we focus on taking Pearce down. Whit and I stalk Pearce across the frozen field, hitting him with a higher and higher voltage, shocking him again and again as the mobs scream on.
There’s no fire raging wildly, no fancy smoke-and-mirrors morphing. Our magic is pure, united, and consistent, and because I can trust it, I know how to control it. My power joined with my brother is the opposite of what I felt with Heath.
The intoxication of that was nothing but illusion.
Pearce’s face suddenly twists into a demonic rage—but not from pain, I don’t think. It’s more like he just heard every word in my head. “A magician’s life force is illusion!” he yells. “And love is an illusion, too, Wisty—isn’t it?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Whit encourages me. “Focus.”
Whit and I are holding strong, but Pearce isn’t even down on the ground yet. Some of my old magic lingers in him, passionate and unpredictable, and it lashes out at us with scratches and gouges and ringing ears.
A sudden massive shower of razor-sharp icicles seems to come from nowhere and rakes us bloody. One almost takes out my eye.
“A disappointment,” Pearce declares bitterly. “I’d hoped it would take out your heart.”
This feels personal. As much as I hate the thought, I know that Pearce and I are connected. Every time we hit him with the voltage, I feel a zap of pain echoing in my heart and shuddering through my veins. I don’t know if it’s that shadow of our magic together or something else….
Love?
Whatever it is, it hurts.
“Wisty!” Whit says, catching me as I fall back. “You okay?” My brother sends waves of powerful healing energy through me and I nod gratefully.
But the next jolt we direct at Pearce’s spine makes my back twist in agony.
“Just keep going. We can’t stop,” I cry, writhing. “Ah!”
“You feel it, don’t you?” Pearce asks, smiling through a mouthful of blood.
“I don’t feel anything,” I say coldly, and send another shower of bolts slamming through him.
The surge makes his muscles turn to jelly. The next makes his whole body seize until I think he’s going to start sparking.
“Time to get serious, Whit.” He knows what I mean. We’re now focusing all our energy right inside Pearce’s brain.
His head flies backward.
His teeth rattle.
His arms shoot out in protest. It’s then that I start to cry.
We fling him across the field. We zap him so hard the trees around him catch fire.
And with each blow, my tears fall more freely.
We finally drive him to his knees. There is so much power flowing through him now, the current holds him up straight as a board. His eyes roll back into his head.
One more volt of our magic is all it would take.
The crowd is in a frenzy, banging weapons together and pushing closer.
I look down at the boy I once loved. The snake, I remind myself. The murderer. He’s still dr
essed like Heath, though—the black leather jacket and the motorcycle boots. Only now they’re covered in dirt and blood.
Something in me shatters. I don’t know if I can do this.
Even in this weakened state, Pearce seems to read my hesitation. “Do it,” he chokes as foam bubbles around his lips.
I know he’s right. If it doesn’t end now, it’ll never end.
“Finish it!” Pearce commands, gritting his teeth.
I raise my arms overhead.
Go! I think.
But just as I’m about to squeeze Whit’s hand, a voice rings out over the field: “Enough!”
A woman rides forward from the Mountain People on a white horse, her feathered cloak rustling in the breeze.
It’s Izbella.
Chapter 82
Whit
“PLEASE!” IZBELLA SHOUTS as she climbs off the horse. “Spare him!”
I glance at my sister, and though we don’t release Pearce completely, we stop the surge just before it explodes into his brain.
The effort that takes is incredible.
I’m shaking violently, and my hands are balled into fists. My stomach aches from the stress of holding the magic in, like it’s an actual mass in there, growing larger and pushing against my insides.
“Just kill me,” Pearce demands. “I don’t want to live without her.”
It almost impresses me. Maybe even moves me, just a little. He’s not whining, or crying, or begging. It’s like the last shreds of energy he has left in his being are all channeled into making this one certain declaration about my sister.
His last word on the battlefield is “her.”
Wisty winces like she’s been hit, and her shoulders slump inward. Still, she raises her arms up higher, her eyes determined.
“Don’t!” Izbella screeches. She lunges forward, clawing at us, and we instinctively push back. The surge is stronger than we expect, though, and sends her reeling backward more than twenty feet into an icy puddle of mud.
Wisty’s arms are striped with raised welts, and a scratch on my face is dripping blood, but it’s impossible not to feel guilty looking at the wailing woman rocking on her knees, folding into herself.
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