Chapter 24
Wisty
THANKS, IN PART, to my memo about the Roberts & Sons robbery—which just might have suggested that the Council members “pull their heads out of their butts ASAP”—Terrence has called a joint meeting with the City’s security forces.
And while I’m not late (for once), the Police Center auditorium is so packed by the time I arrive that I can barely wedge myself in the door. I’m jostled from every direction, and someone steps on my toes so hard I swear I can hear the bones crunch.
Up on the wide, floodlit stage sit the Council members, along with the police chief, the head of City security, and a few members of the capital’s elite crime squad. (Although considering that Byron Swain’s up there, too, maybe the word “elite” is a bit generous.)
Terrence raises his hands to call for silence, but the raucous crowd takes a long time to settle down. “Citizens,” Terrence yells, “my fellow citizens!” Finally everyone hushes, and Terrence offers us a thin, ugly smile. “We meet today in response to a growing threat to our City’s peace.”
“About time,” the man next to me grumbles.
“The secretive, larcenous, and bloodthirsty cult known as the Family is growing daily in strength and numbers,” Terrence announces.
“You gonna tell me something I don’t know?” the man asks loudly.
Terrence is oblivious, of course. “Their leader, the one they call Darrius, is an extremely dangerous wizard. He holds his members in complete thrall, and the myriad of crimes he subsequently induces them to commit are the very definition of heinous.”
“Did he eat a thesaurus for breakfast or what?” I say, rolling my eyes, and the man next to me chuckles.
But then Terrence starts quoting figures—twelve robberies, sixteen assaults, and five murders in the past week—and things don’t seem so funny anymore.
“We cannot stand by any longer while the Family terrorizes our City. We, the Council, have authorized new protective measures, which Marcus Andrew, our head of security, will now explain.”
Terrence sits down, and Marcus, a pimpled giant of a nineteen-year-old, stands up, placing his huge hands on either side of the podium. “We will be doubling the size of the police force,” he informs the crowd, which immediately hoots its approval. “These new recruits will be specially trained in an intensive one-week program focused on crowd control, arrest and restraint, and marksmanship.”
My jaw drops. Did he just say one week?
“In addition, all police and security officers will be equipped with a magazine-fed, self-loading firearm—”
I can’t keep my mouth shut now. “You’re going to give these rookies machine guns?” I holler.
Marcus looks for the source of interruption and quickly spots me in the crowd. “I should have guessed it was you, witch,” he says snidely.
“Exactly,” I retort, “since I seem to be the only person willing to question the Council’s deeply questionable intelligence.”
But Marcus declines to take the bait; he turns his attention back to his audience. “As I was saying,” he goes on, “we have a new weapon in our fight.” He holds up a small, gleaming pistol. “This is one and a half pounds of lethality, capable of firing sixty rounds per minute. But unlike a traditional machine gun, these firearms are concealable and can be operated one-handed.”
Marcus makes a dramatic show of distributing the new guns to the officers onstage, including Byron, who couldn’t hit a barn door with a baseball bat. And to my horror, the room erupts in deafening applause.
“Have you gone insane?” I cry. “You people say that witches and wizards need to be Excised because magic is dangerous and too hard to control—and now you’re handing out dangerous guns to people who don’t know how to control them?”
Marcus sighs. “They will be trained, Miss Allgood, as I just explained.”
I know I shouldn’t flaunt my powers at a time like this, but I can’t help it, I’m too mad. I rise above the crowd so that everyone can see me. And yes, I let myself glow a little bit. “You can’t kill twenty people in two minutes with a club, or a knife, or even most magic. But you can—and somebody will—with those guns.”
Marcus nods. “Precisely.”
I want to bang my head against the wall. “But what if it’s not Family thugs? What if it’s the wrong people getting killed? Some rookie cop might shoot a hundred holes in someone before he even sees who it is!”
Marcus rolls his eyes and turns to Terrence. “She’s tiresome, isn’t she?”
Terrence glares at me. “She’s a malcontent,” he says. “Bordering on an insurrectionist.”
I’m about to give them both a piece of my mind, but a new wave of thunderous applause sweeps the room. They’re cheering for the guns, for the new police recruits, and maybe even for Terrence’s insult. They’re clapping and stomping their feet. Is this a government or a mob?
I rise up another six inches, and my fingers just itch to spark. “You’re not going to kill Darrius with a gun! You need—”
“Magic?” Terrence interrupts, his voice dripping with venom. “Is that what you were going to say, you floating glowworm?”
“Yes, you—” I stop myself from saying impotent slug. “You need good people with good powers!”
Terrence looks like he’d like to jump off the stage and personally throttle me, but he knows I’d broil him first.
Marcus, who’s calmer, smiles. “Mr. Speaker, maybe we should move on.”
Terrence ignores him. Through clenched teeth, he speaks. “The Council has decreed that anyone working with the police force must be Excised.”
What?
Behind Terrence, several Council members exchange confused glances. Obviously, this is news to them, too.
My eyes blaze like they’re on fire. “Arm the rookies and disarm the witch? You’re a fool, Terrence,” I shout. “And I quit. So you can take your Excision and shove it up your—”
Marcus raises a soothing hand. “I think we might be able to make a special case for a witch who has proved useful in the past,” he says to Terrence.
“Useful!” I holler. “Is that what you call saving the asses of everyone in this City at least twice? Well, guess what—I’m done. Good luck with your new police force. I’m sure they’ll be just great.”
And then I shove my way to the door. I’m burning with anger, and pretty soon I’m going to start singeing people.
“Oh, Wisteeeria,” Terrence calls.
I can’t help it. I turn to face him. “What?”
“All the proper measures will be taken,” he says coldly. “Against the Family, and against any renegade citizens.”
His pale-blue eyes bore into mine. And involuntarily, I shudder. Suddenly I don’t know who scares me more: Darrius, or my own City leaders.
Chapter 25
Wisty
“WISTY! STOP!”
I whirl around, and there’s Byron, waving his arms and scurrying toward me. (Sometimes I regret turning him into a weasel so many times; I think it permanently affected his gait.) “You can’t just leave like that,” he calls out accusingly.
“Oh, yeah? And who’s going to stop me?”
“You should stop yourself,” he scolds. “You’re so damn hotheaded. You never listen to reason.”
“Reason?” I scoff. “Is that what you call handing out guns to a bunch of scared newbies? If so, I believe we have different definitions of the word.”
“I’m just saying, we’ve got to stick together.”
“Well, that’s funny,” I say, “considering you basically abandoned me at a crime scene yesterday. What happened to you? Were you suffering from donut withdrawal?”
Byron gives me a wounded look. “Everyone has moments of doubt,” he says defensively.
“But now you’re all fired up again because you got a new gun. I never pegged you for such a typical male, Swain.”
“Wisty, why are you always so angry?” he asks softly.
Ho
nestly, the question makes me want to scream. “Maybe because every day, more people get robbed, and more people die, and the incompetent fatheads we chose to lead us are doing nothing about it!” I stomp my foot—the hurt one—and curse. “Scratch that: they’re doing worse than nothing, because they gave people like you guns.”
He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “I can’t believe how much I used to love you,” he says.
“That has nothing to do with anything,” I yell. The ends of my hair start to smolder; any second now, they’ll ignite.
“It doesn’t?” he asks. “Aren’t you tired of feeling so alone?”
And sure enough, the red curls burst into licking flames. But I refuse to admit there’s any truth to what he’s saying. “I’m not tired of being alone. I’m tired of you,” I say.
He frowns and opens his mouth—he’s probably going to chastise me some more; he loves being up on his high horse—but then we hear the sirens. Another emergency.
My heartbeat quickens. I forget everything we’ve just said to each other; I dismiss all of Terrence’s threats. “We’ve got to go!” I’m already on my motorcycle and gunning the engine. “Hop on the back!”
But Byron just stands there, in his new black leather cop jacket, his lips pressed in a firm, hard line. His right hand grips his new gun. “No, Wisty,” he says. “You can’t come this time.”
Then he heads for his big, shiny squad car.
I can’t help what happens next. I mean, maybe I could, if I felt like practicing a little impulse control. Too bad I don’t. I throw my arms up into the air, summoning a rush of power, and an enormous gust of wind lifts Byron’s car—and flips it over when he’s less than ten feet away from it.
“Yeah, maybe I should submit,” I yell. “But I’m not going to. Ever.”
But Byron doesn’t even look surprised by his upside-down car. “I know, Wisty,” he says. “I know you better than anyone. Even your brother. Now please, just go home. If I see you at the scene, I’ll have you thrown in jail.” And then he turns and walks away.
Chapter 26
Wisty
WHEN I GET to my apartment, I’m still steaming—literally. I kick aside the pile of boots and jackets by the door and clomp my way into the living room. Of course it’s a mess in there, too: stacks of magazines, heaps of throw pillows, and so much cat hair it looks like I have a fur couch.
Aren’t you tired of being so alone?
Byron’s question rings in my ears. No, I think.
But also yes.
I decide that maybe a little housekeeping will cheer me up, and I’ve almost gathered up all the floor detritus when my doorbell rings. I freeze, my hands full of dirty clothes. It rings again, then again. Considering pretty much no one ever comes over, I approach the door cautiously, dropping my laundry on the floor in the foyer.
Even before I turn the knob, I smell the unmistakable aroma.
Pizza.
My mouth starts to water. I fling open the door, ready to welcome my mom and dad, or even Whit the Normal—whoever’s out there with my favorite pie, a mushroom and onion with extra cheese. (One of the problems with living solo is that you have to feed yourself; I’m even worse at that than I am at cleaning.)
But outside on the stoop is a group of four teenagers, none of whom I’ve seen before. They’re dressed head to toe in black. And they’re obviously not here to deliver me a pizza, because they’re already eating it.
“Oh my god,” a girl with red braids is saying between bites, “this is, like, the best pie ever.”
A guy of about seventeen, with dark curly hair, looks up at me and smiles. “Oh, hey, Wisty,” he says. “Can we come in?”
“Who are you?” I demand. But judging by the black clothes, the shiny dog tags, and the F tattoo on this guy’s hand, I already know the answer to my question. My pulse begins to pound. These people are probably killers.
But the weird thing is, I’m not getting a murder-y vibe right now. They seem relaxed. Neighborly. Friendly, even.
Although no one’s offered me a slice of pizza, and I’m starving.
“I’m Brother Mike,” says the tall guy. “That redhead there is Sister Annie Rose, and the short one’s Cousin Willie.”
Willie smiles at me with crooked teeth: I don’t smile back. I notice Mike doesn’t introduce the other guy, the one who’s so big he looks like he could influence the tides.
“Mind if we come in?” Mike asks again.
It’s weird how normal they seem. How… nice. Not to mention casual and happy, attitudes that don’t describe anyone else in my life right now. As crazy as it sounds, I’m kind of drawn to these people. And I’d commit several crimes in order to have a slice of that pizza.
But I’m not going to let them in my house.
“I’m sort of in the middle of a spring clean,” I say, shrugging. “Now’s not the best time.”
Mike sighs. “Well, that’s too bad. We came a long way, and it’s kinda chilly out here. So you’re not being very hospitable.” A slight edge has crept into his voice. But then he smiles. “Hey, whatever. We don’t demand good manners. But here’s the thing. Darrius wants to talk to you.”
I hope that the massive shiver that shoots up my spine isn’t visible to anyone else. “So?” I say, as coolly as I can.
“So, basically, Darrius gets what he wants. And he wants you to come visit.” He hands me a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.
I’m liking Mike less and less. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m not a member of your little freak Family. I don’t have to play by your rules,” I say.
Annie Rose’s eyes widen. I think I hear her say Uh-oh.
The giant dude steps forward. His forearms are as big as Holiday hams. “You might not respond effectively to requests or persuasion,” he rumbles. “But how about unrestrained brute force?”
I keep my eyes on Mike. “Your friend’s got a pretty big vocabulary for a rhinoceros,” I say.
The big dude takes another menacing step forward.
“Otis,” Annie Rose whispers, “calm down.”
But Otis is smacking his fist into his palm, hard and unhurried, like he wishes it were my face. It’s so cliché.
As for me, I can feel the tingle. The promise of firepower. I don’t really want to torch my porch, but I’ll do it. Come to think of it, it’s a nice night for a barbecue.
“Step back, Cousin Otis,” Mike orders.
“Good for you,” I say. “You just saved his worthless life.”
Mike shakes his head. “It’s disappointing, Wisty. You’re not nearly as smart as they say you are. Your behavior is… dangerous.”
“If you think I’m afraid, you don’t know anything,” I say.
He smiles, cruelly now. “You should be afraid. Because there’s a lot to be afraid of. A pretty, young girl like yourself, living all alone in the big scary City?” He looks meaningfully at my tall, narrow windows. “Ever so breakable,” he whispers. His eyes glint.
“Get off my porch,” I say.
Mike gives me one final burning look. “As you wish,” he says.
And then he and his friends turn and slip away into the darkness, leaving me alone.
Very, very alone.
I’m still holding the scrawled address in my hand. Yesterday, I would’ve given this to the police and helped them take down Darrius and the Family. But today?
The edges of the paper blacken and curl as I watch. A moment later, it’s nothing but cinders.
Chapter 27
Whit
I’M SLUMPED AT the kitchen table. My whole body aches, and I’m so tired it’s hard to tell whether I’m asleep or awake.
“Voilà!” Janine slides a steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of me. It smells spicy, garlicky, and delicious. Oh, I think. I guess it must be dinnertime. But that’s pretty much as far as the thought takes me. My head’s basically a swirl of tired, worn-out confusion.
“It’s food, Whit,” Janine
says after a while. “You pick up a fork and you put it in your mouth.” She mimes chewing.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. Meanwhile I’m thinking, Wow, I’m so far gone that I need directions on how to eat?
Finally I take a bite. “It’s great, Janine. It’s my favorite,” I tell her.
She gives me a funny look. “I know that, silly. That’s why I made it.”
“Oh—right.”
We eat for a little while in silence. But I can tell that Janine’s troubled. Part of me is sympathetic, while another part is like, Hey, join the club.
“Was the hospital really awful today?” she asks eventually.
I nod. “You don’t know what bad smells like until you’ve done psych ward laundry,” I say. I twirl a few noodles around the tines of my fork. “But that isn’t even the problem.”
“Then what’s the matter? You don’t seem like yourself.”
I surprise us both by banging my palm against the table. “Exactly,” I shout. “I am not who I was. The Whit we both knew doesn’t exist anymore.”
Janine reaches over and puts her hand on my arm. “But you’re still you,” she says soothingly.
“On the outside, maybe,” I retort.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s more than that, Whit. You still love spaghetti and meatballs, you still laugh at the same dumb jokes, you still can’t ever seem to match your socks, and you’re still a sucker for puppies, cop shows, and asinine buddy movies. I mean, right?”
I can almost hear her unspoken thought: You still love me… right?
I do—I mean, I’m pretty sure I do. Honestly, I don’t know what I feel, because I’m hollow inside.
And the bitter irony, of course, is that Janine encouraged me to become this way.
I hold her gaze as I speak. “Can you understand what it’s like to undo yourself, Janine? Un-become yourself? Can you imagine what it’s like to be utterly different from the way you were the day before?”
“I’m trying, Whit. I—”
But I don’t let her finish. “Can you fathom the pain of knowing that from now on, you will always be this lesser you? This pale imitation?”
The Lost Page 7
