The Lost

by James Patterson

  Janine looks at me with wide, worried eyes. “Whit, you can’t say those things.”

  “Why not?” I ask bitterly. “It’s the truth.”

  She takes my hand between hers, pressing it reassuringly. I watch her fingers curl sweetly around mine, and all I can think is, That hand of mine used to heal, and now it takes out filthy, reeking garbage.

  Abruptly I stand, pulling myself out of her grip. “I need to get some air.”

  And before she can say anything, I’m pushing my way out the door, into the cool darkness of the street. I hurry down the sidewalk as if I have any idea where I’m going.

  I figure I’ll just walk until I can’t walk any more, and then who knows? I pick up a stone from the street and fling it as hard as I can.

  You can’t run away from yourself, my mother used to say. To which I would reply, Just watch me.

  I’m all the way down near the wharf when I realize I’ve been hearing the same muted but insistent sound for blocks. It’s a low, steady hiss—like wind, except that it’s not the wind.

  The sound has been following me.

  Suddenly I’m aware that I’m being watched. It’s not just the matter of the new security cameras that the Council has begun to install. No, it’s something else. I can sense… magic.

  There’s a charge to the air, a crackling whisper of suppressed power. But obviously it’s not coming from me.

  I stop under a streetlamp, my hands balled in fists. “Wisty? Is that you?”

  Silence.

  I raise my voice. “Fine! I don’t care who it is! Just leave me alone.”

  No one answers me. The wind picks up and blows an empty trash bag along the gutter. Then it comes to rest, right at my feet, like a sign from the universe.

  You, Whitford Allgood, are a deflated, depleted sack of nothingness.

  Chapter 28

  Wisty

  AN HOUR AFTER Mike and his gang leave, I’m cruising to the south side of town on my motorcycle. I’m going the speed limit, but my brain is racing.

  Am I insane? I’m insane! goes the inner dialogue.

  Should I really go see Darrius?

  No! He incinerates people!

  Well, you could, too, if you tried.

  Yeah, but I won’t. That’s a big difference.

  Okay, fine. Chicken.

  I’m not a chicken! Maybe I just don’t really want to meet this guy.

  What do you have to lose?

  Oh, I don’t know, my life?

  Well, it’s not like it’s going that great for you these days, is it?

  I shake my head in disbelief. I’m fighting with myself while simultaneously steering said self to the abandoned factory that I now know is the Family’s headquarters.

  If I get out of this alive, I should probably go see a shrink.

  I know I can’t defeat Darrius alone; he’s far too powerful. But this way I’ll at least see what I’m up against. “Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster”—somebody said that once, and it makes sense to me.

  As I near my destination, the streets grow even more desolate. There’s trash scattered all over the sidewalks, and a snaking, fetid canal loops around behind the building like a moat. I swear it’s ten degrees colder over on this side of town.

  I take a deep breath at the factory door. Yes, I am definitely insane.

  But there’s nothing to be done about that now, and I didn’t come all this way to chicken out at the last minute. I throw my head up and my shoulders back, steeling myself. And then I yank open the door and step inside.

  Before me is a vast squatters’ camp. Kids are everywhere—working, lounging around, play-fighting. For a second I’m overcome by a rush of memory. This feels so much like our Resistance hideout. Except that we were fighting for good, of course. These kids: not so much.

  I haven’t taken two strides into the room before I’m stopped by a firm hand to the sternum. I look over to see who’s got the nerve to touch me, and my mouth falls open so far, my chin practically hits the ground.

  It’s the golden-eyed hunk who tried to talk to me after the Council meeting. He’s gazing at me so intensely I can actually feel it on my skin. “Wisteria,” he purrs. “So glad you changed your mind and decided to accept my invitation.”

  I shake my head in confusion. He’s not—he couldn’t be—

  “I’m Darrius.”

  Oh, damn: he is.

  His eyes are ringed with dark lashes, and his eyebrows have a striking arch—the kind that changes an expression from good-humored to cruel in an instant.

  “We meet at last,” he says, smiling. His voice is so quiet that I have to lean in close to hear.

  The air around him almost crackles with electricity. He radiates power the way a fire radiates heat. And I can’t help it: I’m drawn to it.

  I always have been. It’s my biggest weakness, and I honestly don’t know how to control it, no matter how much trouble it’s gotten me into in the past.

  But I refuse to let him knock me off my game. I lower my voice, too. “I just came here for the pizza.”

  Darrius throws back his head and laughs. “I’m afraid we’re all out. But Brother Wilson can make you something. Are you hungry?” He gestures to a dark-haired kid standing near a cookstove, next to a long table still covered in the messy remains of dinner.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.” I don’t trust the little cult member; who knows what he’d slip into the mac and cheese.

  “Boogers, probably,” says Darrius.

  I start—did he really just read my mind?

  Darrius laughs again. “I didn’t read your mind, if that’s what you’re wondering. Your doubt was written all over your face.” And then he whispers, “It’s not unfounded. Trust me.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely. When I glance around the room, I notice that most of the Family members are now watching us. “I don’t know why I’m here,” I say.

  This, in a way, is very true, considering that the sane part of me is screaming, Run!

  Darrius is still smiling. “You came to see what we’re all about.”

  I snort derisively. “I know what you’re all about. Murder, robbery—”

  Darrius interrupts me. “Oh, that,” he says. “That’s just a bit of fun to make the time pass.”

  I can’t believe his nonchalance. “You’re sick,” I spit.

  Darrius ignores this. He motions me over to the side of the room, to a cluster of old furniture with dusty, faded cushions. “Sit here, Wisty, on the love seat,” he says. “Don’t you think that’s a funny name for a piece of furniture? ‘Love seat’: I wonder who thought of that.”

  “I definitely didn’t come here to talk couch nomenclature,” I say, perching on the edge of a bench.

  He looks at me with delight. “And to think that Brother Mike said you weren’t that smart!”

  My eyes dart over to Mike, who’s polishing a knife across the room. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” I mutter.

  Darrius sits down close to me, and my breath comes quicker. Something about him agitates me in a way that’s both exciting and frightening. “Anyway, Wisteria,” he says, “you object to our… hobbies. Here’s my response: the world is a vexed and chaotic place. The souls of men—and women, and girls and boys—are dark. I merely empower the members of my Family to enact their hearts’ desire.” His eyes gaze into mine. “You see, it’s all about self-actualization .”

  I hope the scorn I’m feeling is as plain as the nose on my face. “Spare me the psychological BS, why don’t you,” I say. “Tell me who you are and why you’re doing this.”

  He bites his lip and smiles while looking me up and down. My core temperature rises, three degrees at least, and a bead of sweat forms on my upper lip.

  “You can’t beat us, Wisty,” Darrius says softly. “So why not join us?”

  “Never.”

  “Why so quick to refuse?” he asks, looking wounded. “My feeling
s are hurt.” He leans closer to me, his body language an unnerving mix of flirtation and menace.

  “I’m not interested in assault and murder,” I say. “By the way, do your thugs need to hang around like this? They’re creeping me out.”

  Darrius looks over at the three behemoths lurking nearby, swords dangling from their leather belts. “Gabriel, Michael, Thomas: you may retire,” he says sharply. Then he turns back to me. “There. I’m unprotected now. But what about you? I can’t very well ask you to put down your weapon, can I?”

  “I have a feeling you’ve got a few weapons of your own,” I say.

  Darrius chuckles. “I might know a bit of hocus-pocus,” he allows. He reaches for my hand, but I pull it out of his reach. “Join us,” he urges. “Just for a day.”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  His expressive brows arch in disappointment. “You are not to be persuaded. I see. Well, it was an honor meeting you.”

  I stand up. “I wish I could say the same.”

  “We won’t hold your decision against you, Wisteria,” Darrius says, rising. He holds out his hand, and this time I take it.

  When our fingers meet, I feel an electric shock that takes my breath away. A thousand colors flash before my eyes. I see comets, dizzying snowy peaks, a blazing supernova—

  I rip my hand from his grip.

  Then all I can see are Darrius’s golden eyes, gleaming with magnetic and terrifying power.

  Chapter 29

  Wisty

  I’M SO RELIEVED to be home—to have escaped Darrius’s spell unharmed—that I barely notice that not all my dead bolts are locked.

  Or that my cats don’t appear to greet me in the hall.

  Or that all the lights are off.

  So when the pillowcase gets yanked over my head and strong arms grab me viciously from behind, my first thought is, Wisty, you oblivious, effing idiot.

  I twist in the person’s grip, yelling and kicking wildly. I’ve almost got an arm free when a punch to my gut doubles me over and leaves me gasping and retching.

  Good thing I didn’t eat, or my dinner would be all over the inside of the pillowcase.

  The arms yank me up again, and I take another punch to the guts.

  I dry-heave for a minute, and when I’m done, I stagger upright. I’m seriously pissed.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists, and the M jolts through me almost immediately. My palms blaze with heat, and whoever’s held me from behind yelps and lets go.

  “You’ll want to ice that,” I say, snatching the pillowcase away from my face and flinging it to the ground.

  It’s dark in my apartment, but I can see the dim shapes of the intruders. There are three of them.

  I stand in the middle of the room, knees bent to keep my center of gravity low. My palms still blaze, sending tongues of light into the corners.

  “Who’s next?” I hiss, and almost before the words are out of my mouth, a shadowy figure launches toward me.

  He or she—or it—tackles me, sending me spinning back toward the floor. I land on the rug with a thud that knocks the wind out of me.

  The person now sitting on my chest growls like an animal. I see dog tags glinting in the light. What’s your name, Brother Bloodshed?

  Hands circle my wrist with cold, inhuman strength. I summon the fire inside me, and it arcs out of my hands, round and burning like tiny meteorites. These fireballs explode right at my assailant’s shoulders, but instead of consuming the figure in flame, they flicker and sputter—then fizzle out, as if they’ve made contact with ice.

  So he has powers, too.

  But it’s just a mercenary, a hired gun—that’s what I tell myself. No match for a witch with a desperate desire for self-preservation. My fear and rage ignite a flaming sphere just inches from my chest. My opponent is knocked backward, cursing, and when the other two people—one guy, one girl—charge me, I scramble to my feet and slam my back against the wall so no one can come at me from behind.

  I pick up a lamp and hold it like a club. “Who’s next?” I scream.

  When the girl makes a move, I swing the lamp wildly. There’s a sickening crack as I hear it connect against the side of her head. Blood shines on her cheek.

  But I’ve stepped away from the wall, and that lets the big guy get behind me again. He throws me to the ground and puts his knee between my shoulder blades. He lifts me up for a second, then flings me back to the ground, and I swear I hear my collarbone snap.

  The good thing about adrenaline? I don’t even feel the break.

  I manage to slither away, my breath coming so hard and fast it seems almost deafening in my ears. I’m behind the bookcase now, and I take the few seconds I’ve got hidden here to regroup.

  This is it, I think. Fight, or die.

  And so, with a blood-curdling scream, I leap up from behind the bookcase. Flames shoot out of every cell of my body. I’m a human inferno. I set everything, everything alight.

  And evil powers aside, my assailants are flammable. They cower for a moment in the brilliance, and then they flee.

  A moment later, the sprinkler system in my apartment comes on, quenching the flames and drenching the furniture. I collapse on the floor, letting the cool droplets hit my burning face.

  We won’t hold your decision against you, Darrius had said.

  Yeah, right. I’m sure that’s not the first—or last—of his lies.

  Chapter 30

  Wisty

  I’M TOO AGITATED, too bruised, to sleep. (And even if I could rest, the sprinklers turned my bed into a wading pool.) So I wrap a scarf in a figure eight around my shoulders—a makeshift collarbone splint—and then I go outside.

  The streets are quiet and empty. I guess Terrence’s stepped-up police force hasn’t made capital citizens feel safe enough to take nighttime strolls. Hell, I’d be scared, too, if I hadn’t already been jumped by Family members. But I assume they’re done with me for the night.

  I stride quickly through my neighborhood. I’m hoping the cool night air has healing powers, because I have a headache so intense I see rainbows whenever I look at a streetlight.

  I take stock of my current situation: it’s not pretty. The most powerful wizard in the City is out to murder me. Terrence wants to Excise me. Marcus thinks I’m an instigator, and as far as Byron is concerned, I’m a knee-jerk rebel with the emotional maturity of a two-year-old.

  It’s not a question of who’s my enemy anymore. It’s more a question of who isn’t.

  I miss my brother.

  The thought takes me by surprise. And then an image of Whit flashes before my eyes. He’s racing down the foolball field, pursued by the entire opposing team—but he outruns them all to score. Immediately after that comes another, darker image: Whit bent and broken after he gave up his powers. And I feel like I’ve just been punched again.

  I wonder what my brother’s doing right now. Watching foolball on TV? In bed and snoring already? Drinking tea and making an afghan?

  Regretting his choice?

  I wish I could talk to him, even though it’s almost midnight. I wish he could heal my aching collarbone. I wish… well, I wish a lot of things.

  I’m feeling sort of sorry for myself, honestly, but the farther I stalk down the street, the more the self-pity turns to anger. I know life’s not fair and blah blah blah, but don’t I seem to get more than my share of hard knocks? I didn’t ask to look death in the face tonight. I don’t want to always be fighting. And I’m sick of people looking at me like I’m either their savior or public enemy #1, depending on the day. (It’s usually the latter.)

  When do I get to be simply Wisty, City teenager, eating a pizza with some friends?

  Never, it seems.

  Or—on the other hand, maybe tomorrow, if I gave up my powers, too. I’d have a nice normal life then. Or so they tell me.

  But here’s what I have to say to all who think I should submit: I raise my two middle fingers, and flip off the entire sleeping world
.

  Suddenly, all the streetlights down the avenue shatter. Shards of glass fall to the ground like jagged snowflakes, and I’m in utter darkness. My heartbeat pounds in my throat. “Who’s there?” I yell.

  I reach for a stick—a weapon—but it catches fire in my blazing hand.

  And that’s when I realize that it wasn’t Darrius, or any of his henchmen, knocking out the lights. It was me.

  Making magic by mistake.

  Oops.

  Chapter 31

  Wisty

  IN THE MORNING, I wake cold and ravenous. I guess that’s how it works when you spend the night on a park bench. (Note to self: don’t do that again anytime soon. No matter how trashed your apartment is, it’s still way better than sleeping outside with a bunch of raccoons.)

  I flex my stiff fingers. Nothing catches on fire, which I take as a good sign. Last night’s bout of uncontrolled magic can remain my little secret.

  As long as it doesn’t happen again.

  Half an hour later, I’m banging on a brass door knocker and yelling, “Hello, hello?” until my throat hurts. I’m about to give up when the door finally opens, and Byron sticks a sleepy head out.

  He blinks at me in confusion. “Wisty?”

  I shove my way past him into the house. “No, the tooth fairy,” I say.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks. “What happened to your face?”

  I take a deep breath; obviously I need help, and I don’t have anyone else to turn to. But instead I say, “I’m really hungry. Can you make some eggs?”

  Then she shuffles into the hall, still in her pajamas: Byron’s new girlfriend. She’s small-boned, like me, and her hair is red. If I squint, it’s practically like looking into a mirror.

  Except she lacks my countless cuts and bruises, of course.

  “Hi,” she says, taking a few hesitant steps toward me. “I’m Elise.”

  “Wisty,” I say sharply. “Your evil twin.”

  Byron, to his credit, gives a little snortlike laugh, but Elise just nods, smiling.

  “Eggs?” I say again.