The Lost

by James Patterson

Byron rolls his eyes at me. “Fine. But you know, it’s generally considered polite to call.”

  “Yeah, and not show up at six a.m., whatever. But I slept outside last night, you know.”

  He puts water on for coffee and starts cracking eggs into a bowl. “Why?”

  “Because I was attacked by Darrius’s thugs. They practically murdered me in my own apartment. I didn’t want to stay there.”

  Elise gasps, but the expression on Byron’s face doesn’t change. “That sucks,” he says tranquilly.

  “No kidding! They’re animals! So what we need to do is storm their headquarters, Byron. I know where they are now, I—”

  Byron cuts me off with a wave of his spatula. “Wisty, there is no we.”

  I tear off a hunk of baguette and shove it into my mouth. “Excuse me? What does that mean?”

  “It means that you chose your side,” he says. “And it’s not the same as mine.”

  I consider flinging the rest of the baguette loaf at his head. “Well, it sure as hell isn’t the same as the Family’s,” I retort. “Byron, we’ve been friends forever. Aren’t you going to help me?”

  Byron gazes at me steadily. “I’ve helped you a lot, Wisty,” he says. “And somehow it always ends up costing me.”

  “I’m not asking you to do it alone, dummy,” I cry. “It can be a police raid.”

  “Sure,” he says, nodding, “a police raid. Led by the witch who everyone on the force wants to burn at the stake.”

  I gape at him. “Seriously? You’re going to bring my popularity into it?”

  “Or lack thereof,” he mutters.

  That’s it. The bread goes flying, and it clocks him on the ear. I turn to Elise. “Sorry I had to do that to your boyfriend. But he needed it.”

  Her eyes get wide—they’re a very lovely green, I notice. “I throw socks at him sometimes,” she whispers.

  I flash her a quick smile. Maybe she’s not as meek as she seems.

  Byron’s stirring the eggs in the pan now, and they smell so good I feel like I might faint. “The thing is, Wisty,” he says, “if Darrius is as powerful as we think he is, and if his people have powers, too—isn’t it a suicide mission?”

  “Well, what’s our other option? Standing around and just letting him keep robbing and killing us?”

  “We have to come up with a plan,” he says. “We have to think before we act.” He shoots me a look that says, We know how much you suck at that.

  “Nope, not my style,” I acknowledge.

  “Well, maybe it’s time you changed, Wisty,” he says.

  I look at him in his slippers and his kitchen apron, with his cute little bungalow and his sweet, redheaded girlfriend. “Maybe it’s time I changed you and Elise into ferrets,” I yell.

  Elise’s eyes widen again. She should really learn a different facial expression.

  “Wisty,” Byron begins, but I’m already stomping out the door, scrambled eggs be damned.

  Back out on the street, I turn around and see Byron and Elise standing together at the window, watching me with furrowed brows. Judging me. Even worse, feeling sorry for me.

  Screw it, I think. And with a wave of my hands, Byron and Elise become the cutest little ferret couple you could ever hope to see.

  I wonder how ferrets feel about scrambled eggs. Because by the time that spell wears off, it’s going to be time for Byron to rustle up some dinner.

  Chapter 32

  Whit

  “HURRY UP, ALLGOOD,” shouts today’s sadistic supervisor, Joe. “I thought you were supposed to be so strong.”

  A grunt escapes me as I heave the enormous trash bags into the incinerator even faster. It’s the hardest workout I’ve ever had—not to mention the most humiliating.

  “You’ve got two more floors to go,” he says. “Then report to the psych ward for bathroom duty.”

  I nod grimly. I’ve decided not to talk, because if I open my mouth, every single curse word I’ve ever heard is going to come spewing out.

  In the past two days, I’ve been yelled at by doctors, harassed by nurses, and berated by janitors. Patients glare reproachfully at me. And that old man, the one I healed? He’s like my damn shadow. He follows me around, demanding to know where my powers are.

  I’d like the answer to that question myself. Did they get sucked into that machine? If so, could I go and get them back? Or were they simply vaporized?

  “Allgood!” Joe shouts. “You dropped something.”

  The contents of an entire trash bag are strewn on the floor: bloody bandages, adult diapers, paper towels covered with scum. Bile rises up in my throat. And Joe, who obviously sliced open the bag and dumped its contents on the ground, just stands there, waiting.

  I glance down at my heavy-duty rubber gloves. If you beat him with a pipe, says a small, dark voice, you wouldn’t leave any fingerprints on the weapon.

  Too bad that’s just a fantasy. I bend down and start cleaning while Joe watches me with his arms crossed, smiling in cruel satisfaction.

  In the afternoon I’m supposed to be on guard duty—the one tolerable part of my new job. I patrol the ER and the surrounding hallways, on the lookout for Family creeps and anyone else aiming to pick a pocket or raid a drug supply closet.

  It means I’m near Janine. I can catch glimpses of her now and then, or hear her voice coming from the ward or the break room.

  What’s weird is that I can’t decide if this is a good thing.

  “Oh, poooorter,” Joe sings. “Laundry time.”

  I pick up the last scraps of trash and toss them into the bin, then trudge upstairs to gather the dirty sheets from a hundred rooms. I’m not even halfway done when Dr. Keller appears, his bleached teeth gleaming in a fake smile.

  “Aren’t you industrious,” he says. “And here I thought you were good for nothing.”

  I feign deafness. La la la, no bald jackasses around here!

  “I’m glad to see you know your place now,” he says. With his foot, he nudges the laundry cart, and it begins to roll away.

  I hurry to catch it—but then Janine gets to it first. She’s striding down the hall with another nurse, and I can tell by the look on her face that she was just laughing.

  “Look, it’s your protégé,” Keller calls to her. “Doing the work he’s best at.” Then he turns to me. “Something smells. I do hope it’s not you.”

  Janine, who hears him, flushes. She opens her mouth to say something—but then she shuts it again. Her friend giggles, and then whispers something into Janine’s ear before following Keller away down the hall.

  When we’re alone, I turn to Janine. “Thanks for having my back,” I say sarcastically. They’re the first words I’ve said all day.

  She reaches for my hand. “Oh, Whit, I’m sorry! But look, Keller’s mean to everyone. His entire staff hates him.”

  “Yeah, well, they hate me, too, in case you haven’t noticed,” I say.

  She shakes her head firmly. “No, they don’t.”

  Are you blind? I almost ask. “Janine, I’ve never been treated like this. Under The One, I was an outlaw—an enemy. But I was worthy of respect. Now I’m nothing. No, scratch that—I’m less than nothing.”

  “It’s going to get better, Whit,” she insists. “Tomorrow I’ll go talk to the other nurses.”

  That’s not good enough. “I’m tired of this ‘you’re still the same person, everything’s going to be okay’ crap,” I yell.

  Janine looks taken aback. “What do you want from me, Whit? Do you want me to tell you that you screwed up? Why bother, when you already believe it?”

  “So you think it was a mistake?” I demand.

  She looks at me for a moment before she speaks. “No. I think it was the right thing to do. But maybe you weren’t ready for it.”

  I scoff. “Maybe I wasn’t ready to be kicked around by every damn person in this hospital.”

  Janine looks pained. “I can’t stand up to Keller, Whit. I’ll lose my job.”


  “Right,” I huff. “While I’m losing my sanity. You don’t understand how hard it is.”

  Janine steps toward me. “I told you, I’m trying,” she says, eyes pleading. “I love you.”

  And now comes the time when I’m supposed to say I love you, too.

  But instead I say, “I’m sorry.”

  And then, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Chapter 33

  Whit

  JANINE’S RUNNING AFTER ME down the hall, calling my name, but I don’t stop. I sidestep a gurney, careen around a corner, and leap over a mop bucket. A doctor has to dive out of my way as I nearly crash through the emergency exit to the outside world.

  Free. And I am never going back to that place.

  “Whit,” Janine’s calling. “Wait!”

  The grief in her voice stabs me in the heart. And I hesitate, because this is practically the first real feeling I’ve had since I was Excised.

  “Come back,” she cries. “Please!”

  But I can’t turn around. I can’t see her tear-streaked face, or I’ll weaken, and right now, I just have to keep going.

  And so I pick up the pace.

  I haven’t run like this since I was on the foolball field. At first my legs are stiff, but then I find my stride, and pretty soon I feel like I’m flying.

  Well, here’s one thing I’m still good for. Maybe there’s a future for me as an express delivery boy.

  As if.

  Janine’s voice fades in the distance. Pretty soon all I can hear is the rasping of my breath and the pounding of my feet. And still I keep going, past the museum, the market, the library, my old high school—past everything that was once a part of me. I run until I’m lost.

  If I were Wisty, I’d shoot off fireworks of distress. I’d topple trash cans and set off car alarms and light the trees on fire. I wouldn’t care about being a total public nuisance, because the destruction would make me feel better.

  But I’m not Wisty, and I’m not magic. These days, the only thing I am is all the things I’m not: not a jock, not a healer, not a wizard, not a hero.

  And not a boyfriend, now, either.

  Chapter 34

  Whit

  WHEN MY MOM opens the front door, she stares at me for a split second before her face breaks into a welcoming smile. As she waves me inside, I find myself wondering: Do I somehow look different, too?

  “My dear Whit,” she says, standing on her tiptoes and planting a kiss on my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been worried sick about you and your sister.”

  “You have?” I ask. Because it’s not like she’s called.

  “Oh, yes! Everyone’s talking. Have you heard the Council’s new and horrible position on magic?” Her brow furrows, and she plucks agitatedly at the sleeve of her blouse.

  My breath catches in my throat. “Uh—yeah,” I manage.

  “We’re going to organize a protest,” she goes on. “You can help us. Your father’s been in contact with Mrs. Highsmith and several other magic folk—”

  In no way am I ready to have this conversation. I turn around, heading straight for the cupboard where they always keep the cookies and flinging it open. I know: rude. I shove four gingersnaps in my mouth at once.

  My mom frowns. “Please chew, darling. I can’t have you choking to death in the kitchen.”

  With my mouth full, I can only nod.

  “All this talk of submission and Excision,” she continues, wiping the crumbs away distractedly. “It’s just awful. They’re actually getting people to give up their powers. Can you believe it?” She gazes at me, incredulous.

  The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow the cookies.

  Again, I just nod.

  Yeah, I can believe it.

  Then my dad comes up from the basement, wiping his hands on his flannel shirt. Lately he’s been trying his hand at carpentry, a hobby Mom refers to as “making sawdust.”

  “Son,” he booms, “excellent timing! You can test out one of my handcrafted chairs.”

  Mom shakes her head, and a quick smile lightens her worried expression. “Ben, dear, don’t ask Whit to risk life and limb by sitting on your rickety furniture. He’s already endangering himself by trying to eat all the cookies at once.”

  Dad grins back at her. “I know you think I should use my powers, Eliza. But then it wouldn’t be half as fun!” He takes a handful of gingersnaps, too. “You don’t use magic in the kitchen, do you?”

  “That’s my little secret,” she says, winking.

  Then they both start laughing. My mom, temporarily forgetting about her Excision worries, starts telling me about some Dad-related furniture disaster, and my dad cheerfully protests throughout. It’s like we’re just another happy, magic family.

  I can’t stand it. I feel like a liar, even being in the same room with them.

  “I, uh, need to tell you something.…” I begin. But what am I supposed to say next? That what I did is killing me? That I hate who I am now? Hey, Mom and Dad, you know how I’ve, like, fought a bunch of evil wizards and stuff? Well, guess what: the person most dangerous to me was my own self! Isn’t that soooo ironic?

  I’m stuffing some more cookies in my face while I try to figure out how to start, when I’m saved by the sudden appearance of Wisty, who comes bursting through the kitchen door with a black eye, a cut on her forehead, and her hair sticking out every which way.

  She’s the last person I expected to see here, and she looks like hell. My first thought is, Oh, god, is she okay? And my second: Now admitting what I’ve done is going to be that much harder.

  My mom shrieks and runs to her. “Wisty! What happened?”

  “I had some, uh, rude visitors,” she says in her typical offhand manner. “It’s nothing.” She lets them both hug her for a minute, then she pulls away and tries to smooth down her hair.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi to your brother?” my mom asks, still eyeing Wisty’s wounds.

  Wisty glares at me. It’s the first time I’ve looked her in the face since I went to the Government Lab. Her eyes are cold and hard, and the cookies—yeah, I took more—turn to sawdust in my mouth.

  “No,” she says flatly.

  Mom clucks her tongue. “You got hit on the head. That’s making you grouchy.”

  “I said it’s nothing, Mom,” Wisty says. “Quit worrying about it.”

  “It’s not nothing,” I say. “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”

  Forget fire: I swear she could turn me to ice with that look.

  “Nothing,” she says again.

  She can be as rude to me as she wants, though. I’m her big brother, and I’m going to help her whether she likes it or not. “Come here,” I say. She protests, but I make her sit down—I’ve wrangled unruly patients before.

  Albeit, not ones related to me. Not ones who seem like they’d sooner scratch my eyes out than say hi.

  I gently palpate the collarbone, and she winces. “Ow!”

  “Sorry. The good news is it’s not broken. But it’s badly bruised. You need a better splint.”

  And Wisty’s no dummy; she knows she needs help. So she holds her breath and waits, glowering, while I re-splint her shoulder. Then I clean and bandage her cuts while our parents observe nervously.

  “Glad to see they didn’t take all your healing powers,” she sneers when I’m done.

  The room falls immediately still.

  Then: “Whit?” my mom says questioningly. “What is Wisty talking about?”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick, but I steady myself against the couch. No more putting it off.

  It’s time to confess.

  Chapter 35

  Whit

  WISTY, AS USUAL, beats me to the punch. “I know what you did and you never should have done it!” she barks.

  I take a startled step back. “Whoa, hang on, sis. Maybe we could have a reasonable, adult conversation about this.”

  But once Wisty gets going, there’s no stopping
her. “It’s too late for that! You should have talked to us, you stupid idiot! Instead you went and submitted, and you’ll never be the same again.”

  My mom’s cheeks pale. “You didn’t,” she whispers.

  “He did!” Wisty shrieks.

  My dad stiffens, and then he turns and gazes hard into the fireplace, like if he looks at it long enough, some genie’ll pop out of the ashes and tell him the secret of life.

  Or maybe tell him why his only son let himself be Excised.

  I do want them to understand. “It wasn’t an impulse,” I try to explain. “I thought about it for a long time. And I believed it was the right thing to do.”

  Believed—not believe. But they don’t pick up on my use of the past tense.

  “Did I call you a stupid idiot already? I can’t remember, so I’ll do it again. You’re a stupid, sneaky, idiotic idiot!” Wisty yells—just like she’s four years old again and I’ve taken her favorite toy.

  “The Council said we needed to stand together, as equals,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “That made sense to me.”

  I’m hinting at the truth because I can’t bear to admit it to them—that I’ve regretted every second of my life since the Excision.

  “But your powers…” my mother begins.

  “They’re gone,” I say flatly.

  Wisty shakes her head. “It’s just so imbecilic and sad.”

  “I did it for the City,” I yell.

  “And look what good it’s done,” Wisty cries, tears springing to her eyes. “Nothing! It’s done nothing! All it’s done is make you weak.”

  And I don’t know what to say to that—because she’s right.

  “I just don’t get it,” my mom says. She’s staring down at her hands because she can’t bear to look at me anymore.

  “It’s because it makes no sense at all,” Wisty says, her eyes narrow and mean. But hey, at least she’ll look at me.

  Meanwhile my dad has decided that the fireplace isn’t going to offer him any miraculous wisdom, so he turns to face me. For a second I hope he’s going to be the voice of sanity, help Mom and Wisty see reason. But then he whispers, “How could you?”