The Lost

by James Patterson

  “Come in, come in,” she calls, as if she’s the one who lives here. “Whit, dear, the soup’s not going anywhere, so put that spoon down. There are more urgent matters to attend to.”

  My parents limp in the door a moment after we do and immediately collapse into their favorite chairs: a leather recliner for my dad and a velvet wingback for my mom. She looks utterly drained; my dad stretches his legs out, cracks his knees, and grimaces. “We spent the day dredging the riverbank,” he tells us.

  “Do you know what for?” Whit asks.

  “Of course not, dumbbell,” I say, swatting his leg. “Darrius doesn’t tell people his plans, remember?”

  Mom shoots me a dark look. “No, we don’t know, but there’s no reason to talk to your brother like that, Wisteria.”

  I hate it when she calls me Wisteria.

  “Right,” Whit says to me, “and there’s no reason to risk your life, not to mention everyone else’s, because you can’t keep your big mouth shut in front of Darrius.”

  I bristle. “Excuse me for trying to find out what’s going on, instead of just slinging rocks like an idiot. Maybe if you had some brains to match your brawn, you’d actually come up with a plan.”

  “Maybe if you ever stopped for one second to use that brain you’re so proud of, you could help me, instead of always making things worse.”

  “You’re just mad because you got the lash. That wasn’t my fault. I guess those Horsemen keep a closer eye on the rock piles than you thought they did.”

  Whit starts to respond, but then Aunt Bea claps her hand over his mouth. His eyes go wide, but he quiets down.

  “Anyway,” Bea says brightly, “mysterious slave labors aside, things are looking up. I told you there was a way, and I believe that I have found it.”

  I look at Aunt Bea—with her thick granny glasses, her frizzy, uncombed hair, and her kooky clothing draped over her tiny, birdlike frame—and I think, Is this batty old biddy really our best hope for survival?

  She holds up a tattered volume bound in wine-colored leather. “This is a little-read addendum to The Book of Truths,” she says. “And in it, I discovered something miraculous.”

  Her eyes spark with life, with hope.

  And almost against my will, I find myself leaning forward, desperate to hear her words. Maybe she really does hold the key to our salvation.

  She looks hard at me and my brother and shakes a finger at us. “No more fighting,” she says. “Do you understand me? This will not work unless there is no anger. There must be only love.”

  “What won’t work?” I ask.

  “The procedure,” she says simply. “It’s very simple. I think. It will either work…” She trails off.

  “Or?” I ask.

  “Or it will destroy you,” she says brightly. “Now listen very carefully.”

  Chapter 52

  Wisty

  GAZING DOWN AT the book she holds in her clawlike hand, Aunt Bea trembles with excitement. My parents and brother, too, are on the edges of their seats.

  But suddenly I’ve got the feeling that I’m not going to like what comes next.

  Aunt Bea clears her throat, and then she begins to read in a low, singsong voice. “Not one but two / The fire splits through / Heal the rift / Cleave the gift.” She looks up at us, beaming, and then says it again. “Not one but two / The fire splits through / Heal the rift / Cleave the gift. See how simple it is?”

  I’m about to say that I don’t understand, until it suddenly clicks. “Wait a second. You want me to give Whit some of my powers, when he was the stupid idiot who gave them away? Is that what you mean? Because no way. You’ve got to be crazy.”

  Aunt Bea tsk-tsks at me. “Remember: only love,” she says again.

  “Wow, I’m sick of hearing that already,” I say. I look over at my parents. “Do you think this is a good idea? If you decide to cut off your arm, Mom, would you expect Dad to happily give you one of his?” I demand.

  My mom tries to reach for my hand, but I scoot away. “I don’t think that’s the right comparison, dear,” she says. “For one thing—”

  But I don’t want to hear her explanation. I can’t believe they’re asking this of me. Give half my powers to Whit in a procedure—as yet undefined and unexplained—that may or may not kill me?

  Or kill us. Whatever.

  I glance over at Whit. He’s practically slobbering with hope and excitement. Of course he wants his powers back, whatever it takes. But who’s to say he won’t decide to submit again and throw my magic away?

  “Wisty,” my aunt says, “I’m not feeling any love.”

  “Yeah, well, neither am I,” I shout. “This is insane.” I point to the bracelet on my wrist. “What about this? Have you noticed it prevents magic?”

  Bea looks startled. “I forgot about that.”

  Beside me, Whit sighs in defeat. “Well, it was a nice thought,” he says softly.

  “Don’t be so easily discouraged, Whitford,” my aunt admonishes. She grabs each of us by the wrist, covering up the bracelets with her palms.

  I notice that she doesn’t have a bracelet of her own. “How did you—” I begin.

  “Hush,” she says. She closes her eyes and begins to hum, a note so low I can barely hear it.

  I feel the sparks—the tiny electrocutions—that Whit warned me about. I grit my teeth as they grow in intensity. Just when I think I’m going to cry out, there’s a loud crack, and the pain is gone.

  On the floor are two broken metal bracelets.

  “How the hell—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” my aunt says. “Now listen up. You must focus. I know this seems improbable, but it’s our only hope. Your power is great, Wisty—as yours was, Whit. By sharing this power—by dividing it—I believe it will then multiply.”

  “The Book of Truths said so,” Whit agrees.

  “I didn’t hear that part of the prophecy,” I point out.

  Aunt Bea smiles at me. “One is never sure of anything, my dear. But I believe in The Book of Truths and the possibilities it suggests. How power willingly shared can grow even stronger. How power given is power gained.”

  I look to my parents, who are watching me with love and dread.

  “Please,” my mom whispers.

  In resignation, I bow my head. “If this is what it really says—if this is what we need to do in order to fight Darrius—I’ll do it.”

  “Remember to love,” my aunt whispers. “It’s the most important part.” Then she addresses both of us. “Now face each other, please, and clasp hands.”

  Still reluctant, I take Whit’s hands in mine.

  “Not one but two / The fire splits through / Heal the rift / Cleave the gift,” Bea begins chanting.

  Apparently it’s up to us to figure out how the rest of this works. Whit and I meet each other’s gaze. I guess it’s time to heal the rift.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for being the reason you have to do this.”

  I give him a half smile. “Well, I guess I’m sorry for being so mad at you all the time.”

  “I’m sorry you got sucked into the slave labor,” he says.

  I shrug. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring more Resistance members with me to bust you out. Because that was really stupid.” I bite my lip and frown. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry for being impulsive, okay? Because that’s just who I am. But I’m sorry if I’ve been sort of a pain in the ass.”

  “Sort of?” Whit laughs. Then he turns serious. “You’re fierce, sis. You’re the firegirl.”

  I nod. “You’re strong,” I tell him. “You fix things—and people.”

  Then we just look at each other for a minute, sort of sadly, but hopefully, too.

  Love, I remind myself, love. It’s either that, or destruction.

  Chapter 53

  Whit

  I FEEL HOPE in every single cell of my body. And fear. But most of all I feel gratitude. “Thank you,” I whisper to my sister.

  She
smiles and squeezes my fingers.

  When we finally close our eyes, we concentrate hard: on the sound of Aunt Bea’s whisper, on the poem that’s transforming itself into a spell. We focus on believing.

  It’s not long before I feel Wisty’s hands heating up. At first our palms get sweaty, but then her skin grows so hot that the sweat dries. Soon I want to pull away—it burns. But I know without being told that we’re not supposed to break contact.

  I can feel Wisty’s concentration. This has to work—and I’m trying not to feel terrified that it won’t.

  Our parents have joined in the chant now, their voices low and steady.

  As our focus deepens, the air in the room seems to hum and vibrate. If I opened my eyes, I imagine I could almost see the molecules sparking.

  I grit my teeth as the heat grows still more intense. It’s not just in Wisty’s hands now. It’s in the air between us—a bridge of invisible fire, running from her racing heart straight into mine.

  But then something changes. Wisty seems to pull back, and the heat starts to die down.

  “I can’t,” Wisty whispers. She’s shaking, but I can’t open my eyes.

  I don’t know what she means, and I’m afraid to ask. She can’t make it work? Or she can’t make herself give up part of her power?

  Yes, you can, I think. Yes, you can.

  Her fingers tremble against mine. “Please—” she gasps.

  The heat stops burning me, and I know she must be giving up.

  “Not one but two / The fire splits through,” I urge. “Heal the rift / Cleave the gift.”

  Yes, I have selfish reasons for wanting my powers back. But I also want to bring Darrius down. And for that, my sister needs to help me.

  She’s crying now. I know what she’s feeling: an aching, sucking pull, like her soul’s being yanked from her body. I felt that way myself, in the Government Lab.

  I can’t believe it, but in a way, I’m Excising my own sister.

  Wisty gasps, then cries out. “Oh, Whit, it hurts—”

  And that’s when I pull my hands away. That’s when I decide it isn’t worth it. Darrius can rule forever—I can’t do this to my own sister.

  “Wait,” Aunt Bea cries. “Don’t stop now!”

  The urgency in her voice reminds me of what she told us before we began: This will work, or else it will destroy us.

  Pain sears my eyes and head, and right now, it definitely feels like we’re closer to destruction.

  Weeping, my mom reaches for our hands and binds them together again, covering them with her own. My dad, too, comes from his chair and joins us.

  Can they share their power, too? Or will we all go up in a giant ball of flame?

  My parents and Bea are almost shouting now, repeating the poem over and over until the words are sounds without meaning.

  Wisty shudders, sobs, flings her head back in agony. But she won’t let go of me. Her hands have become vises.

  And then suddenly, her heat surges again. The temperature in the room rises, and I can feel flames licking at my chest. I know it should be burning me, but this time it’s not. My heart feels like it’s going to explode from all the energy flooding into it.

  The room begins to glow, and the light comes streaming through my closed lids. When I open my eyes, I see the whole house lit by golden, leaping tongues of fire—burning nothing, just dancing in the air above Wisty’s head.

  She opens her eyes, too. They’re bloodshot, red-rimmed.

  “They’re above you,” she whispers. “The flames.”

  I don’t dare look, but I think I know what they mean, and I want to scream with happiness. Wisty gave me her gift. I’m magic again.

  Finally letting go of Wisty’s hands, I stand up. I’m taller than I’ve been in weeks. I’m strong and certain and unafraid. I’ve been given back the only part of me that ever really mattered.

  I reach down for Wisty, and I pull her up to me. I clasp her to my chest.

  “You did it,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

  She smiles through her tears. “You owe me, bro,” she says weakly. “Big-time.”

  Chapter 54

  Whit

  I BARELY SLEEP at all that night, and in the morning, I’m out of bed even before Darrius and Bloom make their daily pre-dawn address. I hurry through the still-dark streets, on the lookout for any of Darrius’s thugs. Soon, the City will be waking up, and its citizens will be heading out to the chain gangs. But not me: I’m going to a different work site. To a place—and a person—I never should have left.

  I’m out of breath when I finally arrive at the hospital. For a few minutes, I just stand outside, observing. I watch silhouettes passing by in front of the windows; I see the automatic doors swishing open and then closed. It’s almost funny: I used to spend the majority of my waking hours there, and now I’m afraid to go inside.

  It’s not about running into Dr. Keller, though, or any of the other doctors or nurses who feared and cursed me. It’s about seeing Janine.

  I need to do it.

  I want to do it.

  But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m nervous. Jittery. Excitement and dread slosh around my guts in some weird emotional soup. Pull it together, Whit, I think. But it’s halfhearted encouragement, and it doesn’t help much.

  I go around the back of the building, past the trash compactors I got to know so well. Trying to be as unnoticeable as possible—which is hard for a six-footer like me—I sneak up the stairs to the emergency room area.

  Janine’s territory.

  The hallway is bright, and it smells like disinfectant. I breathe in deeply. Who would have thought I’d miss the smell of bleach? Or the familiar sound of heart monitors? Or the way the fluorescent lights on the ceiling flicker and hum?

  I hear Janine’s sweet, familiar voice before I see her.

  “—he swears it’s a hernia,” she’s saying, “but it’s just a pulled muscle. So don’t let him tell you any different. And for god’s sake, don’t look at it.”

  “Gotta love the hypochondriacs,” says another voice wryly.

  They laugh, and then the other nurse says something I can’t quite hear.

  “Sure,” Janine calls. “See you later on the rounds.”

  And then she’s coming toward me, walking alone, looking down at a chart instead of where she’s going.

  My eyes drink in her shiny dark hair, her slender, graceful frame, the pale long fingers of her delicate hands. I will her to lift her face so I can see that, too: her green eyes, her quick smile, the single dimple on her left cheek.

  Watching her, I’m just about bowled over by the pure idiocy of my actions. I can’t believe I left the way I did, and I wish I could take it all back.

  I remind myself of the stupid decision I made that day outside the Government Lab, and how fate and love and magic helped me reverse it.

  I was lucky.

  Can I be lucky again? Can I undo the second-most-stupid decision I’ve ever made? I know I can’t rely on magic with Janine. But I still need the power of love and fate on my side.

  As she slowly approaches—still reading the chart, inching her way along the hall—I hold my breath. I love her more than ever. More than I ever thought possible.

  Closer and closer she comes. I catch a whiff of her lilac perfume, and I’m almost overcome by memories of holding her, kissing her, lying beside her. The images seem so real I could reach out and touch them.

  I don’t want to scare her, so I whisper. “Janine—”

  But she jumps anyway. She looks up. And when she sees me, she goes white. Her mouth opens, but not a sound comes out. She stares at me for what feels like an eternity, her lips still tantalizingly parted.

  “Janine,” I say again. “It’s me.” As if I could be anyone else.

  But then she just shakes her head at me—slowly, sadly. And she turns on her heel, and she walks away.

  The pain in my heart comes on fast and hard. I gasp for breath.

  Sur
e, I’m magic again. But I’ve just discovered a bleeding wound that my hands can’t heal.

  Chapter 55

  Whit

  I CAN’T SIMPLY STAND in the hallway, waiting to be discovered. I start walking in the other direction, not even paying attention to where I’m going. And that’s how I find myself in a forgotten corner of the hospital, outside a small room where a boy lies curled in a bed.

  There’s no one else around. Not a doctor, not a nurse, not even a parent.

  When I enter the boy’s room, his eyes barely open before closing again. His chart hangs on a hook at the end of the bed, so I quickly scan it. I read about his acute leukemia, and even I, with my utter lack of medical training, can see that his blood counts are terrible.

  But as I once told Dr. Keller, I don’t need to know what’s wrong in order to fix it.

  Excitement surges in me. I’m back, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to help.

  “Hey there,” I say gently. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

  The boy’s dark eyes flutter open again. Slowly, he shakes his head no.

  So I sit on the hard chair near his pillow—the chair that should have held his mom or his dad. Probably they did used to sit with him, but then Darrius turned them into slaves.

  “How’re you feeling?” I ask.

  He winces. “You don’t want to know.”

  I reach for his hands. “Can I try to help?”

  The boy considers this for a moment before nodding. “Can’t hurt me worse than I already do.”

  So I stand and place my hands on his chest, and I concentrate on his blood, on the cancerous cells that are destroying it. My M flares, then sputters, like an engine that’s been cold too long.

  The boy squirms beneath me. It’s possible I shocked him.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “Just give me a minute.”

  I realize that I don’t know if this is going to work. Like Aunt Bea says, I just have to trust. And so I close my eyes, and with every cell in my body I focus on the healing magic of my hands.