I put my eye up to the hole and now we’re looking right at each other. “Uh—how?”
“First we disguise ourselves,” he says. “As Lost Ones.”
I shiver. “Ew. I’d rather be a rat. Let’s try that again.”
Whit shakes his head firmly. “No. In Shadowland, I watched the Undead rip animals apart with their teeth and bare hands. Nothing’s safe from a Lost One—except another Lost One.”
The thought of turning myself into a Lost One is beyond horrifying, but I have to admit, he’s got a point.
I sigh. “All right,” I say. “But I’m not doing this alone.”
With effort, I get up and stand before the door to my cell. I place my cuffed hands on the lock and focus my attention on its destruction. My M builds slowly, though, haltingly, and I grow impatient. As I start to count the seconds, improbably I hear my mom’s voice: A watched pot never boils!
I almost laugh—but thinking of her calms me a little. I focus deeper. The M grows stronger, still sluggish but steady. And a moment later, the lock melts, and the door creaks open.
On still-weak legs, I hurry to my brother’s cell. His lock is easier to break. I guess I’m warmed up now—no pun intended.
Whit’s standing in the middle of the tiny room, his expression a confusing mix of fear and relief. Wordlessly he holds out his hands, and I take them in mine.
“Ready?” I ask quietly.
He nods.
I’m not ready—but I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have a choice.
We squeeze each other’s fingers, and within moments we can feel the electricity sparking. It stings like a million tiny bees. Whit’s big hands grow warm, then hot. We close our eyes and try to help the power build.
I can feel Whit’s pulse in his palms—that’s how hard his heart’s beating. Mine, too, seems to gallop in my chest, as the M rushes through us, swirling, amplifying.…
But it hurts.
It feels like it’s sucking energy from every single cell in my body. Is it because I’m trying to become a carbon copy of soulless evil? Or because I’m simply weak? I don’t know, and I can’t think about it. I have to fixate on the magic; I have to call it forth.
“Breathe,” Whit whispers.
“Trying,” I gasp.
We hold each other tighter, and then, finally, it comes: first a new, beautiful heat, and then a deep, sucking chill. I can feel myself begin to transform. I sense my blood slow, my temperature drop. The pain returns, but it’s almost as if it’s somewhere outside my body, floating in the air around me, only occasionally searing my skin. My bones grow thin and brittle, and my hair turns to seared, greasy strings.
It’s hard to get enough air into my lungs. I almost feel like I am a Lost One, instead of a human imitation.
“Wow, this is unpleasant,” Whit manages.
Together we stoop low, and our skin goes gray and leathery, and our clothing turns to dusty rags. When I look into Whit’s eyes, I see the same terrible yellow that my own eyes must be.
I try to smile, but my face feels stiff and hard. It must look like I’m grimacing in pain. “Looking good, bro,” I say.
The handcuffs slip easily over our thin, bony hands and clatter to the floor, and we step out of Whit’s cell.
The halls of the prison are crawling with the ravenous Undead, all of them trying with slow but fanatical dedication to breach the cell doors and destroy the occupants inside. Judging by the nonstop, blood-curdling screams, a lot of them are succeeding. Others—the weaker ones, perhaps, the ones who’ve been Undead for centuries—simply press their decaying bodies against the bars and moan.
They turn their hideous eyes to us as we make our way to freedom. And then a pair of them start walking toward us with a determination that unnerves me.
They don’t eat their own—I know that. But still, we start to run.
Chapter 67
Whit
WE’RE HALFWAY TO the stairs when I stop in my tracks in front of a row of cells. The people inside are yelling in terror, begging someone to free them before the Undead come. Are these people criminals, jailed rightly? Or are they innocent, like Wisty and me? I don’t have any idea—all I know is that, unless I free them, they’re doomed.
“We have to go,” Wisty yells. She tugs on my arm and then drops it in disgust. “Don’t make me drag you. Your skin’s too gross.”
“But they’ll die,” I say desperately.
“Even more people will die if we don’t get to Bloom and Darrius,” she retorts. “I’m going now, and so are you.”
Ignoring her, I close my eyes, concentrating on the locks, imagining the pins disengaging, the cylinders rotating, and the bolts sliding open. And maybe they do, and maybe they don’t—I’ll never know, because Wisty grabs me again, grimacing in revulsion, and yanks me down the hall. I always forget how strong she can be when she puts her mind to it.
She’s hissing something about me wasting my powers as we clatter down the staircase, winding down four flights to the main floor and freedom.
We slow down as we go through the central booking area, moaning like our Undead brethren. We just need to get outside and make it across the square to the palace without being detected.
Simple—right?
There’s a herd of Horsemen guarding the door, but hey, don’t we look like we’re on their side? I’m thinking it’s going to be easy—I mean, don’t we deserve a break?—but then one of them sticks out a spear and bars our way. “No one passes,” he announces.
Wisty moans a bit more in what I hope is a convincingly Undead manner. I raise my ancient, embalmed face and speak in a voice that sounds like bones rubbing together. “We must go to the palace,” I creak.
The Horseman shakes his head. “Not until summoned.”
“We were,” I insist. Then I cough, because my larynx feels like it’s made of dust. It must really suck to be Undead.
The Horseman frowns darkly, and two others step forward, looking more and more menacing by the second. “You weren’t,” the first says.
Wisty straightens up indignantly, suddenly seeming a bit too alive. “How do you know?” she demands.
Shhh, I’m thinking. Don’t blow our cover.
She meets my eye, and I know she can read my thoughts. But either she can’t control herself, or she doesn’t care. Heat waves begin shimmering off her, scorching what little tattered clothing she’s wearing. Seconds later, flames start leaping from her skin like she’s a Lost One lantern.
“What the—” says the first Horseman.
The others begin to shout, raising the cry of alarm.
“Come and get it, you ugly cowpokes,” Wisty taunts as bolts of lightning shoot from her hands, dropping three of the guards to their knees. They scream and beat at their burning chests.
Nothing to do now but fight.
I deliver a forearm smash to the neck of the guy nearest me, and I can feel the crunch of his windpipe collapsing. He goes down, gasping for breath. I grab a truncheon from the belt of the next guard and start bashing him with his own weapon.
Blows are raining down on my head and shoulders, and I’m trying desperately to deflect them with one arm while working offense with the other. I hear the crack of bone—mine or someone else’s, I don’t even know. A body shot to my ribs sends ripples of pain rushing through me. I clock one guy so hard in the mouth that my knuckles split open and a bunch of his teeth go flying. They’re coming at me so fast I don’t have time to work up any magic—I’m just fighting them with every ounce of strength in my body, a strength fueled by fear and rage.
None of the guards can get close to Wisty, though. They’re terrified of her fire. She lifts her arm and shrieks out words I can’t understand, and the Horsemen’s clubs fly right out of their hands. They hang suspended in the air, vibrating, rotating—and then they explode. Sharp, splintery bits of wood rain down on all of us.
There’s a roaring in my ears and the pain in my head’s more intense than it’s ev
er been before. A Horseman charges me like a bull, slams me in the stomach, and I go pinwheeling backward and bash my skull against the wall.
Which makes the headache even worse.
I think I’m going down.
But then Wisty rushes at me, flames shooting out from her every cell, looking like some awful, brilliant demon. She grabs my hands and yells, “Run,” and I feel her power surging through me, conjuring my own.
Suddenly my mind goes crystal clear, and time itself seems to slow down. The horrific din goes quiet, and then it’s like the two of us are flying. We tear through the doorway and down the marble steps into the sunlight.
Freedom.
But the square is crawling with Lost Ones. One lets out a squawking cry, and the rest of them turn to us, their yellow eyes flaring. We’re still in Undead form ourselves, but somehow they’re not buying it anymore—maybe because Wisty’s on fire and screaming like a banshee.
I leap into the middle of them, dodging the grasping arms like they’re opponents on the foolball field. Wisty follows in my wake, heat and smoke rolling off her in terrifying waves.
A Horseman’s arrow whizzes past my ear, and then another, but we duck our heads and keep charging through. There’s a gate up ahead that leads to the City proper, and once we’re through it we can hide.
We race, our breath pounding in our ears. Then comes the sound of gunfire.
We just need to make it to the gate.
The Lost Ones surge behind us, but they can’t keep up. It’s the Horsemen and their guns we need to worry about now.
“Wisty, hurry!” I yell.
A hundred yards from the gate, I glance back to see the nearest Horseman take a bullet in his back.
“Nice aim,” Wisty yells.
Then comes another burst of gunfire—and the heart-stopping sound of my sister’s scream.
She’s stumbling, nearly falling, as blood streams out of a wound in her leg. I don’t stop to think—I don’t have time. I rush back and pick her up, throwing her over my shoulder.
“Hold on tight,” I yell.
Then I run like I’ve never run before. Together we burst through the gate, and Wisty, thinking fast, slams it shut with her magic, buying us a precious few minutes.
I don’t stop running until we’re out of sight of the palace. And then I set Wisty down and collapse onto the sidewalk, gasping for air.
As we return to living-human form, Wisty moans and holds her thigh.
“Is it bad?” I ask urgently, pushing aside her slick, red-stained fingers.
“How the hell do I know?” she barks. “It hurts like it is.”
I inspect the wound, and I’m beyond relieved to see that it’s not too deep. “It’s bleeding a lot, but you’re going to be fine.” I take off my shirt and wrap it tight around her thigh, stanching the flow of blood.
She looks into my eyes. “You got enough juice to heal it?”
I have to turn away. “Not yet,” I say. I take a few deep breaths, and then face her. I reach for her hand. “I’m sorry, Wisty,” I say. “If I hadn’t given it away… if you hadn’t had to give me half your power…” I trail off, as once again the stupidity of my choices hits home.
But Wisty just grits her teeth and then smiles faintly at me. “Guilt is a waste of time,” she says. “Just keep going. If we live through this, you can feel guilty later. I promise to help you with that.”
Chapter 68
Wisty
MY LEG IS KILLING ME. So is the look on Whit’s face—like he’ll never, ever forgive himself for getting Excised. And while I may not be the world’s nicest girl, I don’t believe in kicking a guy when he’s down.
“I’ve been hurt a lot worse,” I remind him as I adjust my makeshift bandage.
Whit doesn’t say anything. He just nods grimly.
“Hey, we can’t sit around feeling sorry for ourselves in an alleyway,” I say. What I don’t say: Someone’s going to find us, and probably sooner rather than later.
“Exactly,” Whit agrees. “You need medical attention.”
I shake my head firmly. “We don’t have time for that. I’m fine,” I insist (and I’m really hoping I’m right about this). “For all we know, there are portals to the Underworld all over the City. What if our parents opened portals when they were dredging the river? What if the people at other work sites did, too? What if, every single second, more of the Undead are pouring into our world, Whit? What if?” I hear my voice rising, and I realize that my heart’s begun racing. I’m starting to panic. How did I not think of this before, what the influx of Lost Ones could really mean?
It’s a threat so profound, so terrifying, it’s almost unimaginable. An army of the Undead means the end of any chance for freedom, or any hope for peace. It means living every single moment of our lives in fear, waiting to be devoured. With their ravenous appetites for flesh and souls, the Lost will eventually destroy everyone.
In the whole, entire world.
I’m reeling at the thought. I can barely breathe. We’re looking at the total destruction of human life, and you can’t come back from that. There’s no happy ending.
“Wisty!” Whit is poking my arm. “Hello? Have you heard a word I said?”
“What? Huh? No.”
“I asked if you were ready to go back to the palace,” he says. “To put a stop to this.”
I try not to laugh bitterly in his face. My sense of urgency has suddenly turned to fatalism. Maybe we should just wait here to die. Maybe we should just get it over with.
“How do we fight them? How do we kill something that’s already dead?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. But we’ve got to try, don’t we?”
I look down at my leg again. Whit’s shirt is nearly black with my blood. “If you say so,” I respond dully.
He grabs my shoulders and looks me right in the eyes. “Wisteria Allgood,” he says, “don’t you dare give up because the Undead creep you out and you’ve got a little scratch on your leg. It’s time to find Darrius and Bloom and stop them, okay? We agreed on this. We made a pact.”
“But not a plan,” I point out.
“So we’re flexible,” he says. “And fearless.”
Speak for yourself, I think. Is it the loss of blood or the sharing of power? I don’t know, but I’m still not fully myself.
Whit stands up and holds out his hand. Reluctantly I reach up and let him pull me to standing. I wince when I put weight on my wounded leg.
“I’ll heal it as soon as I can,” he says, his voice suddenly sad. “I just need a little more time.”
I nod. “I know. It’s okay. It’s not like I’m bursting with M right now, either.”
Blood runs down my leg as we walk, and I’m feeling worse and worse about everything—until some small, bright thought occurs to me. “Wait a sec,” I call. “I think I’ve got enough juice for this.”
Whit turns. “For what?”
I hold up a finger, from which a hot, white flame begins to flicker and burn. I grit my teeth as I bring it down to my leg, searing the oozing flesh. Cauterizing it.
It hurts like hell. No, wait, actually it hurts worse than that.
Whit whistles low in admiration. “Wisty, you’re a genius,” he says. “With a high pain threshold.”
The pain nearly brings me to my knees, but the wound’s sealed for now. I wait until I can breathe through the agony, and then I say, “Okay. I guess we’ve got to do this, huh?”
Whit nods grimly.
“Remember to keep close to the buildings and be on the lookout,” I say. “Who knows where the Undead are.”
We pick our way down streets that are eerily deserted. An old newspaper blows into our path and Whit kicks it away. We can hear pigeons cooing in the eaves of the row houses, and their soft chirps sound like a warning. It’s as if the air is tinged with menace. The hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper.
Whit says, “I don’t know
. If they’ve been released from the work sites, hopefully they’re in hiding. Barricaded inside their houses.”
We don’t say what we’re both thinking. Where are our parents? Are they okay?
All we can do now is hope.
I shiver and pull my sweater tighter around my shoulders. There’s a strange chill in the air—a cold, stale, almost sepulchral breeze.
I stop, my stomach knotting in dread. I know that cold. I know that smell. “Whit?” I whisper.
But he doesn’t answer. He has stopped in his tracks, so suddenly that I run right into the back of him.
I hear him suck in his breath. “Now we know where the Lost are,” he whispers.
When I peer around him, my heart seems to vault into my throat. There’s a whole pack of them slinking down the street, dark and cold as shadows. There are men, women, and even a few gray-faced, yellow-eyed children.
When she sees us, the woman in the lead smiles with sharp black teeth. “There,” she croaks. “Our next meal.”
And with a single cry, the pack charges. Whit and I turn on our heels and sprint back the way we came. I know the Undead aren’t as fast as we are—but I also know their strength doesn’t wane the way ours does.
We’re not going to be able to outrun them for long.
Luckily we’re in the old part of the City, where the streets curve and twist, and alleyways offer places to hide. My leg feels like it’s on fire as I run. I can’t think anymore. I just follow Whit blindly down a side street, knowing the Undead are close behind.
For a moment it seems like we’ll lose them. But then, up ahead, we see another pack, this one led by a tall, stooped Lost One with arms like ebony sticks. He has hollows in his cheeks the size of ping-pong balls, and he leers at me hungrily.
We’re caught.
“Hey, we’re just a snack,” I yell. “There’s an all-you-can-devour buffet up there in jail.” I point to the prison, looming darkly in the near distance.
But he doesn’t even hear me. He just keeps coming—and so do all of them.
They’re chanting something in low, sinister tones, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. Their eyes burn with a cold, yellow fire.
The Lost Page 18
