The Gift (21 page)

My stomach drops. I immediately think of Janine. Or maybe he means Emmet…

“Mr. Swain!” The One announces.

“What?” Whit blurts out.

“I will now disintegrate your good friend Byron.”

I’m so twisted with all of the horror, anxiety, and relief of the past few minutes that I can’t help bursting out with a laugh.
It’s a nervous titter, but a laugh nonetheless. Inappropriate, yes. And maybe even a little insane.

His Coldness drops his arms in utter surprise and looks at me with undisguised hatred.
“What is so funny?”
he bellows. “Your humor misses me completely.”

Whit’s laughing now, too. “Go ahead,” he says. “Weasels are immune to vaporization anyhow.” As if demonstrating that
he
is the first to succumb to isolation psychosis, Whit starts pantomiming a jumping weasel, dodging vaporization rays. So I
keep laughing. I mean, it looks really ridiculous.

The One Who Is The One stares at us, dumbstruck. “Fine,” he says quietly, and turns to me. “In that case, it will be
you!
”

I stop laughing. So does Whit.

“I’ll admit I’m rather pleased by the results of my experiments with your parents so far. I’ve been getting stronger and stronger…
and
they,
well… you’ve seen the fantastic results.” He gestures toward the scene of our latest mindfreak. “Even if it was a holographic
projection. My latest dynacompetent mastery, by the way.” He breaks out in a
self-congratulatory smile, which I return with a glare. “At this rate, I may not even
need
you, Allgood children. So I present you, Wisteria, with a deadline: twelve hours. Exactly twelve hours to manifest The Gift
in a manner in which I may… partake of it. If you don’t, it will be
you and your brother
that I execute.”

And then, with a wave and an incantation, he chills the whole basement with a heavy snowfall—
from the ceiling
. The temperature plummets at least fifty degrees.

“That should help you concentrate,” he says. “I feel that the cold works wonders on most students.” And he swirls out of the
room.

Wisty

AND THE SNOW JUST keeps falling.

My new definition of evil: anyone who makes me hate something that I love. Such as: I think I might hate chocolate now. That’s
criminal. It’s the BNW Center’s fault. I think I hate Celia for driving Whit half mad. Definitely the N.O.’s fault. Now The
One has made me hate snow. Which I used to adore.

I remember how, every snowfall, Whit and I would be outside finding a way to go sledding, no matter how old we were. The only
thing that changed was how daring we’d get, even going down hills that had a “frozen” (we hoped) pond at the bottom. In recent
years he’d even drag Celia along, and I must admit, I loved watching the two of them together. They were so happy being with
each other.

Those were the days. Days where nothing scared us.

Now snow will only symbolize these harrowing last moments leading up to my death.

I’ve found a few wooden boards, which I’ve stacked up so I can sit on them, to delay the frostbite on my butt cheeks from
huddling on the floor. At this point we are already in about three inches deep. My forever-heroic brother keeps exploring
the basement, looking for a way out—or for a new portal. Meanwhile I’ve been trying to recite every poem, song lyric, or nursery
rhyme I’ve ever committed to memory. I know these schools have some sort of “magic-dampening” properties, but it seems as
if we’ve almost always found a way to use our powers, at least a little, if we tried hard enough.

It’s the cold. I know it. I freaking
hate
the cold. And now it’s literally going to be the death of me.

“Okay, Whit, get out your journal!” I call to him. “I’m going to dictate my Last Will and Testament.”

“I’m listening.” Whit’s muffled voice drifts over from a corner of the basement, where he’s rapping on the wall like a detective,
only one who doesn’t really know what he’s doing.

“Write it down! I’m serious.”

“Wisty, I hate to remind you, but… we
ain’t got nuthin’
to be willing to folks,” Whit drawls, coming toward me with some discovery in hand. “Or folks to be willing ’em to.”

“Don’t be dark. That’s my job. And may I remind you that somewhere in the world are two halves of my drumstick. I would will
them to you, but you’re gonna die, too, so I need a realistic backup plan.”

Whit arrives with a piece of canvas just large enough to wrap a corpse in. “Found this,” he says, throwing it around me. “It’s
not much, but —”

“If it’ll delay hypothermia for even five minutes, I’ll take it. Thanks,” I say, holding out a corner so he can slip in next
to me. “So, you ready to write?”

Whit looks at me with a surprisingly even gaze, no trace of Celia madness in his eyes, thank God. I need his sanity now. “Sure
thing, Wisty.”

He pulls out his journal and a pen, and I clear my throat dramatically. “I, Wisteria Rose Allgood, hereby declare my Last
Will and Testament.”

Wisty

I PAUSE AND LOOK at the falling snow, beautiful in kind of a fake way, and remember that time when nothing scared me. And now I’m not scared
anymore of what’s going to happen. I’m at peace.

“First of all, let it be known to the world—and to the Curves and Half-lights and Lost Ones and even the New Order zombies—that
I’m a witch and proud of it.

“All of my powers, whatever they are, I hereby bequeath to my dearly beloved brother, Whitford P. Allgood, for as long as
he gets to live. No one else. Period. I’d rather have a Lost One dismember me limb by limb than to have my powers extracted
for the New Order.”

“Aw, shucks, Sis,” Whit says with mock modesty.

“I leave my drumstick, should it ever be found, to my mother. If no Allgoods survive me”—I shiver a little—“I leave it to
Mrs. Highsmith. Rock on, very cool lady. Next, I leave my wig to Janine. You don’t have a clue how beautiful
you are, girl. I used to kind of gag on your crush on Whit —”

“Do I really need to write that?” Whit breaks in.

“Every word.”

“Then slow down.”

“Okay. So, Janine. After the part about gagging, write: Now I dream of you two getting married and having lots of little rebel
babies together.” Whit rolls his eyes. “Further, I leave my electric guitar to —”

“Wait a minute. You don’t have an elec —”

“Shut up. Let me dream for a minute, okay?”

Whit nods.

“I leave my electric guitar to Sasha. I forgive you for lying to me ’cause now I really do understand why you did it. There’s
nothing more important than fighting these arrogant and obnoxious N.O. fiends. I’m sorry if I let you down in the end.”

I’m feeling the melted snow seeping through my saturated sneakers now.
Black toes, here I come.
I curl them tightly back, as far away from the wet chill as possible.

“And Emmet. Man, I miss you already. You make everything better just by smiling. I wish I could leave you everything you deserve.
A new world. Or, rather, the old world back. Instead… I leave you… my hair.”

Whit starts to protest again, since I have no hair, but I give him another “shut up and keep writing” look.

“I hope you didn’t trash it after the hack job. Apparently they’re treating it like the Holy Grail now. It’s the
only part of me that’ll be left after they vaporize me. Maybe if the world ever gets normal again, you can auction it off
on uBay.”

“To some rabid Wisty fan who’ll pay a million beans for it,” Whit suggests.

“As if —,” I start.

“I know just the person who would,” Whit says, and then the person Whit’s thinking of shows his sorry, sad face in our sad,
sorry space.

For all of his faults, Byron has absolutely flawless timing.

Whit

“I REQUESTED THE HONOR of bringing your last meal to you, Wisty,” Byron says quietly to my sister, seeming genuinely humble.

He glances at me apologetically for once before mumbling, “You, too, Whit.”

He crunches through the snow toward us, rolling a wheeled cart that makes a very irritating squeaking noise.

“More chocolates for Wisty?” I say sarcastically. “They nearly killed her the last time. Maybe the third time’s a charm?”

“Could you skip the meal and bring me an extra-extra-large ski parka and snow boots instead?” Wisty sniffs and wipes her running
nose on her white jumper.

Instead of answering, Byron lifts the hotel-style metal cover from the tray, presenting it awkwardly, as if we
should be more interested in eating the lid than what’s underneath it.

Wisty seems to be reading Byron’s mind and squints at the underside of the lid, but my attention is drawn to the pathetic
scraps on the plates. “Boiled potatoes and vitamin bars?” I mutter. “That’s not a last meal. That’s all they
ever
serve in this place.”

Wisty and Byron’s eyes are locked, and she’s staring at him with a deeply disgusted look on her face. And I don’t think it’s
about potatoes.

“Well, then,” he responds. “Maybe we can… spruce this meal up a little together.” Byron is shooting me one of these “Don’t
you get it?” looks.

Wisty gently nudges me and nods at the lid Byron is still holding up. Attached to the underside is a note:

WISTY, I LOVE YOU. I WON’T LET YOU DIE. I THINK I CAN HELP YOU. I
PROMISE
. NEED TO GET AWAY FROM ERSA FIRST. HOPE I CAN DO IT.

“Here, I tell you what…,” Byron says, rolling the cart toward a faraway dark corner of our vast prison. “Let me bring this
over here for your… convenience.”

I hope ERSA is stupider than we thought, since there is absolutely
nothing
convenient about eating in one of the darkest corners of the basement.

I take Wisty’s hand and drag her off the boards,
knowing she’ll need some coaxing to be in the dark with Byron after his declaration of love. I figure this is our last chance.
We’re desperate enough to take help even from Byron the Weasel with the Lovesick Heart.

Once we’re in our “dining room”—a tiny nook under the stairs—Wisty doesn’t hesitate to grab a boiled potato and cram it into
her mouth.
“Garçon?”
She pretends to be flagging a waiter. “Can you bring some bacon, cheese, and sour cream over here to go with my potato?
Tout de suite!
”

“Wisty,” he whispers urgently, but so quietly I’m convinced not even a bug planted right on his person could pick it up. Dang,
he’s good. No wonder the guy’s practically a professional double agent. “I didn’t mean to alarm you with my note, but you
had to know the truth, so you’d believe me when I tell you I can help. Probably.”

I don’t need to have night-vision goggles to sense the daggers flying from Wisty’s eyes. “Pardon me if I’m asking the obvious,
B., but whose side are you on anyway? It’s, like, the last burning question I have before I die.”

“Okay, listen. I’ve figured out something incredible,” he goes on. “I believe that the times you’ve used your powers on me…
have changed me.
”

“No kidding, Swain,” I hiss. “Get to the point, or get the H out of here.”