The Gift (26 page)

Wisty

AN AWFULLY LOUD NOISE WAKES me from an almost deathly slumber. I shoot up with a start—and a modest burst of flame.
Where am I? Somewhere outside… looks vaguely familiar…

I stumble through the starlit darkness and barely manage to grab a railing.
Oh yeah. Okay.
I’m on the parapet of an abandoned factory my brother and I found after the portal ejected us into the rubble-strewn borderlands
of Freeland.

And I was
supposedly
on night watch for three hours while poor Whit got some rest.

Down below there’s some sort of scuffling.
Panting? Grunting? Oh no! I have to get Whit!

But before I can even make it to the rooftop door, he’s bursting through it.

“Byron and his freaks,” he gasps. “They must have
made it through the portal, too. They’ll follow our scent up here. Is there another way down?”

I shake my head. “So we’ll have to use magic, or fight —”

“There will be no fight,” I hear Byron Swain declare haughtily as he casually slips through the door, shutting it behind him.
His usual perfect timing.

We hear a rumbling of bodies trampling up the stairwell and pounding against the door frenetically. Byron’s got a Command
Pipe, and he plays several bold notes, which seems to settle the monsters down. But that doesn’t stop Whit from pinning Byron’s
back against the door.

“We are
not
going anywhere without a fight, Swain,” my brother says through gritted teeth. “There were a few minutes back at the BNW
where I thought you were actually trying to help us. The toilet flush? That one could have gone either way. But then you show
up with a pack of mad apes? You’re not interested in saving us. You’re interested in saving yourself.”

“I’m very sad about this,” says Byron, staring straight at me, and I’ll admit that it looks as if he’s fighting back tears.
“To be perfectly honest, you’re partially correct, but that’s only a recent development. My Kill Team”—he nods sideways toward
the beasts behind the door—“were to be the instrument of my own death, as well as yours.” He sighs deeply, as if the weight
of all this is too much to bear.

And the weirdest thing is, I’m starting to feel it, too.
Normally I’d be ready to light up after hearing about his little assassination agenda—but now, his burden, his misery, his…
well, his feelings for me, whatever they are… just kind of sock me in the gut and take my breath away. Instead of being scared
and angry, I actually feel sorry for him.

“The only one who’ll be dead is you,” Whit spits.

“Shut up, Whit,” I say. I turn back to the weasel. “B., are you looking me in the eye and saying that you intended this night
to end with a suicide-murder massacre? Are you really that insane? I’d actually started to believe in you back at the BNW,”
I confess.

I think I see a flicker of hope in Byron’s eyes, but it quickly turns dark. “Insane? I don’t know, Wisty. I don’t know what
I am. Remember when I said that no one being exposed to The One’s evil for a long time can remain unchanged? I’ve seen things
in him, know things about him—
and
his victims—that have driven me to these lengths. I can’t apologize for it. And… I can say without reservation, your life
is better ending now than being forced to be with him.
Which is what he wants
—
and what he will get.
”

Okay.
He has both my and Whit’s attention now. Whit loosens his grip, but his tone is still harsh. “You have no belief in Freeland,
then. In the Resistance. Or in us.” Whit’s eyes flare with so much bitterness that I think maybe
he
will light up.

“Oh, but I do,” Byron says, finally unlocking his eyes from mine and looking at Whit. “Even you, jockstrap. I’ve
been reading your journal. Very interesting stuff. Had no idea about
your
special Gift.”

Whit looks surprised. “For writing, you mean?”

Byron snorts. “Are you kidding me? Most of that writing’s straight from Ms. Magruder’s class. And the stuff that isn’t is—well,
let’s face it—utter dreck.” The guy really has no fear of the fact that my brother can deck him, does he? “Do you mean to
tell me you have no idea of your Gift?”

“First of all, Byron, I told you to quit talking like that,” I jump in. It’s obviously going to take a woman to move this
conversation forward. “Second, just tell us what you’re getting at.
Please?
”

“The evidence is there with a little interpolation,” Byron continues in his stiff, blustery tone, “but I’m fairly convinced
that Whit is clairvoyant.”

Whit

I WANT PROOF.

Because I know I’ve written some pretty grim things in my journal.

Including, but not limited to, the death of my sister.

“Would you care to,” I sneer, “interpolate that statement for us?”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Byron looks annoyed. “I suppose you weren’t
always
listening in Ms. Magruder’s class. But, for starters, perhaps you’d like to explain to Wisty how you knew that the little
Bionic Drummer Boy was going to get his arms… amputated.”

My stomach curdles, and Wisty looks at me in shock as the weasel continues. “And it’s also apparent that you know The One
is going to bomb every inch of Freeland very soon. There are plenty of examples, but I suggest we save the rest of this fascinating
discussion for better times.”

I hear some disturbing growling start up outside the
door, and Byron swiftly blows a few strong notes on his Command Pipe, which results in instant chill.

“Look, we know you’re full of it, Swain, so let’s move on to plan B.”

“Yeah,” Wisty jumps in. “Can’t we agree to a nice, simple plan that doesn’t end in a suicide pact?”

“And how about we start with you giving me back my
journal?
”

“You’re in luck, Whit, because that’s actually a part of my
new
plan.” He turns his full attention back to Wisty. I’m continually stunned by the intense looks he throws her. Like she’s
his… Celia.

Wow. Scary thought.
I instinctively put my arm around Wisty, as if that’s going to protect her from his lustful eyes.

“Wisty, you and I both know that we could do great things together,” he says to her, and I tighten my grip on her shoulder.
“You felt it onstage at Stockwood. You felt it when we made magic at the BNW. And your first
major
transformation was done on me, wasn’t it? In case you forgot, it wasn’t a weasel. Originally, you turned me into a
lion.
It was… electric.”

Wisty is speechless. Her stomach has to be cramping way worse than mine now.

“I know you don’t care all that much for me,” he continues in the understatement of the century. “But you and I are so much
more
powerful together than you and your brother. The fact is, Wisty, I believe that
you and I
could actually be the two children of the prophecies.”

“The prophecies say a
brother
and
sister!
” she spits out indignantly.

“The brother-sister detail is a technicality. I know you don’t want to admit this, but you and Whit haven’t yet executed the
level of magic that Freeland needs in order to defeat The One. But when your energy goes through me, it becomes greater.”

“Prove it!” Wisty demands.

“You’ve been blind to how much I’ve been intertwined with your life, your magic. You didn’t even realize I was there when
you turned everyone in Unger’s courtroom into horseflies. And remember who allowed you two to take your drumstick and your
journal when you were captured by the New Order?”

We’re numb, speechless, confused, trying to process all of this.

Byron takes advantage of the moment, and as he strides away a few paces, we hear the growling behind the door stir up again.
There are sharp scraping sounds—teeth or claws on metal?

Byron reaches for his Command Pipe but then suddenly drops it before he makes a sound.

“You have two options right now, Allgoods: We three can quickly end this hopeless quest as martyrs at the hands of the Kill
Team. Or”—he lets us listen as the clamoring of hungry beasts gets more frenzied—“we take Whit to The One instead of Wisty.
I believe he would accept
your
incredible Gift, Whit, instead of Wisty’s.”

“You don’t know that he would,” I say. “You don’t even know that I have any Gift to… fortune-tell.” I have to admit, I’m processing
that one. “What about Wisty?”

“Wisty and I… well, together we can lead Freeland to victory.” I snort loudly, but he turns earnestly to Wisty. “I
know
it, Wisty! I have what you need… in so many ways.”

“No!” Wisty screams. “That’s sick. I’m never leaving Whit.”

Byron levels his gaze, increasingly focused and confident, at me. “Let’s just let your brother decide that.”

“What do you think I’m gonna say, Weasel?” I scoff. “We have other options that you don’t know about.” I’m looking at Wisty
as if to say,
Don’t we?

“But the latter option is the only one that
Celia
would approve of.”

Oh my God. He knows? How much does he know?

“She told you to turn yourself in, didn’t she, Whit? For the greater good? So you could be together again?”

It’s in my journal. He’s a real bastard, but he’s right. In my head I can hear her saying it, I
feel
her commanding me:
Stop thinking about only what’s right in front of you. Think about the rest of the lost.

“It’s what was meant to be, Whit. Accept your fate.” Byron raises the Command Pipe to his lips. “Wisty, can I have your decision?
My friends outside are very, very hungry.”

“No! No, no, no!” Wisty shouts furiously, but she shoots me a look and I think I can read it. She has a plan, and I’m
pretty sure I know what it is. Maybe I
can
see into the future.

“Whit?” Byron asks.

“No,” I reply firmly. “Not a chance.”

“Well, then,” Byron responds with resignation, “we’re finished here.”

And then he sends out a command from his pipe—and the heavy rooftop door literally comes flying off its hinges.

Wisty

THE SWARM OF BODIES, the claws and teeth, the screeches and growls, the stink and heat of their breath—it’s everywhere. It’s overwhelming, sickening.
But I’ve never been more focused in my life.

The second that Byron blows the Command Pipe, I leap at him and it’s as if we’re two magnets. I’m on him—girl to boy—and I
rip the pipe from his hands.

I’m surprised at how it slips easily out of his grip and into mine—but I’m one-tenth of a second too late.

I can already feel claws piercing the skin on my thighs.

There’s a moment where I think my life is going to end just the way Byron wanted it to. With me on top of him, clutching him
for dear life, his raucous monsters taking both of us down at once. I don’t like the image one bit.

But my focus is back, and I no longer feel too much of the pain of whatever mutilation has already started on my back and
legs. I close my eyes and hum the notes into the
Command Pipe, the very same ones Byron used earlier to subdue his brutes.

Perfect pitch has never been more perfect. Over and over I send out the command until I have enough courage to let myself
absorb what’s going on.

The beastly strikes have stopped. All I feel now is the pounding of Byron’s raging heart. He’s alive. I’m alive. And Whit?

Continuing with the series of notes, I open my eyes and roll off Byron. Whit’s just a few feet away, on top of the monster
that had gotten to me a few seconds before. He actually has the beast in a stranglehold. My brother really is something else.

There’s thick, gloppy blood on me, on Byron, on the floor, on Whit. But what freaks me out more than anything else is what
the creatures really look like. This is the first time we’re seeing them up close.

They’re
kids.
They’re human children. What has the New Order
done
to them?

I’m surging with energy and righteous anger and power. Looking up at the sky, and then at Whit,
I transform us into birds.
Really fast ones. In a heartbeat, we’re supersonic hummingbirds disappearing into the sky. The Command Pipe I’d been holding
sails down toward the rooftop.