The Gift (29 page)

Whit

GREAT!
WE’RE TRYING to fight a war, our parents are scheduled to be executed, and they’re having a “we need to talk” moment. Here’s the thing:
you never grow up in your parents’ eyes.

Wisty pushes me to the side a little. “I’m here. Mom! Dad! Are you okay? We’re so worried about you,” she says in a burst
of words and emotion.

“Don’t worry about us,” Dad says firmly, avoiding Wisty’s question. “We don’t have much time, but we wanted to let you know
how you’re doing.”

I’m more confused now than I was even a second ago. “Shouldn’t
we
be telling
you
how we’re doing?”

Mom shakes her head. “You’ve been so brave—both of you. We’re very proud of your strength and spirit. It’s been tough going,
we know, but you’re really getting the hang of the magic. And you’re starting to understand how to share it, which is extremely
important.”

“The thing is,” Dad jumps in, “time is starting to run a little bit short. So… we wanted to suggest that you… pick up the
pace a bit.”

“Dad!
Pick up the pace?
” Wisty’s a little indignant now. Good old Dad, always trying to get us to be the first and the fastest.

“You may have to do some things that don’t feel… right to you. Things outside of your comfort zone. Whit knows all about that,
right, Whit? ‘No pain, no gain.’ You’ll need to be counterintuitive at times.”

Wisty looks troubled, but I can’t help hearing Celia’s voice in my head. “Do you mean, like… turning ourselves in?” I ask.

Wisty shakes her head and butts in. “But, Mom, we’ve had
so
much pain! We’ve got blood and scars all over ourselves to prove it.” Her voice is trembling now. “You’re our parents! Don’t
you want us to be safe?”

“Doing important things isn’t always safe, sweetie,” Mom says with a pained look. “It’s the hardest lesson for a parent to
teach, or for some kids to learn. But that’s what the Allgoods were born for. You’ve found your Gifts. Now give them away.”

“Give them away?” I exclaim. “What’s that mean? To who?
The One?
”

“That’s insane!” Wisty shouts, and I’m instantly reminded of her wild ways back in school.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but that’s about all we can tell you right now,” Dad says. “Because it’s all we know. We love you
and miss you both…”

Our parents’ faces begin to fade. And they’re both smiling bravely.

“Don’t go yet! Mom!
Dad!
” Wisty is still shouting.
“Please don’t go!”

Mrs. Highsmith shushes her. “My neighbors cause me trouble enough without them complaining about somebody yelling in my kitchen,”
she says.

“But we need to talk to them some more,” Wisty argues. “We really do.”

Mrs. H. is already up and back at her freaking cauldron-thingy.

“The important thing is that your parents are safe for the moment, even if they’re in a little trouble, shall we say.”

“‘A little trouble’? Listen, lady,” I tell her, ignoring the fact that it’s probably a bad idea to insult a crazy witch, “we
risked our lives coming here to get
advice.
Our parents are on death row. Our friends are trapped in a steam pipe under a war zone. The New Order has nearly completed
their total occupation of the Overworld. And we don’t have any clues about what The One wants from Wisty or how we’re supposed
to win against these egomaniacal wackjobs.”

She stops stirring her pot and looks at us, rather amused. It’s enough to drive me insane when a grown-up does that. And they
do it
all the time.

“Heavens, children. The clues are all there in front of you. You just have to look harder. And as for what The One wants with
your sister, well, it’s perfectly obvious what you have, my dear, that
he
doesn’t have.”

It’s the worst possible moment for a gale-force wind to crash through the apartment windows and virtually demolish the apartment.
And us.

The One has found us!

“You told him we were here!” Wisty shouts at the old witch.

Wisty

I’VE NEVER FELT his power as strongly as I do right now.

After barely escaping flying shards of glass, Whit and I are gripping an old-fashioned radiator, holding ourselves down and
out of the way of crashing furniture, cutlery, and appliances as a tornado of fury tears through the apartment.

Mrs. Highsmith, on the other hand, resolutely stands her ground in the middle of the swirling maelstrom. “He’s mastered the
air!” she shouts through the din. “Study his every move.
Learn
from this.”

It’s been hard enough ducking flying toasters and pots with the floor steady under our feet. But now it gets ten times harder
as the ground turns into something like gelatin. It’s a bona fide earthquake, courtesy of The One. The rattling and crashing
and tipping furniture ratchets up the decibel level to deafening, earsplitting. My head is pounding.

“And he’s mastered the earth!” Mrs. Highsmith continues, hollering her lesson over the madness. The One seems to oblige by
precisely illustrating her next point. “And he’s mastered the water!”

Now it’s raining—
inside the apartment
. The room is filling with churning water, quickly making its way up to our quivering knees.

“There’s only one thing he needs to completely secure his present and future domination, and to complete himself. His ego
is huge. That’s his strength
and
his weakness.
Do you follow… MY DRIFT?
”

Then Mrs. Highsmith levitates into the air, presumably to avoid having to swim in her own kitchen, but judging from the look
of terror-flecked anger on her face, I realize she’s not doing it under her own control. In a second, she’s pretty much pinned
up against the ceiling, her face twisted in profound agony. Then her eyes begin to bulge unnaturally.

She’s being crushed to death, isn’t she?

“Liar!” she screams inexplicably, and suddenly the room goes still. “Show yourself!”

And then, as if an invisible pair of forceps has reached inside the apartment, she’s yanked out of a broken window and into
the howling wind outside, screaming, “Show yourself!” the whole way.

Wisty

WE’RE DEAD QUIET, Whit and I. There is just not much to say after you witness something as strange and horrible as what just happened in Mrs.
Highsmith’s apartment.

But then Whit is ever practical. “Let’s get out of here before The One
shows himself
. Or sends his soldiers.”

Too late. Sort of.

We don’t even have a chance to get to the door before I hear an eerie and familiar song drifting in through the broken window.
Notes that have forever burned themselves into my memory.

The Command Pipe. The Command Pipe of Byron Swain, to be exact.

I go to the window, ignoring Whit’s cry of “Wisty! No! Stay away from there!”

Down on the City of Progress’s unblemished sidewalk is a depressingly familiar crowd of feral freaks led by—
quelle surprise
—Mr. Untrustworthy himself.

But you know what? I also feel a wave of relief—completely out of my control, I might add—that Byron is alive. Go figure.

Whit’s standing behind me protectively, then he leaps to the apartment entry to start barricading the door, just in case this
ends in, you know, a little reprise of our last encounter with B. and his toothy, drooling friends.

“So, Wisty, I guess you didn’t figure it all out yet,” Byron says with little emotion. “If you’d done the right thing—if you’d
been listening to what we’ve all been telling you—I might be able to help you right now. But you didn’t. So I can’t.”

A note of anger enters his voice, and he glares at Whit, who’s back by my side. “So now I’m afraid I have to do what
Celia
told me to do.”

“What are you talking about, Swain?” yells Whit. “Don’t you dare talk about Celia.”

“When I chased you into the Shadowland, I met up with your old girlfriend. To be more exact, her people met up with my people.”
I remember the moment, and I know Whit does, too. “And I regret to inform you, lover boy, she’s a Lost One now. She and her
new friends were about to
consume
us—and that means she’d eat you, too.”

I don’t even need to look at Whit to feel the energy radiating off his body: he wants to launch himself out the window at
Byron. “But that’s impossible!” he screams.

“What’s
wrong
with you, Byron?” I yell. “You act like you care about me, and then you lie, and threaten, and betray me every time we meet
—”

“
Lie?
Wisty, tell me one good reason why I should lie. Tell me what I have to live for now.”

I have to admit, I can’t answer that one. Never could. Not even when Byron was in preschool with me.

“Prove to me that you spoke to Celia,” Whit presses. “Prove it!”

“Okay, Whitford. I can do that. Tell me, does this line sound familiar?
‘We only have a short time together. Let’s not waste it.
’”

Judging from the shade of gray my brother turns, he
has
heard those particular words before.

“Had a dream the other day, didn’t you? And Celia wore a lot of perfume, right?”

I’ve seen fireplace ashes with more flesh color than Whit has right now.

“And you know
why
she was wearing so much perfume? It’s because even in a dream,
she stinks like a rotting zombie
—the way all Lost Ones stink.”

Whit is shaking his head in denial, or disgust, or horror. Or all of the above.

“But you know the irony here? She’s not haunting you because she loves you. Or because she wants you back. No, she’s after
somebody else.”

“What do you mean?” Whit asks.

“In fact, the deal she struck with me—the reason I was allowed to live and return here—was that she made me promise to bring
her
your sister.
That’s what this is all about, jockstrap.”

Whit

I CAN’T EVEN BEGIN to understand what Byron Swain just told me. It has to be lies.

I have a plan forming, but in the meantime, I pick up every object within grabbing range and start hurling it out the window
at him and his beasts. Books, candlesticks, cook’s tools, framed pictures. You name it, I toss it outside.

I have a good throwing arm, but unfortunately the little creep is obviously experienced at dodging projectiles.

“Wisty!” he shouts in between ducks. “
Please
come with me! This is your last chance to accept my offer. Do what your parents have been preparing you for your whole life!”

At that, I hurl a standing lamp at him like a spear. It hits Byron in the side and spins him around, but he doesn’t go down.

Then Wisty stuns me. In the quietest voice, she whispers, “Mom and Dad
did
say… that sometimes we needed to do things that won’t feel natural.”

“They said ‘outside of your comfort zone,’ not
stupid!
” I yell at Wisty. Immediately I regret it. But it’s too late. Even Byron rises out of his defensive crouch and glares at
me.

“Did you just call your sister stupid, Whit?” he shouts.