Witch & Wizard: The Fire

by James Patterson

  I feel her.

  Everywhere.

  Chapter 59

  Whit

  I WANT TO stay like this forever, enveloped in Celia’s warmth and safe in her cocoon of light, but it’s only a few seconds before I feel her slipping away from me again, our cells realigning in our separate bodies.

  “Oh man, that’s … just … incredible,” I breathe into Celia’s wild hair as we finally break apart.

  “Best thing ever,” she agrees. “The living are really missing out.” She laughs but then catches herself; it’s less funny when she remembers which side of the divide I’m on. “Do you think maybe …” Her eyes search mine, uncertain. “Don’t you think it might be time to move on?”

  “Where are we moving on to?” I ask, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “Celia, you can’t leave here, right? I don’t want to go back again without you. I want to be with you … forever.”

  As I say it, I notice Janine, watching us walking back, her jaw set and eyes clear with understanding.

  Celia tenses and intertwines her fingers with mine. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I know she’s considering the possibilities. I squeeze her hand as best I can, but then she breaks away and turns on me. “Don’t you think I want that, too? It’s not something I can just decide, Whit. You can’t survive here!”

  “But you can destroy the Lost Ones, right?” I plead. “We can live here safely. Together.”

  Celia shakes her head. “That’s not how it works, baby. Without their darkness, the Shadowland is out of balance. The good doesn’t come without the bad … all of it passes through here. Without them, the passages between worlds begin to close. They’re already closing.”

  “Celes, you’re not making any sense, I swear —”

  “Think of it like this, Whit: we need them to continue to exist so that our light doesn’t go out completely.”

  My breath catches. “It’ll never go out, Celia,” I choke. “I couldn’t bear it.”

  She smiles, but it’s a sad smile filled with longing and untold secrets.

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” she whispers. “But right now, there are things you need to see in the Shadowland. Things all of you need to see,” she says as we approach the group of Resistance kids. “The others can come too. You too, Janine,” she adds as an afterthought.

  Janine nods and looks away, and my ears heat up in shame. I want to take her hand, to explain, but I can’t.

  Chapter 60

  Wisty

  I WALK TOWARD him, head held high, and for a moment time stops as The One and I take in each other, the disheveled, determined girl and the demonic dictator towering over her.

  The fluorescent light flickers, casting gray-green shadows on his face. He looks garish, possessed.

  Evil.

  My confidence is zapped by his cold, cruel stare. I can’t do this. I step back from him, muscles twitching like a deer ready to bolt.

  I turn, but The One grabs my wrist, lightning quick, nearly snapping the bones.

  “Time’s up, child. I’m giving you the choice, the opportunity of an apprenticeship.” He twists my arm, his grasp fierce and unsparing. “Say you’ll take it, Wisteria. I’m losing —”

  “Ah!” I grimace in pain.

  “— patience.”

  I swallow hard, concentrating all of my focus on the fantasy, the one where I’m able to strip The One completely of his power. It felt so real, so attainable, earlier. I have The Gift, right? I’m The Chosen One.

  So why do I feel so small? Why do I feel myself shrinking from him, ready to forfeit?

  And then in a flash I see that kid’s skin peel back from his head. I look at the cold glee on The One’s angular face, drunk with power, and I realize that there’s no time to hesitate, that it has to happen now.

  The fire is building within me, ready to spark, and I laser in on him just like in the daydream. I distill every ounce of M I’ve been saving up, and I release it on this pathetic tyrant.

  The One’s eyes widen as he looks down at my arm, flames licking through his grip. The heat is there, the fire, but it’s more than that. It’s control.

  He makes a choking sound, and I feel the raw electric power pulse from my fingertips and connect with him. The One flies backward, crashing against the wall. He hovers several feet off the ground, clenching his manicured fingers and writhing in real pain.

  It’s awful to watch, and I want to stop, to back off — I’m not connecting with his thoughts, can’t remember how — but I can’t look away. This is what I came here to do.

  I send one final surge, and his limbs convulse as if zapped by a bolt of lightning, and he collapses in a heap on the hallway floor.

  I’m too scared to move, too spent by this power to see what I’ve done. I don’t know what I’m capable of.

  Could he be … dead?

  But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, The One springs back up, his eyes insanely bright, and laughs weakly, the skin stretched tight across his stiff jaw, a puppet of horror.

  “You’re doing it all wrong, Wisty. Backward. Oh, how it pains me.”

  Then, as if he’s decided to relieve me of a great burden: “It appears that I am the only one who has any idea how to properly exercise your power. I can hardly bear the injustice of it. But perhaps we can strike a deal,” he offers with fake benevolence.

  “I want to show you something. I want you to see my secret. I want to share.”

  Chapter 61

  Wisty

  THE ONE ESCORTS me into his private quarters, through the entryway I recognize from earlier. He slams the door shut, and I flinch, claustrophobic with the sense that I may never get out of here.

  I glance at the desk across the room, remembering the private, sensitive documents in there, and suddenly feel cold down to my bones, as if I’ve stepped into a walk-in refrigerator. Does he know?

  He guides me across the room, maneuvering me with his hand on the small of my back, and I feel sick. I had him, but curiosity got the better of me, and now I’ve let down my guard. I train my eyes straight ahead, looking at the unadorned walls, the small main room, unsure of what he has planned.

  There’s more to this place than I thought. He leads me to the far side of the room, to a spot in the wall that is slightly inconsistent, and I raise an eyebrow quizzically, but The One doesn’t say a word. He lifts a hand, and a door flies open.

  And I’m totally weirded-out by what lies behind it.

  It’s a seemingly endless hall of mirrors, and The One urges me forward, placing me in the middle to confront my own reflection. I half expect the mirrors to shatter at once, glass raining down on me in a dramatic finish, but all is still.

  I peer into the mirrors, my image echoing into infinity, an army of Wistys looking small and scared and lost, just like I did in his bathroom. Looking weak. Then I remember the things I found there, the exposed vulnerability, and I set my jaw, determined not to let him get to me.

  And when I change my expression, something happens.

  A thousand Wistys mime this change back at me and stand there looking strong, confident, and so, so powerful. I feel the magic coursing through me, feel the truth of the Prophecies, and I know. I could rule this whole universe if I wanted to. It could all be mine.

  I shudder, feeling light-headed.

  “You see,” The One whispers from behind me like a patient teacher coddling a wayward student, “it’s not about you, Wisteria, and it’s certainly not about us, or we. It’s about me. It’s about I…. The most powerful creative force, and the most dangerous, is the human ego. Now do you understand?”

  Yes. I do understand.

  Everything Mrs. Highsmith was trying to tell us about power and playing God comes into acute focus. The important thing isn’t about using The Gift; it’s about not using it. About keeping others from getting ahold of it. Each one of us possesses that unique human narcissism, that self-importance that can spin wildly out of control,
and the key to survival — to all of human survival — is keeping it under wraps.

  “Power corrupts,” I whisper. “Always remember.”

  I understand the enemy now. It’s not just him, The One. It’s I me, ego, and I can’t let that take over like this evil man has.

  Chapter 62

  Wisty

  “SINCE WE’RE TALKING about ego …,” I mutter to myself.

  I turn to The One, keeping my eyes trained on his face and away from these warped mirrors.

  “I understand now,” I say. “But before I … join you … I want to know more about who you are, how you got here.” I think back to the science award, the harsh teacher’s note that I found earlier. Tools to get at him, to make him vulnerable. “Tell me how you got to be so …” I swallow. Say it like you mean it, Wist: “Great.”

  The One stands up a little straighter. Flattery suits him.

  “Why, Wisteria, I told you I’d tell you anything — you just had to ask! It’s only natural you should want to know how one could possibly achieve all that I have, that you should covet that power.” His eyes flash at me, testing, but I nod at him as sincerely as I can manage, and he continues.

  “Once upon a time, a small boy was … different. No, not just different. Brilliant.” He’s speaking loudly now, as if performing for an audience, and his voice echoes through the tunnel of mirrors. “Those in a position of authority discouraged his immense talents, labeling him hoodlum, ruffian, young terrorist.” The One’s eyes glaze over as he recalls the memory. “Indeed, their assessment was astute on that account, for they would definitely endure terror,” he mutters, then raises his voice. “Instead of helping him, encouraging him, they accused him of lies!”

  “‘Disturbing demonstrations’?” I say before I can stop myself, recalling the paper I found in the desk, but The One doesn’t seem to make the connection. Instead he nods, looking at me intently.

  “Sound familiar? You and I are the same, Wisteria.”

  Is there any truth to that? I think back to my days of skipping school, of the disappointed looks around the dinner table, of everyone expecting me to fail because of the way I dressed or because I was smart in a different way than the other kids. It hurt. Still, that didn’t make me take a hatchet to the whole world, did it?

  “In what way are we the same?” Anger creeps into my voice. “I could never do what you do.”

  I look away from The One but only see his image reflected all around, and he takes a step closer, looming over me, his voice vibrating in my ears.

  “Teachers, principals, your parents. They failed you. They never loved you, never appreciated the talent you possessed, never helped you hone it, grow it. Instead they wanted to squash it, kill it, to destroy you.”

  I think of my mom threading her fingers through my hair, my dad rocking out with me to a song on the radio, giving me a hard time about grades but giving me the space to be creative. Loving me, letting me be a kid instead of a prophet. Trying to protect me from this life of greed. How did The One get all of his power? Ego. Persuasion. Indoctrination. And a serious grudge against humanity.

  “No.” I shake my head, steeling my mind against The One’s brainwashing. “It’s you who’s been trying to destroy me. You.”

  “Can’t you see, child?” he asks, his voice dripping with false tenderness. “I’ve only wanted to be a good father to you, to give you the encouragement I never had. I’m inviting you to sit beside me. Everything I have” — he stretches his arms wide, and a thousand mirrored arms seem to reach for me, closing in —“could all be yours. I’ve only been trying to help the world, Wisty, to make them see. We only have to cleanse it of the useless and the pitiful, and then we can start anew. Come, I’ll show you what you could have.”

  I can’t even respond to that. One minute he’s talking about trying to help the world, and in the same breath he proposes genocidal “cleansing”? What a sociopath.

  Still, as The One walks to the end of the hallway, his thin frame guiding me along the mirrors, I follow. I’m in too deep to turn back now.

  I realize I’m holding my breath, and when he turns the doorknob and presses forward, the hallway fills with warm, dazzling light.

  And when I see what’s inside that room, my head nearly explodes.

  Chapter 63

  Wisty

  “NO … WAY,” I whisper. My eyes bug out of my head, and I’m so dazed you could knock me over with a breath — even if you weren’t The One.

  Somehow, in this brick-and-mortar palace lies a door to a room that is infinite. It’s bigger than a ballroom, a foolball field, a mall. I cannot see the far end, and as I press my hand against the golden walls to test if they’re real (they are), my synapses are overloaded and my brain can process only one thought: Beauty.

  On the walls and the floor, stacked in piles and leaning against corners, is everything that’s been taken away from us. I stumble forward, breathlessly trailing my fingers against harps, guitars, centuries-old paintings by true masters. Light seems to emanate from these objects, drawing me in. All the greatest art, the greatest books, the greatest films, the greatest music, is right here. Every last thing.

  Well, almost.

  The collection we saw in Mrs. Highsmith’s apartment was just a tiny fraction of what’s in this room. It must have been what she hid from him, what she salvaged. She needed to save it for the rest of the world when the iron grip of the New Order had eased.

  The One steps beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts.

  “This is the good life, child, the only life worth living.” He turns me toward him, holds my face in his hands, his thumbs pressing into my forehead, and I flinch. “You are superior. You should live a superior life. Look what you can share with me.” My eyes flit to the stacks of music, the amplifiers, the sleekest guitar I’ve ever seen.

  His thumbs press harder, and his eyes are wild, desperate. “Just give me your Gift. Give it to me.”

  Chapter 64

  Wisty

  AS HIS TECHNICOLOR eyes bore into mine, I finally see what he’s capable of. It’ll never end; it’ll never be enough. One man’s ego will leach all the life, all the beauty, from the whole world.

  I think of all he’s promised me, every lie, but my mind latches on to one statement made at his weakest moment: You’re doing it all wrong, Wisty. Backward, he had said before, when I’d tried to pulverize him. What did he mean?

  “Give it to me!” he shrieks over and over, pressing, pressing. I try to twist away, but he clenches my temples even harder. I’d do anything to make him stop.

  And then … I understand.

  If I can control electrical impulses of the brain … can I just stop them, too? Can I shut them down? Can I … kill someone? Just by concentrating on it?

  Mrs. Highsmith said in no uncertain terms that I had to “deal with” The One.

  Murder, she meant. A horrible, stifling guilt chokes me, but in that second, with The One’s psychopathic eyes trained on me, I feel a lightning bolt strike between us. It lifts my feet right off the ground.

  I don’t know how I got here, or what to do.

  But I don’t know how to stop it either.

  “No, Wisteria …,” he gasps. “Not like that.” His grip slides off, and he collapses to the floor. Panicked, I stand looking at his unconscious face, the white noise deafening in my ears.

  I kneel down and slowly put my head on his chest, listening.

  I’m shaking. I’m shaking and emotional and volatile, and I feel that familiar heat starting in my fingers. I stand up abruptly. I can’t be here. Taking one last look around this paradise, I run past the artwork, past the guitars and sculptures with missing arms and noses, the girl on fire racing down the long, accusing hallway of mirrors.

  Chapter 65

  Wisty

  I DON’T KNOW where I’m going, and I’m sobbing so hard I can barely see. I tear through the hall, down the stairs, into another hall of suites, no
t even feeling my legs carrying me.

  And then I’m hit by a bus.

  Well, that’s what it feels like anyway.

  Pearce has tackled me and rolled on top of me, and I hate myself for always finding him so attractive when I first see him. Luckily, every word that Pearce utters and every kid he tortures overrides that hormonal response to his bone structure pretty quickly.

  “Is he dead?” Pearce shouts over me, eyes blazing. I stare into his face, unsure if he’s hoping more for a yes or a no. He shakes my shoulders, slamming me into the floor. “Tell me, witch! Is he —?”

  “No!” I yell back. “He’s alive. He’s still alive.” I note his use of the word witch. “So you know that I’m …”

  Pearce laughs like I’m the stupidest person in the Overworld. “Ah, yes, the infamous Wisteria Allgood, wanted fugitive.” He grips my hair, and I turn away from his touch. “Even without your precious red hair, I was on to you. That’s the weakest attempt at a disguise I’ve ever seen. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance, should’ve slaughtered you like a pig on that filthy floor.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I challenge, fury building at remembering my humiliation in the barracks. “You were afraid of me, admit it.”

  “I didn’t think you were worth it. But don’t worry.” His face is inches from mine, and his words drip with hatred. “I won’t miss my chance this time. Believe me when I say that I want you dead even more than The One wants your Gift.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Pearce,” I say, and he smirks.

  “Glad we got to have a little foreplay first, though. Did it turn you on, Ms. Allgood? Did you find it … hot?”

  “That wasn’t my idea of hot … but this is!” Flames erupt from my body as if I’m doused in gasoline. I burn brightly, consumed with fury for this waste of a human being.