We step forward, and the crowd pulses and chants both of our names, but I know it’s Wisty’s fire they’ve come to see today.
She doesn’t disappoint. First, sparks shoot from her hands again, but as the fire grows, my sister becomes a human torch, the flames on her head even redder than her hair. Her feet singe a black spot onto the platform, and even her gaze smolders.
Plenty of people have seen her flame out, though, so this time she takes it to the max. She swoops her hand across the sky dramatically, and a splash of light follows her arc, exploding in a million dots of color. Her hands dance inside their flames, the shower of fireworks becoming brighter as the choreography becomes more complex. It’s the most beautiful show any of us has ever seen, but there’s something deeper going on here too.
Wisty’s magic painted across the sky says what Bloom did not: we have the freedom to write our own story now.
I gaze out across the crowded square flickering with vivid color underneath the fireworks. I take in the many faces, old and young, magic-making or not, from near and far. Color dances in their eyes, and their faces glow with a joy we’d forgotten could exist.
Except…
There’s a small group at the very edge of the crowd, apart from the rest. As I squint my eyes, trying to make out their dark clothes—street rags or shredded New Order Youth uniforms—the tallest one drags a finger slowly across his neck. My own throat goes dry.
He’s looking straight at me.
I glance at my sister to see if she noticed the ragged group on the outskirts. Wisty’s still eating up the attention, waving to the people and grinning at our parents, who are levitating above the crowd to show their support.
When I look back to the threatening figure, there’s no one there.
It’s not over yet.…
Is it?
Chapter 3
Wisty
The inaugural ceremony earlier was super emotional and important, but this is what I have been waiting for: music pumping through my veins. The spotlight bathing me in its beam. My hair flying around me as I shred my guitar.
It’s not quite like when I played for thousands at the underground StockwoodMusic Festival last year—I mean, I have to admit, it was pretty fun to break the law—but rocking the open-mic stage at the Art Is Alive Gala is pretty thrilling.
For one thing, the gala involves all the stuff we love that’s been banned for so long. There are tons of new sculptures, films, and writing exhibited here, and as I look out from the stage, it’s incredible to see all the paintings The One had confiscated now restored and lining the walls. You’d never guess this gallery used to be the New Order armory.
I wipe sweat from my brow and shout into the microphone, “We can’t forget: art is alive… because The One is dead!” The crowd roars.
I strum the final chord and step off the small stage to rejoin my group of friends—mostly kids from the former Resistance. As the lights dim for the next act, Sasha hands me some strong-smelling punch.
“Cheers to the rock star,” he says.
I take a sip… and spit it out as the astringent burn takes over my nostrils.
“Sorry. Maybe it’s my strong aversion to the color red, but not for me.”
Whit nods. “Trust me, she’s already pretty spazzy as is without alcohol.” I scoff, and Whit breaks into a smile. “Hey, spazzy is a good quality in an entertainer. You were awesome up there, by the way.”
I beam at him. “So is this DJ,” I say as a new act starts up.
“Yeah. That’s my friend Omar,” Sasha says. “We used to record mixes together in his basement when we were kids. This is definitely his best stuff.”
I nod appreciatively and start to move with the music, the energy making its way down to my hips and feet.
Janine nudges me. “Looks like you’ve got a fan.”
Now I sense the eyes on me. Through the darkness, I can see a boy. His eyes lock on mine, and something in me feels as explosive as the fireworks I created earlier. As he starts to walk over, my pulse thuds faster with each step.
But then Byron appears at my side, demanding attention. As usual, he’s in wooing mode. “You’re a virtuoso, Wisty,” he says, eyes shining with sincerity. He’s overdressed, but he still looks dapper—almost handsome—in his crisp white shirt and black tie. I’m sure some other girl would find the anxious wrinkle in his brow endearing. Unfortunately, he doesn’t want some other girl.
“Thanks, Bryon,” I murmur, eyes scanning the crowd. Where did he go?
“I mean, you were completely on fire up there!” he presses, sensing my attention drifting. Gotta give the kid credit. He never gives up.
“On fire? Really?” I look at him wryly, and Byron chuckles.
Janine is squeezing my arm urgently, and when I turn around, he’s there. The boy. Or man. Up close, he seems to tower over me, and his features are chiseled, strong. I have no idea how old he is.
“I can understand your friend’s mistake,” the boy says in a low, playful tone. “That smoky voice… your flaming red hair… Everything about you smolders.”
Yet it’s his eyes that seem to blaze, even in the dim light, and for a fire girl, it’s pretty weird to have goose bumps. It’s the most forward thing anyone has ever said to me, and for a moment I feel too giddily flattered to think of a reply.
But I hear Whit and Janine giggling, and suddenly I feel self-conscious. This guy is probably trying to get with the famous witch for bragging rights.
Or, worse—maybe he’s just making fun of me?
“What, do you want to see my fire? Show’s over,” I say, temper flaring. “Or did you really come over here just to give me a cheap line?”
He runs a hand through the jet-black hair that stands up wildly from his forehead. “Actually, I came over to tell you I enjoyed your performance. A little punk, a little blues, and the vibrato technique and tonal variations on the power chords were stellar”—he smiles, all easy confidence—“even if you did rip off Smash’s shredding style a little bit.”
“Every guitar player rips off Smash a little bit!” I protest, but relent as he shrugs, amused. “You seem to know a lot about music,” I add begrudgingly.
“I know a lot about a lot of things.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smirk. “What else do you know?” I’m usually shy with boys, but the banter comes easily somehow.
He bends down a bit so his face is next to mine, his chin brushing against my hair. “I know… what you want.” His voice is a whisper in my ear, and he says each word like he’s tasting it, savoring it. I feel my face heating up.
“What’s that?” I ask when I finally find my voice.
“To dance. With me.” He’s extremely attractive, but it’s his unwavering gaze that unhinges me—that challenging look that could conquer the world.
I eye all the people standing in clusters, talking. “But no one is dancing.”
“You were. I saw you from across the room. Looking like you wanted to move. Like you wanted to break all the rules.”
“That was only swaying,” I say quickly, embarrassed by how plainly he can see the real me. “I meant no one else is dancing.”
Hearing that, Janine grabs Whit’s hand and drags him onto the dance floor. She gives me a wry look over her shoulder, and I glare daggers back.
The boy cocks an eyebrow, and the shadows play across his striking face. “So. How about that dance?”
It seems so easy to fall into the rhythm, to let our hips find the beat, to get closer.… But I’m not sure I’m ready. He just seems a little too gorgeous, a little too tall, a little too old, a little too confident. A little too much boy for me right now.
I wait a second too long, and the boy sighs, turning. “I’m Heath. Call me when you get sick of standing still, and we’ll move.” He’s walking away.
“I don’t think you could keep up,” I call after him.
“You really are a firecracker, aren’t you?” Heath grins, and his electric gaze flick
ers back at me. “I hope I get the chance to prove you wrong.”
Then he’s gone, and I let out a slow, measured breath. Of all the times I’ve been on fire, I’ve never felt sparks quite like that.
“Who does that guy think he is?” Byron grumbles beside me.
“What?” I look at him, startled that the rest of the world hasn’t fallen away.
“Interrupting our conversation, waltzing in here like he owns the place, and pestering you when you’ve made it clear that you’re obviously not interested.” He purses his lips together. “He’s way too old for you, anyway.”
“Shut up, Byron,” I huff. I snap my fingers to work a little magic, and suddenly Byron is no longer standing in front of me. In his place, there’s a squeaking little weasel. “I should just leave you like this—your true form.”
But I can never stay mad at Byron for long. I clap my hands and he’s back.
“Feel better now that you’ve gotten that out of your system?” he snaps.
I nod, smiling. “Definitely.”
My hips start to twitch again, swaying with the music. On the dance floor, Whit and Janine are moving together under the lights. Around Whit, Janine’s serious eyes sparkle, and her laughter peals across the room. Regardless of how many girls have batted their eyelashes at him, it’s weird to think of my brother as some kind of ripped heartthrob. Janine seems to see Whit more deeply than that, though—she understands Whit the poet, and Whit the humble goofball.
He looks utterly smitten too, and I have to admit, Janine is one awesome chick. I’m so glad he’s found someone special again, after losing Celia.
I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Heath.… But there’s time. Everything feels fresh tonight. I’m surrounded by friends, family, and amazing artwork, and there are no bombs.
Just beauty.
Contents
WELCOME
DEDICATION
1: MURDER IN THE HOUSE OF ANGELS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 2: LOVE IN THE HOUSE OF ANGELS
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
EPILOGUE: SHARKS
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON FOR READERS OF ALL AGES
PREVIEW OF WITCH & WIZARD: THE KISS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by James Patterson
Excerpt from Witch & Wizard: The Kiss copyright © 2013 by James Patterson
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First e-book edition: September 2012
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ISBN 978-0-316-20701-0
Confessions of a Murder Suspect Page 20