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Confessions of a Murder Suspect

Page 20

by James Patterson


  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 permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  www.hachettebookgroup.com

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  First e-book edition: September 2012

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  ISBN 978-0-316-20701-0

 

 

 


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