Witch & Wizard

by James Patterson; Gabrielle Charbonnet

  There was room, because Michael was one of the skinniest kids I’d ever met. He reminded me of pictures of famine victims and people in refugee camps I’d seen… and that brought back images of Overworld Prison and the time we’d spent there.

  “Hello, Michael,” I said.

  “Hey, Mike,” said Whit.

  Not only was the boy nearly wasted away but his eyes looked dead to me. Still, there was something intense about him.

  He never asked our names, just went right into his story.

  “Memory is a liar, you know that, don’t you?” he began. “But I’m sure what I’m going to tell you captures the truth anyway, even if all the details are wrong, which I don’t think they are. But maybe so.”

  “Sure, Michael,” I said, just to let him know we were listening closely. He sounded so much older than he looked. I was almost afraid to hear what had happened to him.

  “The soldiers, all in black, their boots spit-shined, came for us that morning at the prison, and I believe the sun was already up. There were forty or more of us in this particular cell block. Ages, I’d say, between five and sixteen. Males and females. Many different hues, in terms of skin color, I mean. All ‘Extremely Dangerous.’

  “They took us, marched us downstairs to a courtyard. There were only a couple of guards in the yard, so I don’t think they expected trouble from us. They didn’t get much, as we were too tired, too hungry—already broken, for the most part.

  “There was this unbelievable wind, very much like a twister, and then this tall, bald man was right there in front of us. He smelled of almonds, I think.

  “He never said a word, never identified himself, though I believe he may have been The One Who Is The One. He looked at us with such disdain, you know, like we were so far beneath him. Then he just… flicked his wrist. Just that. Flick.

  “There was nothing left of us, except for smoke… and the smell of skin burning. He had… I don’t know… vaporized everyone. Then he was gone. And I was still there, like I am now. Don’t ask, don’t you dare ask. I have no idea why I was spared. I don’t even care anymore.”

  Michael Clancy looked at Sasha. “There, I’ve told my story. Now please take them away.”

  Chapter 66

  Wisty

  IT TOOK ME SEVERAL HOURS just to begin to get over Michael Clancy, to wrap my mind around what he had said.

  Have you ever felt like your head was taking in so much new and tragic and complicated information that it was about to blow right off your shoulders? Take that feeling, and then eat something really disgusting that makes you want to throw up for hours, and you’ll be right about where I was at the moment.

  Let’s review:

  I, everyday ordinary Wisty, am a witch. Washboard-tummy Whit is a wizard. We don’t exactly know how to control our powers.

  Whit and I were sentenced to death by an insidious individual named The One Who Is The One.

  And my parents are wanted for treason. And we still have no idea where they are, or whether they are still alive.

  We were tortured in a “ magic-dampening” prison. So possibly we’re more powerful than we even know.

  A dead girl—who just happens to be the true love of my brother’s young life—showed up mysteriously and rescued us from prison.

  I turned Byron Swain into a weasel. That, I’m very proud of.

  The world is actually plural, not singular. Between the Shadowland, Freeland, Overworld, and Underworld, it’s hard not to lose count.

  And one of those worlds is being run by a bunch of kids… from the manager’s desk in a semidemolished department store. It isn’t paradise, but at least it’s a place where freedom still reigns.

  I am being asked to help orchestrate a prison raid that might save kids from being vaporized. But maybe not. Actually, it might get all of them killed.

  Okay, so it was a lot to deal with, but sometimes a list can really help you get a handle on life. “One thing at a time” is one of the more helpful philosophies.

  Next week was next week. Right now, number nine was what mattered to everyone around Whit and me.

  But we were still hung up on number three.

  Chapter 67

  Wisty

  “SO, ABOUT THIS RAID. It’s tomorrow?” I asked. “At the Overworld Prison? Do you know how the jail’s laid out? Not that I’m committing Whit or myself. I can’t do that.”

  Janine quickly punched a few keys, and the computer screen showed a schematic of a building. Byron Hateful Tattling Rat-Faced Weasel Swain leaped from Feffer and scampered up my back to sit on my shoulder so he could see.

  I spun my head his way. “Quit climbing on me, or I’ll switch on my flames and turn you into the world’s grossest shish kebab,” I told him. “That’s all we need now, a double-crossing weasel spy, telling the New Order all our plans.”

  Byron slunk back down to the floor. “I won’t!” he protested, cringing. “Never. Won’t happen.”

  Janine blinked. “The weasel is a spy? It’s a talking weasel?”

  “Long story,” I said. “But I don’t trust this weasel as far as I can throw him, which I guess would be about thirty feet,” I mused, looking at him. “How much do you weigh now?”

  “I’m not a spy!” Byron said. “You think I could go back to them? Looking like this? I could have the secret of the universe, and they would still execute me in half a sec.”

  “All the same, you go out there. Go!” I said firmly, pointing to the hallway.

  Looking insulted and hurt, Byron huffed and scuttled across the floor.

  I turned back to the jail schematic. “Okay, what’s the plan to save those kids again? You do have a plan?”

  Chapter 68

  Wisty

  “FIRST, AS BACKGROUND, we need to give you a quick tour of the New Order’s first stronghold,” said Janine. “They call it the City of Progress because it’s their ideal community. It’s kind of the floor model for what they want to carpet the entire planet with. The place is full of erlenmeyers.”

  She put two fingers in her mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle. A couple of guys came running.

  Janine nodded to the tall, skinny, very clean-cut one. “Jonathan will take you on the tour. But first, Emmet will help with your disguises.”

  “Disguises?” Whit said.

  “Absolutely,” Janine insisted. “You need to blend in—you can’t look too pukka. Otherwise, you know—off with your heads!”

  Emmet, a very good-looking blond guy, said, “Come on! First, we go to Cosmetics. I’ll do your makeup. Don’t worry—I’m very good.”

  An hour or so later, my totally uncontrollable hair was shiny and brushed, and kept off my face with an ingeniously placed hair bow and about two dozen hidden bobby pins. My clothes were country-club pink and lime green, rather than the usual black and grays that I favor.

  Byron Unctuous Weasel had climbed on the filing cabinet. Now he looked me up and down with his beady little eyes.

  “You look very nice,” he said. “Actually, I approve.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him as Whit came strolling up to me. His face was pinkish and scrubbed, his hair was cut short—shorter than usual, even—and he looked cleaner than he had in a long time. If I weren’t his sister, I might have even called him handsome. But since I am his sister, I said, “Why, hello, sir, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Wisty the Wicked Witch. And you?”

  “Um, poster boy for the National Guard.”

  Feffer came over and sniffed around to make sure I was still me, and Whit was really Whit. We both passed and got licks.

  “Okay,” said Jonathan, coming up to us. He really was tall, several inches over even Whit. But he probably weighed about as much as I did. With his pale skin and fair, sandy hair, he resembled a bar of white chocolate.

  “A few key things to remember: First and foremost, no cantrips. Don’t talk to anyone unless you must. If you have to speak, remember to smile and say ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir.’ Do not
cross the street against the light, do not snap gum in public, and for God’s sake, do not let that dog do her business. All dogs in the City of Progress are trained to use litter boxes indoors, like cats.”

  “Sounds like a neat place,” Whit muttered. “And what’s a ‘cantrip’?”

  “No funny witchy stuff,” Jonathan declared. “Okay, let’s go meet the enemy!”

  Chapter 69

  Wisty

  WHAT I NOTICED most about the City of Progress was that The One Who Is The One was, quite literally, everywhere—on posters, paintings, videos, front pages of newspapers, murals. Who was this wackjob? I thought people like him came to power only in other places, in history books, in fantasy stories.

  Until now, I never noticed how much fantasy had to do with reality.

  What I noticed next about the City of Progress was fresh paint. You couldn’t get away from the smell. Everything was so tidy and perfect. There weren’t many kids around either, and when we saw grown-ups, they checked us out. Whit and I learned to copy Jonathan’s quick smile.

  We saw signs of the new regime everywhere: bumper stickers on the bright, shiny SUVs and minivans saying things like SAY YES TO THE N.O. and IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. And JUST SAY NO TO ART! Or, the most scary of the bunch in my opinion, PROUD PARENT OF A NEW ORDER JUNIOR INFORMANT.

  “Oh goodness,” I said, spying a low, chrome-trimmed building and immediately feeling weak in the knees. “A diner!” The idea of having some comfort food almost made me whimper. “Would it be safe to go in there? Please?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Jonathan. “Just remember your manners. Think ‘New Order.’ ”

  Inside the diner, almost every red-vinyl booth was occupied by grown-ups. A guy in a bleached cap was wiping down a glaringly white counter, over and over and over. We sat down on revolving stools in front of him. My stomach growled, which was more than a little embarrassing.

  “Yes?” the counterman asked. “Help you folks?”

  “Gosh, mister, it’s hard to decide,” I said, trying to radiate Tattling Weaselness and Jonathanness as best as I could. “May I please have a root-beer float and the cheese-burger deluxe? Thank you.”

  “Wisty,” Whit said in a low voice, leaning in close, his breath warm on my ear, “do you feel something… odd? Because I sure do.”

  Very casually, I spun on my revolving stool.

  I glanced around, but all I saw were people chowing down on burgers, fries, and milk shakes. The New Order anthem—a drone of rigid drumbeats awkwardly mixed with a wailing emo diva—was playing on the jukebox. Ew. You know things have gotten bad when military marches pass for pop music.

  Then one particular woman caught my eye. Lots of mascara, very big hair. She gave me a weird look. Then she turned back to the other folks at her booth. Two middle-aged women with way too much face paint, and also big hair.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “The one with a spool of spidery hair. Two others just like her. They’re watching us.”

  “She’s a witch,” I heard a voice say then. I froze in midrevolution on my stool. The tiny hairs on my arms stood up like New Age troopers.

  The counterman looked up from his obsessive cleaning and frowned as if a shot had been fired.

  “What did you say, Mrs. Highsmith?” he asked.

  “That obnoxiously red-haired girl there. She’s a witch,” said Mrs. Highsmith more forcefully. It was the same woman who’d been looking at me. “And that blond boy—the handsome one—there’s something not right about him either!”

  She could tell I was a witch—because she was one too.

  Chapter 70

  Wisty

  “TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE,” I retorted.

  Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I’d learned a thing or two about controlling myself since being arrested and sentenced to death. So I made my eyes go circular and wide and did some of the best acting of my life.

  “Where?” I gasped, spinning on my stool. I searched up and down the diner, looking fearfully at everyone.

  “My sister’s certainly not a witch!” said Whit, looking convincingly astonished. Hunks are great at that, especially sincere ones—trust me. I’ve been living with Whit’s act since I was an infant.

  “This girl was just named Sector Leader’s Star of Honor,” Jonathan said. He was pretty good too.

  “Maybe… maybe Mrs. Highsmith is imagining things?” I said. “Maybe she… sees things? Is that possible? Hmm? Mrs. Highsmith, do you have visions?”

  Now all eyes were on the woman and her shady lady friends. She flushed bright red. “Just test her!” she said in a loud, shrill voice.

  “I’d be happy to take a test,” I said quickly. “If you take one too.”

  Everyone was real quiet, waiting to see what she’d do next. All of a sudden, anger washed over me. If she knew what it meant to be different, why would she persecute others like herself?

  “It’s not me, it’s her!” said Mrs. Highsmith.

  Now people in the diner were starting to murmur, clearly suspicious.

  In my mind, I conjured up a picture of her table. I saw her metal fork, where it rested on the napkin by her plate.

  “My dad says not to talk to people like her,” Jonathan said, sliding off his stool and backing toward the door. Whit and I got up too. “Come on, guys. We’re done here. Let’s report this place.”

  In the next half second, I saw her fork, felt it, and knew in my mind what I needed to do with it.

  Which is why the fork rose up off the table and zipped through the air—right at my face.

  “Help!” I shrieked, throwing up my hands. “Somebody help me! Please!”

  The fork struck the back of my hand, harder than I’d intended, actually. I screeched, which worked to perfect effect. The patrons of the diner broke into a full-voiced uproar of shock and disapproval.

  “Why is she trying to hurt me?” I squealed. “How did she do that? That’s unnatural! She stabbed me with her fork! It flew!”

  “Call Security Services!” someone got up and shouted. “She hurt that Star of Honor girl. She is a witch.”

  “It’s not me, it’s her!” Mrs. Highsmith screamed again as the crowd moved toward her.

  For the first time, I felt just the littlest, tiniest bit guilty about my powers.

  I mean, maybe she was simply a helpless, grumpy old lady.

  But I sure doubted it!

  Chapter 71

  Wisty

  THE COUNTERMAN QUICKLY examined some kind of chart—like the ones normally posted for how to rescue a choking victim—and yelled, “Pin her arms tightly enough to cut off the circulation, then gag her so she can’t cast any more spells!”

  Meanwhile we eased out the front door, casting nervous glances behind us at every single step. Sirens were wailing our way, racing closer and closer.

  I could see Mrs. Highsmith pinned up against the plate-glass window, at least a dozen paper napkins wedged in her mouth as an impromptu gag. I actually felt sorry for her.

  Then the old woman spied me watching. She stared at me balefully for a moment and then began to glow—like I had that time at the Hospital. I felt somewhat relieved. My instincts were right: she really was a witch.

  Then she did the unexpected: I saw her wave one hand for us to go. Was she on our side?

  It got even better. Her citizen attackers floated up in the air like life-size balloons. Then they were thrown back, away from her and her witch friends, cartwheeling and somersaulting into the depths of the diner, screeching, “Help us, help us!”

  Keeping her eyes locked on me, she casually pulled the napkins from her mouth. Her friends continued to calmly munch their sandwiches and sip tea. Then it was the weirdest thing—she pointed with her right hand, but only the gnarled index finger and pinkie, like she was flashing me a sign.

  Or maybe putting a curse on me? What was that all about?

  And then she and her antique girlfriends disappeared. Poof, gone.

  “A cov
en,” I whispered to Whit. “That was a coven of witches.”

  Chapter 72

  Whit

  THE NIGHT OF the Mrs. Highsmith incident, we all slept in the Bed and Bath Department at Garfunkel’s, hoping we hadn’t been cursed and wouldn’t wake up as toads. Bet you didn’t know you could fit two teenagers, a large dog, and a traitorous weasel into one double bed. Of course, it helps if one of the kids floats a couple of feet above the mattress during her dream cycles.

  Still, some of the king-size beds near us had as many as six or seven kids sleeping on them. There were hundreds of us in the store. On mattresses, in sleeping bags, on piles of couch cushions, rolled up in bedding and bath towels. It was like a counselor-free, postapocalyptic summer camp. The relief at being out of the Hospital and away from the Matron, the Visitor, Judge Ezekiel Unger, and the New Order’s nightmare regime made it all seem positively homey.

  The next morning, I was looking at myself in a mirror outside the men’s dressing rooms. I’d found a set of free weights down in Sporting Goods and seen how much of a feeb I’d gotten to be in jail. I began working out again, building my strength, knowing I would need it eventually.

  “Ahem.” A cough behind me made me jump. “Wizard Allgood.” It was Janine. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

  As usual, cute as Janine was, she was as solemn-faced as a vice principal. The girl next to her, however, was grinning. She was maybe sixteen or seventeen, dark-skinned, on the short side, but probably weighed two hundred pounds.

  “Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Jamilla. I’m the shaman.”

  “The huh?” I said, shaking her hand anyway. I noticed how her brown eyes shone and her wild corkscrew hair made a fluffy wedge up and away from her face.