The Lost

by James Patterson

  Soon I can feel the power building, and it hurts. It’s a different kind of pain than I felt down in the pit—it’s somehow better and worse at the same time. I recognize it. I welcome it.

  “Mister?” the boy says softly.

  I ignore him. I squeeze my eyes shut. And then I feel it, streaming out of me and into him: the magic. The light. The cure.

  When I step away, he’s staring at me with eyes as black as coal. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a sigh. “What did you do?” he whispers.

  I have to hold on to the bed to keep from falling down. I’m sapped. “I think I fixed you,” I manage.

  Then I gather my strength and hurry to the next room. To the next person who needs me.

  And that’s how it goes for the rest of the morning. I find people. I put my hands on them. And I heal them. It’s like I don’t even have a choice.

  The doctors and nurses crowd around, pointing at me and yelling for me to leave, but I ignore them. I stumble from room to room because yes, I’m weaker than I once was. Healing people kind of feels like it’s killing me.

  But I’m doing good. And so tell me: what’s a better way to go?

  Chapter 56

  Whit

  I’M FUSING AN old woman’s broken hipbone when I hear the sirens. At first I think it’s a squad of ambulances, and I shudder to think of the casualties I’m about to be faced with.

  But then that familiar, loathed voice crackles over the loudspeaker.

  “Whitford Allgood,” says Dr. Keller. “Proceed to the nearest nurses’ station immediately.” He stops and clears his throat. “Be forewarned: should you remain at large, the police have been summoned. And they will find you.”

  At large? That’s what he calls going from room to room and risking my own life to save people? I wish I had an ounce of energy to spare so I could find him and punch his lights out.

  In the distance, I hear the shouting of Darrius’s lackeys. But I try to remain calm and focused on the healing. Whatever it takes to help.

  I don’t want to think of what might come next. How if the police find me, I’m as good as dead. If I’m not shot on sight, I’ll face the firing squad soon enough. Bloom will see to that—and he’ll enjoy the hell out of it.

  No way, I think. I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.

  I press my hands harder on the old woman’s hip. I realize that I have to go, even though I’m not quite done with the healing. I put a hand on the woman’s bony knee, I look her in the eye—and I lie. “I think you’re going to be okay now,” I tell her. “Just—just have a doctor look at it, okay?”

  She nods mutely, but her eyes shine with grateful tears.

  And I feel like a monster.

  That does it. I can’t leave. I push up my sleeves and summon my powers again. But they come more slowly now, in weak, almost reluctant pulses. I start to wonder: Am I somehow using my magic up?

  The M begins to flow the very moment I hear shouts from the floor below us. I grit my teeth as the healing ache begins. There’s a rushing sound in my ears, and my eyesight starts to get dim, as the magic takes its energy from every cell in my body.

  I only need a few more minutes—

  But then the woman grabs my wrist with her clawlike hand. “Go,” she commands. “Go now.”

  When I hesitate, she slaps my hand away from her hip. “I know who you are,” she says urgently. “You have to save yourself.” She takes a deep breath. “And then, maybe, you can save all of us.”

  I wait another second, but then I make myself pull away. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Thank you,” she answers.

  And then I’m racing down the hall toward the emergency exit. I hope it hasn’t occurred to Keller to lock down the hospital—otherwise I’m looking at a showdown with armed officers, and I know I’m not up to that yet.

  Just as I near the door, red emergency lights start flashing and the alarm begins to blare. I curse, turn back around, and head for the window—the only other way out. If only I could shape-shift! But I don’t have the juice for that, either.

  I grab a broom leaning against the wall and, holding it like a baseball bat, I slam it against the glass. The pane cracks, and with one more hit, it shatters.

  “You’re going to have to pay for that,” says a voice.

  I turn and see Janine standing in a doorway. Her hands are on her hips, but she’s looking at me with… well, with what almost seems like affection.

  My heart does a leap in my chest. I want to run to her and scoop her up in my arms and kiss her until she promises to forgive me. But I don’t have time for that, because certain death is on its way up the stairs. I throw one leg over the sill. “You can put it on my tab,” I say, smiling.

  “Be safe,” she whispers.

  I glance down to the ground. It’s probably a twenty-five-foot drop. “If I hurt myself,” I say, “maybe you can heal me.”

  She nods slowly, and then she smiles.

  And so, with the image of her smile in my mind—and a new glimmer of hope in my heart—I launch myself out of the window and into the air.

  Chapter 57

  Wisty

  BY NOW I KNOW the Horsemen’s patrol routes. But even if I didn’t—even if I ran smack-dab into a pack of those bearded barbarians—they couldn’t catch me, because a horse is no match for a 1250cc motorcycle.

  I race through the streets in a low, black blur, shooting off sparks. Some of them land on the new posters of Bloom’s face (oops!), and so I slow down a little to watch them burn.

  When I pass the City police lot, its parking spaces full of cruisers and prisoner transport buses, the opportunity to wreak a little havoc is just too tempting. Downshifting to third, I send a wave of magic rolling toward the vehicles. The first row of cars flip over like toys, their wheels spinning in the air. I’ve still got the power! Giggling like a maniac, I flip the next row. Windshields shatter and alarms go off. All around the parking lot, horns start blaring, and I can’t stop laughing. The upside-down cars remind me of bugs stuck on their backs—but there’s no one but me who can turn them back over.

  When the first City police come stumbling out of their offices, I gun the engine. I toss them the bird, and then whoosh—I’m gone in a flash.

  I’m free, and it’s exhilarating.

  Yeah, I know Darrius is looking for me. I know that soon, I’ll have to fight. But for now, I just want to remember what it’s like to feel unfettered and alive.

  And weaker, says a small voice inside.

  But I ignore it.

  A few blocks from the City center, east of the giant pit where I spent those miserable days, I stop in front of a big old brick building. It used to be a meeting place for City leaders of government and industry, but now it’s been transformed into an armory.

  I park my bike and walk the perimeter. Stacks of guns and ammo are visible through the windows. These are the very guns that Terrence Rino gave his policemen—and that Darrius so easily confiscated and stockpiled.

  As if Darrius needs more weapons.

  I wish the area were deserted: I’d shoot a jet of fire through the glass and the whole place would blow sky high. But I know the surrounding buildings are full of people, cowering like rats, hoping against hope not to be captured and taken to the pit. I can’t risk blasting them to smithereens.

  But if you asked me how I’d rather die—in a sudden burst of fire or by the slow torture of the pit—you can bet which one I’d pick.

  While I contemplate my options, I decide to decorate the building a little. After all, the blank brick walls are practically screaming for it. With the flame from my finger, I burn in enormous, looping black letters The Resistance Lives and Die, Darrius, Die.

  It makes me feel even better.

  “Up to your old tricks again, I see,” says a voice behind me.

  I whirl around, fists raised—but it’s only Byron Swain. His hair is slicked back with its usual excess of product, but he’s not w
earing that cop jacket of his, which surprises me. He loved that thing so much he probably slept in it. Instead he’s dressed in what looks almost like a military uniform. “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  “Oh, just out for a stroll,” he says. But his voice sounds strained, and I can tell he’s lying. He glances up to the side of the building. “ ‘The Resistance Lives,’ huh? Interesting.” His eyes dart around nervously.

  I squint at him. He’s acting weird. “What’s up with you?” I demand. “You still holding a grudge about the ferret business?”

  Byron laughs—a hollow sound. “No,” he says. “You know me, I forgive and forget.” Then he mutters something to himself, something that I can’t hear. Except for maybe the word “Darrius.”

  I move closer to him, fists still clenched. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” Byron says, stepping back. Then he frowns. “Tell me,” he says, “have you seen any of those Resistance-type folks around here?”

  “Why?” I ask. “You finally going to join it?”

  Byron pales. “N-no,” he stutters. He begins fidgeting. He rubs his hands over his arms the way you do when you’re cold. Except it’s about seventy degrees out.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise up. Something’s definitely off. “What’s going on with you, Weasel Boy?”

  “It’s all your fault,” he says softly.

  “What’s all my fault?”

  “They took her,” he wails. “I have to get her back.”

  “Took who?”

  “Elise,” he says. His face crumples. “I’m sorry, Wisty.” Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a whistle, and blows it. The shrill sound pierces the air.

  My heart begins to pound, but I try to play it cool. “Who took her, Byron? Why are you sorry? And what’s that whistle for? You get a new dog or something?”

  Byron doesn’t answer me. He just watches me for a minute.

  “What?” I demand. “Why are you looking at me?”

  For still another moment, he doesn’t speak. Then he says, “I’m memorizing you. Just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” I demand.

  But then the answer comes out of the alleyways in a mad, roaring rush. It’s ten mounted Horsemen, cudgels raised. Coming at me.

  Because Byron, with that stupid, innocent-looking whistle, has just summoned them.

  “Just in case I don’t see you ever again,” he calls.

  The air is a blur of leather and raised fists, and the Horsemen howl in their cruel-sounding language. I’m frozen in shock; my brain seems to be short-circuiting. In another millisecond, they’ll be on top of me.

  “I’m sorry,” Byron cries.

  Holy M.

  It’s over.

  Chapter 58

  Wisty

  I SQUEEZE MY EYES SHUT against the coming blows. But then my faltering brain jolts back to life, and I realize the magic I have to do.

  Assuming I still can.

  To my surprise, the transformation is almost instantaneous: my body shrivels, my fingers curl, and my skin vanishes under a coat of inky-black fur. I’m a cat—and the Horsemen don’t know what to make of it.

  I race between the legs of the nearest one, my claws skittering on the pavement. Shrieks of anger erupt behind me as the Horsemen urge their mounts to take up the chase.

  My body’s so small and light, I feel like I’m flying over the cobblestones. My senses sharpen: I can hear mice scampering behind trash cans, I can smell milk going sour on a windowsill, and I can almost taste the air as it goes rushing into my lungs.

  As I run, I curse Byron Swain to the ends of the earth. I vow to turn him back into a ferret, and then, still in cat form, I’ll eat him alive.

  That is, if I can make it out of this messy situation.

  The horses are gaining on me. When I round the corner into an alley, a hoof grazes one of my back paws—a millimeter more, and it would have crushed it. I yowl in fear and rage.

  And then I remember: cats climb.

  With all the power in my back legs, I launch myself up a nearby tree. My claws catch the rough bark and my front legs hug the trunk. Up I go, as fast as I can, my panting breath in my ears sounding as loud as the cries of the Horsemen.

  One has dismounted and is hacking the base of the tree with an axe.

  Idiot, I think as I near the top.

  Up here the branches are thin, and they bend under my weight. The sharp-edged leaves tickle my stomach. But it’s only a few feet to the roof of a building, and I know I can make it.

  Another of the Horsemen is already climbing the fire escape as I launch myself into the air. For one thrilling, terrifying second, I’m sailing thirty feet above the ground—and then I land safely on the tar-paper roof.

  A hundred pigeons rise into the air, panicked, wings flapping.

  Not gonna eat you, I think, but there’s no way to tell them that. I race to the other side of the building, and from there it’s just a quick leap to the next rooftop.

  There, I pause for a moment to catch my breath, hidden in the shadow of an air-conditioning vent. I can still hear the Horsemen looking for me; I just can’t tell exactly where they are.

  I hazard a glance over the side of the roof. Six of them are down there, waiting for me. They shout and point.

  An arrow whizzes past my head, then another. Next they launch grappling hooks, and pretty soon they’re halfway up the side of the building.

  All this for a cat! I think. But still—it’s time to get down.

  On the far side of the building is a half-collapsed fire escape. It could never support a human’s weight, but a feline’s is no problem. I scamper down the rusting steps. I almost lose my footing once, but my claws save me. I wish I could keep them after I turn back into myself.

  As soon as my paws hit the ground, I shoot down a narrow alley.

  And I think I’m safe, until I hear hoofbeats behind me. I duck down another, narrower alley. I can feel my powers waning. I’m going to collapse, or I’m going to flame out. I don’t know—but it’s not going to be good.

  Then I see a sewer grate up ahead. With nowhere else to hide, I slip in between the bars.

  And then, panting, gasping for breath in the fetid air, I watch as the Horsemen ride closer and closer.

  And then they pass me by.

  Chapter 59

  Wisty

  WHEN THE COAST IS CLEAR, I slink back into the sunlight. I consider licking my fur—cats do clean themselves, after all—until I realize that I’d rather have sewage and trash on my body than in my mouth.

  I lope toward a sheltered courtyard where I can make my transformation. In it, bright flowers spill from window boxes, and a ring of marble benches call out to be sat upon. In truth, all I want to do is curl up in a patch of sunlight and sleep. But I can’t, because I don’t know how safe I am. I need to return to myself, find my bike, and get the hell out of here.

  So I shut my eyes and will myself back to my body: to the long, pale, hairless limbs I’m used to. I feel myself stretching out, lengthening; I feel the weight of gravity pulling on me harder as I grow.

  When it’s over, I open my eyes and gasp.

  I’m not alone in the courtyard.

  There’s a Horseman in here, too. He’s abandoned his mount, and he takes a giant step toward me.

  He smiles, showing me a mouthful of yellow teeth. “Proud of ourselves, are we?” he asks. His voice sounds more like a growl than it does speech.

  I look around the courtyard for a weapon. A stick, a rock—anything—because I don’t know if I’ve got any magic left in me. But there’s nothing but dirt and flowers. I take a step backward. “Yeah, for a little while there I was doing okay,” I say.

  He sniffs, grimaces. “You stink,” he says.

  I shrug as nonchalantly as I can, as if we’re just having a friendly conversation. “Must’ve been that last sewer,” I say. Thinking, Dude, have you smelled yourself lately? Those leather pants make you reek like a
rotting cow.

  “Silly cat,” the Horseman says. “Do you know what we do with kitties where we’re from?” But he doesn’t wait for me to respond. “We eat them.”

  “Really,” I say calmly. “Where are you from, anyway?” He’s definitely chattier than the other Horsemen I’ve encountered. He seems to actually have a good grasp of our language.

  He takes another step closer to me and casually pulls a dagger from his pocket. The blade glints evilly in the sun. “I come from the desert, catgirl—don’t you know that?”

  I take another step back; he takes another one forward. “Well, I might have guessed it,” I allow.

  “Life’s hard out there. Hot. Ugly. People like you can’t even imagine.” He smiles again. “I’m one of the nice ones,” he says.

  I need to stall him for another minute, until I’ve built up a little juice. “Oh, yeah?” I ask. “How so?”

  He wipes the blade on his shirtsleeve. “I keep my weapons sharp. Death comes quicker that way.”

  I reach my foot back again, but it hits the wall of the courtyard. There’s nowhere for me to go. “Wow, you are nice,” I say. “Let’s be friends.”

  He grunts, which I think is supposed to be a laugh. Hey, it’s not every day you can make a killer crack up.

  “Do you have powers?” I ask him. I’m flexing my fingers behind my back. I think I can feel the telltale spark.

  “Maybe,” he says slyly. “Want to see?”

  I smile at him for the first time. “Let’s check out mine first,” I say, and I fling my hands forward, palms facing toward him.

  Blue light shoots from my skin. He raises his arm to block it, but he’s not fast enough. The light surrounds him, bombarding him with electric shocks. Little ones at first, but they quickly grow in violence and intensity.

  He stumbles, reaching for his sword. But he can’t grasp it. He begins to scream and writhe. His dagger clatters to the pavement as he convulses in agony. And then, a moment later, he falls down beside it, dead.

  Electrocuted. Cooked from the inside out.

  And I have to smile again. I’ve got Darrius’s bracelet to thank for that particular idea.