The Lost

by James Patterson

  But as I turn away from his prone body, my vision blurs and darkens, and I have to steady myself against the wall. I’m breathing hard and my legs feel like jelly. Magic has never wiped me out so completely before. It’s okay, Wisty, I tell myself. You’ll be fine in a minute or two.

  Yet I have to lean there, propped against the bricks, for what seems like hours, until the weakness finally passes. Until I can see again.

  When I straighten up, blinking in the bright sunlight, I ache all over. And I’m scared.

  I guess discovering a new vulnerability will do that to a girl.

  Chapter 60

  Whit

  “HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW what hit him,” Wisty gloats, tearing the dried meat on her plate into little shreds. “Poor dumb Horseman. I almost felt sorry for him.”

  My mom shakes her head in resignation. She probably does feel sorry for the Horseman—she’s never approved of killing, not even the bad guys.

  “It’s a necessary evil,” I remind her now. “It was him or Wisty. Be thankful your daughter’s a badass.”

  Mom puts down her fork and gazes at me sadly, not even noticing that I’ve cursed at the dinner table. “I know,” she says. “But when is it going to end? When do we get to stop living in fear?”

  My dad laughs grimly. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” he says. Then he stops and gets this wistful, faraway look in his eyes. I wonder if he’s remembering a world before The One Who Is The One—or if he’s imagining a world after Darrius.

  I mean, assuming there’s going to be such a thing.

  I’m about to jab him in the shoulder when he snaps out of it. He looks at both of us in turn. “So, you two, what’s the plan?” he asks.

  “I like how you just assume we’ve got one,” I say.

  “Well, we do,” Wisty says to me. “Don’t we?”

  “Sort of,” I say. We spent the afternoon hashing one out—which really isn’t that much time.

  Wisty kicks me under the table. “It’s very simple,” she says. “Right, Whit?”

  “More like very desperate,” I mutter.

  “What, dear?” asks my mom.

  “Nothing, Mom,” I say. I don’t want to upset her even more by admitting the outlines of our plan. Our pitiful plan.

  But my dad’s looking a lot more optimistic all of a sudden. “So tell us more,” he says.

  Wisty shakes her head. “Really,” she says, “the fewer people who know about it, the better.”

  Probably she doesn’t want to upset them with our plan’s pitifulness, either.

  “As your father—” my dad begins.

  But Wisty raises a hand and cuts him off. “Dad, may I remind you that we’ve saved this City twice? Don’t you think you ought to trust us by now?”

  I wonder if it’s only me who can hear the waver in her voice. That sneaking sliver of doubt she probably wouldn’t acknowledge even to herself.

  My dad shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Of course I trust you,” he says. “But I’m also afraid for you.”

  My mom nods, looking like she’s on the verge of tears.

  And hell, I’m afraid, too.

  But then Wisty gets this funny smile on her face. “I’ve got something to show you all,” she says. “It’s going to make you feel a lot better.”

  And I think, You do? It is?

  She reaches into the bag that’s hanging on the back of her chair and pulls out… well, what looks like a giant bone. She holds it triumphantly aloft for a second, and then sets it with a loud thunk on the table. My mom visibly recoils.

  “What is that thing?” she asks.

  “It is,” Wisty answers, pausing dramatically, “a petrified camel’s leg. Technically, its tibia, I believe.”

  “But why is it on my table?” my mom wants to know.

  “Is it from a Horseman?” I ask.

  Wisty nods. “Yep. Pried from the dead hand of—”

  “Enough,” Mom says, making a move to cover her ears.

  My dad hesitatingly pokes it with his index finger. “Is it magic?”

  Wisty shakes her head. “Nope.”

  “Is it a weapon?” my dad asks.

  “Yeah, does it shoot arrows or something?” I ask.

  Wisty smiles. “No and no.” She turns to me, looking almost giddy. “Whit, you’re going to appreciate this.” She taps it lightly with her finger while she explains. “It proves what I hoped was true about the Horsemen. They don’t actually have powers. All they’ve got is bad attitude and brute force.”

  I hold up my hand. “Wait a second. First of all, I don’t know why you’re only telling me this now.” I shake my head in confusion. “And second of all, I saw them materialize that first night, right onto their horses’ saddles. And you’re telling me they’re not magic?”

  Wisty smiles. “That was a trick, dear brother. Special effects. A few moments of invisibility, courtesy of Darrius. Whereas I have subjected this bone to the most rigorous of scientific testing—”

  I snort. “Dude, you totally failed science.”

  Wisty glares at me. “I’m not a dude, jockstrap.”

  “Ahem,” says our mom.

  “Okay, fine.” Wisty sighs. “So I showed it to Aunt Bea. And she did some mumbo-jumbo chanting over it, and after half an hour she pronounced it completely and utterly unmagical. Then she cross-checked it with The Book of Truths, which said something about ‘ossified superstitions’ and ‘an enemy’s illusions.’ ” She pauses. “ ‘Ossified,’ referring to bone, Whit—so you see, I remember a few things from science class.”

  “This is very interesting,” my dad murmurs, scratching his stubbled chin.

  Wisty just smiles smugly. “The point is, this isn’t a weapon, you guys—it’s a good-luck charm. A superstition.” She holds up the bone triumphantly again. “The Horsemen are just desert rats. Mercenaries. Idiots. Which means: we can take them.”

  Then she loses her grip on the bone and it clatters to the table. My mom jumps halfway out of her chair in surprise, then reaches out and swats it off the table and onto the floor.

  As I look at it spinning harmlessly down there, I realize that Wisty’s right. Aside from that first night, I’ve never seen a Horseman do anything remotely magical.

  And I feel a tiny spark of hope. “I gotta hand it to you, sis,” I say. “Maybe we can take them. Because we’re a much higher form of idiot.”

  Chapter 61

  Whit

  DEEP IN THE PIT at Work Site #1, Stan doesn’t recognize me at first, though I saw him only days ago. His eyes are bleary, and his shirt’s nothing but ribbons of filthy, stained cotton. Lash wounds scar the skin on his arms and shoulders.

  “We stand together, huh?” he eventually growls. Then he spits on the ground at my feet. “Where were you when they killed Molly?”

  I suck in my breath sharply. Molly was the one with the wild eyes; I guess she was right about digging her own grave. “I was coming up with a plan,” I say.

  “While we were doing your digging,” Stan nearly shouts.

  I shove my spade into the earth, noticing how the tunnel is deeper now. It slopes downward, getting narrower as it goes. And I still don’t know what it’s for.

  “Hey, I came back to this hellhole, didn’t I?” I retort. “Put my tracker back on and here I am,” I say. (I don’t mention that it doesn’t work anymore—that it’s held together with tape.)

  Stan’s eyes widen, and his expression gets a lot less pissed all of a sudden. “How’d you get it off?” he whispers.

  I put my hand on his scabbed shoulder. “Everyone’s going to get theirs off. Today’s the day we rise up against the Horsemen.”

  That’s when Stan starts to laugh. “Us? Fight them?” he gasps. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in days.”

  “They don’t have powers,” I tell him.

  He stops laughing. “Huh?” he says, confused.

  “They aren’t magic. They’re just men. And there are more
of us than there are of them. We can take them.”

  Stan looks up—at the Horseman sentries stationed every twenty feet around the lip of the pit, and at the others who ride their mounts in endless circles around the perimeter. As he stares, his eyes narrow. I can see the realization dawning on him: he’s seen them maim and mutilate and murder, but he’s never seen the Horsemen use magic.

  His posture straightens almost imperceptibly.

  “We can take them,” I repeat urgently.

  Then Stan’s shoulders slump back down and he turns to me, his eyes sunken and desperate. “Look at us, though,” he says. “We’re more dead than alive.”

  Glancing around me, I have to admit he might be right. The workers can barely stand, let alone dig or fight. They are broken in body and spirit, victims of bondage and famine.

  “The guards don’t even let us leave anymore,” Stan goes on. “The digging goes on all day and all night. We work twelve hours, we get two hours’ rest, and then we work twelve hours again.”

  And even as I watch, a woman half a dozen yards away collapses, sending up a weak cry of pain as she falls to her knees.

  I start toward her, but then I stop and turn back. “The way I see it,” I call to Stan, “we can die fighting, or we can die digging.” And then I rush to her side.

  She’s middle aged, gray haired, and gasping for breath. Instinctively I reach out to take her pulse; it’s racing. I place my fingers on her temples and summon my healing magic, and she’s too feeble to ask me what I’m doing.

  The truth is, she’s dehydrated and starving. She doesn’t need magic—she needs water and food and rest. But I do what I can to soothe her, to calm her speeding heart. “It’s going to get better soon,” I assure her.

  She looks up at me with huge dark eyes. “You mean I’m going to die?” she whispers. And I swear she sounds hopeful.

  “No,” I say. “You’ll be able to stand up again. And then you’ll fight.”

  She looks at me uncomprehendingly until I tell her our plan—such as it is. She keeps staring, until eventually, weakly, she nods.

  “What do I have to lose but my life?” she asks, shrugging. “It means nothing to me anyway.”

  I remove my fingers from her temples and take a step back, knowing that I’ve been able to bring back some of her strength. I can’t help her any more than that; I have to conserve my magic. I offer her what I hope is a confident smile. “We’re going to win,” I say. “Spread the word.”

  She stares at me again, her eyes searching my face, wanting to make sure I’m telling the truth. And then she holds up two fingers in a sign for victory.

  When I go back to Stan, I see a small crowd has gathered in the mouth of the tunnel, hidden from the guards’ view.

  “Tell them,” Stan commands.

  I slam my shovel into the ground, and everyone jumps. “We will not dig for one single more day,” I tell them. “Today is the day we fight.” I look at each of them in turn. “I know you’re tired. I know you’re hungry. I know that what you want more than anything is for this hell to end.” I take a deep breath. “And today, it does. When the sun climbs over the spire of the old church over there, our shovels and axes become weapons, and we charge.”

  The people mumble in confusion until Stan steps forward. “I’m in,” he declares. Then he smiles grimly. “Death’s a kind of freedom, too, isn’t it?” He turns to the man standing next to him. “Are you with us?” he asks.

  The man nods, and my heart seems to rise up in my throat as I watch these broken people find their last shreds of strength and vow to use them.

  “We stand together,” I say.

  “Together,” they repeat.

  When I glance behind me, I see Wisty slink through the putrid muck, moving from worker to worker, also spreading the word. The hope.

  She’s not in disguise, because she, too, needs to conserve her magic. Now more than ever, her powers are not unlimited.

  We’ll conjure more weapons in the seconds before the attack. I’ll be the muscle, Wisty will be the fire, and victory will be ours.

  I get to enjoy that thought for another two seconds. Then I spot Darrius, and my blood seems to freeze in my veins.

  He walks out onto one of the viewing platforms that the Horsemen have constructed, passing his eyes over the mass of groaning, straining slaves. He’s wearing a seersucker jacket, and his hands are folded calmly behind his back—like he’s just out for an innocent stroll.

  But there’s never anything innocent about Darrius.

  And I know it like I know my own name: something really bad is about to go down.

  Chapter 62

  Wisty

  I SENSE HIM before I see him. Infinitesimal sparks of electricity crackle in the air. They sting my skin like shards of ice.

  Darrius is here.

  Almost immediately, I’m hyperventilating, and the woman I was just convincing to join the rebellion looks at me like something’s terribly wrong.

  Because, of course, it is.

  Trying to slow my breath, I risk a glance behind me, toward my brother on the far side of the pit—toward safety. But I see only the viewing platform in the middle, and on it, my beautiful, terrible nemesis.

  Darrius hasn’t seen me yet, though, and so I have a choice: transform into someone else, or duck into a nearby tunnel.

  I think about it for about a millisecond before I start heading toward the tunnel. For now, I’ll rely on stealth. This way I can save my powers for the moment I really need them.

  I’m almost to safety when out of nowhere, a giant worker steps in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. His dark hair is matted with dirt, his bearded face is scarred and sunburned, and he’s wearing what looks like a raccoon skin around his shoulders—in short, he looks like a huge, lunatic caveman. With a pickaxe.

  “Where you going, girlie?” he growls. “I didn’t hear the quittin’ bell.”

  I duck my head and try to dart around him, but he quickly moves to block me.

  “You look like you’re trying to hide,” he says. His eyes narrow. “What for? Is someone lookin’ for you?” He glances behind me, and a slow smile cracks his chapped lips. “I notice Darrius up there, lookin’ pretty careful at everyone. He couldn’t possibly be wantin’ you, could he?”

  I don’t want to cause a scene, so I keep my voice low and light. “Me? Why on earth would Darrius be looking for little old me?” But trying to sound innocent was never my strong suit, and I don’t think the overgrown troglodyte buys it.

  He shrugs. “Pretty interesting how he shows up, and you make a run for it. The rest of us lookin’ like model slaves so he don’t turn us to ash.” He puts his hand around my bicep. “So maybe I should deliver you to him. What do you think? Maybe he’ll give me a day off.”

  “You’re supposed to be on my side,” I say desperately.

  His grip tightens. “I’m on no one’s side but my own, Red.”

  I can feel my skin bruising, but I don’t care about that. All I care about is getting away from this guy. “I’m going to have to hurt you,” I warn.

  He laughs. “Girlie, you couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Maybe I should try to reason with him a little more. Maybe I should tell him about the uprising we’re planning—he should be on my side. But honestly, I can’t stand his kind of arrogance. I’m going to fry this guy, and I just hope Darrius is looking the other way when I do it.

  “Really? Well, let me know if this hurts,” I whisper. Almost immediately the heat starts rolling off me. The man gets a really confused look on his face, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.

  “Last chance,” I warn.

  And the idiot pulls me toward him, like he’s going to lift me up and sling me over his shoulder. But before he can do it, I punch him in the gut with a fistful of flames. Then it’s a quick uppercut to the solar plexus—no fire necessary. He goes down on his knees, sputtering and gasping for breath.

  “Now pick on someone your own size,�
� I say, and I make for the tunnel. But he whips out a hand and grabs my ankle, pulling me off balance. With a startled cry, I land on my back in the dirt and filth. My head knocks against a rock, and for an instant everything goes white, then black for a moment.

  Damnit, I think.

  When I can see again, I take my free foot and slam it into the guy’s nose. Blood shoots out, and he rolls over away from me, shrieking. Blood is mixing in the mud and dirt, and the man’s face is probably never going to look the same again.

  Assuming he gets out of this pit alive.

  Assuming any of us do.

  Scrambling toward the tunnel again, I can hear shouting. Has Darrius finally spotted me? I brace myself for what’s coming next. My fight with the caveman weakened me a little, but maybe, just maybe, I can electrocute Darrius before he turns me into charcoal.

  But then suddenly, gray smoke starts pouring out of the tunnels, rolling toward us like a monstrous, unearthly fog. Dark clouds, borne on a rushing wind, billow up into the sky, blotting out the sun. The temperature drops twenty degrees in two seconds.

  At first, everyone goes silent in shock and wonder.

  What on earth is happening?

  And then the panic begins. People yell in confusion as the cold reaches out its fingers and grabs them around the neck. They struggle to breathe like all the oxygen in the air has been sucked away. From deep underground I hear a terrible roaring, as if the very earth were being torn open.

  Which, in a way, it is.

  Now I know what we were digging toward. And I can’t imagine anything worse.

  Chapter 63

  Whit

  THE FOG’S SO BLACK I can barely see Stan standing next to me, and I’ve got no idea where Wisty is. From somewhere inside the new darkness, I hear the low, guttural moaning that is the sound of my worst nightmare.

  It’s the hellish music of Shadowland. The song of the Undead.

  And it’s coming from the tunnels we dug.

  Open deep gate: I know what it means now. Bloom closed the portals between our world and the Underworld—and now Darrius has opened them again.