Whit and I look wildly around, but there’s no doorway to duck in, no fire escape to climb.
“Can you transform?” Whit yells as the gray hordes move closer.
“No,” I cry. “Not yet.”
“What about fire?”
I’m trembling with the cold now. “I don’t know!”
I can feel the chill of Shadowland as they lope toward us, their terrible faces grinning. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
Whit and I are caught in the middle of their demonic circle.
“Torch ’em,” he yells, lashing out with his fists to keep them at bay. “Just try!”
I try to summon my fire, but it’s as if someone has poured ice water into my veins. It’s a struggle even to put up my fists. It’s like the cold has frozen me solid. “I can’t!”
“Keep trying,” Whit shouts.
Now I can hear what they’re chanting. They’re saying, Hungry, hungry, hungry…
And their fingers reach out to grab me, and all I can do is scream.
One seizes my arm and yanks it up to his lips, and I expect to feel the searing pain of his pointed yellow teeth—but instead of tearing off a chunk of my flesh, he kisses my hand. Almost tenderly. It’s so repulsive, it takes my breath away.
Then he pulls me toward him in a deathly embrace, his expression of insatiable hunger the stuff of a thousand nightmares.
The cold surrounding me deepens to a glacial chill. Darkness blooms in my chest like some terrible frigid flower. It grows bigger and darker until it feels as huge and deep as a black hole—a vortex into which every smile, every peal of laughter, every moment of joy in my life is getting sucked away. Forever.
My lungs seize up. A giant hand of ice squeezes my heart.
There’s nothing left but desolation.
Now I understand: the Lost One isn’t after my flesh—he’s after my soul. He’s going to devour it. I feel myself fading, the bright flame of me flickering out.
But from somewhere deep inside—some tiny, buried place not yet frozen—I hear a voice. Seek the light, the voice cries. Remember joy.
And so, in my last moments of consciousness, I call up every memory of happiness and sunshine I have. I imagine sunlight on a lake, the blue of my mother’s eyes, the roses we grew in front of our house, Whit laughing as he throws me a foolball…
If I have to die, I’ll die with love—that’s my final desperate thought. And so I reach out and pull the Undead man closer to me. In a hug.
The cold grows so intense that it burns. I scream in pain.
And then I realize that it really is burning.
I’m burning. I’m sparking. I’m electric!
The Undead man falls away from me, shrieking. His skeletal hands claw at his smoking skin—and then he bursts into flames. A second later, what’s left of him looks like nothing but a small pile of burned paper.
Hope swells inside me, and I shout for joy.
“Whit,” I cry. “I figured it out! You just have to hug them!”
“What?” he shouts. He’s holding them off with his fists, but his strength is fading.
I turn toward a leathery creature that was once a young man. “Like Aunt Bea said: only love, Whit! Think about Mom hugging us, and Dad teaching us how to throw a foolball. Think about beautiful things, like fireflies and the ocean and sunsets. Think about Janine!”
He aims a kick at a Lost One’s skull. “Huh?”
“Like this!” I seize the Lost One. His flesh is falling away in strips from his face, and I grimace in disgust as I pull him toward me. But clasping him to my chest, I call forth each and every beautiful thing that he lacks: life, light, laughter, love.
He lets up a howl that could shatter glass.
And then he’s outlined in brilliant flames. He keeps screaming until there’s nothing left of him to make any noise at all.
“Holy M,” Whit whispers. His blue eyes spark with hopefulness. “Only love.”
And then we hold out our arms and walk into the seething mass.
Reaching for them all. Drawing them to us. Embracing them to oblivion.
Chapter 69
Whit
“I SAW YOU,” calls a high, tremulous voice. “That was incredible.”
The Undead we didn’t destroy have fled, terrified by our shocking (literally) death-hugs—but now I’m so beat, I can barely look up to locate the source of the compliment.
“Really, how did you do that?” it asks.
I manage to lift my head up. Twenty feet above us, there’s a young blond girl leaning out of a window, her gray eyes wide with amazement.
Wisty wipes the sweat from her brow and smiles. “Easy as pie,” she says. “You just gotta love ’em to death.” But her pale, damp face and gasping breaths belie her breezy words. It’s not easy as pie—not by a long shot.
The girl peers appraisingly at us. “You’re magic, though. I can tell,” she says. “I’m not.”
“Which is even more reason you need to stay where you are,” I tell her. “Be safe. You don’t want to mess around with these people. They—”
“They’re not actually people,” she interrupts. “Right?”
“Well, they were once,” I say.
She leans out the window even more, so far that I’m worried she’ll lose her balance and tumble down into the street. “Why do they want to kill us?” she wonders.
“They’re hungry,” I say gruffly. “Now please, go back inside.” I don’t have time to play twenty questions with this kid.
But Wisty looks thoughtfully up at her. “I think they want to be people again,” she says.
The girl thinks about this for a moment, and then she says solemnly, “That’s sad.”
Wisty smiles again. “Wow—compassion for the things that would eat you faster than a french fry? That’s impressive.”
The girl blinks down at us. Her clear pale eyes suddenly remind me of Pearl Marie Neederman’s, and my stomach twists in remembered grief.
“So they’re not alive, but they’re not dead, either,” the girl says. “Is that what you call a paradox? That was one of my vocabulary words. I mean, before Darrius sent my teacher to a work site.”
“Yes, kiddo,” my sister says. “It’s a paradox.”
I can’t take it anymore; I start walking away. “Listen, it’s been nice talking to you, but we have to go.”
Wisty pushes herself off the wall she’s been leaning against. “Yeah. Basically we have to go try to kill Darrius right now.”
The girl nods calmly, like this is the most normal thing in the world. And considering the tyrannical leaders this City’s known in these last few years, maybe it is. “I hope you win,” she says.
“Me too,” I say. For the sake of all of us.
She waves at us as we head down the alley. We move slowly—partly because we’re being cautious about finding more of the Undead, but more because we’re exhausted. I’m dizzy and weak from our battle, and my emotions feel like they’ve been scooped out of me with a giant spoon.
We make it only a quarter mile before Wisty declares she has to rest. “Hugging those things was disgusting,” she says as she collapses on a cracked concrete stoop.
I nod as I sit down beside her. “Like making out with a corpse.”
“But it worked,” she adds. She turns to me, eyes suddenly bright. “We need to spread the word, Whit. Find the Resistance and tell them how it’s done! Train them in the art of killing what’s already dead!”
I’m glad to see she’s got some of her spunk back, even if she’s still too tired to stand up. But finding the Resistance? Between the slave camps and the Lost Ones, I doubt there’s much of the Resistance left.
I don’t say that, though. I say, “Let’s just gather our strength for a bit.”
Still, I feel a surge of optimism. Maybe we can train people to fight the Undead. Maybe there’s a chance to turn the tide.
“Right,” Wisty agrees. “Five minutes of rest. Then we’ll go.�
�
But we don’t even get those five minutes. Because suddenly the air’s full of the thunder of hoofbeats and the ringing of swords drawn from their sheaths. A dozen Horsemen have rounded the corner and are bearing down on us.
I leap up and haul Wisty to her feet as the Horsemen sound their guttural battle cry. “Run,” I shout, shoving her away as a dark-bearded rider lassoes me around the waist like I’m livestock. He laughs as he expertly tightens the rope with a flick of his hairy wrist, cinching it around me like a torturous belt.
“Wisty,” I yell—but the only answer is her piercing scream.
Then the Horseman whoops and digs his spurs into the flank of his mount. The horse rears up on its hind legs, nearly yanking me off my feet. When it drops back down to all four feet, it surges forward, breaking into a canter and wrenching me forward.
I have to sprint madly to keep up, but my legs are still weak from fighting and my feet trip over each other. As much as I try to stay upright, I’m practically being dragged out of the alley.
“Whit!” Wisty screams. “Help!”
I crane my neck to catch sight of my sister, knowing already there’s no way for me to help. Still, when I sense the Horseman’s grip on the rope loosening as he adjusts the reins, I yank my body hard to the left, trying to break free. But another Horseman comes galloping up and lassoes me from the other side. Now I’m caught between two enormous barbarians, and it’s all I can do to stay on my feet, to not be dragged through the streets.
Buildings go by in a blur as we race back toward the center of the City. The Horsemen whip their mounts into a frenzy, and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode. Just when I think I might pass out from the strain, we crash through the tall iron gates of the Old Palace grounds and the Horsemen jerk their mounts to a stop.
I take in air with great, gasping breaths. The Horsemen who’d been pulling me let me go, and I fall to my knees and vomit.
Sweat stings my eyes and knives of pain stab my chest. I lift my head to see Wisty crawling toward me over the cobblestones, weaving her way between the horses’ legs. Tears streak her cheeks.
Her shoes are gone, and her toes are shredded and bloody. “Oh, sis,” I whisper, knowing exactly what happened. When she couldn’t run fast enough, they pulled her along like a bundle of rags.
I want to murder them all for doing this to her.
“I’m okay,” she assures me, wiping away her tears. But she doesn’t look okay.
“Stand up.” The words are thrown at us, sharp as rocks.
Wisty’s eyes widen.
We know that voice.
Slowly, we struggle to our feet. The Horsemen who’ve surrounded us take a few steps back, and now we can see everything.
We’re in the middle of the vast courtyard. All around the perimeter stand the Horsemen and the Undead, poised to attack at any moment. And just a dozen yards away stands Darrius. And Bloom.
Our smirking, loathed enemies. Yes, we wanted to face them. But not like this. Not like captured animals.
Darrius holds out his arms, as if he’s glad to see us. “Welcome to the palace,” he says, his voice smug and saccharine. “And welcome”—he pauses, licking his lips in anticipation—“to the Allgood family reunion!”
I look in confusion at Wisty—what is Darrius talking about? We were never separated!
But then Bloom and the Horsemen on either side of him step aside. And they reveal a small iron cage.
Containing my parents.
And Janine.
The cry feels like it’s ripped from my throat.
He’s got all of us now.
Chapter 70
Wisty
“HOSTAGES,” DARRIUS CROONS. “Just in case you were hoping to stage a coup.”
Even from twenty feet away, I can feel his golden eyes burning into mine. The air between us crackles with energy, the way it always has.
I can’t look away from him, even if I want to. He’s so familiar, so mesmerizing, so evil.
He smiles slyly, revealing his perfect white teeth. Slowly and deliberately, he approaches, almost floating across the cobblestones. He stops mere inches away from me, and then he lifts his hand—and touches me on the cheek.
The pain is instantaneous, a stunning electric shock. But I stifle my scream. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurt me.
“Now I have you,” he says softly. “For good.”
I throw my head back, my eyes blazing. “I highly doubt that, Darrius.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Really, Wisteria. Such misplaced confidence! Honestly, it’s almost embarrassing.” Darrius turns, takes a few steps away. His eyes sweep the square, counting his soldiers—and his prisoners—in cruel satisfaction.
“Who says it’s misplaced?” I demand. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“Actually, I do,” he says. “I know you far better than you think.” He gestures to the gilded Old Palace, with the blue flags of our former government still flying as if nothing bad had ever happened. “Remember when you came to see me at the old toy factory? Remember the Family? We had so much fun, Wisty. You should have joined us when you had the chance.”
“I’m not into torture and murder,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Oh, but we were so much more than that,” he says. “As I told you that night: the world is a vexed and chaotic place. Our souls are dark and troubled. Is it so wrong to act on that darkness?” He comes toward me again, so close I can feel the deep, pulsing thrum of his magic. The power of his magnetism. His eyes look like topaz. He is so terrible, so terribly beautiful. “Surely,” he whispers, “there is a place where desire and darkness meet.”
I step backward, breathing hard, my body weakened by his presence. I manage to look away from those jewel-colored eyes. “You couldn’t be more wrong,” I say. “Everybody’s soul is both light and dark. We can choose between the two, Darrius, and it’s that choice that determines everything.”
He shakes his head. “Oh my dear, such charming naiveté. How long, I wonder, will it take me to win you over to my side?”
“You won’t,” I vow. “Not ever.”
His brow furrows, as if he’d expected a different answer. “So you’re going to make it hard on yourself, then. That’s too bad.”
“Why are you even doing this?” I demand. “You’re already in power! Why are you calling up the Undead? Why are your Horsemen murdering us? Why destroy the world you rule?”
Darrius only chuckles. “If you don’t believe in the essential darkness of the human soul, Wisteria, how can I explain myself?”
I grit my teeth in anger. “Why don’t you try me. I’d like to get inside the mind of a psychopath.”
He frowns now. “Psychopath? I’m insulted.”
I hold his gaze as I speak. “Right. You’re not a psychopath. That’s giving you too much credit, actually.”
“Wisty,” my brother hisses. “Enough.”
I ignore him. I can’t stop. I won’t stop. I need to keep Darrius angry until our powers—or at least part of them—return. “You’re just a selfish, narcissistic, megalomaniacal, post-adolescent freak.”
“That’s enough!” Darrius shouts. His eyes blaze fiercely and his fists clench.
“Oh, really?” I sneer. It’s a delicate balance: he’s got to be mad enough to keep toying with me, but not mad enough to lash out and kill me on the spot.
And he can’t know that Whit’s got magic again—not yet.
I glance over to my parents, caught in their cage. My dad’s gripping the bars; my mom’s gripping Janine’s hand. Their expressions—of panic and terror and love, all mixed up together—are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It hurts me to look at them.
I turn back to Darrius. “I know all about you,” I seethe. “You’re just a depraved and vicious runt whose parents never loved him.”
A dark shadow passes over Darrius’s face and his cheeks go pale.
“You will b
e quiet now.” He points a long finger at me, and suddenly it’s as if my jaw’s been wired shut.
I scream, close-mouthed, in frustration. The rest of me still works, though, so I flip him off.
Flushed in anger, Darrius calls out to his army. “Shall we kill her right now? Or shall we torture her a little first?”
My mother lets out a stifled cry.
Something tells me he’s not ready to hurt me, though. He, too, wants to play a mind game. I flip him off with my other hand.
A few of the Undead surge forward, but sure enough, Darrius motions them back. “I promise you,” he calls to them, “you may feast on her flesh. And on her brother’s flesh as well. But for now, hold still. I will do the killing.”
Then he faces me again. “With all your powers, here you are. Helpless as a child. It’s so exciting to be able to show you how wrong you were about everything! You’ve been trying to stop me, and failing so spectacularly, for so much more of your sad, stupid lives than you ever realized!”
Whit and I look at each other: What is he talking about?
Darrius is working himself into a frenzy. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long!” He points to a lamppost, with its antique flickering gaslight. “We are going to string you up there, Wisteria, and flay you until your flesh falls from your bones. Do you think your mommy will like watching that?”
The image flashes before my eyes and my knees almost give way beneath me. Is this really going to happen? I still can’t speak. My M’s still low. And if I make a move toward Darrius, he’ll kill my family.
Darrius smiles a murderer’s smile. “Or maybe I’ll burn both of you to death. Roast you slowly, like a marshmallow. We’ll see how it goes. But before you die, in terror and agony, there’s something I’d like to show you.”
Darrius takes another step back. He’s in the exact center of the square now, standing on the gold porcelain tiles that long-ago City dwellers arranged in the shape of the sun.
He takes a deep breath and raises his arms to the sky, and his mouth forms the words of a dark and unknown language. I expect thunder and lightning, or knife-sharp hail, or a shower of bombs—but nothing at all happens above us.
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