Witch And Wizard: Fire Part 11

I glance over at the ghouls, still ravaging the bodies of the small animals, and shudder.

"No." I shake my head. "That's not that can't happen, Janine. I won't let -"

Janine shakes her head sadly. "We're too far in. There's no way out." Her sage-green eyes, once so sharp and full of life, seem resigned. "Look, I'm tired of fighting. Can you just hold me right now, Whit?"

I nod and wrap my arms around her, my chin resting on her cheek, her warm body against mine.

We may not have much time left, but for now we've got this.

Chapter 43.

Wisty MY HAIR IS being yanked, the rope's been tied too tight, and someone keeps kicking me in the heels. As a result of said kicking, I've fallen twice, leaving my left knee b.l.o.o.d.y and my temper fuming.

Kids trained in torture. I hate the New Order.

The Youth Troop, minus Byron Swain - who has disappeared, leaving me absolutely freaking out, once again, about whether he's actually working for them or us - drags me across the busy courtyard with soldiers practicing endless drills, through three heavily bolted metal doors (reminiscent of my prison days), and finally into the leader's office inside the New Order compound.

"Found this one prowling the streets, General," the snotty girl with the tight ponytail reports, standing at attention. "She wants to join the Youth Troop." She's unable to keep the venom out of her voice. "We thought you could take care of her."

"Thank you, Genevieve." The general sighs from his chair facing the window, clearly annoyed with the disturbance. He's a large man, with black hair slicked back over his receding hairline. "That will be all."

Genevieve looks disappointed at not being recognized for her achievement, but she nods and follows the others out the door.

The lock clicks into place, and we sit in silence for a few moments, the general still facing the window. I take in the office, every object in it tidy and obsessively arranged. Grubby teddy bears and dolls line the bookshelves like trophies in a taxidermy, and I imagine the small hands those dolls must have been ripped from.

Then, abruptly, the leader spins around and fixes me with a long stare, one of his eyes made of gla.s.s and motionless. It's extremely unnerving.

He looks at my mussed-up hair and my b.l.o.o.d.y knee, and an expression of blatant revulsion distorts his face. "I suppose you have something to say for yourself?"

"I -" I swallow. What do you say to a powerful fascist murderer?

"No matter," he says, striding to the window and thrusting it open. "We don't need to talk. I'm happy to just sit back and take in the sweet sounds of Orderly conduct. Leaps and bounds better than all of that horribly distracting music we used to have around, don't you agree?"

His office window overlooks both the exercise yard, where we can hear the New Order Youth practicing drills, and the detainment area, from which pitiful shrieks and sobs erupt to punctuate the grimness of it all.

I am terrified of this man and his complete lack of empathy. I am terrified of his capacity for torture and his enjoyment of suffering. I am terrified of anyone unperturbed at the prospect of genocide.

But right now I have to be the model of New Order Youth, eager to usher in an age of death and destruction. High on horror.

"Sir, there's been a terrible mistake," I say to his back, my voice animated and full of conviction. "All I want - all I've ever wanted - is to serve the New Order with honor. I approached the Youth Troop because I was stirred by their conviction, but they mistook me for one of those despicable Resistance fighters."

He turns around again and fixes me with his fake eye, twisting the ends of his mustache.

"I'll do anything to join the N.O., sir. I particularly excel at torture and obeying authority."

The general perches on the edge of his desk and methodically works the tip of a pencil through the eye of a teddy bear. "Save your lies for someone who's interested," he says. "I know exactly who you are, Wisteria Allgood, and you're about to have a very interesting last few hours of your life."

I swallow hard, imagining the gruesome acts that can be achieved with a sick mind and a few sharp instruments, but a nagging part of me is wondering how he knew.

Did Byron give me up - again?

Chapter 44.

Wisty "IF YOU KNOW who I am" - I try to keep my voice strong, try not to plead -"you know how valuable I am to The One Who Is The One. He's your boss, right? As in, you answer to him?" I hate myself for using a man I loathe as a s.h.i.+eld, but I feel trapped.

The general doesn't say anything but takes out a slip of blue paper and calmly starts writing.

"If you harm even one hair on my head," I press, "it will dilute my Gift. Maybe even ruin it. You can't hurt me."

"Level-five prisoner," he reads, his pen poised above the paper. "Traitor to the people. Scheduled for confession of her crimes against the New Order." He looks up at me, and his gla.s.s eye stares, unwavering. I feel a tight knot of panic in my chest. "Confession to be obtained by any means necessary."

He knows who I am, and he's not afraid. This man enjoys the screams of small children. Just what exactly might he have planned for me?

"You c-c-can't do this," I stammer. "You'll pay for it! When The One finds out what you've done to my Gift, he'll -"

The general's face is a mask, his good eye seeming bored. "And where, pray tell, is this Gift of yours now, Ms. Allgood?"

I start to sweat, and my throat goes dry. He's right. Where's the fireball? Why aren't I flaming out?

Why does my magic keep short-circuiting when I need it most?

I think about what Mrs. Highsmith said about my potential to control electrical impulses in the brain. I don't quite believe it's possible, but The One sure does. And if I ever get out of this office, I'm going to have to take him on. Maybe it's worth finding out if I even possess this Gift that he so desperately covets.

I look at the general, his head bent over his desk, and imagine the evil thoughts flitting through that warped brain of his, imagine the unspeakable deeds he has in mind. I imagine those thoughts dissipating evolving I concentrate every ounce of power I can muster into the effort, like a laser beam zeroing in on the head of a pin. Then I feel white-hot electrical energy sparking through my body, and just as I think my brain might explode, the general suddenly looks up from his writing.

"You know, Wisteria," he says seriously, his face as empty and innocent as a newborn babe's, "I think you'd actually be a terrific addition to our Youth Troop."

"Really?" I gawk at him, shocked, even though I imagined him saying those very words.

He touches my shoulder, and I flinch. I'm still not convinced this sick man isn't playing a trick on me. "I urge you to consider it. Come, look at them." He waves his hand across the window, and I can see the kids below. They're viciously beating a dummy with sticks, and stuffing erupts from its torso. I shudder. "Can't you see yourself among them?" He grins eerily. "Guiding them?"

"Well, I don't know, sir," I say, having a little fun. "I'm not convinced the Youth Troop is the best place for my specific talents."

"Please!" His bark makes me jump. The general is grasping frantically at my arms, shaking me, his voice verging on madness. And then he's shaking so hard I feel like my head might snap.

Refocus, Wisty! I remind myself. I suddenly realize that I might accidentally take this newfound power to places I hardly understand or can control.

"You need only name your price. I'll I'll arrange for extra chocolate rations!" he yells, his eyes crazed with desperation.

I immediately start to salivate, remembering that divine, otherworldly chocolate from our days at the Brave New World Center, but then catch myself when I remember how freaking addicting the stuff was and how the N.O. used it for brain control. To extract all energy and euphoria from young minds.

It almost took me to the dark side.

"That won't be necessary, General. But I suppose I'll join anyway," I concede, wrenching myself from his grip as he nods, his mustache bobbing. "But only because you said please."

Chapter 45.

Wisty IF THERE'S ONE thing Youth Troops love, it's marching.

With my crisp white-and-red New Order uniform and my hair in two tight braids, I practice legs up, arms stiff, eyes dead, drill after drill after drill.

"Now," a horse-faced older boy barks after we've been at it for three hours, "we will review maneuvers to capture young Resisters." He goes down the line with a box, pa.s.sing out equipment, but I can't make out what it is yet.

"Remember," he says, "the enemy will swerve, dodge, even beg. To eliminate this threat, place the wire against the neck and press the b.u.t.ton."

I have no idea what he's talking about, but right then a door in one of the buildings opens up and dozens of puppies come bounding out of it, tongues waving in the air. I look around, and none of my Youth Troop peers even cracks a smile. They look like they're facing down a plague of locusts.

I'm uneasy about what all of this means - the N.O. has a history of using dogs as killer weapons - but I have a serious soft spot for all canines, and I can't help crouching down to pet one. The dog goes crazy, licking my hands and face, its little tail wagging a mile a minute.

And then, zap! The little dog collapses to the ground, seizing. What the -?

One of my N.O. comrades, a small pigtailed girl with missing front teeth, stands over him with some sort of stun-gun apparatus, grinning like a banshee, and then takes off for her next victim.

I look around and watch the other dogs yelping as the brainwashed kids gleefully stun them, and I feel the familiar heat building in my body, the anger reaching a boil. But now is not the time to flame out. I'm in the middle of a heavily guarded N.O. facility, and if I'm lucky, I just might get my chance to see The One. But trying not to let my rage get the best of me is literally making smoke come out of my ears.

Stop, Wisty. Slow down. Pause. I snap my fingers as if to break my swelling energy, to stop the eruption of flame, and suddenly - Everyone stops moving. Everyone but me.

The puppies run around, barking happily again, but the sour-faced New Order Youth have all become statues with stun guns raised in midair, their faces petrified in expressions of evil glee.

Okay! Wasn't expecting that, but it'll work.

This is the perfect opportunity to take a look around the complex for The One. The last time I saw him, he boiled the ocean into a tsunami wave of terror - with Whit and me surfing on top of it - right before he vaporized my parents.

I sit, leaning against one of the unmoving kids as the stupidity of what I'm about to attempt really hits me. I'm not ready for this.

All I want to do is run from this place, and keep running until I'm free: run into my mother's arms, back into my childhood, to a place where the New Order never existed, and where I was never a witch, where I was never the one people were counting on.

But that's not how it is, and it's not how it's ever going to be again.

So I ignore every warning screaming through my body, every flight response my nerves are sending out in alert. Instead, I stand back up. Instead, I walk toward my fate, head held high. I am going to find the most powerful being in our universe, and, though it seems like suicide, I'm going to fight him.

Because I'm the only one who can.

I shoo the little dogs away and creep across the courtyard. I'm not sure if my immobilization spell affected everyone or just the trainees, and I'm not taking chances.

I inch my way to the edge of the building and stealthily peer around the corner.

And immediately pull back in fear and drop to a crouch.

Because there, across the grounds on his way into an imposing red building, I see him.

The One Who Is The One.

The clouds part in front of him, and his bald head gleams in the sunlight. He strides along confidently with a New Order comrade, and he radiates power - a ruthlessness that makes my resolve crack and shatter.

As they get closer, I can see him more vividly, his handsome face hard, his Technicolor eyes hypnotic.

My breath is virtually knocked out of me as I realize who's with him: none other than the weasel, Byron Swain. I look at the gravel rocks around my feet and consider lobbing one at his rodenty, traitorous little head.

That, or a lightning bolt.

Chapter 46.

Whit THE LOST ONES are preparing for dinner.

The valley is abuzz with activity as the zombie-eyed undead stroll back and forth to the forest, gathering bones for the fire.

Lost Children add brush; Lost Men, a tower of skulls. Do bones really burn? Apparently. An older Lost Woman gnashes her teeth at us and positions a long spear, sharpened at both ends, over the pile. A spit.

The only thing they have left to add is the meat.

Us.

Janine is with the Resistance kids on the other side of the fire pit, her hands wrapped tightly along a section of rope. A steady stream of tears is leaking out of her eyes, and she's no longer making a move to brush them away. The kids look sh.e.l.l-shocked and paralyzed, and I don't blame them.

How do you prepare to be eaten alive?

They've separated me from the others and bound me with twice the rope, so I can only a.s.sume I'll be the first to burn.

Feffer lies at my feet, her legs bound together and sticking straight up in the air. The dog howls, and the sound is full of despair; she had guessed at the Lost Ones' plans long before we did.

Shouts from the forest add to the din, and another chain of kids is dragged into the camp, a couple of them struggling hard against the ropes and pa.s.sionately demanding justice. I sigh with relief to see that it's Sasha yelling, with Emmet on his heels. They're alive - But not for long. My relief is immediately followed by an overwhelming queasiness. This is going to be the end of the entire Resistance.

"You're not really planning to eat us, are you?" I say to a pa.s.sing Lost One, who looks around my age. Despite Celia's warnings, despite the feasting preparations, I can't really make myself believe it.