Witch And Wizard: Fire Part 13

"There, there," Pearce coos. "No need for theatrics. This is what's called making an example. Very honorable thing you're doing, you realize."

The boy knows what's next. We all know. The kid's lip quivers as he threatens to dissolve into sobs. And as Pearce leans toward the boy, I picture the way the giant's face peeled back from his skull, and - "Don't!" I gasp, scrambling to my feet. Kathy shakes her head at me in warning, alarm in her eyes, but I can't stop. "Just leave him alone. Please -"

Pearce whips around to face me, sparing the kid. Anger dashes across his face, but it's quickly replaced by delight - a spider that's found a fly tangled in its web.

A ravenous spider.

"What have we here?" Pearce purrs in my direction. "A new recruit?" His cold eyes hold me captive, challenging me, and I'm struck once again by how attractive he'd be if he didn't radiate evil in that bright smile.

I look down at the floor as he strides across the dimly lit barracks. My cheeks heat up under my blond-haired disguise. Does he know it's me? It's the longest I've ever kept a glamour going, but I'm still afraid there's some of Wisty showing through.

He circles me like a hawk homing in on its prey and stops behind me. I brace myself for the strike, teeth chattering.

Instead I nearly jump when I feel his hands on my shoulders, moving over my throat threateningly, drifting down my arms. Nothing has ever felt so unnatural, so wrong.

"We have certain policies new recruits have to follow around here, certain initiations," he says, almost bored.

My whole body trembles with fear and adrenaline and hatred at his touch.

I could annihilate you, I think. I could throw a ball of fire, burn you down to cinder if you don't get your slimy paws off me.

But he doesn't, and I don't. Because I can't blow my cover. Because I can't waste my M just yet, and because - though I don't want to be - I'm scared, really scared, of this monster.

So his hands sit there on my arms, declaring their silent victory, and my skin crawls.

"It must be a challenge to adapt to life in the barracks, mmm?" he whispers quietly, almost tenderly. "I can imagine how hard it must be when everyone is watching you all of the time, cataloging your every move." His fingers trace circles around my freckles, and I flinch. "The One is adamant that I report any and all troublemakers immediately. It's very important to him that we maintain order. But you're not going to be any trouble, are you?" he whispers harshly into my ear, and I feel bile rising.

I turn to face him and look him in the eye. "You disgust me," I spit, and my voice doesn't falter.

His ice-blue snake's eyes flash. "I disgust you, pet? Which one of us is scrubbing floors?"

Then he lurches forward, mouth twisted into a sneer, and he kisses me.

No - that's too polite for what he does. Pearce plants his lips on mine, gripping the back of my head fiercely, and shoves his tongue into my mouth. It's the vilest thing I've ever experienced.

Pearce sneers, drawing back with a repulsive smirk on his face. "Wasn't that sort of hot?" I am speechless with revulsion and shock. "No, I don't think you're going to be any trouble at all." He smiles with satisfaction.

I want to wash my mouth out with lye. Or, better yet, turn him into a sponge. A grimy, dirty, bacteria-ridden one. Still, I remember all the power it took out of my brother just to keep Pearce's magic at bay, and I don't have that kind of energy to waste.

Instead I spit on the floor and go back to scrubbing the tile with my toothbrush while the other kids look on, mouths agape. Pearce marches out, his s.h.i.+ny black boots scuffing up my nice clean floor.

Right now I've got someone bigger to worry about, but you'll get yours, too, Pearce.

I promise.

Chapter 51.

Wisty I'M FEELING UTTERLY violated, and I can't stop tasting Pearce's gross, papery lips, but I try to put it out of my head as I sneak across the courtyard. There's no more time to waste. I have to get to The One, and soon, before Pearce becomes a bigger problem than he already is.

I need help. And unfortunately that means I need Byron Annoy-Your-Face-Off Swain, a kid I don't exactly want to be indebted to, since the guy could squeeze water from a rock if it meant something was in it for him.

After Byron finishes his daily drills, I tail him to the stock building behind the barracks, careful that no one's watching. I wish I could find a more secretive location, but I think this is the best we're going to do in a place that's crawling with armed guards. It could also be the only time I get him alone.

As I slink through the door, Byron's leaning against a shelf, awkwardly trying to feign nonchalance. He looks as officious as ever, with his crisp New Order uniform and his smarmy expression. Was he expecting me?

"Wisty." He nods at me, not giving anything away, and I find myself once again questioning Byron's true motives. I knew he recognized me when they brought me in, but he hasn't even tried to connect with me since then. And here he is, looking completely un surprised that I'm sneaking around after him in a place where we could both be killed.

I look behind me. Maybe Byron has his own spies. "You wish to speak with me?" he presses.

Byron never changes, does he? I tried to train him to talk like a normal person when he was a Resistance member, but apparently my efforts were completely in vain.

Since he started out as a New Order spy, I'm still never sure who Byron's really working for - but I'll take my chances this time. If he doesn't cooperate, I could always test out a little more mind control, but since he's spent what seems like forever making pa.s.ses at me, I'm guessing this one's in the bag.

"Hey, B., what's up?" I say as casually as possible. "Here's the deal. Now that you're back on the inside, I need you to get me on palace detail. I'm too out of shape to be running those drills, and I'd honestly rather be scrubbing toilets than hurting puppies." It's probably best not to lay out all my real motive cards, just in case Swain's seriously back on team N.O. "So you'll pull some strings - cool?" I've found that Byron responds best when I don't leave much room for discussion.

"I'm aware that your little drill routine is probably wearing thin. You want to get up close and personal with The One Who Is The One and the elite regimen, do you not? And you honestly think that you'll survive this?"

I s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably. Am I that much of an open book? "Will you get me in or what?"

He gives me a long, serious look, then snickers. I'm right back to wanting to sock him, per usual. "Is it possible Her Highness, The Chosen One, is once again asking help from lowly little me?" He smirks. "Imagine my great surprise. Maybe you want to say please, Wisty, and remember all the favors I've done for you in the past."

I bite my tongue, studying him. A single exposed lightbulb swings from the ceiling, and the sense of being in an interrogation room isn't lost on me. He could have the place bugged. Who knows who he's working for? This could be a trap - Deep breath. You have to trust someone, Wisty. This could be your last chance.

"Look, Byron," I say calmly, rationally, "I know we haven't always been on the best of terms, but this is serious. This is the big time. Everything before this was just training leading up to this moment. I'm going to get him this time. I'm going to take on the greediest, most corrupt tyrant the world's ever known." I put a hand on Byron's and summon my revolutionary voice. "Don't you want to be part of that?"

He perches on the table in the corner and crosses his arms, unmoved. He purses his lips as if waiting for a better offer. My patience? Out the window.

Time for a different approach.

"Would you like to be a rodent, Swain?" I ask. "Because it's been a long time since I turned you back from a weasel, and frankly I think the look really worked for you, really meshed with your personality type."

Byron takes out some new techie gadget and waves it threateningly. "And would you like me to call in the New Order officials right now and have you thrown back behind bars? It would just take the touch of a b.u.t.ton. You forget that I'm the one who has power here, Wisty. That it's you asking me for help."

I roll my eyes. "Are we still playing that game? h.e.l.lo - I'm trying to get closer to The One. The One, who was going to fry you up as soon as he was done with you. And you're going to what? Just swing back to the traitorous side and send in the troops?"

Byron shrugs, vague as ever. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

Something's off, even for smarmy Byron. "Why are you being so weird?" I demand. "You seemed almost, well, normal last time I saw you, and now you're back to this pa.s.sive-aggressive charade. What's going on? Are you okay?"

Byron shrugs, silent. Something is seriously up if the weasel doesn't have a grating comeback.

"Byron?"

"You're acting as if you care about my well-being," he whines.

I sigh. It's so easy to forget that the weasel has human emotions. "I'm sorry. It's just that there's not a lot of time. Forgive me if I'm not coming off as warm and fuzzy as I usually do." I roll my eyes to emphasize the irony.

Silence.

"Come on, B. You and I have been through h.e.l.l and back together. You know I care."

A cloud pa.s.ses over his face. "I heard about your little lip-locking session with Pearce," Byron mumbles.

"You mean when that snake a.s.saulted me?" I'm incredulous. "Yeah, Swain, I'm really drooling over that baby killer and his creepy cold hands. He attacked me, but I see that that part of the gossip didn't make it through to you." Byron doesn't answer, which just makes me fume. "Why do you care anyway?" I challenge.

"I guess I just thought we had something, Wisty," he says quietly, his pride clearly wounded.

Oh. That. "We're talking about life and death here, Byron, and you're telling me you're jealous?"

Byron's face immediately shuts down, and he strides over to the shelves, grabbing armfuls of stun devices, ropes, and a megaphone for the next round of drills.

I keep my distance on the other side of the small room, watching his agitated, jerky movements with guilt. I don't want to hurt Byron, but I don't want to like him either. That intense connection we had playing onstage together at the Stockwood Music Festival frankly still freaks me out.

"Byron, don't take it personally, I just -" "

Whatever," he says, back to his clipped New Order demeanor. He turns to go.

"Hey," I call after him, "just get me in the palace, okay?"

"I'll see what I can do," he says noncommittally. Then he turns back around. "And, Wisty ?" Byron's face looks suddenly grave, and dread settles in the pit of my stomach.

"What?" My voice sounds high and thin.

He chews his lip as if deciding something, and I almost shake him. "You need to work fast. My intel says Whit's in serious trouble in the Shadowland. You don't have much time to deal with The One if you want to save him."

Chapter 52.

Whit TORCHES BOB, BLURRY in my peripheral vision. A bonfire belches into the bloodred twilight. Fire is all around us, licking at our skin and lighting our expressions of terror, and the stench of the gathering Lost Ones, of their rotting flesh and dark intentions, is truly unbearable.

The shrill intensity of their chants builds in tune with my racing heart.

My arms ache from the weight of my body, and I flinch away from the hands of death that reach for me. I'm strung up high on some ma.s.sive wheel, an ancient torture device that keeps my arms and legs spread wide, my body exposed, so that these putrid creatures can spin me around, touch me, and be healed.

Below me, the stage is set for an ominous Holiday Feast, and the Resistance kids are bound on their circle of spits. Sasha shouts fight anthems mixed with obscenities at the Lost Ones in a never-ending babble of protest, and Emmet looks heartbreakingly sad but determined not to make a scene. If the Resistance is going down, it's going down with honor, if he has anything to say about it. Most of the other kids are sobbing uncontrollably, but Janine is resigned, her strong face a mask.

She won't meet my eyes.

Hands cover me, and the ancient wheel turns, spinning me left, then right, so I have to strain my neck to see anything. My heart longs to fight, to keep fighting until my last breath, but I'm so weak and dizzy and there are so many of them, rabid with need.

How can this be the end of everything? Some child of the Prophecy I've turned out to be.

The Lost Ones stamp the ground, growing impatient. The awful chanting reaches a fever pitch, the ravenous howls slicing into the evening, but the youngest child's screams drown out all else as they drag him toward the pit to be roasted alive.

We're done for.

Chapter 53.

Wisty WELL, I HAVE to hand it to Byron: I asked, and he delivered. I got exactly what I wanted - a cleaning position in the elite apartments of the palace compound. But somehow I'm not quite as happy scrubbing toilets as I thought I'd be.

The compound is a solid brick building, part fortress, part palace, and it takes me two days of entering through the heavily guarded gates, pa.s.sing under the metal detectors, and waiting in the steel-sealed holding cell before a fellow worker loans me a key to go through the side entrance that leads straight to the elite complex.

The high-ceilinged, echoing corridors are exactly what you'd expect from the New Order, with clean linoleum floors and ultra-sanitary surfaces. The private apartments, on the other hand, are an entirely different story.

The upper echelons of our society may be a b.u.t.toned-up bunch, but they're not always the most hygienic in their personal quarters - take it from one who knows. Be careful what you influence for, I guess.

But it all pays off in the end, because after scouring, sanitizing, and polis.h.i.+ng my fifteenth toilet, I'm a.s.signed the proverbial pot o' gold: his personal lavatory.

I stand in the doorway for at least ten minutes, listening. This is my chance to find some weakness, some vulnerability, to riffle through The One's most private, hidden items, but at first I can't even move for fear of being caught.

The One's apartment is shockingly spare, almost sterile. There's hardly any furniture, and what's here is a simple, st.u.r.dy black. The claustrophobic red paint vibrating on the wall is as crimson as a crime scene or an open wound. The only things of note are the mirrors: gold-framed, one on each wall. They're presumably so His Baldness will always have a place to gaze adoringly at himself, but somehow they give a person the feeling that he's looking out of them, watching, instead of looking in.

A narrow bed is the only item in the windowless bedroom. I reach out to it tentatively, as if it's a sleeping monster, ready to snap off my hand. Though it looks hard, it's surprisingly soft, giving under my touch. Are the sheets warm, or is it my imagination? It's impossible to imagine him sleeping here. Or sleeping at all.

The floor creaks below my feet, and my heart leaps out of my chest. I strain to listen for a hint of voices approaching, but all I can hear is the blood surging in my ears. I search the corners for hidden cameras and expect to trip a b.o.o.by trap with every movement. I've never been so jumpy in my life.

I know I have to buck up, get it together, do what I came here to do, but all I keep thinking is, The One tortures kids for minor infractions and curses thousands of people with bleeding, open sores. What kind of horrors await a staff member caught snooping in his most personal items?

In the bathroom mirror ( gold-framed, enormous), a lost-looking, frightened girl stares back at me, threatening to bolt, but I see my parents' faces there, too, pleading and hopeful. I splash my face in the ice-cold water of the stainless-steel sink, swallow my fear, and carefully open a cupboard.

It's strange, you don't think of evil people having personal things, and it's impossible to imagine what The One might have stored in these bathroom drawers, what ghastly souvenirs from a lifetime of cruelty. But the items I do find - including dentures and Technicolor contact lenses - are bizarrely mundane and almost funny in the way they suggest self-consciousness.

I'm pawing through these ordinary articles, fascinated, when a floorboard creaks in the hallway. I don't dare breathe as the footsteps get louder, louder, almost upon me and then echo down the hall toward the other apartments. I sigh, turning back to my task.

Peering into the cupboard again, I notice a tiny box that I somehow missed before, and inside it, a silver key. It seems impossible that I could locate what door or safe this small key unlocks, but I remember a desk by the entryway, and when I walk across the apartment and slide the key into the hole in the drawer, it turns with a satisfying click.

When they say "too easy," this is what they mean.

Inside there's an odd collection of mementos, none of them mind-blowing, but apparently important to The One nonetheless. They're special. Personal. Human, as hard to believe as it seems.

There's an award for extraordinary abilities in a science contest, a picture of a young and smiling One with a small girl (possibly his sister?), and a certificate of artistic appreciation recognizing young talent. Buried farther down, I also find a report of difficulties in social development, a handwritten note from a teacher about "disturbing demonstrations" that frightened other students, and a letter of expulsion.