Witch And Wizard: Fire Part 7

Wisty "JANINE," MY BROTHER huffs between breaths as we run near the icy gray harbor. "What Jamilla said. Lost. Can't let her down " He sprints ahead. "Gotta find her."

We're finally headed for the steam pipe to see if we can gather clues about what might have happened to Janine and the rest of the Resistance kids, regardless of the risks. We've run through the now-inactive war zone where our old headquarters at Garfunkel's used to be, past the bombed-out holes and craters scarring the streets. We're nearly to the manhole that leads down to where we last saw our friends.

But when I see the angry, frustrated look on Whit's face as he slows to a stop, my stomach knots up around my heart and I can't help but imagine the worst.

But the reality is even worse than that.

Cold horror stops me in my tracks as I spot a crowd in the clearing, poking and jeering at two teenage girls tied to wooden posts. Stacks and stacks of kindling are piled at their feet.

They're about to burn them alive.

"Please, we don't -," the one with the longer hair pleads, sobs choking through her words. "I swear, we're not even real witches." At this word the crowd goes wild, surging forward with sneers and screams. The girl wails in desperation.

The other girl is maybe two or three years younger, and her small face is unmoving - hopeless and dead, like she can't really fathom that this could be happening.

My stomach twists and heaves. I can't believe it either.

The two are sisters, by the look of it, their dark almond eyes and thin noses mirror images of each other. With their whimsical, eclectic clothing - now torn - they stand out from the crisp red suits of their tormentors, which must've made them targets.

"Not again," my brother whispers at my side, tearing me back from the scene.

"You've you've seen something like this before?" I say, anger and disbelief creeping into my voice. My accusation is clear: How could he not tell me about something so serious?

"I know," Whit says. His face is pained, apologetic. "That's why I was so freaked back at the Needermans'. Why we had to leave like that even with Pearl " He trails off, and I remember her flailing in the soldiers' arms. "I was scared, Wist. Really scared. I just wanted to save you from all that."

"Save me?" My voice is rising. "How is keeping me in the dark -?"

"I couldn't do anything last time anyway!" Whit snaps. "I was too late." He sighs heavily, his eyes on the ground. "Never mind that, okay? These girls don't have much time. What are we going to do about it?"

He's right. We can't sit back and watch this. I look at the crowd. It really isn't that big, just totally nuts. We could take them easily.

"How about we show them a real witch burning?" I suggest with a raised eyebrow.

Whit nods grimly. "I like your style, sister."

And with that, I'm off and running, crazy like I haven't been in weeks or months heading full-speed at the unsuspecting crowd, windmilling my arms, shrieking b.l.o.o.d.y murder. Of course, flames are leaping from my head in a macabre halo of fury, too.

At first the mob comes together, undulating toward me and buzzing with possibility. But as I get closer, the people begin to scatter, the whites of their eyes bulging in terror, convinced that their day of reckoning has arrived and that this apparition will make them pay for their crimes. That's pretty much exactly what I was going for.

Cowards at heart, every one of them. They want to burn every imaginative kid in sight, anyone who is a little bit different and therefore vulnerable. A real witch is, of course, too much for them.

As I lurch at the frenzied ma.s.ses, my fire roaring, Whit rushes to the girls and works at untying their binds. In minutes we have them freed and the square cleared of the murderous bigots.

After it's over, the sisters cling to each other, mute and dazed from shock. They're shaking violently.

Whit fingers their open gashes where the ropes cut into their flesh, healing them, but they flinch even at his touch.

"It's okay. You're okay," I whisper, rubbing their shoulders. "It's over. We're here to help. Can you tell us your names?"

"I'm Dana, and she's Lisa," the older girl says. "I don't know what happened. We were just walking. I had this hairpin a woman yanked it out of my hair and then they were all around us, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving, scratching us with the pin, saying our blood was poison " I can see she's usually the chatty one, but right now her voice shakes and it's clear she's trying not to totally lose it. "The thing is, we're not really even witches." She hiccups. "Not like you." She winces, fidgeting awkwardly. "I mean -"

"It's okay." I smile. "I like being a witch."

"I just like to cook weird things, and Lisa plays the ukulele. I know it's illegal, but" - tears spill onto her cheeks -"we never thought those things would get us killed."

Lisa, the younger one, has doe eyes, huge and frightened beneath her fringe of heavy bangs, and they keep darting back to the ominous woodpile behind us. She squeezes Dana's hand, comforting her sister, but her body remains tensed as if ready to sprint. If only she knew where to run to, where it might be safe.

"You guys can come with us," I offer. "We're trying to find our friends and get the Resistance back together." I see Lisa's eyes jump longingly in her young face. She looks at Dana, the question hanging between them. But Dana shakes her head.

"No." She sighs. "We really need to get home."

I nod, the idea of home feeling sweet and sad. Home is long gone for us.

The sisters shuffle off into the gray streets of our fallen city, arms wrapped around each other, shaking after their ordeal.

I snap my fingers and watch as they transform into squirrels, scampering inconspicuously along the park's edge. It'll wear off within a couple of hours, but it should get them home without trouble, if they can avoid the poor scavengers in the alleys looking for a meal.

"Safe travels," I whisper.

Chapter 26.

Wisty WE START TO head in the other direction down the road, but it looks like word of our little rescue has already gotten out. There's another, different group of people headed toward us, and I can tell even from here that they're official N.O. Our middle-aged-staff disguises have fallen away, and we're exposed.

"Here we go," Whit says beside me.

As they get closer, I see it's the young blond soldier from the clinic. And he's not alone. He's got around two dozen comrades with him this time, and they're all freaking giants. Not just big-boned but, like, seven and a half feet tall, all decked out in way-too-tight N.O. T-s.h.i.+rts that emphasize their gigundo muscles.

My eyes flick to the bank of the harbor. We could hop the fence, dive in, still have a chance at a getaway. It's maybe ten running steps to the fence, and I'm faster than any of these big boys, guaranteed.

Whit sees me looking at the water and shakes his head. He's reading my mind again, and now I'm reading his: He's saying, We'll take what comes, Wisty.

"Well, look what we have here," the blond soldier says, his quiet voice velvety and menacing at once. He's still smiling that pearly, patronizing smile, his wolfish demeanor incredibly sinister.

I suspect we just might find out why all those kids were so afraid. He can't be much older than I am, but he's already got that cold, calculating look of a man driven by greed.

"So this is the famous Wisteria and Whitford Allgood, the deadly witch and wizard," the soldier says with mock enthusiasm. "We hear that you've ruined a perfectly good barbecue. It is my great honor to meet you, despite all the messes you've been making." His eyes sparkle as if we're all in on the joke.

Talking is always my first form of defense, and my motormouth starts right up before I even know what I'm saying to Blondie. "I'm sorry we can't say the same about you and your extra-large playmates," I blurt.

It doesn't come out as confident-sounding as I'd hoped, because the truth is, I'm seriously creeped out by this guy. There's just something about him that seems psychopathic. Unpredictable. Like he could kiss you or cut off your limbs and he'd probably feel the same level of excitement.

The soldier laughs, and it makes me s.h.i.+ver. "They said you were funny. Isn't she funny, guys?"

The giants move in around us, roughly wrenching our arms behind our backs.

"And such lovely red hair. Like flame," the leader says, stepping toward me. He strokes strands around my face, and I flinch. My cheeks heat up in a mix of embarra.s.sment and vanity. I can feel Whit tense beside me.

"Regardless, The One Who Is The One will be most pleased that you're on your way to see him," the creep continues. "In fact, I'm happy to personally deliver you. No extra charge for the service. You have my word on it." He smiles again.

"I think you're going to have to break your promise on this one," Whit says tightly. "My sister and I aren't going anywhere with you, buddy."

"Pearce," the soldier says, extending a pale, well-manicured hand. "My name is Pearce."

Chapter 27.

Whit PEARCE CHUCKLES, WITHDRAWING his hand. "So sorry. I see you're otherwise occupied."

I try to twist away from this jerk's beefy sidekicks, who are still holding us back. I'm already wound pretty tight, and another obstacle isn't helping. The narrow strip of asphalt where we're standing along the water is about the only area that hasn't been demolished around the old Resistance stronghold, and it's impossible to look at the craters in the wounded earth and not think of our friends. If they're alive - and that's a big if - they're definitely running out of time.

And now we have to deal with this egomaniacal kid. "At ease, boys," he says, and they instantly free our arms. Pearce looks like a child next to these seven-foot goons, but they're clearly afraid of him. I get the feeling he shouldn't be underestimated.

"So this is the famous healer, the incomparable athlete, the sensitive poet." Pearce steps forward and peers into my face as if he's studying an intensely interesting scientific specimen. How does he know all of this about me? We might be in it deeper than I thought.

I stand up straighter, my bulk and height an implied threat. If Pearce thinks I'm going to shrink away from him, he can think again.

"And it's a shame we don't have time for you to give us a bit of a show, Wisteria," he muses, turning to my sister. The way he says it - suggesting things that are much more uncomfortable for an older brother to imagine than just a fire show - makes my hands ball into fists. I take a step in front of Wisty, and Pearce smirks at me. "Dynacompetents are so very rare these days," he says mildly.

"And so tricky to catch," one of the giants mutters from behind him.

Pearce's head whips around to glare at the loudmouth. Touchy subject apparently.

"Did we not discuss this beforehand, Fafner?" he asks the giant, venom dripping from his words. This is obviously a guy who is used to having things done his way. "That you were to be silent while I was interacting with the Allgoods?"

The underling ducks his head and says meekly, "Yes, sir." A circle widens around him as his buddies move off, condemning the offender.

"Come here," Pearce says almost inaudibly.

Fafner is shaking now, cowering, and Wisty looks at me sidelong, unsure of what to expect. "But I didn't mean -"

"I said come here!" Pearce explodes. He wraps his black cloak tightly around him as the wind coming off the water ripples his fair hair, and for the first time I notice the goose b.u.mps on my own arms.

Reluctantly, Fafner slinks toward Pearce like a dog with its tail between its legs. When the man's close enough, Pearce reaches up and touches the giant's head, as if he's blessing him or something.

And then the most insane thing happens: the skin on the giant's face seems to just fall away. All that's left is a naked skull sitting atop this huge body, and when Pearce lets go, the body crumples to the ground.

Its skull rolls to a stop in front of us.

As Wisty and I stand there with our eyes bugging out of our heads and our mouths hanging open in disbelief, a few of the other big boys drag the body toward the bank, and Pearce wipes his hand nonchalantly on a handkerchief.

"Where were we?" he says, turning back to us and smiling brightly as if nothing's happened. "Ah, yes, you were about to accompany me to visit The One."

I am scared. I am horrified. I am super freaked out at this guy's total lack of self-restraint, and a little in awe of his power. But I'm furious, too. Livid. This is not the world we were promised as children, and no one is ever going to make this man pay if I don't right now.

"What, you can't handle us yourself?" I taunt. I know the way egos work - you just have to push the right b.u.t.tons. "You're probably nothing without that pathetic little trick of yours. I bet I could take you, mano a mano."

I normally don't sink to this base level, I swear, but I'm just about at the end of my rope, and there's no way I'm letting them take me in without a fight. Today, I let Celia slip through my fingers again. Today, I watched a good friend die. Today, I found out Janine - calm, compa.s.sionate, serious-eyed Janine, whom I care about more than I want to admit - is probably dead. I'm ready to pound someone into the ground, and if anyone ever deserved it, it's Pearce.

"Oh, come now, Whitford. Must we always resort to violence?" Pearce ironically raises a conspiratorial eyebrow at me as if reading my thoughts.

I flex my fingers in response, and then he starts to laugh - deep, rolling peals of laughter that are incredibly unsettling coming out of that stern, cruel face. The rest of us stand around awkwardly, not really sure what's so hilarious, but Pearce just keeps right on cackling. The guy is seriously unhinged.

"Mano a mano," he snorts. "How about mojo a mojo?" And then out of that wide, gaping mouth of his bursts a powerful gust of wind.

Next thing I know I'm on the ground, coughing, confused, and breathless, my feet knocked clear out from under me. He blew me right over. Like I was a blade of gra.s.s.

As I'm trying to get my breath back, Pearce's face becomes serious.

"Your M doesn't work so well in the city anymore, does it, Golden Boy?" he purrs. "Unfortunately for you, mine does."

Chapter 28.

Wisty "WHIT!" I YELL, struggling against the three big goons who've now got my arms wrenched behind my back.

My brother holds up a hand, telling me to chill, like he's got this whole nightmarish scene under control, but he's on his knees, already down. Blood from his nose is making awful, bright patterns on the asphalt.

Whit can't expect me to just stand here and watch as Pearce does his face-melting trick on him, too, can he? After I've already watched my parents die, and my friend Margo, and countless innocent kids, now I'm just supposed to do nothing as my brother takes on this complete sociopath?

Pearce smirks at me with the look of a person who enjoys torturing small animals, and something in me snaps. Now that the glamour has worn off, my M is coming back. My fingers start to tingle, my face gets hot, my temper boils over, and then I just explode.

The guys holding me drop my arms, wincing as if they've been singed, and suddenly there are three-foot flames reaching out from my body, white-hot and roaring.

I start to move toward Pearce, my wall of fire reaching for him, but he doesn't budge.

He doesn't even look frightened.

Unfortunately, before I can scorch anyone in a blaze of glory, I'm tackled by at least ten of the seven-footers, who proceed to stop, drop, and roll all over me.

So much for the New Order freak roast.