The Gift

We hear Byron scream out, “Call them off, you idiot!”

“You call off yours!” replies a female voice, one that makes my heart race and then go cold in the next beat.

“There’s a portal!” yells Wisty, pointing at the telltale fog swirl ahead.

“That was Celia’s voice!” I gasp, stopping in my tracks.

“Don’t you dare,” my sister snaps.

And then, though I have ninety pounds on her and a whole lot more muscle and sports experience than she does, my little sister hits me with a flying tackle that takes me out at the knees and drives me straight through the portal.

Okay… it’s not quite that simple. It never is.

Chapter 78

Whit

I DON’T KNOW where I am exactly, but somehow I’m not too worried about it. I’m with Celia, and that’s all that matters for the moment.

“I had the weirdest dream about you,” I tell her. “I was running from dozens of Lost Ones -”

“We only have a short time together,” interrupts Celia. “Let’s not waste it.”

She presses her head against my chest, and I’m sure she can hear my heart beating. I’ve missed her so much, so badly, constantly. The only weird thing is, for some reason she put on too much of her perfume. I mean, I love the smell of it, but it’s so strong right now I keep fighting back sneezes and my eyes are stinging.

“I love you,” I whisper urgently. “I missed you so much.”

“We only have a short time together,” she says. “Let’s not waste it.”

Didn’t she just say that? Ah, who cares? We hug, and it feels as if we’re merging into one again. I love that-it’s incredible. Her presence and mine joining together like two clouds intermingling in a sunny sky.

“Have you ever felt this amazing?” I ask. “I haven’t.”

“We only have a short time together,” she says. “Let’s not waste it.”

What the -? Hey, wait a second, is this a dream? Oh no, there’s something wrong with her face! Is that -? Oh God… oh no!

Chapter 79

Wisty

AN AWFULLY LOUD NOISE WAKES me from an almost deathly slumber. I shoot up with a start-and a modest burst of flame. Where am I? Somewhere outside… looks vaguely familiar…

I stumble through the starlit darkness and barely manage to grab a railing. Oh yeah. Okay. I’m on the parapet of an abandoned factory my brother and I found after the portal ejected us into the rubble-strewn borderlands of Freeland.

And I was supposedly on night watch for three hours while poor Whit got some rest.

Down below there’s some sort of scuffling. Panting? Grunting? Oh no! I have to get Whit!

But before I can even make it to the rooftop door, he’s bursting through it.

“Byron and his freaks,” he gasps. “They must have made it through the portal, too. They’ll follow our scent up here. Is there another way down?”

I shake my head. “So we’ll have to use magic, or fight -”

“There will be no fight,” I hear Byron Swain declare haughtily as he casually slips through the door, shutting it behind him. His usual perfect timing.

We hear a rumbling of bodies trampling up the stairwell and pounding against the door frenetically. Byron’s got a Command Pipe, and he plays several bold notes, which seems to settle the monsters down. But that doesn’t stop Whit from pinning Byron’s back against the door.

“We are not going anywhere without a fight, Swain,” my brother says through gritted teeth. “There were a few minutes back at the BNW where I thought you were actually trying to help us. The toilet flush? That one could have gone either way. But then you show up with a pack of mad apes? You’re not interested in saving us. You’re interested in saving yourself.”

“I’m very sad about this,” says Byron, staring straight at me, and I’ll admit that it looks as if he’s fighting back tears. “To be perfectly honest, you’re partially correct, but that’s only a recent development. My Kill Team”-he nods sideways toward the beasts behind the door-“were to be the instrument of my own death, as well as yours.” He sighs deeply, as if the weight of all this is too much to bear.

And the weirdest thing is, I’m starting to feel it, too. Normally I’d be ready to light up after hearing about his little assassination agenda-but now, his burden, his misery, his… well, his feelings for me, whatever they are… just kind of sock me in the gut and take my breath away. Instead of being scared and angry, I actually feel sorry for him.

“The only one who’ll be dead is you,” Whit spits.

“Shut up, Whit,” I say. I turn back to the weasel. “B., are you looking me in the eye and saying that you intended this night to end with a suicide-murder massacre? Are you really that insane? I’d actually started to believe in you back at the BNW,” I confess.

I think I see a flicker of hope in Byron’s eyes, but it quickly turns dark. “Insane? I don’t know, Wisty. I don’t know what I am. Remember when I said that no one being exposed to The One’s evil for a long time can remain unchanged? I’ve seen things in him, know things about him-and his victims-that have driven me to these lengths. I can’t apologize for it. And… I can say without reservation, your life is better ending now than being forced to be with him. Which is what he wants-and what he will get.”

Okay. He has both my and Whit’s attention now. Whit loosens his grip, but his tone is still harsh. “You have no belief in Freeland, then. In the Resistance. Or in us.” Whit’s eyes flare with so much bitterness that I think maybe he will light up.

“Oh, but I do,” Byron says, finally unlocking his eyes from mine and looking at Whit. “Even you, jockstrap. I’ve been reading your journal. Very interesting stuff. Had no idea about your special Gift.”

Whit looks surprised. “For writing, you mean?”

Byron snorts. “Are you kidding me? Most of that writing’s straight from Ms. Magruder’s class. And the stuff that isn’t is-well, let’s face it-utter dreck.” The guy really has no fear of the fact that my brother can deck him, does he? “Do you mean to tell me you have no idea of your Gift?”

“First of all, Byron, I told you to quit talking like that,” I jump in. It’s obviously going to take a woman to move this conversation forward. “Second, just tell us what you’re getting at. Please?”

“The evidence is there with a little interpolation,” Byron continues in his stiff, blustery tone, “but I’m fairly convinced that Whit is clairvoyant.”