The Gift

Chapter 80

Whit

I WANT PROOF.

Because I know I’ve written some pretty grim things in my journal.

Including, but not limited to, the death of my sister.

“Would you care to,” I sneer, “interpolate that statement for us?”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Byron looks annoyed. “I suppose you weren’t always listening in Ms. Magruder’s class. But, for starters, perhaps you’d like to explain to Wisty how you knew that the little Bionic Drummer Boy was going to get his arms… amputated.”

My stomach curdles, and Wisty looks at me in shock as the weasel continues. “And it’s also apparent that you know The One is going to bomb every inch of Freeland very soon. There are plenty of examples, but I suggest we save the rest of this fascinating discussion for better times.”

I hear some disturbing growling start up outside the door, and Byron swiftly blows a few strong notes on his Command Pipe, which results in instant chill.

“Look, we know you’re full of it, Swain, so let’s move on to plan B.”

“Yeah,” Wisty jumps in. “Can’t we agree to a nice, simple plan that doesn’t end in a suicide pact?”

“And how about we start with you giving me back my journal?”

“You’re in luck, Whit, because that’s actually a part of my new plan.” He turns his full attention back to Wisty. I’m continually stunned by the intense looks he throws her. Like she’s his… Celia.

Wow. Scary thought. I instinctively put my arm around Wisty, as if that’s going to protect her from his lustful eyes.

“Wisty, you and I both know that we could do great things together,” he says to her, and I tighten my grip on her shoulder. “You felt it onstage at Stockwood. You felt it when we made magic at the BNW. And your first major transformation was done on me, wasn’t it? In case you forgot, it wasn’t a weasel. Originally, you turned me into a lion. It was… electric.”

Wisty is speechless. Her stomach has to be cramping way worse than mine now.

“I know you don’t care all that much for me,” he continues in the understatement of the century. “But you and I are so much more powerful together than you and your brother. The fact is, Wisty, I believe that you and I could actually be the two children of the prophecies.”

“The prophecies say a brother and sister!” she spits out indignantly.

“The brother-sister detail is a technicality. I know you don’t want to admit this, but you and Whit haven’t yet executed the level of magic that Freeland needs in order to defeat The One. But when your energy goes through me, it becomes greater.”

“Prove it!” Wisty demands.

“You’ve been blind to how much I’ve been intertwined with your life, your magic. You didn’t even realize I was there when you turned everyone in Unger’s courtroom into horseflies. And remember who allowed you two to take your drumstick and your journal when you were captured by the New Order?”

We’re numb, speechless, confused, trying to process all of this.

Byron takes advantage of the moment, and as he strides away a few paces, we hear the growling behind the door stir up again. There are sharp scraping sounds-teeth or claws on metal?

Byron reaches for his Command Pipe but then suddenly drops it before he makes a sound.

“You have two options right now, Allgoods: We three can quickly end this hopeless quest as martyrs at the hands of the Kill Team. Or”-he lets us listen as the clamoring of hungry beasts gets more frenzied-“we take Whit to The One instead of Wisty. I believe he would accept your incredible Gift, Whit, instead of Wisty’s.”

“You don’t know that he would,” I say. “You don’t even know that I have any Gift to… fortune-tell.” I have to admit, I’m processing that one. “What about Wisty?”

“Wisty and I… well, together we can lead Freeland to victory.” I snort loudly, but he turns earnestly to Wisty. “I know it, Wisty! I have what you need… in so many ways.”

“No!” Wisty screams. “That’s sick. I’m never leaving Whit.”

Byron levels his gaze, increasingly focused and confident, at me. “Let’s just let your brother decide that.”

“What do you think I’m gonna say, Weasel?” I scoff. “We have other options that you don’t know about.” I’m looking at Wisty as if to say, Don’t we?

“But the latter option is the only one that Celia would approve of.”

Oh my God. He knows? How much does he know?

“She told you to turn yourself in, didn’t she, Whit? For the greater good? So you could be together again?”

It’s in my journal. He’s a real bastard, but he’s right. In my head I can hear her saying it, I feel her commanding me: Stop thinking about only what’s right in front of you. Think about the rest of the lost.

“It’s what was meant to be, Whit. Accept your fate.” Byron raises the Command Pipe to his lips. “Wisty, can I have your decision? My friends outside are very, very hungry.”

“No! No, no, no!” Wisty shouts furiously, but she shoots me a look and I think I can read it. She has a plan, and I’m pretty sure I know what it is. Maybe I can see into the future.

“Whit?” Byron asks.

“No,” I reply firmly. “Not a chance.”

“Well, then,” Byron responds with resignation, “we’re finished here.”

And then he sends out a command from his pipe-and the heavy rooftop door literally comes flying off its hinges.

Chapter 81

Wisty

THE SWARM OF BODIES, the claws and teeth, the screeches and growls, the stink and heat of their breath-it’s everywhere. It’s overwhelming, sickening. But I’ve never been more focused in my life.

The second that Byron blows the Command Pipe, I leap at him and it’s as if we’re two magnets. I’m on him-girl to boy-and I rip the pipe from his hands.

I’m surprised at how it slips easily out of his grip and into mine-but I’m one-tenth of a second too late.

I can already feel claws piercing the skin on my thighs.

There’s a moment where I think my life is going to end just the way Byron wanted it to. With me on top of him, clutching him for dear life, his raucous monsters taking both of us down at once. I don’t like the image one bit.

But my focus is back, and I no longer feel too much of the pain of whatever mutilation has already started on my back and legs. I close my eyes and hum the notes into the Command Pipe, the very same ones Byron used earlier to subdue his brutes.

Perfect pitch has never been more perfect. Over and over I send out the command until I have enough courage to let myself absorb what’s going on.

The beastly strikes have stopped. All I feel now is the pounding of Byron’s raging heart. He’s alive. I’m alive.