"Did you miss me?" I opt to say, instead of Sorry, but I was busy playing guitar in an old witch's kitchen.
"Actually yeah," he says. He levels his gaze at me, and I notice a glint of vulnerability in his eyes. "How come you look so crazy beautiful? You couldn't have had much more sleep than me."
Crazy beautiful? Never before has Wisteria Allgood been described as such. Crazy, yes. Beautiful…?
This is so nice. I'm so not used to the attention.
"Must be the wig," I mumble, and glance down. He's still staring at me. I can feel it. He's reaching across the table… toward my hand…
"Listen, Wisty," he says. His fingers interlock with mine, and the cool metal touch of his insignia ring against my skin is exhilarating. I feel as if my spine has been replaced with an overcooked noodle.
"I'm really sorry," he says. I look up at him, and suddenly there's only pain in his eyes now. Poor thing, taking this drumstick incident so seriously!
"About the stick? It's nothing -"
I'm interrupted by a commotion at the door, and we both turn to look.
Oh, kill me now. It's my big brother with the savior complex.
"Wisty, it's a trap! Get out of there! Now!" Whit yells as a bunch of rock star-looking dudes appear from out of nowhere-and attempt to pin him to the wall.
I try to jump to my feet, but Eric forcefully grabs my wrist.
"I'm so sorry, Wisty," he's whispering. "I had no choice in this."
"What? What is this?" I demand to know.
The Bionics singer and guitarist are standing at the opening of the booth now. And they're chewing on unlit cigars.
It can't be. But I'm afraid it is.
"Eric?" I ask, tears starting to spill from my eyes. But Drummer Bum only shrugs and looks away. Is he doing what I think he's doing? How could he have been so wonderful one minute, and now he's turning me over to the New Order?
I'm wrong about people sometimes, but I've never been this wrong. I slump forward on the table, feeling as if I've just been stabbed in the chest.
What is wrong with me for walking right into this trap?
I look up into the face of my crush of five minutes ago. I'm searching for a clue, for any of the signs I missed.
But all I see is his near perfect face, and genuine-seeming contrition.
"I had to, Wisty. Don't you see? You're The One Who Has The Gift."
Chapter 36
Whit
BEFORE I CAN REACH Wisty to try to help her escape, somebody hits me hard. Just about all the wind rushes out of me and my knees buckle. I'd probably fall on my face if the three of them weren't so busy trying to pin me to the wall. They're strong-they may look like boys, but they fight like adults. Adult professionals, maybe New Order soldiers.
I only hope I gave Wisty enough warning to help her get out; I only hope I managed to mess up their trap; I only -
Ooomf!
Another smashing blow, this one right to the middle of my face. Stars and bright colors explode everywhere. That couldn't have been a fist. It was too hard.
I'm starting to sink to the ground, but one of these creeps is holding me up and the other is turning my head by the ears, making me look at something.
"See that, Big Brother?" the voice in my ear rings. "Not only did you fail to save your little sister, but we're going to make you watch what the Council of Ones does to her!"
My eyes dart down the length of the diner to where Wisty is being dragged out of her booth by the Bionics and one of the soldiers.
And then, suddenly, the Bionics start-I don't know how to describe it-morphing, I guess. They get bigger and older, as if they've aged from seventeen to thirty-five in the space of a few seconds. It's scary-and gross beyond anything I can tell you in words.
They're burly, cigar-smoking soldiers now. All of them except one Bionic-the drummer, I think-who's still sitting in the booth, looking like he just accidentally ran over a puppy.
"Do it quickly, you idiots!" yells one of the thugs holding me.
I notice three more soldier-commandos in black flak outfits, each leveling big-bore rifles right at my sister.
"No!" I scream. "Leave her alone! Don't shoot her!"
They drop to a knee and pull their triggers almost in unison.
"Wisty!"
And then it's as if time has slowed to a crawl. I watch as the muzzles issue explosions of compressed gas, each propelling a lethal-looking dart at my inhumanly manhandled sister…
Wisty throws one last look at me and I catch it, hold on to it forever. More than anything, I don't want her to die with that desperate look of shame on her face.
I don't want her to die, period.
And then my mind seizes on the hurtling projectiles. Not bullets. Darts. I see the wicked hollow needles on the front of each fluffy-tailed syringe as it bullets toward my sister's torso.
They look big enough to drop a charging rhino, much less sedate a hundred-pound teenager.
If I just push the first dart's tail a little this way… and this dart a little this way… and this one just like this…
Thwok -
Thwok -
And thwok!
The former Bionics and the soldier holding her go wide-eyed as each dart finds its new target… right smack in the middle of each of their necks.
They hit the floor.
Thump.
Thump.
And THUMP.
"Unnh!" gasps my sister.
"What's wrong, Wist?" I yell. "What happened?"
My eyes lock on hers, which have gone wide and also a little vacant. And now her lids are fluttering… and she falls face-first right on top of her unconscious attackers.
There's a syringe sticking out of her back, the plunger pushed down.
The drummer!
He's standing behind her. His face is twisted and crumpled with guilt.
"Attaboy!" shouts the soldier who's been holding me. "Now let's get these two reprobates into the paddy wagon and collect our just rewards."
Chapter 37
Whit
THESE GOONS ARE LIGHTING up their victory cigars. Is consigning us to death basically like finishing a steak dinner? Or winning a sports championship? It sure looks like it.
I'm now pinned on the ground, fighting to get my breath back, when a desperate thought pops into my head. Not counting the three guys on the floor with darts in their necks, there are seven cigar-smoking soldiers. There's the drummer, too, but I'm guessing he's just a regular kid. A horrible Tall Jonathan-esque traitor of a kid, but… a kid.
I look at each smoldering cigar and, one by one, I visualize the rolled brown tobacco inside. Foul stuff. I hate nicotine poison.
Then I imagine seven capsules filled with a toxic compound a teacher told us about in chemistry. It's called trinitrotoluene. You may have heard of it by its more common name, TNT.
In my mind, I carefully place a capsule inside each of their cigars, about an inch or so from the glowing tip. I wait; I count off the seconds; I hope this will work.
And then, in almost perfect precision -
Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam-blam!
Suddenly there's no more combat boot on my neck. I get to my feet and stumble through the acrid smoke to my sister. I pluck the syringe from her back. Then I throw Wisty over my shoulder.
"Proud of yourself?" I ask the drummer.
He looks at me coolly, and I want to punch him. I satisfy the urge by swiping Wisty's drumstick out of his hand. "They'll kill me," he whispers.
I pause. I don't want the guy to be killed, really. But if I have to choose between my sister and an N.O. puppet, there's no question what to do.
"Tell somebody who cares," I say, then race out of the diner.
But I do care. Sometimes it feels rotten, putting on the face of steely, unwavering courage.
Chapter 38
Whit
THERE'S NOTHING like a three-mile run with your kid sister slung over your shoulder to clear your head. I'll never call her "Wispy" again, that's for sure. She's growing up fast. My back, my lungs, my legs… they all ache so much I want to stop and throw up.