I'm glowing. I'm getting hotter and hotter. I'm a firebrand. Maybe, just maybe, my M is rising? "I can do this. Mom and Dad, I'm coming to get you… don't worry!"
"No! Turn back!" Mom moans. "Get away! I'm warning you, Wisty! You, too, Whit!"
I start tearing down the corridor, and Whit is just a half step behind me. I knew he'd fight! The creature turns to face us and starts bounding toward me. I see bloody, clumped, rotting fur swinging under its jawbone. Then I blast through a virtual wall of its foul, stinking breath.
As I take a flying leap toward the creature, all I'm thinking of is a tigress tackling a rabid jackal in the wilderness, concentrating on the sensation of claws pushing through my fingers, sharp enough to rip this horrid beast apart.
Please, please, let my magic work -
And then I'm engulfed in fur, bone, and teeth.
Chapter 63
Wisty
THE SECOND THAT WHIT lands on top of me, we body slam the floor and the room goes dark. Everything is gone. The creature, Mom and Dad, the eerie blue light-all of it. And then… all is explained.
"Well, well, well." We hear a voice behind us. And it's not Byron's. "Once again, you have ruined everything, Whitford Allgood."
Whit and I are still recovering from the impact and seeing stars, but that dimly backlit caned figure, combined with that frighteningly familiar voice, equals bad news, the worst news possible.
It's The One, of course, standing there in his dark business suit, long arms folded, right in front of me and Whit. Byron the Traitor Weasel is nowhere to be seen.
"Wondering what I'm doing here? Taking time away from my frighteningly full schedule?" he goes on. "Well, I'm afraid I received a call from the school headmaster. Seems you've not been the model students we'd hoped you'd be. Just when you, Wisty, had a chance of making a breakthrough, your overzealous brother crushed it. I mean that quite literally. I was this close to securing Wisteria's Gift."
Whit's still holding me, but I manage to struggle up, squinting, dazed, the horrid vision of our parents lingering with me.
"Breakthrough?" I choke out. "Are you telling me that whole horror show was just another test?"
"I'm not telling you anything, Wisty. At this point, I've lost my patience with you."
"Wha -?" So maybe my parents aren't actually near-starved war refugees guarded by a Lost Thing? This is good! My heartbeat is settling.
"What do you want from me?" I demand. "I aced your test in the Dynasium and then got so sick that I almost vomited up my toenails. That's about as good as it gets. I'm no A student."
"How wrong you are, my Wistful. I should have known you would have ignored what I taught you about the true potential of your power. We had higher hopes for you, but you've proven yourself to be just another teenager who disrespects the guidance of her elders. So terribly sad." He sighs. "I daresay you deserve some punishment for wasting so much of society's time and resources. But where do I start? So many ways to punish, and so little time." He chuckles. "Perhaps we'll begin by vaporizing your friend."
My stomach drops. I immediately think of Janine. Or maybe he means Emmet…
"Mr. Swain!" The One announces.
"What?" Whit blurts out.
"I will now disintegrate your good friend Byron."
I'm so twisted with all of the horror, anxiety, and relief of the past few minutes that I can't help bursting out with a laugh. It's a nervous titter, but a laugh nonetheless. Inappropriate, yes. And maybe even a little insane.
His Coldness drops his arms in utter surprise and looks at me with undisguised hatred. "What is so funny?" he bellows. "Your humor misses me completely."
Whit's laughing now, too. "Go ahead," he says. "Weasels are immune to vaporization anyhow." As if demonstrating that he is the first to succumb to isolation psychosis, Whit starts pantomiming a jumping weasel, dodging vaporization rays. So I keep laughing. I mean, it looks really ridiculous.
The One Who Is The One stares at us, dumbstruck. "Fine," he says quietly, and turns to me. "In that case, it will be you!"
I stop laughing. So does Whit.
"I'll admit I'm rather pleased by the results of my experiments with your parents so far. I've been getting stronger and stronger… and they, well… you've seen the fantastic results." He gestures toward the scene of our latest mindfreak. "Even if it was a holographic projection. My latest dynacompetent mastery, by the way." He breaks out in a self-congratulatory smile, which I return with a glare. "At this rate, I may not even need you, Allgood children. So I present you, Wisteria, with a deadline: twelve hours. Exactly twelve hours to manifest The Gift in a manner in which I may… partake of it. If you don't, it will be you and your brother that I execute."
And then, with a wave and an incantation, he chills the whole basement with a heavy snowfall-from the ceiling. The temperature plummets at least fifty degrees.
"That should help you concentrate," he says. "I feel that the cold works wonders on most students." And he swirls out of the room.
Chapter 64
Wisty
AND THE SNOW JUST keeps falling.
My new definition of eviclass="underline" anyone who makes me hate something that I love. Such as: I think I might hate chocolate now. That's criminal. It's the BNW Center's fault. I think I hate Celia for driving Whit half mad. Definitely the N.O.'s fault. Now The One has made me hate snow. Which I used to adore.
I remember how, every snowfall, Whit and I would be outside finding a way to go sledding, no matter how old we were. The only thing that changed was how daring we'd get, even going down hills that had a "frozen" (we hoped) pond at the bottom. In recent years he'd even drag Celia along, and I must admit, I loved watching the two of them together. They were so happy being with each other.
Those were the days. Days where nothing scared us.
Now snow will only symbolize these harrowing last moments leading up to my death.
I've found a few wooden boards, which I've stacked up so I can sit on them, to delay the frostbite on my butt cheeks from huddling on the floor. At this point we are already in about three inches deep. My forever-heroic brother keeps exploring the basement, looking for a way out-or for a new portal. Meanwhile I've been trying to recite every poem, song lyric, or nursery rhyme I've ever committed to memory. I know these schools have some sort of "magic-dampening" properties, but it seems as if we've almost always found a way to use our powers, at least a little, if we tried hard enough.
It's the cold. I know it. I freaking hate the cold. And now it's literally going to be the death of me.
"Okay, Whit, get out your journal!" I call to him. "I'm going to dictate my Last Will and Testament."
"I'm listening." Whit's muffled voice drifts over from a corner of the basement, where he's rapping on the wall like a detective, only one who doesn't really know what he's doing.
"Write it down! I'm serious."
"Wisty, I hate to remind you, but… we ain't got nuthin' to be willing to folks," Whit drawls, coming toward me with some discovery in hand. "Or folks to be willing 'em to."
"Don't be dark. That's my job. And may I remind you that somewhere in the world are two halves of my drumstick. I would will them to you, but you're gonna die, too, so I need a realistic backup plan."
Whit arrives with a piece of canvas just large enough to wrap a corpse in. "Found this," he says, throwing it around me. "It's not much, but -"
"If it'll delay hypothermia for even five minutes, I'll take it. Thanks," I say, holding out a corner so he can slip in next to me. "So, you ready to write?"
Whit looks at me with a surprisingly even gaze, no trace of Celia madness in his eyes, thank God. I need his sanity now. "Sure thing, Wisty."
He pulls out his journal and a pen, and I clear my throat dramatically. "I, Wisteria Rose Allgood, hereby declare my Last Will and Testament."