Chapter 65
Wisty
I pause and look at the falling snow, beautiful in kind of a fake way, and remember that time when nothing scared me. And now I'm not scared anymore of what's going to happen. I'm at peace.
"First of all, let it be known to the world-and to the Curves and Half-lights and Lost Ones and even the New Order zombies-that I'm a witch and proud of it.
"All of my powers, whatever they are, I hereby bequeath to my dearly beloved brother, Whitford P. Allgood, for as long as he gets to live. No one else. Period. I'd rather have a Lost One dismember me limb by limb than to have my powers extracted for the New Order."
"Aw, shucks, Sis," Whit says with mock modesty.
"I leave my drumstick, should it ever be found, to my mother. If no Allgoods survive me"-I shiver a little-"I leave it to Mrs. Highsmith. Rock on, very cool lady. Next, I leave my wig to Janine. You don't have a clue how beautiful you are, girl. I used to kind of gag on your crush on Whit -"
"Do I really need to write that?" Whit breaks in.
"Every word."
"Then slow down."
"Okay. So, Janine. After the part about gagging, write: Now I dream of you two getting married and having lots of little rebel babies together." Whit rolls his eyes. "Further, I leave my electric guitar to -"
"Wait a minute. You don't have an elec -"
"Shut up. Let me dream for a minute, okay?"
Whit nods.
"I leave my electric guitar to Sasha. I forgive you for lying to me 'cause now I really do understand why you did it. There's nothing more important than fighting these arrogant and obnoxious N.O. fiends. I'm sorry if I let you down in the end."
I'm feeling the melted snow seeping through my saturated sneakers now. Black toes, here I come. I curl them tightly back, as far away from the wet chill as possible.
"And Emmet. Man, I miss you already. You make everything better just by smiling. I wish I could leave you everything you deserve. A new world. Or, rather, the old world back. Instead… I leave you… my hair."
Whit starts to protest again, since I have no hair, but I give him another "shut up and keep writing" look.
"I hope you didn't trash it after the hack job. Apparently they're treating it like the Holy Grail now. It's the only part of me that'll be left after they vaporize me. Maybe if the world ever gets normal again, you can auction it off on uBay."
"To some rabid Wisty fan who'll pay a million beans for it," Whit suggests.
"As if -," I start.
"I know just the person who would," Whit says, and then the person Whit's thinking of shows his sorry, sad face in our sad, sorry space.
For all of his faults, Byron has absolutely flawless timing.
Chapter 66
Whit
"I REQUESTED THE HONOR of bringing your last meal to you, Wisty," Byron says quietly to my sister, seeming genuinely humble.
He glances at me apologetically for once before mumbling, "You, too, Whit."
He crunches through the snow toward us, rolling a wheeled cart that makes a very irritating squeaking noise.
"More chocolates for Wisty?" I say sarcastically. "They nearly killed her the last time. Maybe the third time's a charm?"
"Could you skip the meal and bring me an extra-extra-large ski parka and snow boots instead?" Wisty sniffs and wipes her running nose on her white jumper.
Instead of answering, Byron lifts the hotel-style metal cover from the tray, presenting it awkwardly, as if we should be more interested in eating the lid than what's underneath it.
Wisty seems to be reading Byron's mind and squints at the underside of the lid, but my attention is drawn to the pathetic scraps on the plates. "Boiled potatoes and vitamin bars?" I mutter. "That's not a last meal. That's all they ever serve in this place."
Wisty and Byron's eyes are locked, and she's staring at him with a deeply disgusted look on her face. And I don't think it's about potatoes.
"Well, then," he responds. "Maybe we can… spruce this meal up a little together." Byron is shooting me one of these "Don't you get it?" looks.
Wisty gently nudges me and nods at the lid Byron is still holding up. Attached to the underside is a note: WISTY, I LOVE YOU. I WON'T LET YOU DIE. I THINK I CAN HELP YOU. I PROMISE. NEED TO GET AWAY FROM ERSA FIRST. HOPE I CAN DO IT.
"Here, I tell you what…," Byron says, rolling the cart toward a faraway dark corner of our vast prison. "Let me bring this over here for your… convenience."
I hope ERSA is stupider than we thought, since there is absolutely nothing convenient about eating in one of the darkest corners of the basement.
I take Wisty's hand and drag her off the boards, knowing she'll need some coaxing to be in the dark with Byron after his declaration of love. I figure this is our last chance. We're desperate enough to take help even from Byron the Weasel with the Lovesick Heart.
Once we're in our "dining room"-a tiny nook under the stairs-Wisty doesn't hesitate to grab a boiled potato and cram it into her mouth. "Garcon?" She pretends to be flagging a waiter. "Can you bring some bacon, cheese, and sour cream over here to go with my potato? Tout de suite!"
"Wisty," he whispers urgently, but so quietly I'm convinced not even a bug planted right on his person could pick it up. Dang, he's good. No wonder the guy's practically a professional double agent. "I didn't mean to alarm you with my note, but you had to know the truth, so you'd believe me when I tell you I can help. Probably."
I don't need to have night-vision goggles to sense the daggers flying from Wisty's eyes. "Pardon me if I'm asking the obvious, B., but whose side are you on anyway? It's, like, the last burning question I have before I die."
"Okay, listen. I've figured out something incredible," he goes on. "I believe that the times you've used your powers on me… have changed me."
"No kidding, Swain," I hiss. "Get to the point, or get the H out of here."
"Your magic… I think… it can sort of… rub off. I think I have some small degree of your power now that can rejoin with yours… and become… like, greater than the sum."
Wisty pauses, trying to absorb this latest bizarre info dump. I expect her to drop a bomb, but she's actually listening. "Like… maybe I've… given you a kind of… electrical charge?" I can't believe she's starting to regurgitate Onespeak.
"Maybe. I don't quite know. Here, let me show you. Quick. I need both of you to take a hand-we need to be touching."
"If this is just a ploy to hold my hand, B., you're dead," Wisty says.
"Concentrate on the food," Byron orders. "Dream of what you want. Wisty, say something."
"Um…" She whispers something under her breath, and I have a pretty good idea of what it might be.
I still can't see anything, but in a matter of seconds, I smell something unmistakable. Cheeseburgers, onion rings, and-I think-black-and-white milk shakes. It's strong enough to make my knees feel weak.
"How'd you do that?" I ask Byron.
"Remember the prophecies?" he says. "Have you ever wondered how an army of kids might possibly prevail against the New Order's army of soldiers-with their guns, their tanks, planes, and ships? What I've started to understand at this place is that, unlike New Order soldiers, we're overflowing with ideas and creativity and potential."
Once again Wisty surprises me with how she seems to get where Byron is going. As much as she hates the guy, they do seem to have some weird connection. I felt it when they were onstage making music together. I'd never tell her that, though.
"The One Who Is The One is scared to death of us and our potential. Our energy. That's what all the schools and prisons for kids are about." Byron's voice picks up volume with excitement, and he has to quiet himself down. "He wants to figure out how to steal it, which is what this place is for. Failing that, he wants to remove the threat."
"How can you steal somebody's potential?" I wonder aloud, not expecting an answer.