For just a few minutes, we let ourselves be kids again. A brother and sister racing along the train tracks. Pretending that one of their best friends hadn't just been murdered, that they weren't on the run from half the world.
With a burst of enthusiasm, maybe even fun, we run those last few miles to our destination-a little brick building that appears on the map with an X and the instruction: GO THROUGH SIGNAL HUT.
"You have keys?" I yell to Whit, noting the chain and padlock on the door.
"You have spells?" he calls back.
Oh yeah-that's right. I'm a witch. And Whit's a wizard.
Sometimes it's hard to remember things like that when you're busy running for your life. But I do have spells-and they do seem to occasionally work on chains and padlocks.
And pretty soon we've actually escaped from the fiends of the N.O.
For the moment anyway.
Chapter 7
He is surrounded by a dozen or more famous works of art that he's had confiscated-works by the likes of Pepe Pompano, Pondrian, Cezonne, Feynoir-the best of the best. All banned and forbidden. All his now.
"Bring me The One Who Commands The Hunt," bellows The One. He can't take much more of this incompetence, this stupidity, this repeated almost capturing of Wisteria Allgood and the very, very potent Gift that she possesses.
As if on cue, the hunt commander appears in the doorway, looking-despite his gray hair and middle-aged paunch-like a dim student who has just arrived for a midterm he hasn't studied for.
"You failed to capture Wisteria Allgood. Is that correct? Is that true?"
The commander nervously clears his throat.
"Yes, sir," he agrees. He's heard unsettling stories of citizens who have tried to defend themselves in similar situations with The One.
"And would you say today's spectacle was anything short of a public relations disaster? I honestly want to hear your opinion."
"Well, you did execute the other witch in a most decisive fashion, Your Excellency. The citizenry was uplifted by -"
"She wasn't a witch! She was just a friend of the witch. Actually she was bait for the real witch."
"Well, but… still… she was a valued member of the Resistance, and your destruction of her was magnificent and uplifting to the public in its awe-inspir -"
"The One Who Makes Up The News is going to have her work cut out with tonight's broadcast. Do you have any good ideas about that? How we explain that we executed Wisteria Allgood and then, moments later, we suddenly happened to be chasing another red-haired teenage witch through the city plaza? Be honest. Be forthright. Be quick."
"Umm, well -"
"Silence!" yells The One in a stentorian voice that seems to make the building shake.
The next pause is deadly, truly deadly, and seems to suck all the air out of the room.
Now The One sighs and finally smiles, if you can call it that. "Well, I suppose it could have been worse." His suddenly bright tone entirely belies the anger from just seconds before. "Tell me, Commander, do I recall that all you huntsmen enjoy cigars? I'm sure that's correct. Is it correct?"
"Why, um, yes, thank you," stammers the commander. He briefly wonders how he so suddenly has stumbled into his leader's good graces. He accepts a very fine cigar. And then-a light.
"I've always been fascinated with fire, Commander… Have you?"
But the soldier doesn't have a chance to answer.
The glowing red ember at the tip of his cigar quickly expands. It runs up the entire length, then across the man's face, over the back of his skull, and down his neck. Then the bright red, smoldering line races around and around his torso and arms, down to the tips of his toes-leaving the hunt commander, for the briefest moment, a statue of ash.
Then The One taps his cane lightly on the ground, and the gray powder collapses in a soft plume of smoke.
"You failed to capture Wisteria Allgood, and failure isn't an option in this Brave New World."
Chapter 8
Whit
Would you think that I was completely mad if I told you that what saved us in that signal hut was a portal that sucked me and Wisty through several dimensions and hurled us back into our current hellish reality at a completely different location?
A year ago, I would've checked myself into a psych ward for that, but crazy is the new sane in a society defined by New Order nutjobs. FYI, a portal is one of these elusive spots where the fabric of this world is… soft. But stepping through one can be anything but. It can hurl you into an entirely different place, time, or dimension… or sometimes force you into places you'd rather not be. Violently.
Like, for instance, in this cramped pitch-black space we've landed in. For all I know, we might be locked in The One's shoe closet. The air feels close, stale. My shoulder's on fire and my head is pounding.
"Whit? Are you here?" I hear a whisper. There's a gentle shifting around about a dozen feet away.
"Yeah." I grunt, half dazed by pain. The sweet female voice is warm, soothing.
"You okay?" the voice asks with concern. Celia? I imagine my long-lost girlfriend, kidnapped and killed by the New Order a lifetime ago. Coming closer, leaning over me, about to touch me, heal me, save me…
"Mmmmmm…" I trail off, waiting for Celia's scent, her arms around me.
"You sound… hungover."
Oh. It's Wisty. Of course.
I groan. "It's my shoulder. Got dislocated in the portal, I think."
"Seriously? I slipped right through that one like butter."
I roll my eyes even though she probably can't see them. "Guess it was just the right size for your runty witch butt," I croak out-affectionately, I swear. "So where d'you think we are?"
"How about… a prison? Seems like our favorite crib these days."
I wasn't so sure. "No. This smell-it's not the smell of a prison. It's something… good. Something that reminds me of…"
"Home," we both say in unison.
Wisty releases a small flame from her fingertip to give us some light. I'm impressed at how she's learning to control her hot little temper and putting her talent to good use. In the old days, I used to be the accomplished star around town-MVP varsity football player, plus a top-ranked runner and swimmer-while Wisty was mostly cutting class. Now she's this hotshot witch who can glow, morph, zap, and do other cool stuff. Just not necessarily on command.
In the dim light I see just enough to make out my sister's shape and stacks of cardboard boxes labeled INCINERATE. "Books," Wisty says reverently, paging through a few volumes from unsealed boxes. With my good arm I gingerly poke into a crate and spy titles by all kinds of famous authors, from B. B. White to Roy Royce.
"Looks like a book-burning shipment," I guess. The New Order is in the process of destroying just about every known book in the occupied Overworld written before the takeover.
A stabbing pain rips through my bad shoulder, and I wince. "Speaking of burning… you gonna help me pop my shoulder back in, Wist?"
"That's positively revolting," she says, but makes her way over to me anyway. "You need to learn a spell for that, Brother. You wizard types are supposed to be good at that kind of stuff, right?"
"It's worth a shot, I guess. Just give me a hand with my journal, okay?" Dad gave me this blank book before we were taken away that awful night so many months ago, and I carry it with me everywhere. (Wisty carts around an old drumstick/wand that Mom gave her.) Most of the time my book's blank and I use it to write in-usually sad love poems for Celia. But sometimes it fills with magazines, maps, whole works of literature… or, if we're lucky, spells. I think wizards are supposed to be able to control what comes when, but so far it's basically a crapshoot.
Wisty takes it out of my pack and helps me flip through the pages for any sort of injury-healing spell, and we finally come up with this mouthfuclass="underline" Voron klaktu scapulati.
"Sounds like devilspeak to me!" Wisty quips, impersonating a crotchety old lady talking about rock music. But the most amazing warmth spreads through my shoulder when I say it, and suddenly-just like that-it's back in its socket. I raise my arm without a twinge of pain.