Chapter 89
Whit
Great! We're trying to fight a war, our parents are scheduled to be executed, and they're having a "we need to talk" moment. Here's the thing: you never grow up in your parents' eyes.
Wisty pushes me to the side a little. "I'm here. Mom! Dad! Are you okay? We're so worried about you," she says in a burst of words and emotion.
"Don't worry about us," Dad says firmly, avoiding Wisty's question. "We don't have much time, but we wanted to let you know how you're doing."
I'm more confused now than I was even a second ago. "Shouldn't we be telling you how we're doing?"
Mom shakes her head. "You've been so brave-both of you. We're very proud of your strength and spirit. It's been tough going, we know, but you're really getting the hang of the magic. And you're starting to understand how to share it, which is extremely important."
"The thing is," Dad jumps in, "time is starting to run a little bit short. So… we wanted to suggest that you… pick up the pace a bit."
"Dad! Pick up the pace?" Wisty's a little indignant now. Good old Dad, always trying to get us to be the first and the fastest.
"You may have to do some things that don't feel… right to you. Things outside of your comfort zone. Whit knows all about that, right, Whit? 'No pain, no gain.' You'll need to be counterintuitive at times."
Wisty looks troubled, but I can't help hearing Celia's voice in my head. "Do you mean, like… turning ourselves in?" I ask.
Wisty shakes her head and butts in. "But, Mom, we've had so much pain! We've got blood and scars all over ourselves to prove it." Her voice is trembling now. "You're our parents! Don't you want us to be safe?"
"Doing important things isn't always safe, sweetie," Mom says with a pained look. "It's the hardest lesson for a parent to teach, or for some kids to learn. But that's what the Allgoods were born for. You've found your Gifts. Now give them away."
"Give them away?" I exclaim. "What's that mean? To who? The One?"
"That's insane!" Wisty shouts, and I'm instantly reminded of her wild ways back in school.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, but that's about all we can tell you right now," Dad says. "Because it's all we know. We love you and miss you both…"
Our parents' faces begin to fade. And they're both smiling bravely.
"Don't go yet! Mom! Dad!" Wisty is still shouting. "Please don't go!"
Mrs. Highsmith shushes her. "My neighbors cause me trouble enough without them complaining about somebody yelling in my kitchen," she says.
"But we need to talk to them some more," Wisty argues. "We really do."
Mrs. H. is already up and back at her freaking cauldron-thingy.
"The important thing is that your parents are safe for the moment, even if they're in a little trouble, shall we say."
"'A little trouble'? Listen, lady," I tell her, ignoring the fact that it's probably a bad idea to insult a crazy witch, "we risked our lives coming here to get advice. Our parents are on death row. Our friends are trapped in a steam pipe under a war zone. The New Order has nearly completed their total occupation of the Overworld. And we don't have any clues about what The One wants from Wisty or how we're supposed to win against these egomaniacal wackjobs."
She stops stirring her pot and looks at us, rather amused. It's enough to drive me insane when a grown-up does that. And they do it all the time.
"Heavens, children. The clues are all there in front of you. You just have to look harder. And as for what The One wants with your sister, well, it's perfectly obvious what you have, my dear, that he doesn't have."
It's the worst possible moment for a gale-force wind to crash through the apartment windows and virtually demolish the apartment. And us.
The One has found us!
"You told him we were here!" Wisty shouts at the old witch.
Chapter 90
Wisty
I've never felt his power as strongly as I do right now.
After barely escaping flying shards of glass, Whit and I are gripping an old-fashioned radiator, holding ourselves down and out of the way of crashing furniture, cutlery, and appliances as a tornado of fury tears through the apartment.
Mrs. Highsmith, on the other hand, resolutely stands her ground in the middle of the swirling maelstrom. "He's mastered the air!" she shouts through the din. "Study his every move. Learn from this."
It's been hard enough ducking flying toasters and pots with the floor steady under our feet. But now it gets ten times harder as the ground turns into something like gelatin. It's a bona fide earthquake, courtesy of The One. The rattling and crashing and tipping furniture ratchets up the decibel level to deafening, earsplitting. My head is pounding.
"And he's mastered the earth!" Mrs. Highsmith continues, hollering her lesson over the madness. The One seems to oblige by precisely illustrating her next point. "And he's mastered the water!"
Now it's raining-inside the apartment. The room is filling with churning water, quickly making its way up to our quivering knees.
"There's only one thing he needs to completely secure his present and future domination, and to complete himself. His ego is huge. That's his strength and his weakness. Do you follow… MY DRIFT?"
Then Mrs. Highsmith levitates into the air, presumably to avoid having to swim in her own kitchen, but judging from the look of terror-flecked anger on her face, I realize she's not doing it under her own control. In a second, she's pretty much pinned up against the ceiling, her face twisted in profound agony. Then her eyes begin to bulge unnaturally.
She's being crushed to death, isn't she?
"Liar!" she screams inexplicably, and suddenly the room goes still. "Show yourself!"
And then, as if an invisible pair of forceps has reached inside the apartment, she's yanked out of a broken window and into the howling wind outside, screaming, "Show yourself!" the whole way.
Chapter 91
Wisty
We're dead quiet, Whit and I. There is just not much to say after you witness something as strange and horrible as what just happened in Mrs. Highsmith's apartment.
But then Whit is ever practical. "Let's get out of here before The One shows himself. Or sends his soldiers."
Too late. Sort of.
We don't even have a chance to get to the door before I hear an eerie and familiar song drifting in through the broken window. Notes that have forever burned themselves into my memory.
The Command Pipe. The Command Pipe of Byron Swain, to be exact.
I go to the window, ignoring Whit's cry of "Wisty! No! Stay away from there!"
Down on the City of Progress's unblemished sidewalk is a depressingly familiar crowd of feral freaks led by-quelle surprise-Mr. Untrustworthy himself.
But you know what? I also feel a wave of relief-completely out of my control, I might add-that Byron is alive. Go figure.
Whit's standing behind me protectively, then he leaps to the apartment entry to start barricading the door, just in case this ends in, you know, a little reprise of our last encounter with B. and his toothy, drooling friends.
"So, Wisty, I guess you didn't figure it all out yet," Byron says with little emotion. "If you'd done the right thing-if you'd been listening to what we've all been telling you-I might be able to help you right now. But you didn't. So I can't."
A note of anger enters his voice, and he glares at Whit, who's back by my side. "So now I'm afraid I have to do what Celia told me to do."
"What are you talking about, Swain?" yells Whit. "Don't you dare talk about Celia."
"When I chased you into the Shadowland, I met up with your old girlfriend. To be more exact, her people met up with my people." I remember the moment, and I know Whit does, too. "And I regret to inform you, lover boy, she's a Lost One now. She and her new friends were about to consume us-and that means she'd eat you, too."
I don't even need to look at Whit to feel the energy radiating off his body: he wants to launch himself out the window at Byron. "But that's impossible!" he screams.