“Whit, what’s going on? Who are these… monsters?”
“Wisty!” he gasped, coherently enough. “You okay?”
“No.” I almost cried, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t, absolutely refused, to let them see me wuss out. Every awful true-crime movie I’d ever seen flashed through my head, and my stomach heaved. I nestled close to my brother, who took my hand in his and squeezed.
Suddenly the floodlights turned off, leaving us blinking and shaking.
“Mom?” Whit shouted. “Dad?” If my brother hadn’t been stone-cold sober already, he sure was now.
I gasped. My parents were standing there, still in their rumpled pajamas, but held from behind like they were dangerous criminals. Sure, we lived on the wrong side of the tracks, but no one in our family had ever been in trouble before.
Not that I knew of anyway.
Chapter 5
Wisty
ONE OF THE MOST TERRIFYING THINGS in the world you can never hope to see is your parents, wide-eyed, helpless, and truly scared out of their wits.
My parents. I thought they could protect us from anything. They were different from other parents… so smart, gentle, accepting, knowing… and I could tell at this moment that they knew something Whit and I didn’t.
They know what is going on. And they’re terrified of it, whatever it is.
“Mom… ?” I asked, staring hard into her eyes, trying to get any message I could, any signal about what I should do now.
As I looked at Mom, I had a flash, a collage of memories. She and Dad saying stuff like “You and Whit are special, honey. Really special. Sometimes people are afraid of those who are different. Being afraid makes them angry and unreasonable.” But all parents thought their kids were special, right? “I mean, you’re really special, Wisty,” Mom had said once, taking my chin in her palm. “Pay attention, dear.”
Then three more figures stepped forward from the shadows. Two of them had guns on their belts. This was really getting out of hand. Guns? Soldiers? In our house? In a free country? In the middle of the night? A school night, even.
“Wisteria Allgood?” As they moved into the light, I saw two men and…
Byron Swain?
Byron was a kid from my high school, a year older than I, a year younger than Whit. As far as I knew, we both hated his guts. Everyone did.
“What are you doing here, Swain?” Whit snarled. “Get out of our house.”
Byron. It was like his parents knew he’d turn out to be a snot, so they’d named him appropriately.
“Make me,” Byron said to Whit, then he gave a smarmy, oily smile, vividly bringing to life all the times I’d seen him in school and thought, What a total butt. He had slicked-back brown hair, perfectly combed, and cold hazel eyes. Like an iguana’s.
So this jerk extraordinaire was flanked by two commandos in dark uniforms, shiny black boots that came above their knees, and metal helmets. The entire world was turning upside down, with me in my ridiculous pink kitty jammies.
“What are you doing here?” I echoed Whit.
“Wisteria Allgood,” Byron monotoned like a bailiff, and pulled out an actual scroll of official-looking paper. “The New Order is taking you into custody until your trial. You are hereby accused of being a witch.”
My jaw dropped. “A witch? Are you nuts?” I shrieked.
Chapter 6
Wisty
THE TWO GOONS IN GRAY marched toward me. Instinctively I held up both my hands. Amazingly the New Order soldiers stopped in their tracks, and I felt a surge of strength—if only for a moment.
“Did we just go back in time?” I squealed. “Last I looked this was the twenty-first century, not the seventeenth!”
I narrowed my eyes. Another glance at that smarmy Byron Swain in his shiny boots spurred me on further. “You can’t just come in here, grabbing us—”
“Whitford Allgood,” Byron Swain rudely interrupted, continuing to read in an official tone from his scroll, “you are hereby accused of being a wizard. You will be held in custody until your trial.”
He smirked tauntingly at Whit, even though under normal circumstances my brother could have picked him up and wrung his neck like a chicken’s. I guess confidence isn’t hard to come by when you have armed soldiers at your beck and call.
“Wisty is right. This is utterly crazy!” my brother snapped. His face was flushed, his blue eyes shining with anger. “There’s no such thing as witches or wizards! Fairy tales are a load of crap. Who do you think you are, you creepy little weasel? A character from Gary Blotter and the Guild of Rejects?”
My parents looked horrified—but not actually surprised. So WTH?
I remembered slightly odd lessons my folks had given us throughout our childhood: about plants and herbs, and the weather—always the weather—and how to concentrate, how to focus. They also taught us a lot about artists we’d never study at school too, like Wiccan Trollack, De Glooming, and Frieda Halo. As I got older, I guess I thought my parents were maybe just being a little hippie-dippy or something. But I never really questioned this stuff. Was it all somehow related to tonight?
Byron looked at Whit calmly. “According to the New Order Code, you may each take one possession from the house. I don’t approve, but that’s the letter of the law, and I will abide by it, of course.”
Under the watchful eye of the gray-garbed soldiers, Mom quickly moved to the bookshelf. She hesitated a moment, glancing at Dad.
He nodded, and then she grabbed an old drumstick that had sat on the shelf for as long as I could remember. Family legend has it that my wild-man grandfather, back in the day, actually leaped onstage at a Groaning Bones concert and took it from the drummer. Mom held it out to me.
“Please,” she said with a sniffle, “just take it, Wisteria. Take the drumstick. I love you so much, sweetheart.”
Then my father reached for an unlabeled book I’d never seen before—a journal or something—on the shelf next to his reading chair. He thrust it into Whit’s hands. “I love you, Whit,” he said.
A drumstick and an old book? How about a drum to go with that stick? Couldn’t they give us a family heirloom or something vaguely personal to cheer us up? Or maybe Whit’s mammoth stash of nonperishable junk food for a handy-dandy sugar rush?
Not one part of this waking nightmare made any sense.
Byron snatched the tattered old book from Whit and flipped through it.
“It’s blank,” he said, surprised.
“Yeah, like your social calendar,” said Whit. The guy can be funny, I admit, but his timing sometimes leaves something to be desired.
Byron slammed the book against Whit’s face, snapping his head sideways as if it were on a swivel.
Whit’s eyes bulged and he sprang toward Byron, only to have the soldiers body-block him.
Byron stood behind the bigger men, smiling wickedly. “Take them to the van,” Byron said, and the soldiers grabbed me again.
“No! Mom! Dad! Help!” I shrieked and tried to pull away, but it was like wriggling in a steel trap. Rock-hard arms dragged me toward the door. I managed to twist my neck around for one last look back at my parents, searing my memory with the horror on their faces, the tears in their eyes.
And right then I felt this whooshing sensation, as if a stiff, hot wind were blowing up against me. In an instant, blood rushed to my head, my cheeks flooded with heat, and sweat seemed to leap from my skin and sizzle. There was a buzzing all around me, and then…
You won’t believe me, but it’s true. I swear.
I saw—and felt—foot-long flames burst out of every pore in my body.
Chapter 7
Wisty
I HEARD SCARED-SILLY SCREAMS everywhere, even from the commandos, as I stood gaping at the orange-yellow tongues of flame shooting off me.
If you think that’s weird, listen to this: after that first moment, I didn’t feel the least bit hot. And when I looked at my hands, they were still skin-colored, not red or blackened.
It was… far-out, actually.
Suddenly one of the soldiers swung Mom’s porcelain vase at me. I was drenched—and the flames were gone.
Byron Swain’s cronies were stamping out the drapes and some smoldering spots on the carpet where the soldiers had dropped me.
But then Byron himself—who’d apparently fled the house during my immolation—reappeared in the doorway, his face faintly green. He pointed a spindly, shaking finger at me. “See?! See?! See?!” he shouted hoarsely. “Lock her up! Shoot her if you have to. Whatever it takes!”
I was suddenly overcome by this horrible, stomach-twisting feeling that this night had been inevitable—that it was always meant to be part of my life story.
But I had no idea why I thought that, or what it meant exactly.
Chapter 8
Whit
I HADN’T HALLUCINATED before, but when I saw Wisty burst into flame, that’s what I suspected it was—a stress-induced hallucination.
I mean, I expect even well-rested, grounded, grief-free people wouldn’t just go, Oh, look at that, my little sister just turned herself into a human torch. Am I right?
But pretty soon—what with the heat and the smoke and our living room drapes catching on fire—it started to dawn on me that this was really happening.
Then I thought the New Order thugs had set her on fire. So I guess that’s how I manage to muster enough rage to break free of their grasp. And I swear I would’ve decked the creeps if I hadn’t had to scramble madly to help put her out first.
Then utter chaos broke loose in our house.
I’ve never been in a tornado before, but that’s immediately what I thought was happening. The windows suddenly exploded, and the wind poured in with the force of an angry mountain river, hurling things—broken glass, floor lamps, side tables—around the living room.
I couldn’t hear anything over the noise, and it was raining so hard that the water itself—to say nothing of the debris it was carrying—stung like a cloud of bees getting shot through a leaf blower.
And of course I couldn’t see anything either. To open your eyes would have been asking to be permanently blinded by wood splinters, glass shards, and plaster chunks.
So my breaking free from the thugs didn’t do me a bit of good. We were all clinging to the floor, to the walls, to anything that seemed more solid than ourselves, just trying not to get sucked out a window and flung to our deaths.
I tried yelling for Wisty, but I couldn’t even hear my own voice.
And then—in an instant—everything was still and quiet.
I moved my face out of the crook of my arm… and took in a sight I won’t forget for the rest of my life.
A tall, bald, extremely imposing man was standing there in the middle of our demolished living room. Not scary, you think? Think again.
This is the dude who turns out to be evil personified.
“Hello, Allgood family,” he said in a quiet, forceful tone that made me pay very close attention to every word. “I am The One Who Is The One. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
My father spoke up. “We know who you are. We’re not afraid of you, though, and we won’t bend to your ugly rules.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to bend to any rules, Benjamin. Or you, Eliza,” he said to my mother. “Aspiring deviants like you always value freedom above all else. But it doesn’t matter whether you accept this new reality or not. It’s the youngins I’m here to see. This is a command performance, you understand. I command, they obey.”
Now the bald dude looked at my little sister and me, and he smiled quite congenially, even warmly.
“I will make this simple for the two of you. All you have to do is renounce your former existence—your freedoms, your way of life, and your parents in particular—and you will be spared. You will not be harmed if you obey the rules. Not a hair on your heads will be touched. I promise. Renounce your former ways and your parents. That’s all. Simple as apple pie.”
“No way!” I yelled at the guy.
“Not going to happen. Ever,” Wisty said. “We renounce you, Your Baldness, Your Terribleness!”
He actually chuckled at that, which totally caught me off guard.
“Whitford Allgood,” The One said, and looked deeply into my eyes. Something strange happened then—I couldn’t move or speak, only listen. It was the scariest thing yet that night.
“You’re a beautiful boy, I must say, Whitford. Tall and blond, slender yet well-muscled, perfectly proportioned. You have your mother’s eyes. I know that you were a very good boy until recently, ever since the sad and unfortunate disappearance of your girlfriend and soul mate, Celia.”
Frustrated rage boiled up inside me. What did he know about Celia? He’d smirked when he spoke of her disappearance. He knew something. He was taunting me.
“The question is,” he went on, “can you be good again? Can you learn to obey the rules?”
He threw up his hands. “Don’t know?!” he exclaimed even as my paralyzed mouth prevented me from screaming the string of choice obscenities I was trying to fling at him. Then he turned to Wisty. “Wisteria Allgood, I know all about you too. Disobedient, recalcitrant, a truant, over two weeks of detention due to be served at your high school. The question is, can you ever be good? Can you possibly learn to obey?”
He stared at Wisty, silent, waiting.
And in true Wisty fashion, she did the most adorable little curtsy, then proclaimed, “Of course, sir, your every waking wish is my command.”
Wisty stopped her sarcastic speech rather suddenly, and I realized that he’d paralyzed her too. Then The One Who Is The One turned to his guards. “Take them away! They shall never see their parents again. Nor shall you, Ben and Eliza, see your very special offspring until the day you all die.”
Chapter 9
Whit
WISTY AND I WERE in a big black van that had no windows. My heart was thumping like an epileptic rabbit’s, and my vision was nearly whited-out with adrenaline. It took every shred of sanity I had left not to throw myself at the van walls. I pictured myself smashing my head against the metal, kicking open the back doors, helping Wisty out, and escaping into the night…
Only none of that happened.
As far as I knew, I was not a wizard, and not a superhero either. I was just a high school kid who’d been ripped out of his home.
I looked over at poor Wisty, but I was barely able to make out her profile in the dark. Her wet hair dripped onto my arm, and I realized she was shivering badly. Maybe with cold, maybe with shock, maybe with cold and shock and total freaking disbelief.
I put my arms around her bony shoulders, awkwardly because I was now handcuffed. I had to slip her head between my arms. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that, except maybe to pin her down because she’d gotten into my stuff, or when I’d caught her spying on me and… Celia.
I couldn’t think about her right now or I might completely lose it.
“You okay?” I said. Wisty appeared to be totally uncharred—no roasting-hot-dog smell or anything.
“Of course I’m not okay,” she said, leaving the usual “you idiot” off the end of her sentence. “They must have dumped something flammable on me. I’m not burned, though.”
“I didn’t see them spray anything on you,” I said. “It was like, boom—flamesicle!” I mustered a weak smile. “’Course, I always knew your hair was dangerous.” Wisty is a real carrottop—with thick, wavy bright-red hair that she hates but that I think is kind of cool.
Wisty was too freaked to take the bait about her hair—at first. “Whit, what’s going on? What does schmucky-beyond-schmucky Byron Swain have to do with it? What’s happening to us? And to Mom and Dad?”
“It’s got to be some kind of terrible mistake. Mom and Dad never hurt a fly.” I remembered my parents then, held fast and helpless, and I had to swallow my rage.
Just then, the van came to a lurching halt. I tensed, staring hard at the doors, primed to barre
l somebody down. Even in handcuffs. Even if it was a giant, steroid-enhanced soldier.
I wasn’t going to let them hurt my sister. I wasn’t going to be a goody-goody and obey their stupid rules.
Chapter 10
Whit
IT WAS LIKE WE’D WOKEN UP, and suddenly we were living in a totalitarian state.
The first thing I saw looming over me were dozens of flapping flags and the big black block letters N.O.
NO. It seemed totally appropriate, even a touch poetic. NO.
Wisty and I were outside a huge, windowless building, surrounded by a chain-link, concertina-wire-topped fence. Giant letters that read NEW ORDER REFORMATORY were engraved in a stone rising high above the steel entryway.
Then the doors creaked open, and I realized that barreling our way to safety probably wasn’t going to work out so great. Ten more guards—these in black uniforms—came out the front, joined the two drivers, and formed a semi-circle around the rear of the van.
“Okay, now watch ’em closely,” I heard one say. “You know, they’re—”
“Yeah, we know,” said another cranky voice, one of the drivers. “I got the burns to prove it.”
I didn’t even bother struggling as those brainless storm troopers hauled us forward, then dragged us through the tall barbed-wire gate.
I’m pretty big—six feet one, 190 pounds—but these guys acted like I was a sack of popcorn. Wisty and I tried to stay on our feet, but they kept yanking us off balance.
“We can walk!” Wisty yelled. “We’re still conscious!”
“We can change all that,” said one of the thug guards.
I tried, “Listen, listen, you’ve got the wrong—”
The guard next to me raised his billy club, and I shut up midsquawk. They pushed us up the concrete steps, through the heavy steel doors, and into a brightly lit foyer. It looked like a prison, with a burly guard behind a thick glass window, a locked gate, and another guard with a billy club at the ready.