The kid smiles. “It’s for cutting kindling. I wasn’t going to slice and dice you.” Her fingers dance tauntingly over the handle of the weapon. “It’s the Holiday, after all.”
Chapter 12
Whit
I SET OUT this morning looking like Brandon Michael Hatfield again, still elated with the miracle of Wisty’s recovery and confident I could coax the rich, wasteful citizens of the New Order capital to throw me at least enough change to show the Needermans my appreciation. But after three hours on a busy corner in the business district with only a meager handful of beans to show for it, I’m losing faith.
It dawns on me that I haven’t really seen much traffic in a while. This morning, herds of businessmen filed by (never mind that their vacant eyes looked right through me), but now, around lunchtime, when my little corner should be jumpin’, there’s hardly anyone.
Glancing around, I notice that, save for the bored-looking lunch-cart man, I am actually the only person on this block. A newspaper blows across the street like tumbleweed. There might as well be crickets, the road is so quiet.
I stand up, uneasy. This is the middle of the most frenzied, commercial place in the entire capital. Was I so swept up in self-pity I didn’t notice things getting seriously weird around here?
Then I hear a laugh down the block, and out of the corner of my eye I notice two smartly dressed, cheery men slipping onto a side street. Curiosity piqued, I amble after them, leaving my cardboard sign in the dust.
Rounding the corner of the alley, I’m totally unprepared for what I find.
The smell hits me first.
That smell. The nauseating stench of burning flesh and singed hair hangs in the air with the plume of black smoke.
I cough, eyes watering. It’s almost unbearable.
At first I don’t understand where it’s coming from. All I see is a large group of New Order citizens, mostly businesspeople, impeccably dressed in sharp suits and mile-high heels, shouting gleefully, apparently enjoying some sort of rally during their lunch break.
Then I see it — her — the thing they’re all standing around. In the center, tied to a post, is what looks like a large piece of meat, still smoking. The blackened, pulpy form at the stake doesn’t register at first. My mind can’t make the connection between a living, breathing human being and that.
And then I see a tuft of hair clinging to the charred scalp, and my head starts spinning.
Not a rally — a witch burning.
My throat goes dry, and I feel paralyzed with horror. I’d heard the rumors, but I’d never imagined there could be people like this. I mean, the men and women who make up the group before me — the mob — just look so normal. Followers of the N.O., yes. Richer than most, certainly. But still they look like people you see every single day in the capital, people with families and jobs. People with some speck of compassion, surely.
Until you see the emptiness in their eyes.
Who knows who this doomed woman was, or if she even possessed any magic at all? The New Order, with its bold red banners blanketing the Overworld, feeds on bloodlust.
These are its children.
Reality finally comes into sharp focus, and my heart races. I stumble forward, frothing with fury and purpose. “Stop!” I shriek, which feels incredibly insufficient. But what else is there to say?
I’m too late, of course.
Then an icy, deep-down fear wraps tightly around my heart and wrings out my breath. The screams I hear now don’t belong to the woman; they’re the sickening war cries of a mob gone mad. Because they’re turning. The frenzied group is turning from the crisp remains of the poor soul strapped to the pillar.
And they’re turning on me.
Chapter 13
Whit
TIME STOPS, AND every muscle in my body tenses as hundreds zero in on me like bloodthirsty piranhas, ready to pick me clean to the bone.
“Aren’t you … Brandon Michael Hatfield?” a woman asks, awe creeping into her voice.
I let out a long breath, nodding. I’d forgotten about the spell.
My relief lasts only a second, though, since the next thing I hear is a whistle. Out of the corner of my eye I see a van pull up, but just as I register what the words painted on the side — N.O. SANITATION SQUAD — actually mean (sanitation as in wiped out … as in one of The One’s infamous Death Squads), a billy club smashes into my right temple.
My vision returns just in time to see a steel-toed boot connect with my abdomen, knocking the wind out of me and making me feel like I could puke up a kidney.
Or all of my large and small intestines.
The crowd pulses and sways in front of me as a man with a greasy black mustache and thin little lips, seemingly the leader, yanks my hair back, his cold eyes inches from my face.
“By order of The One,” he spits, reading from an official-looking paper, “all scum shall hereby be cleaned from these Orderly streets, including practitioners of the forbidden dark or expressive arts, those individuals formerly known as celebrities, and all others posing a threat to the integrity of the New Order.” He scowls, taking in my mask of Brandon Michael Hatfield’s chiseled features — apparently almost as offensive as my real identity. “And that includes you, scum.”
I manage to cough up enough phlegm to douse him with a good spray in return, which I’ll probably regret in about five seconds.
The other Death Squaddies move in, and now the real party begins.
One yanks my arms behind my back while two more take turns kneading my face into pizza dough, blood pouring from my nose like marinara. Things are happening too fast for me to register the pain of each injury, but as I’m wrenched to the side I definitely feel my bad shoulder dislocate from its socket, the bright pain shooting through me like an ax.
I could attempt to hurl a spell at them to hold them off, but something tells me that life will be much, much worse if they know who I really am. I try to focus on something else besides the fists raining down on me, but the only other thing I can see is the murderous mob just beyond the soldiers’ circle.
A woman in a mink stole and garish lipstick shouts at them to “finish him off!” and the image of the witch’s smoking corpse flashes in my memory.
I’m not ready to be “finished off” quite yet. Even with Celia waiting for me in the Shadowland.
Celia. The thought of her is like another kick to the gut, but imagining her sweet smile and her warmth — and remembering exactly who took her from me — is enough for some vengeful spells to come to mind.
There’s no choice now but to rely on the magic, which is pretty, well, stressful, considering point-and-click hasn’t exactly been working for me lately.
Celes, I might be seeing you sooner than I thought.
Chapter 14
Whit
I’M NOT MUCH more than a bloody pulp on the ground at this point, but I hurl every ounce of magic I’ve got left in me at these brutes. I’m mumbling through chants and curses and poems, forcing out everything negative I can muster.
And it’s kind of … terrifying.
I feel this dark energy building within me, growing into a power that needs to get out and find a target. I finish with a poem that always seemed particularly gruesome:
No more a flashing eye — no more a sonorous voice or springy step;
Now some slave’s eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard’s breath, unwholesome eater’s face, venerealee’s flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination …
Before I can finish Wallace Shipton’s words, the New Order thugs double over, spewing their lunches across their shiny black boots, and blood dribbles out of the citizens’ lips, staining their fine clothes.
“The Blood Plague!” I slur through swollen lips. “They’re all contaminated!”
When this registers, the citizens and squaddies, equally panicked, quickly and bruta
lly turn on one another. I limp away from the chaos just as the beatings start, soldiers and businesspeople scrabbling like dogs, all trying to go for the jugular.
I pause for a second on the corner, listening to the cries coming from the alley. Guilt at having created even more violence eats at me; this isn’t the sort of work the Prophecies intended, I’m sure of it. I hesitate and consider going back to heal them all.
Then I think of that pitiful, blackened form strapped to the stake, and my heart hardens with a bitter new understanding of the world we’re living in. Let them destroy one another.
I allow my disguise to fall away as I walk. But somehow I still don’t feel like myself.
Chapter 15
Wisty
THERE’S NO POWER, and outside the soldiers of the New Order occupation continue to brutalize the citizenry. But inside the Needermans’ candlelit basement hovel, the spirit of the Holiday season warms us right down to our souls — and it’s been a very long time since Whit and I felt anything resembling spiritual warmth.
Mama May flashes her biggest smile at all of us and bangs on a bucket to signal that the meal is ready. An excited murmur goes through the room.
“Come on, come on! Everybody gather round,” Mama May booms excitedly. “We’ve got a very special Feast Day celebration tonight. Something we haven’t had in almost a month: meat.”
A cheer erupts from the group, and the starving Neederman family members settle into a circle on the floor, looking up expectantly.
Mama May reveals two poorly plucked pigeons, skinny as sparrows. They look like another family has already picked them over. I stare at Whit pointedly.
“It looks delicious, Mama,” Pearl says with authority, and everyone murmurs in polite agreement.
Mama May kisses the top of Pearl’s head and starts hacking into the birds, and I know I should be grateful and I know I should honor their tradition, but I see the sadness in all of these big, silver eyes and the hunger in these thin, strained faces, and I just …
Can’t. Take it.
I start to say something, but Whit puts a hand on my arm and shakes his head. He’s been weird and moody since he came back from begging. He was limping and bleeding but wouldn’t say why. In fact, he’s barely said a word to anyone all night. I’m about to tell him that he’s seriously cramping the Holiday vibe, but then … he does something wonderful.
With a flick of my brother’s wrist, we’ve got thick rolls drenched in butter and mashed potatoes full of sour cream. An oversize turkey dominates the middle of the circle, and creamed corn edges up on green beans.
And the pie. Apple, pumpkin, pecan. I could eat pie for the rest of my life.
The kids are all talking at once, and the adults are looking too dumbstruck to really believe it. I beam at Whit excitedly, but he’s not smiling. Instead he’s watching Pearl, who’s still slicing at the tough pigeon meat on her plate, her mouth twisted into that tight little knot I keep spotting on her face.
No one moves to touch anything before Mama May’s say-so, and I can tell Whit’s as nervous as I am.
But Mama’s round face glows, candlelight dancing in her eyes, and her broad grin puts me at ease. “I can’t tell you how much this means to our family. We’ve lost so much —” She looks around at each hollow-cheeked kid and takes a deep breath. “I just want you all to know that this really is the best Feast Day we’ve ever had.”
I think of past Holidays with food I never really tasted, presents I can’t even remember. Cutting out of family time early to do one thing or another. I squeeze my brother’s hand.
“It’s the best for us, too,” I whisper.
Chapter 16
Wisty
AFTER DINNER, WHIT keeps pushing for us to just take off, leaving the Needermans behind.
I gawk at him. “Now? You’re not serious. It’s the Feast Day!”
He chews his lip. “Wist, you haven’t been outside in a while — you don’t know how it is. Things are getting more dangerous.” There’s something different in his voice that I can’t place. He looks away from me, but he’s already gathering our things.
“Well, then there’ll be more N.O. guards around now than ever, won’t there?” I point out. “Besides, I’m barely over the plague.” I try to look frail. Using my near-death experience is a little manipulative, but it’s true nonetheless.
Can’t we just enjoy this semblance of happy tradition a tiny bit longer? my eyes plead.
Whit huffs and stalks away, but I know I’ve at least bought us some time.
Still, later, as the Needermans exchange their Holiday gifts, I almost wish we had left and avoided intruding on their intimate family moment. Whit and I try to give them space, cleaning up the dishes on the sidelines, but it’s hard not to stare at their thoughtful handmade presents — metal trinkets they unearthed while scavenging; rocks polished smooth; drumsticks whittled from scrap wood by hand. … My heart clenches at the unexpected reminder of the gift my mom once gave me.
Just then Pearl Marie runs up to us, a ball of excitement. She’s holding out a garbage bag tied with string for each of us. I take mine, raising an eyebrow at Whit.
“What are you waiting for? The fall of the New Order? Open it already!” Pearl squeals.
At the bottom of each giant garbage bag is a single strand of silver tinsel. I’m not quite sure what to do with it, but Pearl’s eyes shimmer expectantly, and Whit’s face lights up. I haven’t seen him smile this wide since … well, since before we were first kidnapped.
“Thanks, kid. This really means a lot.” From the way Whit’s acting, it’s clear how precious this scraggly stuff is to her and how tough it must’ve been to give it up.
“Yeah, well, I figured you might need a little sparkle for that ugly mug,” Pearl says, straight-faced.
“Come here, smart stuff!” Whit yells, scooping her up and tossing her in the air. Pearl shrieks her high hyena laugh, and it’s almost like we’re a family.
Family. Suddenly I miss my parents so much I can almost feel them in the room with me. We were together not so long ago, but it already seems like forever since I’ve heard their voices.
Voices that The One silenced for good.
Before I can turn away, Mama May spots the hot, salty tears rushing down my cheeks. Her strong arms envelop me in a crushing hug.
“I know how it is, sweet pea. Everything’s changing, and this time of year is the hardest. So many traditions lost, so many people dead. It used to be the season for getting together, loving your neighbor. Would you believe we couldn’t even find a meeting place to read the Holiday legends? It’s a disgrace, is what it is.”
She’s absentmindedly combing her fingers through my hair as she talks, like I’ve seen her do with her children. I normally hate to have my hair touched, but it’s surprisingly soothing to feel her strong hands kneading my scalp. I feel safe.
“What about the hall? That’s where my family always heard the readings,” I say, tracing my hand along the neat braid she’s somehow made of my tangled strands.
“It’s gotten a lot worse lately,” Hewitt explains, walking up with Whit. He hands each of us a dessert plate heaped with pie. “They’re cracking down on anyone caught believing in any greater power other than his. After all those people were executed in the square last month, the hall is pretty much defunct.”
Mama May shakes her head and sets aside her pie slice untouched. “Besides, you can’t find anybody who’ll say a strong word against him anymore, let alone folks who want to pray for better days.” Her eyes are brimming.
Pearl tugs at her mother’s dingy dress. “Don’t cry, Mama. Look what God got us anyway — nothing but sickness and death. The One is the only being I can see who has any control in this world.” Mama May gasps at the forbidden name, but Pearl continues.
“Who knows anyway? Maybe The One is God.”
Chapter 17
“ISN’T SHE SOMETHING?” The One Who Is The One says to the man behind him, his eyes
still locked on the small screen. “While others rot from the plague like sewer rats, still The Gift prevails.”
The One’s young protégé sighs and stalks across the room, his polished soldier’s boots echoing on the metal floor. He is tallish, no more than seventeen, and his straight-backed posture and sour, pursed lips hint at a strict upbringing among the very wealthy. His dazzlingly convincing smile and his straight white teeth make him a living poster for the clean, optimistic New Order. With white-blond hair combed severely back from his forehead, pale blue, almost clear eyes, and prominent cheekbones, he seems made of glass — sharp and colorless. Beautiful but hard. Cold. His name is Pearce.
Pearce surveys the rows upon rows of surveillance screens that light up the control tower, showing every corner of the compound. With a tap of his fingertip, The One can incinerate any of the children pictured. He often does so for sport on lazy afternoons.
But The One’s attention is focused on a different monitor now — one depicting a scene far across the capital.
Pearce peers over The One’s shoulder at the group of filthy-looking individuals passing around candles in a tiny, dank room. The girl is there, The One’s precious chosen one, standing among them.
Alive.
Pearce follows The One’s gaze to the fire roaring in the corner. “It’s barely a spark,” the soldier says with disdain.
“Ah, but the power of a single spark!” The One smiles, amused. “You didn’t find it so easy, as I recall,” he notes.
When Pearce remains bitterly silent, The One clears his throat. “I have to say, I’m growing a bit impatient at this point,” he says lightly, as if commenting on the weather or the civilian death toll. “Was I not clear when I said I wanted her captured?”