Witch And Wizard: Fire Part 4

Wisty THERE'S NO POWER, and outside the soldiers of the New Order occupation continue to brutalize the citizenry. But inside the Needermans' candlelit bas.e.m.e.nt 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 b.u.t.ter 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 sc.r.a.p 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 s.h.i.+mmer 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 rus.h.i.+ng down my cheeks. Her strong arms envelop me in a crus.h.i.+ng 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g.

Pearl tugs at her mother's dingy dress. "Don't cry, Mama. Look what G.o.d 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 G.o.d."

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 protege 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 gla.s.s - 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 pa.s.sing 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?"

"The squad and the mutts are on their way," Pearce replies with cool confidence.

The One presses his lips together. "Ah. So am I to understand that you employed demonstrably incompetent idiots to do a job that I brought you here specifically to do?"

Pearce runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. The trouble is, the thought of getting close to Wisty Allgood stirs intensely conflicting emotions in him - and he is not one accustomed to feeling much emotion at all.

"Couldn't we just kill her?" Pearce suggests. The words are out before he can stop them. The One raises an eyebrow, and Pearce sees his grave blunder. "It would be easier, faster," he explains quickly. "Without the existence of The Gift, there's no threat. We'll have all the power there is to have."

The One stands up and stares down at Pearce as if seeing him for the first time. His mouth twists into a sour grimace. Then, without a word, The One strikes Pearce hard across the face. The blow makes the boy stumble backward and leaves a deep gash where The One's spiked ring with the New Order insignia has caught Pearce's high, chiseled cheekbone.

Blood is dripping onto the floor in bright, vivid exclamations, but Pearce doesn't cry out, and his jaw is still hard, defiant. After all, in his short life he's been dealt much worse.

"You've developed a bit of a stutter, my boy. I think you mean I'll have the power, don't you?" The One says evenly. "And I don't see much of a threat, really. More like an interesting little game we're all playing."

Then The One turns away from Pearce dismissively and goes back to gazing at the screen. Pearce feels a familiar fury heat up his cheeks and his ears, moving all the way down into his fingertips.

There is only one person in the world whom he hates more than the witch.

The young soldier reaches a tentative hand toward The One. If he is strong enough, if he has it in him, he will have no better opportunity. An inch or two more, and he can touch that smooth, bald head, watch the skin peel away from the skull and the body collapse.

Hand shaking, he hesitates.

The One whirls around, and at the same time Pearce jerks upward, as if choked by an invisible vise.

"Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" The One laughs maniacally. "Gunning for 'game over' already?"

Pearce's legs dangle as he's suspended inches above the floor, and his face quickly grows crimson and bloated. "You wouldn't," he sputters.

The One's Technicolor eyes dance with wickedness as he holds Pearce aloft by an invisible noose. "As you know too well, dear boy, there is virtually nothing I wouldn't do to educate those who don't completely understand my authority."

Pearce looks past The One and thinks he can just make out the white-topped mountains in the distance, mocking him. The Wizard King's domain. He never should have left.

Just as he is losing consciousness, Pearce falls abruptly to the floor in a pitiful heap.

"Now," The One says softly, leaning over him. "Bring. Me. The. Girl." His smoldering eyes flash a warning. "Please."

Pearce's breath comes in jagged gasps as he struggles to his feet. Regaining his composure, he salutes, turns sharply, and strides as confidently as he can manage toward the door.

"And, Pearce?" The One says when the youth is almost out of the room. Pearce stops in the doorway, his nerves buzzing. "Remember who made you what you are. If you want to go back to the mountains, I can take away every ounce of power I gave you."

Pearce's body goes rigid, but he doesn't turn around. He touches his cheek and finds it still wet with blood. Biting his tongue to keep from screaming, he straightens, wipes his hand on the doork.n.o.b, and goes out to find Wisty Allgood.

Chapter 18.

Whit I'M A WANTED fugitive, a criminal of the highest order whose face is plastered on every wall, every lamppost in the capital. Considering how insane things are right now, getting up at five in the morning, tramping through a city crawling with soldiers, using a big chunk of my M to conspicuously morph my arm into an ax, and hacking down a tree in the middle of Overland Park on a banned Holiday is probably one of the riskiest, stupidest things I could do.

It's not even a great tree. It's a little spa.r.s.e around the back, and it leans dramatically to the left, but seeing the look on my sister's face as she and Pearl drape scraggly tinsel over its branches makes the trip totally worth it.

Pearl hasn't said much to me yet, but her eyes are s.h.i.+ning with emotion.

She looks at Wisty and nods her chin in the direction of the fireplace.

"Pretty good fire you've got burning there. Been going for almost two days now."

Wisty grins - coming from Pearl, this is high praise. I want to join in their moment, but at the mention of the fire, I've got that charred corpse in my head again. I feel nauseated.

Wisty catches my expression and looks perplexed. As much as I want to tell her about what I witnessed in that alley, more than anything I just want to forget it and get my sister far away from the capital.

Wisty, on the other hand, wants to draw out this Holiday for as long as possible.

She winks at me and Pearl, and in a moment the broken ornaments, sitting crudely on the branches, transform into a rainbow of winking electrical lights, the colors glowing in the dark room.

I whistle in appreciation, and the other Needermans gather around, the kids oohing and aahing.

I smile at Pearl, but her tiny face is a mask.

Mama May coughs. "Pearl Marie, honey, where are your manners? What do you say?"

Pearl's big gray eyes are solemn. "It's great, really pretty and all. It's beautiful." She looks at both of us accusingly. "But if you're who they say you are, if you've come to save us, can't you do something more?"

"Pearl," Mama cuts in, anger creeping into her voice. "I'm sorry, Wisty, she's just upset. With Ziggy's death and all -"

"Yeah, Mama, they've given us some twinkly ornaments. But I worked hard for those pieces of broken gla.s.s. What has she ever worked for?" Wisty stares at the floor, and I put an arm around her shoulders. "And the Feast Day was terrific. But we're going to be hungry again tomorrow, and the day after that. Can they keep this whole family warm at night? Warm and safe?" Pearl asks. "Every night?"

No one says a word; every sound has been sucked out of the room. Pearl Marie's eyes are burning into us, holding us accountable.

Right then there's an earsplitting explosion of splintering wood, and the door caves in. A dizzying number of Death Squad recruits flood into the s.p.a.ce, their black boots like rats scurrying over one another, their weapons trained on the s.p.a.ce between our eyes.

I was almost getting too comfortable for a second there. This is more like my life.

I look around frantically for a weapon or a way out of this situation, but there are too many soldiers and too many guns and too many snarling, biting wolves, their mangy coats reeking of rotting flesh, bloodl.u.s.t in their eyes.

There's a moment of silence, and n.o.body moves. It's like the Death Squad didn't really expect that it would be so easy. We are animals caught in a trap, staring into the face of our demise. Where can we go? My mind races with my pulse, and I sense my sister next to me, tensed, ready to spring on my cue.