The Fire Page 13

  In the bathroom mirror ( gold-framed, enormous), a lost-looking, frightened girl stares back at me, threatening to bolt, but I see my parents’ faces there, too, pleading and hopeful. I splash my face in the ice-cold water of the stainless-steel sink, swallow my fear, and carefully open a cupboard.

  It’s strange, you don’t think of evil people having personal things, and it’s impossible to imagine what The One might have stored in these bathroom drawers, what ghastly souvenirs from a lifetime of cruelty. But the items I do find — including dentures and Technicolor contact lenses — are bizarrely mundane and almost funny in the way they suggest self-consciousness.

  I’m pawing through these ordinary articles, fascinated, when a floorboard creaks in the hallway. I don’t dare breathe as the footsteps get louder, louder, almost upon me … and then echo down the hall toward the other apartments. I sigh, turning back to my task.

  Peering into the cupboard again, I notice a tiny box that I somehow missed before, and inside it, a silver key. It seems impossible that I could locate what door or safe this small key unlocks, but I remember a desk by the entryway, and when I walk across the apartment and slide the key into the hole in the drawer, it turns with a satisfying click.

  When they say “too easy,” this is what they mean.

  Inside there’s an odd collection of mementos, none of them mind-blowing, but apparently important to The One nonetheless. They’re special. Personal. Human, as hard to believe as it seems.

  There’s an award for extraordinary abilities in a science contest, a picture of a young and smiling One with a small girl (possibly his sister?), and a certificate of artistic appreciation recognizing young talent. Buried farther down, I also find a report of difficulties in social development, a handwritten note from a teacher about “disturbing demonstrations” that frightened other students, and a letter of expulsion.

  I want to keep digging, want to find more about the boy who would grow up to be the greediest, most powerful being in the Overworld, but time is running out and I haven’t even cleaned anything yet.

  I carefully replace all of the documents, but as I start to close the drawer, I glimpse the yellowed edge of a photograph caught in the side. I bite my lip, checking my watch. It’s a risk, but one last look couldn’t hurt.

  It takes me several minutes to work the picture out of the crack it’s jammed in, and when I do, I draw a sharp intake of breath. I lean against the desk, mesmerized.

  It appears to be another family photograph. This one is taken from farther away, when The One was a bit older but still a boy. There’s an older man in the picture, with jutting cheekbones and an upright posture. The man is smiling — wide but strangely lacking emotion, as if the grin is taped on.

  The man’s hand is on the boy’s shoulder, near his neck, gripping at the kid’s clothing and pressing him forward for the pose. Gripping hard.

  The boy in the picture — The One, which is still weird to think about — is not smiling. At all. His eyes are different than in the earlier photo with the young girl, too. They understand more. Those eyes have seen terrible things.

  And here’s the part that’s most chilling: the older man’s eyes and nose have been scratched out with a black pen, so that a skeleton seems to peer back at me, its grotesque grin hiding all of its secrets.

  Hands shaking, I shove the photo back into the crack and then hastily scrub the already sparkling toilet. I slink out of the apartment, my mind whirring with the knowledge that The One was once a kid, once had friends and family, once smiled and ached and felt things, rejection among them.

  And once had a father whose smile was not a smile at all.

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t even see His Coldness coming down the hallway until I nearly walk smack into him.

  Chapter 54

  Wisty

  THE CARPET IN the elite complex corridor is bloodred, with a swirling, repeating O pattern that is making me dizzy and nauseous. My work shoes, once bleach-white and spotless, are grimy and disgusting. I stand slightly pigeon-toed, a fact that’s never annoyed me until now.

  I know I probably shouldn’t be so preoccupied with the minute details of my feet. I came here to deal with Him, to use my power, to rid the world of this evil, but the truth is, I’m utterly petrified to look up at The One.

  Has the air around him always been so freezing? Has he always seemed so tall and menacing? Does he always wear those dark suits, so perfectly pressed? Could he always suck the air right out of my lungs?

  He’s so cold, so evil, and he waits me out silently, his tall figure unmoving. I think it’ll go on like this forever, until he finally breaks the spell with his calm, patronizing voice.

  “Don’t be afraid, child. You should be proud of yourself for achieving such an important post at a young age. Many New Order Youth will never experience the great honor of entering my private quarters, let alone tending my toilet.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Achieving an important post? Cleaning toilets? Nothing about destroying me, or using my Gift, or being an utter disappointment?

  Before I can squeak out a response, The One turns on his heel and strides away, carefree, whistling the N.O.’s national anthem as he enters his apartment.

  I let out a long, uneasy sigh. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.

  Should I feel relieved that he didn’t recognize me, or …

  Am I really that forgettable?

  Chapter 55

  Wisty

  I SLAM AROUND the barracks, furious with myself. I’m a tightly stretched rubber band of built-up energy, ready to snap.

  I pace the linoleum floor, berating myself for being the girl that every lame teacher — including The One — pegged me to be: a dropout. If there’s one thing in my life I needed to finish, it was this. I had him, right in front of me, right where I wanted him — my chance! And what did I do?

  I studied my feet.

  Some child of the Prophecy I’ve turned out to be. I’m on the verge of catching fire, I can feel it, and to release the anger I whip around, kick one of the solid-wood bunks, and crumple onto the floor, swallowing a scream of pain.

  This just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?

  I roll onto my side, wincing, and take slow, calming breaths. The One’s face appears before me, and fear falls away from me like water. I see through his mask, see through to the dentures and the color contacts, see that it is just a human face, aging and powerless to stop time. A tiny, insignificant blot on humanity who will wither and die without my power, my M — something I’ll never give up.

  I put my hands on the sides of his face, almost tenderly, and terror flickers in his eyes. He sees the change in me, the control. A flash of energy illuminates the whole room.

  I laser in on his thoughts, but I don’t even need to waste energy warping them. He knows I’ve won, that there is no greater sorceress in existence; that to live, he must fix his misdeeds.

  His head falls into his hands, shame overwhelming him. He even cries. Can we ever forgive him? he asks. All he needed was a bit of coaxing, and now things can go back to the way they were before. …

  A sob cuts through the fantasy, and I blink away the image of the defeated One. Another cry pierces the air — that hopeless, scared shriek of a child who’s lost all hope. I scramble to my feet, wincing for my wounded toe, and peer outside the barred windows of the barracks at the commotion in the courtyard below. My view is slightly obscured by a watchtower, but I can still see him.

  Pearce. I grip the bars with white knuckles, seething with white-hot rage.

  The nauseating serpent towers over a small boy and holds a book by its spine in disgust. The kid looks at the ground, obviously expecting the worst, and the rest of the children are gathered, wide-eyed and frozen, much like they were when he entered the barracks the other day.

  Pity tugs at my heart. Can I honestly blame these N.O. Youth for their evil acts, for following The One’s orders when t
he environment of terror obviously keeps them so rigidly in check?

  “What have we here?” Pearce says, his words clipped and cheerful but loud enough for the whole compound to hear. “New Order, 1, 2, 3: The Soldier’s Path. Interesting choice of reading material. It’s a pity that all reading material for level-one recruits is strictly banned,” he says, a threat creeping into his voice.

  “B-b-but, it’s for you!” the kid stutters in protest. “For you and The One! I was just studying. I just … I just want to be the most exemplary New Order Youth I can be, sir!”

  Pearce scoffs, pacing out of my view. “Literacy rots the brain, I’m afraid. And a rotten mind is of no use to the New Order. Sadly, there must be consequences. We’ll have to demonstrate to these other rule-abiding youths the detriments of disobedience.”

  I crane my neck through the bars, just in time to see Pearce step forward and grab the boy by his temples.

  “No!” I yell, fire shooting through my fingertips, but only enough to melt the bars.

  Pearce looks around sharply, but it’s too late. The kid’s eyes roll backward, and in less than a second his face is only ash. The rest of the Youth Troop gasps. Clearly these are new recruits who haven’t witnessed this rampant cruelty up close before.

  I bet none of them will forget the lesson.

  Neither will I. A kid. He was just a kid.

  I step back from the fire-damaged window, numb. My stomach twists with the fresh realization of what The One and his despicable henchman are capable of. It’s a crushing contrast to my daydream, but it rallies my conviction at the same time.

  I have to deal with The One, because crimes like this, murders like this, go on day after day in this cowardly new world, and if what they say is true, if I’m The One With The Gift, The One Who Can Stop The One, who am I to go on pretending it’ll get better? When kids are dying, what right do I have to be afraid?

  This time, I’m going out to get him.

  Chapter 56

  Wisty

  I WAKE WITH a start, a sense of urgency making my mind hum.

  I forgot to return the keys to the palace after cleaning the elite apartments this afternoon.

  And no one noticed.

  Around me in the barracks, my fellow N.O. comrades snooze in their bunks, looking impossibly innocent. It’s very late — around two or three a.m. — and I should probably lie back down and dream of another toilet-filled day ahead of me, should probably get some rest before the morning punishment comes, when they realize I still have the keys.

  But I’m far too restless for that. My fingertips tingle — I can feel my M growing. An exhilarating energy is coursing through me, and I have to act on it. I’m finally ready to confront The One, and there’s no better time than Right. This. Minute.

  I dress in the dark and tiptoe past the slumbering kid soldiers, sneaking out of the barracks and into the starless night. I slink along the brick buildings, pausing as still as a statue and pressing into the wall as the searchlight passes over me.

  There is a group of N.O. guards making noise in the courtyard, their good spirits and stumbles suggesting alcohol and banned activity. One shoves another as I watch from the shadows, and the soldiers screech with laughter. If I’m caught on forbidden grounds it’s punishable by expulsion, and catching guards breaking rules would probably mean something a whole lot worse for me.

  I could kill them, I think, shocking myself with this realization that I would do anything to get to The One right now. More than that — I have the power to.

  But they’re already distracted, and I’ve reached the side gate. There’s no room for fear as I quietly take the palace keys from my belt loop and unlock the door, adrenaline and the daydream of defeating The One urging me forward.

  I pad up the stairs to the imperial suite, rehearsing over and over in my head what I’ll say, how I will open the door silently and stealthily, how I won’t hesitate to zap The One with a brain bolt so powerful he’ll drop dead on contact.

  Instead I’m totally unprepared when I reach The One’s door to find him, the picture of cool nonchalance, leaning against his doorway.

  Expecting me.

  He takes a small ceremonial bow, an amused smile playing across his lips, and says, “I really am proud of you and how well you do toilets, Wisteria Allgood. It’s a step in the right direction anyway. So is that New Order uniform. It looks stunning on you. Truly.”

  “But —,” I falter. “You mean … you knew it was me?” The One sneers and manages to look both furious and amused at once. “Of course I knew it was you. I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t ready to join me quite yet.”

  He studies his creepily long, manicured nails absently. “I wasn’t willing to wait much longer, and I’m delighted you sought me out at last. So are you now? Ready to join me, Wisteria?”

  Chapter 57

  Whit

  MY EYES ARE shut tight against the grisly horrors about to take place, but when the Lost Ones’ fierce chanting stops suddenly, I force them open.

  Sasha and Emmet are gaping at something in the distance, and I follow their gaze with a mix of hope and fear.

  What I see takes my breath away.

  An extraordinary light grows on the horizon, breaking through the bleak fog. I squint against the bright radiance, and it’s Celia in all her glory, racing toward us from over the hills with an army of Half-lights in her wake.

  There is a long, silent moment when the Lost Ones freeze in place, their faces distorted with distress. Not a soul moves as the light pulses onward.

  And then all hell breaks loose.

  The Lost Ones stumble forward, dazed, pulled toward this age-old enemy as moths to flame. The Half-lights surge to meet them, and the forces of light and dark collide in one blinding, writhing mass. An explosion of energy bursts forth like a sun reemerging after an eclipse, too painful to look at directly.

  It’s over in an instant.

  Then the Lost Ones tear off, frantic and screeching, and beat a path of destruction through the bone forest. Defeated.

  The Half-lights take the camp and get to work untying the kids from the stakes and putting out the raging fires. Sasha is already singing songs of victory and gathering together the saved Resistance, but I can see that his cheeks are wet with tears.

  And Celia, my Celia, races to my side, her deft fingers flitting over my body though I can’t quite feel them, undoing the straps and releasing the levers. She’s still a Half-light, not quite solid, but in the Shadowland, it seems, her touch has more weight; she can move these objects constructed by other creatures of the Underworld.

  “Celes, how did you …? Why did they …?”

  I’m babbling with relief, unable to get a coherent word out.

  “The balance had shifted,” she murmurs, still working, her mouth twisting in concentration. She looks up at me. “In the Shadowland, what’s good becomes more pure over time and what’s bad just rots with its evil.”

  “So you’re at your strongest when they’re at their weakest?”

  Celia nods. “When we’re all together like this” — she gestures at the Half-lights —“the light wins.”

  Soon I’m standing face-to-face with her, and I feel … whole again. And I’ve finally put something together. “It was you before, wasn’t it? When our parents were executed and Wisty and I were supposed to go down with them. There was that blinding, painful light, and The One was on his knees, screaming. Wisty and I fell. Like falling into death, only light caught us. It was you. You and the other Half-lights.”

  “Sort of. It was a little more complicated than that, but … it doesn’t matter now.” She puts her hand on my lips and smiles that gorgeous, sweet smile that lights up her whole face. “I mean, aren’t you going to say it’s good to see me?”

  I look into her teasing eyes, put my hands around her face. “Celia, it is so, so good to see you.” I’m melting into her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I had to abandon you earlier, Whit —
”

  “Forget it. I know there’s a reason for everything in this insane world, even if I don’t understand it. All that matters is that I’m — I’m feeling you again.”

  Sasha comes up behind me and yells, “Awwww!” in his sappiest, most obnoxious voice. He jabs me in the ribs. Emmet joins us, looking embarrassed, but wiggles his eyebrows approvingly anyway.

  Janine appears behind them, smiling, but not with her eyes.

  I look around at the camp — the bonfire remnants and animal bones and menacing forest beyond. The scene still appears eerie in the red mist of the Underworld sky, but the glow from all of the Half-lights moving around and making sure the kids are all right makes everything seem almost … safe. Like finding out the monster in the room is just your imagination when you switch on the light.

  Almost like we’re not in the land of the dead.

  Chapter 58

  Whit

  UNDER THE PRETENSE of scouting out a trail, Celia and I walk hand in hand away from the group. With her next to me now, I can almost forget about finding my parents, about Wisty risking her life to take down The One, about nearly being roasted alive, about Janine. I can convince myself that there’s just us, two carefree teenagers in love, walking into the wilderness.

  We stop at the edge of the forest, and Celia peers up at me, her eyes swimming. There’s so much I have to tell her, but she’s looking at me like she already knows everything I’m feeling, everything I’ve been through, so for now I just want to savor this moment.

  Celia lifts her chin up and I inhale her scent, dizzy with love and need. I put my lips against hers so tenderly, but I can’t feel her at all; she’s only air. And then Celia leans into me and we do something I’ve been thinking about, dreaming about, since the last time I saw her — we merge into one soul, one being.