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  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.

  “What’s wrong with you, Byron?” I yell. “You act like you care about me, and then you lie, and threaten, and betray me every time we meet -”

  “Lie? Wisty, tell me one good reason why I should lie. Tell me what I have to live for now.”

  I have to admit, I can’t answer that one. Never could. Not even when Byron was in preschool with me.

  “Prove to me that you spoke to Celia,” Whit presses. “Prove it!”

  “Okay, Whitford. I can do that. Tell me, does this line sound familiar? ‘We only have a short time together. Let’s not waste it.’”

  Judging from the shade of gray my brother turns, he has heard those particular words before.

  “Had a dream the other day, didn’t you? And Celia wore a lot of perfume, right?”

  I’ve seen fireplace ashes with more flesh color than Whit has right now.

  “And you know why she was wearing so much perfume? It’s because even in a dream, she stinks like a rotting zombie-the way all Lost Ones stink.”

  Whit is shaking his head in denial, or disgust, or horror. Or all of the above.

  “But you know the irony here? She’s not haunting you because she loves you. Or because she wants you back. No, she’s after somebody else.”

  “What do you mean?” Whit asks.

  “In fact, the deal she struck with me-the reason I was allowed to live and return here-was that she made me promise to bring her your sister. That’s what this is all about, jockstrap.”

  Chapter 92

  Whit

  I CAN’T EVEN BEGIN to understand what Byron Swain just told me. It has to be lies.

  I have a plan forming, but in the meantime, I pick up every object within grabbing range and start hurling it out the window at him and his beasts. Books, candlesticks, cook’s tools, framed pictures. You name it, I toss it outside.

  I have a good throwing arm, but unfortunately the little creep is obviously experienced at dodging projectiles.

  “Wisty!” he shouts in between ducks. “Please come with me! This is your last chance to accept my offer. Do what your parents have been preparing you for your whole life!”

  At that, I hurl a standing lamp at him like a spear. It hits Byron in the side and spins him around, but he doesn’t go down.

  Then Wisty stuns me. In the quietest voice, she whispers, “Mom and Dad did say… that sometimes we needed to do things that won’t feel natural.”

  “They said ‘outside of your comfort zone,’ not stupid!” I yell at Wisty. Immediately I regret it. But it’s too late. Even Byron rises out of his defensive crouch and glares at me.

  “Did you just call your sister stupid, Whit?” he shouts.

  “No.” In a sense. “I told her going anywhere with you was stupid. And it is.”

  “Well, you’ve denigrated Wisty for the last time.”

  “Byron!” Wisty calls urgently. “It’s fine! I swear! It’s an affectionate nickname!”

  “Sayonara, Whitford Allgood,” Byron says, and throws me a rigid salute.

  And that’s when he blows a new tune on his Command Pipe, and the Kill Team reengages in the hunt-by climbing ape-style up the side of the building and crashing through what’s left of the windows.

  Well, I guess we thought coming here to Mrs. Highsmith’s would be a game changer. Looks like it is.

  Chapter 93

  Wisty

  I AM NOT MUCH OF A COWARDLY screamer by nature, but two tons of growling, pouncing ape-kids swarming into a tiny apartment with one barricaded exit definitely elicits a shriek from me that is totally bloodcurdling.

  It actually startles the Kill Team for a split second, long enough for a pause in which Byron pipes another series of commands up at them.

  Whit fairly hurls me into a corner of the room, then blocks the path to me with his body.

  “Whit, that isn’t going to work!”

  And it sure doesn’t. The fiends practically run over my poor brother, shouting in murderous glee. But they don’t kill us. They hog-tie Whit and me, quickly, viciously.

  And then in walks Byron Swain.

  “Sorry about all the safety precautions, Wisty,” says Byron. He checks the ropes on our arms and forces a gag into Whit’s mouth. “But I can’t have any more distractions while I make good on my commitment here. In case you think I’m not a decent fellow,” he says as he turns and forces an oily-tasting rag into my mouth, too, “I should point out that I’m not going to have my friends here tear Whit apart in front of you, as instructed. Instead, I’ll have both of you sent along to The One. I’m guessing he’ll probably want to put you on the same weight-loss program as your parents. Then, as promised, on to the Allgood execution!”

  He didn’t really say that just now. There’s no freaking way he really -

  “Yes, sir. That’s going to be one majorly popular execution-palooza.” He goes right on talking. “I warned you, Wisty. I tried to stop this.”

  Okay, Byron, I think to myself. This is real simple. You leave me no choice. I’m just going to… EXPLODE.

  Chapter 94

  Whit

  WHEN MY LITTLE SISTER FLARES up in anger, sometimes she’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill human torch with fire swirling all around her body, and you would definitely be well-advised not to shake her hand. Other times, though, she’s so bright and hot, it’s hard even to look at her. Like right now.

  But Byron does look at her. In fact, he’s totally gaga, like he’s never been so impressed with her skills.

  Wisty’s ropes and gag last all of a nanosecond as she bounds up from the ground and takes a couple of menacing swipes at Byron’s freaky death squad. They wisely move back a few stuttering steps. I’m certain she could smoke their wiry butts into ash, but for some reason she doesn’t.

  While the ape-kids recoil, Byron steps closer to Wisty. He looks to be in a daze. He absently drops his Command Pipe as his eyes glaze over.

  Wisty waves her hands wildly. “Get away from me, Byron! I’m as hot as a hundred furnaces
. Just leave now and I won’t hurt you!”

  “You can’t hurt me, Wisty,” he says. “Not anymore.” Then he does the unthinkable. I’m bound and gagged and can’t do a thing as I watch Byron throw himself right into Wisty’s flames. She tries to pull away, but then he’s clutching her as if he’s a child and she’s here to rescue him.

  Wisty was right. We’re not murderers. As much as I hate this kid, I can’t sit still and let Byron immolate himself.

  “Byron! What’re you doing? Stop!” Wisty yells. “Stop, drop, and roll!”

  “You can’t hurt me, Wisty,” Byron repeats dreamily, despite the crackling and hissing flame surrounding him. He must be delirious. Obviously he’s being burned to death, but he’s showing absolutely no signs of pain.

  The feral kids, confused and without any command to guide them, are starting to growl again. But Byron is oblivious, his face buried in Wisty’s neck, his arms wrapped around her. As if he’s drinking in her fire.

  And… he’s not burning.

  He’s not burning!

  Chapter 95

  Whit

  TO REVIEW: THERE ARE any number of life-threatening crises on our hands at the moment.

  1) Byron’s gone loco.

  2) In a few minutes his wild, feral team may go from chilling to killing.

  3) Mrs. H.’s apartment is a major fire hazard, and Wisty’s humongous flames have already lit up all the curtains, the rug, and the wallpaper, which is badly burned.

  4) I’m still at risk of being hauled off to The One if I can’t get control of the situation.

  I have to try to extinguish Wisty’s flames somehow. But I can’t control fire. I know it in my bones-that’s Wisty’s Gift. But if I focus on Mrs. H.’s cauldron-Can I move it? It’s filled with liquid, after all.

  The pack is growling louder and louder, so I have no choice.

  It’s an act of desperation, but I focus my mind and manage to lift Mrs. Highsmith’s barrel. Then I will it to fly across the room.

  Whatever Mrs. H. was cooking, I’m not sure it was fit for human consumption, since it’s as effective as foam from a fire extinguisher. Wisty’s flame flickers out, and Byron-with no trace of burnt clothing, hair, or skin-drops to the floor.

  Wisty’s dripping with gruel and rather dazed by what just happened but still sharp enough to realize what she should do next. She unbinds me and removes my gag, all the while staring at the ape-kids, who definitely seem to respect her abilities with fire.

  “You stay back or I’ll fry you!” she warns. She even throws off a few fresh, sizzling flames.

  Then my little sister helps me up, and I realize she’s a lot stronger than she looks. “That was so totally messed up,” she says quietly. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  Chapter 96

  Wisty

  AS TOTALLY SCREWED UP as the past hour was-from my mom and dad’s deeply disturbing message, to battling hurricane gales, to the utterly unforgettable experience of Byron Swain embracing, absorbing, breathing in my fire-I still leave the building feeling inexplicably powerful. I’m learning something about myself, even though it’s not clear what it is and why The One wants it so badly.

  As soon as Whit and I get outside Mrs. H.’s building, there’s an incredible windstorm, which can only mean One thing. And you know what? I’m not even that surprised anymore. He is, I hate to say, omnipresent.

  I whirl around to face him, as if this is a gunfight. The One is slowly walking up the abandoned street toward us. “This is the grand finale, children of Allgood!” he calls out in warning, which seems unusually fair of him.

  “I’ve given that wretched informant more than enough chances,” he continues as he calmly marches forward. “I said that if he failed in his mission, he would be made to suffer-by watching you die slowly and painfully by my hand.

  “But since I’m nothing if not evenhanded, one final test. This will be a pass-fail for you and your brother. Maybe the two of you survive, maybe one, probably none. Are you ready, children?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Then let us begin!”

  He stomps the ground with his foot, and an enormous crevasse opens wide and starts racing down the middle of the street, headed right for us.

  “I control the earth!” he yells at the top of his lungs. “True or false?”

  Whit takes my hand and squeezes. It’s amazing how much a little human touch can do. It gives me the boost I need. “We could fly?” I say.

  “Worth a try. Focus, now. We can do this.”

  It’s about the fastest morph I’ve ever done-double-morph, to be exact-and in an instant Whit and I are aloft. Becoming hawks requires a lot more energy than changing into hummingbirds, but I’m filled with a charge and I really let loose. The rush is amazing. Usually The One’s very presence is magic-crushing, but right now I feel we’re unbeatable as we start pumping our wings triumphantly above the city.

  But it’s only for about two hundred yards-until a wall of wind hits. We try to catch it and ride it, but the sheer power and force send us careening sideways and then downward.

  “I control the wind, the air!” The One bellows. “True or false?”

  Whit and I are nearly thrown into one side of a brick-faced office building. But before I have a chance to panic, I’ve managed to turn us into the first animal I can think of with protective armor: an armadillo. Two of them. We curl up into armored balls and safely bounce off the wall-which, by the way, still hurts-and then we roll down onto the street.

  But another huge chasm opens in front of us, accompanied by the roar of the angry One.

  “I control the cities and the streets. True or false? I’ll give you a hint-that statement is true.”

  The roadway suddenly explodes into shafts of rock metamorphosing instantly into shimmering crystal, sending razor-sharp shrapnel in all directions. If Whit and I aren’t off the ground in a second, we’re going to be sliced into nothing.

  We leap harder and higher, until I feel not only wings but paws. We’re part lion, part bird… the legendary griffin of folklore.

  We can transform ourselves into the stuff of imagination?

  There are no words for that mind-boggling realization. But it’s forgotten in an instant when the spot where we’d just been explodes with a thundering crack. The two buildings on either side of the street collapse. A shock wave and a blast of dust rise after us and send us spinning.

  It’s dizzying to body and mind. Our power is pretty good, but his is unbelievably overwhelming. Why is he so powerful? Who could control nature like this?

  I have a terrible, terrible thought.

  Maybe he’s God?

  There he is. So much larger than life, arms outstretched, eyes locked on us, dark suit impeccable. His mouth works furiously as he summons what appears to be a typhoon out of the sky, spinning toward us.

  The herculean-force wind and rain pummeling our wings is too much for them to bear, and we plunge toward the water of the harbor below.

  “Extra-credit question!” screams The One. “Who controls the water, the oceans, the rivers, the seas? Oops, time’s up. Pens down. I do!”

  Chapter 97

  Whit

  I GUESS WE FAILED his test. But we won’t surrender, no way. That isn’t going to happen.

  The force of hitting the water might have knocked us out and drowned us if Wisty and I hadn’t been almost perfectly in sync. We pull off a near splashless dive and slice through the surface. But underneath, the water is churning and rushing up from the bottom of the sea.

  Who controls the water? Who else?

  The entire harbor is piling up into one enormous wave-a tsunami to end all tsunamis-and we’re floundering, swimming right in the middle of it. Higher and higher it builds. I’ve never seen anything like it. I think it’s safe to assume no one has. Unless we’re supposed to take the Great Book literally. Are we?

  Wisty and I can’t force our way downward against the surge. It’s useless even trying to swim at this poin
t. If you can’t beat it, join it, right?

  And so I imagine us… on longboards. And it actually happens!

  “You did that?” Wisty yells as she steadies her footing on the surfboard.

  “Yeah!” I shout. “Even if we crash and drown, it’ll be some kind of a ride!”

  Wisty smiles a crazed surfer-girl grin at me as the wave starts to go down-as we start to go down.

  Chapter 98

  Wisty

  IN ABOUT ONE AND a half seconds, my very brief euphoria changes to dread. Suddenly this massive wave is gaining height again. We’re approaching shore and we’re maybe a quarter mile in the air. The One’s going to wipe out a major chunk of the city if he doesn’t stop this madness right now. And that means there are hundreds-make that thousands-of people in terrible danger of being drowned.

  Even though I figure that many of them are New Order automatons, I keep telling myself they’re living, breathing human beings. And we can’t let this giant wave-or The One-crush them. I think I know what I have to do, and there’s no time to consult with Whit.

  It’s what my parents were saying: sometimes for the good of the many, you have to do something way outside your comfort zone. And this, dear reader, is way outside what I would consider even borderline sanity.

  Over the roar of the massive wave, I yell so loudly I think the force of the words is going to tear my throat open. “I’ll give you what you want! I’ll give you my Gift! Just stop this insanity before the wave hits shore!”

  Like magic-or maybe I should say it was magic-the wave starts to lower and then we’re gently coasting toward a narrow shoreline of packed sand.

  Standing there is none other than The One. He’s smiling like a proud dad welcoming his kids home from a long trip.