The Lost Read online

  Only love.

  Not hate or greed or longing.

  The six of us stand together, blazing like suns.

  The One conjures hail that crashes down from the black clouds, but not even that can touch us. He howls.

  I don’t know how to kill a spirit, but I know how to kill a body.

  “Now,” I shout, and the electricity shoots out of all of us with the force of a rocket, careering toward Pearce, who isn’t fast enough to move away. When it strikes him in the sternum, he’s lit up from within. I swear I can see his thin, pale bones, glowing like fluorescent lights.

  He screams and screams and screams.

  And I can feel his pain. His terror.

  It’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt.

  I close my eyes and clench my teeth. I won’t stop. Beside me, Byron shakes and sobs. With all that power coursing through him, he must feel like he’s about to explode.

  And I do, too. My blood boils in my veins. There’s a white-hot energy searing through me, a feeling that no longer has anything to do with mercy or love.

  I keep the power coming. And I can feel Pearce’s heart the instant it stops.

  Lightning explodes from the sky, tearing the black clouds to tattered shreds. The ground beneath our feet begins to rumble and shake. A pillar from the Old Palace comes crashing down, splintering into shards of white marble. Two others teeter like they’re going to fall any minute.

  The One screams in agony, the sound so loud it feels like it will split my head apart. He turns on us, raving, and then he looks back at his son. With all the power of his deathless spirit, he shoots crackling white electricity at Pearce’s heart. The lifeless body writhes and jumps, ripped through by an incredible force.

  Whit gasps. “He’s making a defibrillator,” he says.

  “A what?” I yell.

  The electricity flows into Pearce, wave after pulsing wave. His clothes burn away from his chest. Smoke rises from his skin.

  “He’s going to start his heart again!” Whit cries. “With electricity. Just like we do in the hospital!”

  I stare at my brother in amazement. It can’t be.

  But sure enough, a moment later, Pearce’s eyes open. They are as cold and icy blue as they ever were. He’s alive.

  And I want to just crumple to the ground right there. How do I find the mental strength to keep fighting?

  And, more practically: how much longer can we run this protective circuit of magic through us? I don’t think Byron can stand it much longer. I can feel him weakening. He’s not used to so much energy.

  Pearce blinks at us as he sits up and manages to get to his knees. He’s panting. His cheeks are pale. He opens his mouth to speak. For a minute, nothing comes out but gasping breaths.

  Until he says something I never thought I’d hear.

  He raises his fist at the incandescent shape of his father. “When I was wounded on the mountainside, you just pretended to give me back my life,” he shouts. “And now you’ve done it again. But you don’t know how to give! All you ever do is take.”

  The One’s light flickers. “Silence, idiot,” he snarls.

  “You can’t keep stealing from me,” Pearce yells. “My power. My will. My body. They aren’t yours! I’m done.” As he screams this, he begins to crawl. But not toward us.

  Toward the pit that leads to Shadowland.

  And The One, his parasitic father, must follow him; they are connected. “Don’t you dare,” he shrieks. His phantom fingers claw at his son’s back.

  But Pearce is inching closer to the ground’s gaping maw. “I will!” The fingers on his one remaining hand scrabble at the edge. He’s going to pull himself over into it.

  The One burns bright as a supernova. His howl scissors through the air. “We’ll return! With an army of the Lost!”

  Pearce smiles ferociously at the raging ghost. “We won’t.” Then he turns to us. “But you have to make sure of that!”

  I start, as if jolted by a shock—I’d been mesmerized by the battle between father and son. “How?”

  “You have to close the portals,” Pearce cries. He’s halfway into the hole now.

  But his father is raising a cyclone above the square. He’s blazing in fury. And his ghostly hands are trying to close his son’s mouth.

  Close all the portals that we, as slaves, opened? “They’re everywhere in the City! How do we find them?” I cry.

  “This is the only one that matters!” Pearce says. “The sun in the center of the City. The founders marked it—because it’s the mother of all portals. Close it, and you close them all!”

  I’m at the end of my strength. The end of my powers. “But how?”

  “Shut up!” The One screams.

  But Pearce, for once in his life, will not be controlled by his father. His pale, desperate eyes bore into mine. “You have to close it—from the inside.”

  It takes me a minute to figure out what he means. And then I understand. One of us must follow them to Shadowland.

  And lock ourselves in.

  Watching me, The One begins to roar with laughter. “Ah! She understands!” he yells. His Technicolor eyes flash and burn. “So, Wisteria, the choice is yours. Will you do it? Do you love your world enough to die for it?”

  And I remember what Whit asked me, long ago, in Shadowland, right before what I’d thought was our final showdown with The One. Are you ready for your own end?

  Yes, I’d said then.

  I toss my head back, and the cyclonic wind whips around my face. This might be one of the last things I ever feel. “The answer was always yes!” I shout defiantly.

  And Pearce’s face lights up—in joy or triumph or malevolence, I have no idea. But what does it matter? Because a second later, he leans his body out over the black hole, and then, with a thin and haunting cry, he plummets down into it.

  He’s gone.

  Gone.

  The blinding awful spirit of his father rockets up to the sky. The One’s arms now grasp at the roiling clouds, as if they could hold him up in this world. Their black forms explode in color: blood red, bile green, bone white.

  The One’s shrieks ring in my ears. Thunder explodes in the heavens.

  And then, with a stunning gravitational force, The One is sucked down. Back into the earth, and beneath it, to the Underworld, right on the heels of his dying, unbeloved son.

  I let go of Byron’s hand.

  I pry my mother’s grip from mine.

  Let’s end this thing.

  It’s time to close the portal. I grit my teeth as I march forward. At the lip of the portal pit, I look around me, taking in the world one last time.

  The square. The marble palace. The faces of my family. The hint of blue sky, like a promise, at the very edge of the horizon.

  And then I step forward, and my foot touches only air.

  Good-bye.

  But then I’m hit with a tremendous force from my left—so hard I go flying sideways and stars explode in front of my eyes.

  I land facedown on the cobblestones. Blood streams from my brow. But quickly I lift myself up and turn—only to see Byron, my friend, my nemesis, at the edge of the hole, smiling at me.

  “I always did love you,” he says softly.

  And then he leaps into the void.

  “Byron!” I scream, but it’s too late.

  A brilliant blue light erupts from the pit. Azure flames reach higher and higher into the sky, shooting up to the clouds. When it makes contact with them, they explode into tiny crystals of ice that fall like diamonds.

  Inside the blazing light, I see the faint, swirling ghosts of The One Who Is The One, of Izbella, and of Pearce. A family united in death.

  And then I see the faint, shimmering outline of Byron, who paid for our freedom with his life.

  The roaring wind grows louder and stronger. It rushes through the square with blistering force, snapping the flags on their poles, ripping plants from the ground, knocking the army of kids to their
knees.

  And then, suddenly, it’s gone.

  The world is silent. The sun comes out in a blaze of new gold, warming the corpses and the ashes.

  It’s over.

  And I can’t stop screaming.

  EPILOGUE

  WITCH & WIZARD

  Chapter 79

  Whit

  IT’S BEEN A WEEK since we defeated Pearce and The One—or, as the newspapers put it, “wrenched our City from the hands of evil.”

  We spent the days lying low. Being with our family. Recovering.

  Because, you know, saving mankind kind of takes it out of a person.

  Janine walks into the room where I’m doodling on the margins of a newspaper while Wisty tries to comb her wild red hair into some kind of order. (It’s not working that well.) Janine comes over to me and sits on my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Ready?” she asks.

  I bury my face in her sweet-smelling curls. “No,” I mumble.

  Wisty frowns in the mirror. “I swear, one of these days, I’m just going to shave this mop off,” she mutters.

  “You’ll start a new fashion trend,” I warn her.

  Wisty considers this for a moment, then says, “Never mind.”

  She gives up on the brush and slips her hair into a shining ponytail. However she wears her hair on the upcoming broadcast—when we address the citizens of the City we saved—will be how all the girls wear it tomorrow. Wisty’s basically a superhero these days.

  And, okay, I’ve got something of a fan club, too.

  Wisty straightens her shoulders and gives me an expression that’s part smile, part grimace. Her smiles, her laughter, are so rare ever since we lost Byron that seeing one now feels like the sun shining for an instant from behind gray clouds. “All right,” she says. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I hug Janine tight around the waist. “Are you sure you don’t want to do the public speaking for me? You’re so good at it.”

  She shakes her head. “The people need to see you,” she says. “You and Wisty. Together. ‘From ashes and exile, vital leaders rise.’ We understand now: that’s you two.”

  I sigh; I know she’s right.

  She straightens my collar. “You both look great.”

  Wisty grins at Janine, then sticks her tongue out at me. Typical.

  Together my sister and I leave the backstage greenroom and step onto the platform high above the palace courtyard. The crowd gathered below begins to shout and cheer, fists pumping in the air. The red lights on the cameras blink on, and when I raise my hand, the noise quiets. All over town, video screens flash our faces, larger than life. We’re in the streets, the schoolyards, the living rooms—everywhere.

  For a moment I stand there, blinking in the lights. “Go on,” Wisty whispers. “You wrote the speech, didn’t you?”

  I shrug. Not really. I had a simple plan, with a high degree of difficulty. The plan was: wing it.

  Heck, it worked the last time.

  I gaze out on the square, and when I see all the hopeful faces, my heart fills with joy and relief. I clear my throat. Time to do this thing.

  “Friends and fellow citizens,” I begin. “Together we mark the end of a hellish journey. We have fought a long battle and defeated a terrible tyrant so that we may gather here, in peace and freedom.” I pause, my eyes searching the audience for familiar, magic faces: Aunt Bea, Mrs. Highsmith, my parents. When I spot them, gathered in a little group, I stand up straighter. “But for some of us, the battle began first inside ourselves. We were told—and, more importantly, we let ourselves believe—that magic was something to be feared. That because it was complicated and occasionally unpredictable, it was dangerous and we should not have it. My friends, how wrong we were.” I take a deep breath. I’m finally saying what I know to be true. “What I want to tell you today is that we are all magic, whether or not we can transform or heal or burst into flames. We are magic because we are alive. We are magic because we feel joy. Because we make art and music and… hell, even babies.” I blush when I say that last part. But my parents are beaming at me, and Aunt Bea makes a hot-pink rose bloom in the air over her head. “And for those of us with more obvious powers? Well, we are going to try to share them with you. Because sharing magic is what makes it—and all of us—stronger.”

  Applause ripples through the audience, but I raise my hand. We’re not done.

  Wisty steps forward to the microphone, her eyes bright with happiness and unshed tears. “We stand here before you triumphant and humbled. For all the magic that my brother and I share, The One’s demise was brought about by a regular boy. A teenager. A friend.” Now she stifles a sob as she looks toward the side of the stage, where Byron’s girlfriend, Elise, watches, her face a heart-wrenching mix of pride and grief.

  “You know he’s going to come back and haunt you,” she’d told Wisty through her tears. “Be on the lookout for ferrets.”

  Wisty and Elise smile at each other now. “This friend gave his life for me, and for all of us,” Wisty tells the crowd. “And so, when you look at the people around you today, think of Byron Swain, and remember this: ordinary people can have depths of courage you couldn’t even fathom.” She has to stop for a second to blow her nose. Then she goes on. “Byron said to me once, ‘We have to stick together.’ And so when I stand up here, I think of Byron Swain. I think, We have to stick together. We have to do what’s best for each other. That’s the secret to running a City, or a world.”

  I put my arm around Wisty. She’s spoken the truth, and I’ve never been more proud of her. “Today the legacy of cruelty is finally over,” I declare. “My sister and I stand here before you, ready to serve.”

  But then Wisty interjects, “No, that’s not exactly right.” Her voice wavers at first, but quickly grows strong and firm. “We’re finally ready… to lead.”

  The sound of applause is deafening. Cannons fire at the edge of the square as confetti falls down from the sky like snow.

  Like ashes of the lost.

  I turn to Wisty and gather her up in a huge bear hug. Here we are, sister and brother, witch and wizard. Free.

  Janine rushes from the wings and joins in, and then my parents come up onstage and so does crazy old Aunt Bea. We’re all hugging one another and crying and clapping and Wisty can’t help it: she starts shooting off sparks.

  The cheering grows even louder. Then Wisty turns and flings up an enormous rainbow that arcs magnificently over the square, its colors glittering like heavenly, electric jewels.

  What can heal a broken City? Magic is definitely part of it.

  But in the end, it comes down to love.

  Love.

  I hope you can feel it, too.

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  About the Authors

  James Patterson is the #1 bestselling author of the Maximum Ride, Witch & Wizard, and Confessions novels, as well as Homeroom Diaries. His blockbuster fiction for adults, featuring enduring characters such as Alex Cross—in addition to his many books for younger readers, including the Middle School series—have sold more than 300 million copies worldwide, making him the bestselling author of the decade. He lives in Florida.

  Emily Raymond worked with James Patterson on First Love and is the ghostwriter of six young adult novels, one of which was a #1 New York Times bestseller. She lives with her family in Portland, Oregon.

  Books by James Patterson

  for Young Adult Readers

  The Witch & Wizard Novels

  Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)

  The Gift (with Ned Rust)

  The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)

  The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski)

  The Lost (with Emily Raymond)

  The Confessions Novels

  Confessions of a Mur
der Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Paris Mysteries (with Maxine Paetro)

  The Maximum Ride Novels

  The Angel Experiment

  School’s Out—Forever

  Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports

  The Final Warning

  MAX

  FANG

  ANGEL

  Nevermore

  Nonfiction

  Med Head (with Hal Friedman)

  Illustrated Novels

  Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou, illustrated by Keino)

  Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vols. 1–7 (with NaRae Lee)

  Witch & Wizard: The Manga, Vols. 1–3 (with Svetlana Chmakova)

  For previews of upcoming books in these series and other information, visit confessionsofamurdersuspect.com, maximumride.com, and witchandwizard.com.

  For more information about the author, visit jamespatterson.com.

  Prologue

  One

  Hey, you!

  This is important. What you’re holding in your hands is the only written record of the new history of the world. Don’t freak out—I know I’m making it sound like a textbook, and believe me, I hated school more than anyone. But this much I can promise: It’s not like any textbook you’ve read before. See, this chunk of pages tells the story of the apocalypse and all that came after—some pretty heavy stuff, for sure, and I don’t blame you for being nervous. We all know that history tends to repeat itself, though, so for your sake and the sake of the future, I hope you’ll read it… when you’re ready.

  Max

  Two

  I KNOW WHY you’re here, and I know what you want.

  You want to know what really happened.