Witch & Wizard 04 - The Kiss Read online

  People are giving me strange looks, but that’s normal. It isn’t until I get two full blocks away that I realize my right foot is a little chilly. Sure enough, when I look down, I’m only wearing one sneaker.

  I so don’t have time for this right now.

  I turn to head back for it, then stop. Instead, I close my eyes, picturing the red high-top sneaker with its scuffs on the side, lying just inside the door.

  Then I whistle, and, like a loyal pet, the shoe flies out the window and tumbles toward me down the street. Grinning, I turn and keep running as it gallops behind.

  Chapter 6

  Whit

  WHERE IS SHE?

  I watch the giant clock on the wall, the slow click of the seconds echoing in the vast chamber. My pencil mimics the beat—tap, tap, tap—on the long table.

  Matthias Bloom, self-styled Speaker of these proceedings, clears his throat for the hundredth time. As I glance sheepishly around the wall of faces, I see that he’s not alone in his impatience.

  She knows how important this day is.

  The memory of last night resurfaces then, those horrible headaches and disturbing images, and for a moment I worry something’s happened to my sister. Maybe the vision was some sort of omen….

  Come on, Wisty. Come on, I plead silently, thinking if my stare drills hard enough into the door, it might creak open.

  Miraculously, after an eternity, it bangs open. My sister bursts through, a ball of flustered energy with red hair hanging in her face. “Sorry!” she shouts as she hops across the room, still struggling to pull on a shoe.

  I shake my head, but I’m grinning anyway, because she’s here. There’s no bad omen, and everything’s cool, because Wisty’s got the papers in her hand—the ideas we spent weeks developing.

  With those plans and this Council, the future of our City starts today.

  “Now that our last esteemed member has arrived…” Bloom sighs heavily, and straightens his tie.

  Always the smart aleck, Wisty curtsies in response, then finally plops into the seat at my side.

  “May we begin?” Bloom finishes dryly.

  “Great!” I stand, eager to address the group. “Since we’re reinventing this City now, and not just fixing what was broken, it’s important that we do it right this time.” I grab the plans off the table and glance at my notes. “We were thinking, start with the City’s biggest hope: kids. School should be about creativity and fun, so kids actually want to go.”

  Looking around at the faces of my fellow Council members—war heroes, rogue journalists, a former film star who survived on roaches for two years underground—my enthusiasm grows. I’m not a natural speaker like Janine, but I’m more pumped about this cause than anything, and these are the people who can make it happen.

  “We also need to build a major outdoor community center, so all citizens can tell us their concerns and ideas,” I continue. “We can use The One’s old compound, and it would be great for concerts, too.” Wisty gives me an encouraging wink. “Of course, first we’ll have to redesign the streets to make room for more parks….”

  Bloom clears his throat again sharply, and it’s like a crack of thunder in the chamber. “Those ideas are all charming, Mr. Allgood,” he booms. “However, this is a Council, and all members will vote on its proceedings.”

  I redden. “Right. I know, Mr. Bloom. We just thought—”

  “We thought that as members of the Council—the members who freed the Overworld, if we’re getting into specifics—you might want to at least hear our ideas,” Wisty blurts out.

  A couple of voices shout words of encouragement, particularly the youngest of the seventeen kids on the board, who totally idolize Wisty.

  “General,” Bloom corrects. He straightens the white swath of hair atop his glistening forehead. “And who will fund these projects? Our bankrupt treasury?”

  When Wisty and I are silent, he addresses the whole Council, pitching his voice across the room. “Unfortunately, we cannot just burn away the problems of the New Order as we did its flags. Along with a money shortage,” he drawls, fixing each member in turn with his gaze, “we’re facing a fuel shortage. A materials shortage. And a water shortage.”

  “A sense-of-humor shortage,” Wisty quips.

  But the rest of the room is silent, and I’m not laughing, either. How did we think it was going to be so easy?

  “Okay,” I say quietly. “Where should we start, then?”

  There’s a flicker of compassion on Bloom’s face, but his authoritative voice doesn’t budge when he replies, “I propose we stick to the agenda.”

  “Agenda?” I look around. Everyone has a crisp, typed sheet of paper in front of them. Everyone but us. I sit back down with my hand-scrawled notes.

  “First item,” Bloom reads. “Housing needs for displaced citizens.”

  “There’s been violence in the Gutter lately,” says the kid from the streets whose parents were martyrs of the Resistance. “Families trying to build up their bombed houses, but others claiming their supplies.”

  I think of little Pearl Neederman and her family’s basement home in the Gutter. They didn’t have much, but they definitely had kinship. “Maybe we could discuss ways to get the communities working together to rebuild neighborhoods, one house at a time,” I suggest.

  Every eye in the room flicks to the man who seems to know about these things, but he shakes his snowy head dismissively. “The Council must decide how many stones each citizen is eligible to remove from rubble for rebuilding.”

  “We’ll need to know how many stones each rubble pile contains, on average,” notes an eager Councilman beside Bloom.

  “And what percentage of stones were lost in the bombing,” a droopy-eyed man across the chamber adds.

  The woman to his right pipes in: “Shouldn’t we first vote on whether stones should be determined by size or weight or concentration of minerals…?”

  Two hours later, my head is throbbing even harder than it was last night. “Is blood leaking out of my ears yet?” I whisper to my sister.

  Wisty looks up at me with glazed eyes, her chin resting on the table. “I didn’t think this was actually possible, but governing just might be worse than going to school.”

  “Before we adjourn, I don’t want to cause anyone to panic, but I fear we must address one last pressing issue….” Bloom announces, and the tone in his voice makes both of us sit up straight.

  Chapter 7

  Whit

  BLOOM FIXES US all with a steely look I’m familiar with: like a foolball coach who’s about to ask you to do something ridiculous, like provoke the other team’s Demon, sacrificing life and limb in the hopes that it’s a win for the team.

  I clench my jaw and Wisty nervously chews a strand of her hair.

  “As the Keeper of The Book of Truths,” Bloom says with self-reverence, “I have interpreted its messages as faithfully as I could.”

  All eyes in the room look up at him, hungry for that knowledge. The attention seems to make Bloom grow taller.

  “Now I fear we are at a grave point in our history, a new-made City left vulnerable to rising crime and outside forces.”

  There’s a murmur of confusion, all of us alarmed at the same two words.

  “What does he mean, ‘outside forces’?” Wisty whispers.

  I shake my head. There is land beyond the City, of course. To the east lies a wide river whose banks I’ve been to a thousand times. But the currents are so deadly, no one has ever crossed it, and it’s said that all that’s beyond is an endless forest. To the north, there’s a desert, and to the west, a range of mountains.

  But the City has been isolated from those people for almost three generations.

  The restless crowd moves closer to Bloom, all of us eager to understand.

  “The Book warns that there is much to fear from the King of the Mountain People to the west,” the Keeper continues. “We are facing a water shortage because every drop running down from th
e mountain has stopped, and I believe the Mountain King acts with hostile intention, as is prophesized.”

  The volume grows with this new revelation as real fear starts to take root. “What does this mean?” a Councilman from the outer suburbs shouts.

  “It could mean many things,” Bloom says ponderously. He seems to be talking slower and more softly now that he has our full attention, savoring our dependence. “First it will mean thirst. It may eventually mean that our truce with the Desert People is broken, since we share our water supply. One day…”—he drawls so slowly I want to shake him—“it will mean war.”

  The shouting reaches a fever pitch then. Bodies are pushing, voices yelling. The fear is so thick in the air I can smell it now, seeping out through pores and infecting all it touches, but I’m not going to give in, not yet. I wrap my arms around Wisty’s shoulders protectively.

  We killed The One, I remind myself. That was the prophecy.

  “I thought he didn’t want to make us panic,” Wisty says miserably.

  There’s wild speculation about attacks from the Sand Men who live on tarantula blood and ride lizards to war, or the Ice Eaters who feast on human flesh. “We have no police force!” several voices are despairing.

  “Council members!” Bloom steps onto a bench, his doughy body rising above us. “I understand your fear. I have known that fear.” He’s still talking in that slow, serene voice, so I have to strain to hear. He draws himself up higher, and I swear he’s sucking in his gut. “Fortunately, I am a practiced strategist of war.”

  “He wasn’t even in the war,” Wisty hisses. “I heard he just hid from the New Order and managed to bury The Book of Truths.”

  But the Council members crowd around Bloom’s feet just the same, hungry for his advice.

  “Earlier, we agreed to give pardons to those who worked for the New Order but who have renounced their former loyalties,” Bloom states, to murmurs of agreement. Surprisingly, that was one of the easier votes of the day, to choose to unite our people after losing so many. “I move that these experienced soldiers be reinstated as a temporary police force,” Bloom adds hastily.

  “What?” Wisty and I gasp together, and I know we’re both remembering the sound of the soldiers’ boots chasing us through plague-ridden streets.

  The room is a wild chorus of dissent. Some of us are survivors of New Order prisons; others were orphaned by their bombs. It’s one thing to give a brainwashed kid soldier the chance to start over. It’s another to give every old cog in The One’s murdering machine a gun and trust him to protect us.

  Someone knocks into the bench Bloom stands on, and he clamps a hand on his head as if to hold down his gray toupee. “I understand your concerns,” he shouts over the crowd. “Unfortunately, the issues I’ve mentioned aren’t the worst of what our fair City is facing….”

  Kidnappings, he tells us. More kidnappings.

  There isn’t much information. Someone saw a couple of black armored vehicles. A few people heard screams. By late evening, more than twenty-five mothers had registered their children as missing at the Council office.

  A stunned silence finally falls over the once-raucous chamber. The news feels unimaginable, yet at the same time it feels incredibly familiar. I vividly remember the day Wisty and I were taken, ripped from our home and thrown into prison. There were lots of other kids there, too. Kids a lot younger than us.

  “This feels like the New Order all over again,” Wisty murmurs in a small voice, as if reading my thoughts. “What if—”

  “The One is dead,” I answer before she can even ask.

  My sister is so strong. She’s one of the most powerful magic makers in our world, and she defeated The One during the height of his power. Few people can really harm her. Yet I know she hears that mocking voice and sees his Technicolor eyes in her nightmares.

  The One is dead. Absolutely and totally. But if there are pockets of still-active New Order in the Overworld…

  “No former New Order sympathizer will serve as part of the Over Watch,” I say suddenly and certainly, my voice louder than everyone else’s in the chamber—even Bloom’s.

  The Book Keeper raises a cottony eyebrow. “There is no one else strong enough for the police force. I thought I made it clear that these are dire times—”

  “We’ll handle it,” I snap.

  “With all due respect…”

  “I said, we’ll handle it.”

  Chapter 8

  Pearl

  “YOU WILL BE CLEANSED,” echoed the voice on the loudspeaker, over and over.

  Pearl wasn’t sure who the voice belonged to, or what the phrase meant, or how long she had been in the dim room crowded with sweltering bodies. At this point, the noise was all she knew. The noise and her hunger. She hadn’t slept since she’d been taken.

  “YOU WILL BE CLEANSED,” the voice boomed, again and again, until Pearl was delirious from her throbbing head, her ringing ears, the heat and the gnaw of her stomach.

  “I’m clean,” she sobbed. “I swear I’m clean.”

  When the door opened, Pearl thought she was hallucinating. Or dead.

  But the delicious cool breeze on her skin felt real, and so did the ground beneath her feet as Pearl stumbled out into the open air, blinking against the sudden light of the sun. The air was so crisp it burned her nostrils, and she could smell food cooking somewhere.

  “YOU HAVE BEEN SAVED,” another voice echoed somewhere, and she believed it. She thought she’d gone to heaven.

  And then they were herded into a rough pen.

  She didn’t have a coat or shoes, and as the cold crept into her bones and her teeth began to chatter, she almost wished for the sweaty warmth of the death cell again.

  Almost.

  “Are you hungry?” a giant man with a matted nest of a beard yelled at them.

  Pearl felt her eyes bulging from her head, her tongue swollen. All she could do was nod.

  “Then run!” he screamed.

  Around and around the pen they went. As several of the other kids stopped to catch their breath or winced as sharp rocks cut into their bare feet, Pearl was grateful for her gutter-kid soles, thick with calluses. Because if running meant food, she was prepared to run all day.

  So she ran. And ran. And ran. At least it was warming her up.

  Finally, just before Pearl thought she would keel over from exhaustion, a horn sounded, and the runners stopped to wait for the next instruction.

  “You did well for your first day,” an older kid with sticklike legs and arms roped with veins whispered to her. “You didn’t even slow down.”

  “I’m glad someone noticed,” Pearl said.

  “They call me Eagle. Around here, it pays to keep an eye out.”

  “Where I come from, it pays to take an eye out,” Pearl answered, reaching for the handle of her hidden blade as a warning that she wasn’t to be bothered, then realizing it wouldn’t be a good idea for Eagle to know she still had it.

  Pearl jutted her chin up toward the tower. “Who’s the old guy?”

  Eagle squinted against the sun to look at the man standing on the castle balcony. “The King. They call him the Snow Leopard.”

  The old man was wrapped in rough furs and had a yellowing beard that tucked into a ruby-encrusted belt at his waist. Above him flapped a banner with a giant white snarling cat on it. His face looked carved from stone.

  “So he’s who stole us.” Pearl narrowed her eyes and memorized the look of the man she should save her blade for.

  “He saved you,” Eagle said defensively. “He saved us all. For something greater.”

  “I don’t feel saved,” she snapped. “I feel hungry.”

  Eagle shrugged. “There’s plenty of food around here. Just follow my lead.”

  “How was your run?” the bearded giant interrupted them. “Tell your king everything you saw. Were there any Failures?”

  Eagle raised his hand immediately. “That one there. The scrawny one. He stopped ru
nning. I don’t think he wants us to win.”

  The King watched carefully from the tower as a blond boy was dragged to his feet and brought to the center, where everyone could see. His toes were all cut up and bloody. The King gave a clipped nod, and the boy winced, bringing a hand to his head. As Pearl watched, the boy walked to the wall… and began banging his head against it, over and over.

  “Be cleansed!” the other kids chorused in rhythm with the thunk, thunk of skull on rock.

  It was awful to watch. A stream of blood flowed from the gash on his forehead, but he kept striking himself, again and again, until the King finally turned away. Then the boy stumbled back, crumpling to the ground.

  Two more kids were called out, and the ritual repeated. Finally, when there were no more Failures, the brute dished out a large portion of food to everyone who remained.

  “New here, aren’t you? You still have the reek of the slums on you.” A gangly older girl sat down next to Pearl and the slum boys on the bench they shared with Eagle.

  “But we’ll be cleansed,” Razz echoed mockingly.

  “Better you’re up here than down there. The other gutter rats will be getting pretty thirsty, now that the King’s cut off the City’s water supply.”

  Pearl blinked hard as she thought of her parents, Mama May and Hewitt; of all her aunts and little cousins—all the other Needermans. Living under the New Order had been rough enough, but no water?

  “No. The witch and wizard won’t stand for it,” she protested. “They’ll demand water, they’ll come up the mountain, they’ll—”

  “The King is counting on it,” Eagle said.

  A trap.

  “They destroyed The One Who Is The One! Whit could take on some stupid King.”

  “You sure about that, little girl?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  But she had been sure The One was the only threat to the Overworld. She had been sure Whit wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She had been sure her family was safe. She looked around her now, at the gaunt kids running the drills, and back at the leopard flag waving proudly overhead.