Witch & Wizard 04 - The Kiss Page 4

  In truth, Pearl didn’t know if she could be sure of anything anymore.

  Chapter 9

  Whit

  “YOU’RE SURE THIS is the place?” I squint doubtfully at the blackened windows of a crumbling old video store near Industry Row—the Resistance’s new hideout.

  “It says The Tube.” Wisty looks at something written on the palm of her hand, and back up at the yellow letters painted on the side of the building. “That’s what Sasha’s friend Ross told me.”

  I yank on the door. “Then why is it locked?”

  “Dunno. I guess Ross forgot to pass along the info about the secret knock or secret entrance or whatever. We’ll have to find another way in. How about…”

  Her eyes flash, and she drums her fingers absently. I know that look. It’s got M written all over it. “Lead on, sister.”

  Well, being a cockroach wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I have missed morphing. That first tickle of power moving through your body is such a high, and the sensation of having six legs as I scurry after my witch-bug-sister under the door is definitely a first.

  It takes only a second to get in. The paint-coated space looks huge to my little roach eyes, which makes it all the more beautiful. Graffiti of mermaids swimming down the wall toward dinosaurs and marching soldiers crushing giant flowers look so real they seem to be growing right out of the wall. These are remnants of the inspired yet twisted visions of the repressed artists living under the New Order.

  Ross looms over us, a can of spray paint in hand, and Sasha almost squashes me as he steps back to admire the incredible mural. The others are crowded around a low table, playing a card game. Emmett looks relaxed, but Byron is sulking, and it looks like Janine is taking them both for everything they’ve got.

  “Hey, gang,” I say, morphing back into my human self. Beside me, Wisty does the same, shaking out her limbs, and Ross gapes at us.

  “Don’t worry, you get used to it,” Sasha promises him.

  “You might,” Janine says, laughing. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sight of Whit Allgood materializing out of thin air.”

  “Out of a cockroach, actually,” Wisty points out.

  “Charming,” Janine answers, but she’s looking at me when she says it, and the softness of her voice makes my pulse speed up just a notch.

  “The door was locked,” Wisty explains. “Next time, give us the secret knock or whatever.”

  “Nah.” Emmett nods toward the broken bricks near the far wall. “See, what you do is, you make another door.”

  I grin and turn to Ross. “This is an awesome space, by the way.”

  “Thanks, man. Since the art ban was lifted, my tagging buddies don’t really come around, but The Tube’s got a history, you know? When you said you needed a space off the grid, it seemed perfect.”

  “Speaking of which, what’s the urgent news? Are you okay, Wisty?” Byron places a hand on her arm, then peels it off when he sees the look she gives him.

  “We’re fine,” I say. “But the City might not be. At least, not for much longer.”

  Wisty sighs. “It’s happening again. Kids are disappearing.”

  I can almost see my friends’ hearts sag with the news. It’s exactly what I’m feeling: We’re back here—already?

  Then Sasha jumps to his feet, all anger in action. “Do we know who did it? Do we know where they were last seen? Do we have names? There’s still time.”

  I shake my head. “Bloom didn’t tell us much of anything. Just the basics.”

  “And that we should be terrified of an attack at any time.” Wisty frowns.

  “Sounds like he knows how to talk like a politician,” Janine says, her jaw tightening. “Too bad it leaves us at ground zero for those little kids. Just like before.”

  The guilt I felt earlier washes over me again. I should’ve done something.

  “But it’s different now, right?” Ross cuts in. “There’s no New Order to fear. We have an elected Council now, and they can handle this. They’ll find out who did it.” He looks around the card table, wanting to believe. “Right?”

  I make myself meet his eyes. “The Council isn’t exactly… it isn’t what we thought it would be. There wasn’t a system in place to deal with something like this. It’s all talk and no action.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Janine says. “Action always starts at the ground level. That’s why we started the Resistance in the first place.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Sasha says, eager to move forward. “The Resistance returns, and we’ll grow it again. We’ll patrol the streets.”

  “Really?” I gasp. “I know it’s a lot to ask….”

  “We’ll do it,” repeats Janine, her gaze meeting mine. “All in favor?”

  The hands go up, one after another, and I’m so full of gratitude.

  “Kids as cops.” Emmett nods. “Could be cool.”

  “Real justice, without the corruption,” Byron adds, and Wisty cocks an eyebrow at him. “What?” he says, incredulous. “What?!”

  “She’s just teasing you, By.” I chuckle. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  “I’m in, too,” Ross says. “But if we’re the cops, are we still resisting?”

  Janine nods. “We’re resisting the fearmongering of politicians and the capture of our youth. We’re resisting having our freedom revoked.”

  “Resist or submit!” Sasha crows.

  “We’ll resist,” Janine promises, her clear green eyes as determined as I’ve ever seen them. “We’re not ready to roll over just yet.”

  Chapter 10

  Wisty

  “GOOD THING THEY’RE wearing red uniforms,” Mrs. Highsmith yells into my ear excitedly the next day as Whit’s teammate is carried off the foolball field on a stretcher. “Is that a lot of blood or what?!”

  I nod. “Broken nose” doesn’t even begin to cover it. The kid is a pulpy mess of broken face, courtesy of the other team’s Demon. I guess I’ll never completely understand the appeal of a sport where boys try to kill each other. I guess that’s why they call it foolball. Who else willingly plays a game where a player named for evil incarnate is allowed to do absolutely anything—break your neck, tear off your arm, bite a chunk out of your face—as long as he can catch you?

  Not everyone can be caught, though. No Demon has ever brought my brother down.

  When the teams take the field again, Whit sidles up to his place at the center. The whistle shrieks and Whit takes off without snapping the ball. The crowd whips into a frenzy. “Use the Demon!” chant the blue team’s fans as Whit streaks by, zigzagging around the blue bodies and dodging the Demon’s grasp. Whit even shifts the ball like a carrot in front of the Demon’s nose, and the crowd eats it up.

  Whit pretends to falter, letting the blue Demon in for the kill move at the very last second, and then the snap is so quick that the guy has a useless mouthful of my brother’s ear before he realizes Whit lobbed the ball down to the end zone seconds ago.

  That’s another signature move. Whit has never scored a single point. He told me once that it’s not a big deal to him to get that kind of glory, but it seems like a big deal to everyone else, so why not give the other guys the ball? Pretty cool of him. But that’s pure Whit for you.

  “What your brother’s best at is slipping through people’s fingers…. Just ask all the heartbroken girls on the sideline!” Dad quips after the play—the same joke he tells every game. Mom shakes her head at his dorkiness, like always.

  It’s good to have something familiar among all the chaos and bad news. Whit’s been pretty shaken up about the kidnappings—we all have—and he almost didn’t come tonight. It took Janine to convince him that Sasha had the Over Watch under control, and that it was just as important to lift community spirits and morale by giving them a good show.

  So far, it’s been a success, with half the City in the stands cheering. Whit’s playing maybe one of his best games yet, despite the usual blood and tufts of h
air littering the field. Some people say Whit has a bit of the supernatural in him when he plays, and I can see it coming out tonight. He’s slick, he’s graceful, and he’s fierce.

  I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised, then, that in the last quarter, the blue team decides to switch in their second-string Demon.

  “Whit, watch behind!” I yell, jumping to my feet, but it’s too late. The Demon is already diving, wrapping my brother in a viselike leg grip and pulling him down. Whit’s first fall is hard, and I wince as his helmet strikes with a dull thud. The shocked crowd gasps, and then boos the Demon in defense of their idol until Whit finally struggles back up.

  This has never happened before.

  “He’s just got a lot on his mind,” I say to reassure my parents as much as myself. “Governing is hard, and then with his weird headaches the other night…”

  But when the blue Demon takes Whit down in the next play, and then down a third time, the people start to take notice. It looks like this guy’s determined to take my brother out of commission, and he’s certainly capable.

  He’s liquid smooth in his maneuvers, slipping through openings right as they close. He anticipates Whit’s exact timing as if he’d choreographed it himself.

  But mostly? He’s fast. Faster than Whit. Again and again, the Demon delivers moves that are quick and clean to take Whit down without injury.

  Who is this guy?

  At this point, it’s like Whit doesn’t remember how to play. It’s a train wreck, set up for maximum smash effect, and not one of us can turn away as the last few minutes on the clock wind down, the blue team driving the numbers up on the scoreboard.

  Afterward, everyone is waiting to see the new second-string-completely-unheard-of blue Demon who took down the legendary Whit Allgood. Waiting and watching as he high-fives his team and does handstands. When he finally removes his helmet, the plastic reflects the light onto his face and a little shiver runs through me.

  Heath.

  He looks up into the stands and I wave tentatively at him. Heath pumps his helmet in the air a few times, then cups his hands to yell something.

  I freeze. He’s saying my name. Screaming it like it’s some sort of tribute.

  His dark hair falls back from his face in disheveled waves, shiny with sweat, and the flush of exercise is still in his cheeks. He’s smiling at me in the sly way that makes me feel that scary spark. I look at all the girls drooling at the sight of him and I can’t believe it’s me he wants.

  But I can sense Mrs. Highsmith’s tight-lipped smile on me, too, and my parents’ confusion, and I feel suddenly embarrassed. Then I see Byron and Whit across the field, looking at us, and I feel…

  Well, like a traitor.

  Chapter 11

  Whit

  WELL, that WAS a new experience. I sit on one of the sideline benches in a fog, still kind of in awe. Where did that guy even come from?

  Byron sits down next to me. “Hey, Whit. Rough game today, huh?”

  I shake my head. “Not sure what happened out there.”

  “You’ll like this better—I promise.” He plops a manila file into my lap.

  “Yeah, sure, Byron.” I toss the folder aside as I pull off the heavy padding. I’ve just lost the biggest game of my life, and this is his idea of empathizing?

  “You’ll find it interesting, no doubt.” Byron glances toward the bleachers. “It’s an investigative file on that guy Wisty’s—” He sits up suddenly. “No. Oh, no.”

  I follow Byron’s gaze toward my family, coming down the stands toward me, and when I see them together, my heart breaks a little, too.

  Of course, it had to be Heath under that helmet.

  “He’s New Order, Whit,” Byron says, looking devastated.

  “What? Like, currently?”

  “It’s all in the file,” he says, walking toward the bleachers. “I gotta tell her.”

  But Wisty’s making a sudden left turn away from me. “Wist!” I yell after her, but she doesn’t stop. Every time this guy shows up, doing his swagger routine, she’s weird and upset for hours afterward. And now he’s N.O. I open the file. Or former N.O.?

  I’m putting a stop to this right now.

  “Hey, Demon!” I yell across the field toward the guy who’s still reveling in victory with his teammates.

  Heath turns and grins at my choice of address, and I signal him over.

  “Hey, man, good game,” he says in this superfriendly tone. I look down at Heath’s offer to shake hands and back up at his face.

  That’s not going to happen.

  Instead, I reach for my gear—pads and bands and guards—and start shoveling it into my gym bag.

  “You’re really not going to shake my hand?” He manages to look wounded, enjoying himself in front of the onlookers around us. “You can’t respect a guy for playing well?”

  “I respect your game.” That’s definitely the truth. I actually feel a weird sense of relief now that I don’t have to maintain that perfect record. “We both know you played way better than well. You wiped the field with me.”

  Heath smiles. “Humble, aren’t we?”

  I shrug. “There’s always going to be someone better out there.”

  “Wanna bet?” Then he really smiles, all shark’s bite, and a tuft of jet-black hair falls over his forehead.

  “Humble, aren’t we?” I counter, sitting on the bench to lace up my shoes.

  “I could’ve killed you out there today. What’s there to be humble about?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” I look up at him, not sure if it’s a threat. “This isn’t about the game.”

  He grins, amused, and I fix him with a level look.

  “Why are you still talking to Wisty?”

  He laughs, so sure of himself. So certain life is all a joke. “O-ho. Another big brother chat. Maybe you should ask her why she’s still talking to me.”

  I clench my teeth together.

  “I know who you are.” I stare at him, detecting the slightest falter in his gaze, like a shadow crossing as ice blue darkens to steel.

  But when he leans toward me, he’s all confidence. “I know who you are, too,” Heath whispers, and his eyes flicker mockingly. “But I don’t really see where you’re going with this….”

  “I know you’re lying. You were a New Order Youth Brigade leader with a different name. Byron Swain showed me your records.”

  “Byron,” Heath groans. “Is that pup still nipping at Wisty’s heels and whining for my scraps? The One would say that dog needs a stun gun to the groin.”

  I glare at Heath, remembering Byron’s heartbroken face.

  “Hey, just kidding—no need for the silent treatment,” he says, picking up the file and flipping through it with casual indifference. “Tell Mr. Swain that in case he wasn’t aware, the Council pardoned all former New Order Youth yesterday.” He opens the folder then, shrugging as the pages take flight and scatter in the wind. “But you knew that, didn’t you? Since you and Wisty sit on the Council?”

  “The Council votes for the good of the City. We’re talking about what’s good for my sister.”

  “Well, fair ruler, that seems a bit hypocritical, if you ask me.”

  I look him in the eye. “I didn’t.”

  “Fair enough.” He shrugs. “I don’t think Wisty asked you what you thought about me, either.” Heath starts to walk away, still smirking, but when he turns around suddenly, I’m surprised by his intense expression and blazing eyes.

  “You don’t know anything about me, because you don’t want to know,” he says, and for the first time, Heath seems sincere, almost emotional. “I never lied about the Youth Brigade. The One,” he spits, nearly choking on the word, “killed my father. Then, like practically everyone else in this City, I had no choice but to join his service.” Heath picks up his shining blue helmet from the bench and rubs at a scuff mark. “Maybe I just wanted a fresh start, for once.” He sighs. “I hope that satisfies your little background check.
”

  He gets about five paces before the guilt sets in.

  Nice going, Whit.

  Here I’m ready to write this guy off as a soulless faker, and he ends up being another kid damaged by the system who’s just trying to stay afloat.

  “Hey,” I call after him.

  He turns, his gaze accusatory.

  “Listen,” I offer, “I’m sorry about your father. I’ll think about what you said, okay?”

  Heath shrugs, the mask of amusement creeping back into his eyes. “Does this little heart-to-heart mean we get to be buddies now and throw the ball around again sometime? Because I can’t wait.”

  Chapter 12

  Whit

  THE SKY OVERHEAD is darkening with the threat of rain, but the clouds inside my head feel stormiest of all.

  The bleachers cleared out long ago, so the touch of a hand on my shoulder takes me by surprise.

  “You okay?” Janine asks, her eyebrows crinkled with concern.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I force a smile. The field is where I’ve always been able to let go of my anxiety, but with this loss today, my stress over the Council, the missing kids, Heath, Wisty… it’s all just been building. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

  Janine shrugs as if to say, Of course I waited. She’s hugging her bare arms to her chest, and her hair is damp. I hadn’t even realized it was raining.

  “You must be freezing,” I say, standing. “Here.” I hold out my jacket.

  Janine tilts her head to the side. “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”

  “Oh. Um.” I shift uncomfortably. “You were just shivering, so…”

  But Janine smiles and pulls my jacket over her bare shoulders anyway. “I just meant that everyone expects you to play the hero all the time, and you don’t have to do that with me, okay?” She looks me in the eye. “You can be real.”

  “Great. Then if you wouldn’t mind carrying this…” I lift up my gym bag.