The Gift (30 page)

“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.

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.

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!

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.”

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 build
ings 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!
”