The Gift (5 page)

“You gonna open a soup kitchen next?” I say with a big smile.

“Maybe,” he says. “Why not?” And then my brother conjures up a big pot of hot tomato soup, with bowls and spoons, and just
the right amount for everybody.

Wisty

WITH THE HELP OF some spells that appear in Whit’s journal, we’re able to find our way back to Garfunkel’s department store, which thankfully
is only several miles away. But trying to dodge New Order surveillance with a stream of dirty, chattering kids in tow is no
picnic, let me tell you. I’m never becoming a camp counselor.

As we stride in, the first thing I notice from the back of the crowd—where I’m rounding up stray kids like a kindergarten
teacher’s aide—is Janine. She’s our most reliable Freeland icon after Margo. Her eyes light up brightly as she runs past the
empty cosmetics counters to welcome her hero.

My brother, Whit, that is. In case I haven’t mentioned this enough, a lot of girls adore Whit. Which, I guess, makes his faithfulness
to Celia kind of extra impressive.

“You
did
it!” Janine clutches him before he has a chance
to explain that these kids aren’t the ones we were
supposed
to rescue. “This is way beyond our expectations! We didn’t think —”

Whit gently pushes her away, pain in his eyes. “It’s not that simple, Janine.” Next, Feffer, our rescued hound, comes prancing
up, barking with excitement.

“Where’s Margo?” Sasha, our resident zealot, asks with confusion all over his face.

Oh God. They think we succeeded on our original mission. They don’t know…

And so, for the next fifteen minutes, utter devastation drowns the group as we explain the sordid outcome of the mission that
failed.

Margo was one of the original and most beloved Freeland leaders, one of the real rocks in our ever-changing existence. As
it turns out, those on the mission who had escaped got back to Freeland without witnessing her execution. And Garfunkel’s—whose
power mostly comes from an ingenious method of siphoning energy from perfume bottles—doesn’t have regular access to New Order
broadcasts. Actually, that’s probably a blessing.

“We were all just keeping vigil for your return,” Sasha says. “For
all
of you.”

Having to tell the story just tears me up all over again. And looking around at everyone makes it worse. The ragamuffin crew’s
light of hope seems extinguished. I’m even sorry for Sasha, whom I don’t particularly trust because he lied through his teeth
to us once. But he and Margo had
the same fire of resistance in their blood. They would do anything for the cause.

And Janine—well, she and Margo were like sisters. Her green eyes, which had shone so brightly for Whit, were glazed over with
shock and grief. Whit was stroking her hair comfortingly. Finally, she buried her head in the crook of his neck. “We grew
up together,” she moaned. “Best friends since preschool, you believe that?”

“Sure I do,” whispers Whit. “Everybody loved Margo.”

Emmet, my best bud here, comes over to me and puts his arm around me. Normally it would make me beyond happy—because, let’s
face it, Emmet is extremely wicked cute—but right now, strangely, it almost annoys me.

I’ve had it with falling apart. If Margo walked in here right now, she would probably revolt against all this pitiful weeping
and feeling sorry for her.

A revolt. Not a bad idea actually.

“Look!” I say, sliding away from Emmet’s arm and climbing on top of a glass makeup counter. “The hankie festival is over.
The last thing Margo would want is to see us sitting around moping.” Sasha nods. “We have to keep moving; we have to stay
ready. The New Order is just getting stronger.”

Jamilla, our “team mother” shaman, dries the tears on her cheeks. Even Feffer shows a little more of the steely glint she
usually has in her eyes.

“The One Who Is The One wants to crush our spirit!” I yell. “Would Margo have let her spirit be crushed?”

“No!” Sasha yells back. “Absolutely not.”

“The One Who Is The One wants us to stop, to turn ourselves in, to quit!” I shout. “Did Margo ever stop resisting?”

“No!”
a group of us says in unison.

“The One Who Is The One doesn’t want us to execute our next mission. And the one after that. Would Margo have told us to execute
our next mission?”

“Yes!”
Almost the whole room’s on board now.

Then Emmet—who’s looking maybe even cuter than usual—stands up with his fist in the air. The volume in the room grows, and
I’m definitely feeling giddy. Maybe there really is something to this leadership stuff.

But then something happens to let all the wind out of my sails.

The person I detest the most in the whole world has just entered the room.

Well, maybe not quite the
most.
But darn close.

Wisty

BYRON TRAITOR SUCK-UP P. Weasel Swain skulks into the room, bobbing his head like an animal trying to pick up a scent, and then makes a beeline for
me. Byron was a know-it-all snob in high school and then a New Order puppet who was complicit in our capture—and who, by the
way, I actually turned into a weasel once. He has supposedly left the N.O., but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.

“Hey, everybody!” he yells in his permanently annoying, ratty little voice. Then he climbs up next to me on the counter. I
should turn him back into a weasel so I can put him in a box, wrap it in duct tape, and mail it to the General Bowen State
Psychiatric Hospital.
Without
a supply of his icky hair product.

“I guess you haven’t heard the bad news, Byron,” Jamilla begins tentatively.

“Oh, indeed I have,” he says.
Who talks like that?
“Seen it with my own eyes.” Everyone gasps. “On this.”

He pulls out a top-of-the-line smartphone that he’s gotten from who knows where, swipes it a few times, then holds up the
device with the screen facing the group.

Oh God, it’s the Courtyard of Justice, where Margo’s hooded figure is seen kneeling before The One.

“Put it away,” I snap at him, reaching for the phone. “That’s a snuff film.”

“Absolutely not!” Byron shouts, tightening his grip. “They
need
to see it.”

“You are truly horrific!” I screech, practically clawing at his hands for it. But Byron, being weaselly, is an artful dodger,
and I have to attack him like a lioness to get my hands on the thing.

“Wisty,” Janine says out of the blue, steely and determined as she pulls away from Whit’s comforting arms. “He’s right. I
need to see it. What they did to her.”

I exchange a defeated glance with Whit and step to another counter so I don’t have to be so close to Weasel Boy. He holds
the phone up triumphantly, and though I try to turn away, I can’t.

In the most stomach-turning slow-motion replay I’ve ever seen, we watch Margo’s complete disintegration by The One Who Is
The One. Her hood, her clothes, the skin of her hands, her wonderful sneakers, turn gray for an instant and then she just
kind of comes apart, billowing away in a puff of crematory ash.

“You see,” he explains as the footage continues, “they want everyone to believe Wisty is dead. So, because of my connections
high up at the Ministry of Information—my father, to be precise—I was able to hack into their system and share some truth
with the world.”

I look closely. He’s evidently got his weaselly hands on a broadcast from Channel One Who Is The One—
and changed it.
The caption accompanying the footage now reads:
THE PERSON EXECUTED HERE WAS NOT WISTERIA ALLGOOD BUT AN INNOCENT GIRL NAMED MARGO. THIS WAS A MURDER.

The screen cuts back to the totally annoyed news anchor. “People of the New Order,” she says, “as you can see, a small group
of terrorists is attempting to undermine our broadcasts. Pay no attention to that absurd caption under the pictures. We are
getting unequivocal verification from the Office of Executions that the public enemy seen here is indeed
Wisteria Allgood.
”

Now Byron’s manipulated caption reads:
IF IT IS WISTERIA ALLGOOD, WHY IS SHE IN A HOOD SO WE CAN’T SEE HER FACE?

The newscaster puts her finger to her earpiece—clearly her producer or producers are urgently advising her about what to do
next.

“Citizens of the New Order,” she continues, “the Office of Executions wishes all to note that the single reason Wisteria Allgood
is in a hood is that witches cannot cast spells when they have hoods over their heads.”

Byron smiles smugly. Another caption appears under the newscaster:
LIAR! WE CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES.

Whit and I are speechless. My brother actually looks impressed with Byron’s efforts, while I’m thinking he just ruined my
chances of hiding from all the New Order–loving neighborhood snitches.

I launch another lioness attack, and Whit catches me just in time.

“Stay out of my life, you creep! Did it ever occur to you that I might be perfectly
happy
to be presumed dead?”

“I say way to go, Byron baby,” Sasha cuts in smoothly. “You looking to be our leader of the week anytime soon?”

“Over my dead body.” I glare at Sasha. He’d been referring to the Freeland tradition of appointing leaders for one week at
a time—to avoid the corruption that power usually brings.

“I highly recommend you get over it, Wisty,” says Mr. Patronizing. “You’re all lead characters in the New Order’s most wanted
primetime public-informant program. He’s now got photos of everybody from the raids—including Janine, Jamilla, Emmet, and
Sasha.”

Silence. Janine finally asks the question on everyone’s mind. “How…?”

“Those displays we see out on the streets in their part of the Overworld? They’re
two
-way. If you’re looking at one of his newscasts, chances are he’s looking at you, too.”

“That’s impossible,” Whit says, dismissing Byron’s idea.

“You doubt me? Then check
this
out,” he says. “Not only
is he all over the New Order broadcasts, he’s making his way into
our
transmissions. Look.”

Byron snaps a picture of himself with the phone. I grab it and look at the image. My jaw drops. In the picture, The One Who
Is The One’s face is
directly over Byron’s shoulder.

“It’s probably just proof that you’re a traitor,” I say, handing back the phone.

“Oh yeah?” snarls Byron. “Then why does it happen with
everybody?
” He turns and snaps a picture of Whit.

Whit takes the phone and looks at the photo of himself. And promptly turns white. He starts to shiver, and this little tic
he has in his left eye starts up.

“You
see?
” Byron squeals.

Whit shakes his head and passes the phone back to me. He’s shaking all over now; the facial tic is getting worse.

And I see why: it’s not The One Who Is The One in the photograph. It’s Celia.

The One has Celia.

Whit

MY TEMPLES ARE POUNDING, and the edges of my vision swirl. My heart feels as if it’s trying to climb up into my throat.
I have to find her.
Have to get back to the Shadowland. Need to be swallowed by Celia’s beautiful eyes, her hair, her scent. I have to
merge
with her at least one more time.