Witch and Wizard - James Patterson [4]
My parents. I thought they could protect us from anything. They were different from other parents… so smart, gentle, accepting, knowing… and I could tell at this moment that they knew something Whit and I didn’t.
They know what is going on. And they’re terrified of it, whatever it is.
“Mom… ?” I asked, staring hard into her eyes, trying to get any message I could, any signal about what I should do now.
As I looked at Mom, I had a flash, a collage of memories. She and Dad saying stuff like “You and Whit are special, honey. Really special. Sometimes people are afraid of those who are different. Being afraid makes them angry and unreasonable.” But all parents thought their kids were special, right? “I mean, you’re really special, Wisty,” Mom had said once, taking my chin in her palm. “Pay attention, dear.”
Then three more figures stepped forward from the shadows. Two of them had guns on their belts. This was really getting out of hand. Guns? Soldiers? In our house? In a free country? In the middle of the night? A school night, even.
“Wisteria Allgood?” As they moved into the light, I saw two men and…
Byron Swain?
Byron was a kid from my high school, a year older than I, a year younger than Whit. As far as I knew, we both hated his guts. Everyone did.
“What are you doing here, Swain?” Whit snarled. “Get out of our house.”
Byron. It was like his parents knew he’d turn out to be a snot, so they’d named him appropriately.
“Make me,” Byron said to Whit, then he gave a smarmy, oily smile, vividly bringing to life all the times I’d seen him in school and thought, What a total butt. He had slicked-back brown hair, perfectly combed, and cold hazel eyes. Like an iguana’s.
So this jerk extraordinaire was flanked by two commandos in dark uniforms, shiny black boots that came above their knees, and metal helmets. The entire world was turning upside down, with me in my ridiculous pink kitty jammies.
“What are you doing here?” I echoed Whit.
“Wisteria Allgood,” Byron monotoned like a bailiff, and pulled out an actual scroll of official-looking paper. “The New Order is taking you into custody until your trial. You are hereby accused of being a witch.”
My jaw dropped. “A witch? Are you nuts?” I shrieked.
Chapter 6
Wisty
THE TWO GOONS IN GRAY marched toward me. Instinctively I held up both my hands. Amazingly the New Order soldiers stopped in their tracks, and I felt a surge of strength—if only for a moment.
“Did we just go back in time?” I squealed. “Last I looked this was the twenty-first century, not the seventeenth!”
I narrowed my eyes. Another glance at that smarmy Byron Swain in his shiny boots spurred me on further. “You can’t just come in here, grabbing us—”
“Whitford Allgood,” Byron Swain rudely interrupted, continuing to read in an official tone from his scroll, “you are hereby accused of being a wizard. You will be held in custody until your trial.”
He smirked tauntingly at Whit, even though under normal circumstances my brother could have picked him up and wrung his neck like a chicken’s. I guess confidence isn’t hard to come by when you have armed soldiers at your beck and call.
“Wisty is right. This is utterly crazy!” my brother snapped. His face was flushed, his blue eyes shining with anger. “There’s no such thing as witches or wizards! Fairy tales are a load of crap. Who do you think you are, you creepy little weasel? A character from Gary Blotter and the Guild of Rejects?”
My parents looked horrified—but not actually surprised. So WTH?
I remembered slightly odd lessons my folks had given us throughout our childhood: about plants and herbs, and the weather—always the weather—and how to concentrate, how to focus. They also taught us a lot about artists we’d never study at school too, like Wiccan Trollack, De Glooming, and Frieda Halo. As I got older, I guess I thought my parents were maybe just being a little hippie-dippy or something. But I never really questioned this stuff. Was it all somehow related to tonight?
Byron looked at Whit calmly. “According