Witch and Wizard - James Patterson [41]
“Sure, Michael,” I said, just to let him know we were listening closely. He sounded so much older than he looked. I was almost afraid to hear what had happened to him.
“The soldiers, all in black, their boots spit-shined, came for us that morning at the prison, and I believe the sun was already up. There were forty or more of us in this particular cell block. Ages, I’d say, between five and sixteen. Males and females. Many different hues, in terms of skin color, I mean. All ‘Extremely Dangerous.’
“They took us, marched us downstairs to a courtyard. There were only a couple of guards in the yard, so I don’t think they expected trouble from us. They didn’t get much, as we were too tired, too hungry—already broken, for the most part.
“There was this unbelievable wind, very much like a twister, and then this tall, bald man was right there in front of us. He smelled of almonds, I think.
“He never said a word, never identified himself, though I believe he may have been The One Who Is The One. He looked at us with such disdain, you know, like we were so far beneath him. Then he just… flicked his wrist. Just that. Flick.
“There was nothing left of us, except for smoke… and the smell of skin burning. He had… I don’t know… vaporized everyone. Then he was gone. And I was still there, like I am now. Don’t ask, don’t you dare ask. I have no idea why I was spared. I don’t even care anymore.”
Michael Clancy looked at Sasha. “There, I’ve told my story. Now please take them away.”
Chapter 66
Wisty
IT TOOK ME SEVERAL HOURS just to begin to get over Michael Clancy, to wrap my mind around what he had said.
Have you ever felt like your head was taking in so much new and tragic and complicated information that it was about to blow right off your shoulders? Take that feeling, and then eat something really disgusting that makes you want to throw up for hours, and you’ll be right about where I was at the moment.
Let’s review:
I, everyday ordinary Wisty, am a witch. Washboard-tummy Whit is a wizard. We don’t exactly know how to control our powers.
Whit and I were sentenced to death by an insidious individual named The One Who Is The One.
And my parents are wanted for treason. And we still have no idea where they are, or whether they are still alive.
We were tortured in a “ magic-dampening” prison. So possibly we’re more powerful than we even know.
A dead girl—who just happens to be the true love of my brother’s young life—showed up mysteriously and rescued us from prison.
I turned Byron Swain into a weasel. That, I’m very proud of.
The world is actually plural, not singular. Between the Shadowland, Freeland, Overworld, and Underworld, it’s hard not to lose count.
And one of those worlds is being run by a bunch of kids… from the manager’s desk in a semidemolished department store. It isn’t paradise, but at least it’s a place where freedom still reigns.
I am being asked to help orchestrate a prison raid that might save kids from being vaporized. But maybe not. Actually, it might get all of them killed.
Okay, so it was a lot to deal with, but sometimes a list can really help you get a handle on life. “One thing at a time” is one of the more helpful philosophies.
Next week was next week. Right now, number nine was what mattered to everyone around Whit and me.
But we were still hung up on number three.
Chapter 67
Wisty
“SO, ABOUT THIS RAID. It’s tomorrow?” I asked. “At the Overworld Prison? Do you know how the jail’s laid out? Not that I’m committing Whit or myself. I can’t do that.”
Janine quickly punched a few keys, and the computer screen showed a schematic of a building. Byron Hateful Tattling Rat-Faced Weasel Swain leaped from Feffer and scampered up my back to sit on my shoulder so he could see.
I spun my head his way. “Quit climbing on me, or I’ll switch on my flames and turn you into the world’s grossest shish kebab,” I told him. “That’s all we need now, a double-crossing weasel spy, telling the New Order all our plans.”
Byron slunk back down to the floor. “I won’t!” he protested, cringing.