Witch and Wizard - James Patterson [44]
Which is why the fork rose up off the table and zipped through the air—right at my face.
“Help!” I shrieked, throwing up my hands. “Somebody help me! Please!”
The fork struck the back of my hand, harder than I’d intended, actually. I screeched, which worked to perfect effect. The patrons of the diner broke into a full-voiced uproar of shock and disapproval.
“Why is she trying to hurt me?” I squealed. “How did she do that? That’s unnatural! She stabbed me with her fork! It flew!”
“Call Security Services!” someone got up and shouted. “She hurt that Star of Honor girl. She is a witch.”
“It’s not me, it’s her!” Mrs. Highsmith screamed again as the crowd moved toward her.
For the first time, I felt just the littlest, tiniest bit guilty about my powers.
I mean, maybe she was simply a helpless, grumpy old lady.
But I sure doubted it!
Chapter 71
Wisty
THE COUNTERMAN QUICKLY examined some kind of chart—like the ones normally posted for how to rescue a choking victim—and yelled, “Pin her arms tightly enough to cut off the circulation, then gag her so she can’t cast any more spells!”
Meanwhile we eased out the front door, casting nervous glances behind us at every single step. Sirens were wailing our way, racing closer and closer.
I could see Mrs. Highsmith pinned up against the plate-glass window, at least a dozen paper napkins wedged in her mouth as an impromptu gag. I actually felt sorry for her.
Then the old woman spied me watching. She stared at me balefully for a moment and then began to glow—like I had that time at the Hospital. I felt somewhat relieved. My instincts were right: she really was a witch.
Then she did the unexpected: I saw her wave one hand for us to go. Was she on our side?
It got even better. Her citizen attackers floated up in the air like life-size balloons. Then they were thrown back, away from her and her witch friends, cartwheeling and somersaulting into the depths of the diner, screeching, “Help us, help us!”
Keeping her eyes locked on me, she casually pulled the napkins from her mouth. Her friends continued to calmly munch their sandwiches and sip tea. Then it was the weirdest thing—she pointed with her right hand, but only the gnarled index finger and pinkie, like she was flashing me a sign.
Or maybe putting a curse on me? What was that all about?
And then she and her antique girlfriends disappeared. Poof, gone.
“A coven,” I whispered to Whit. “That was a coven of witches.”
Chapter 72
Whit
THE NIGHT OF the Mrs. Highsmith incident, we all slept in the Bed and Bath Department at Garfunkel’s, hoping we hadn’t been cursed and wouldn’t wake up as toads. Bet you didn’t know you could fit two teenagers, a large dog, and a traitorous weasel into one double bed. Of course, it helps if one of the kids floats a couple of feet above the mattress during her dream cycles.
Still, some of the king-size beds near us had as many as six or seven kids sleeping on them. There were hundreds of us in the store. On mattresses, in sleeping bags, on piles of couch cushions, rolled up in bedding and bath towels. It was like a counselor-free, postapocalyptic summer camp. The relief at being out of the Hospital and away from the Matron, the Visitor, Judge Ezekiel Unger, and the New Order’s nightmare regime made it all seem positively homey.
The next morning, I was looking at myself in a mirror outside the men’s dressing rooms. I’d found a set of free weights down in Sporting Goods and seen how much of a feeb I’d gotten to be in jail. I began working out again, building my strength, knowing I would need it eventually.
“Ahem.” A cough behind me made me jump. “Wizard Allgood.” It was Janine. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
As usual, cute as Janine was, she was as solemn-faced as a vice principal. The girl next to her, however, was grinning. She was maybe sixteen or seventeen, dark-skinned, on the short side, but probably weighed two hundred pounds.
“Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Jamilla. I’m the shaman.”
“The huh?” I said, shaking her hand anyway. I noticed how her