Witch and Wizard - James Patterson [9]
“Okay, so, the New Order. Politics,” said Whit. “What’s that got to do with us?”
“They’re the Law and they’re the Order, amigos. They’re The Ones who put us here, and they’re The Ones who decide what to do with us.”
“But why are they doing these unspeakable things to kids?” I spoke up again.
“Because we talk back? Because we’re hard to control? Because we have an imagination? Because we’re not brain-washed yet? Who knows? Why don’t you ask The One Who Judges… at your trial!”
I squished myself against the bars as hard as I could, trying to see through to Whit. “Trial? What trial?” I asked. “We’re going to trial? For what?”
Wham!
A guard had sneaked up, grabbed my arm through the bars, and twisted it the wrong way. “If you keep talking to the other prisoners, I’ll put you all in solitary!” he growled.
He gave my arm another hard, agonizing twist and laughed like some crazy old cartoon villain. I was so mad I wanted to tear the bars down and kick him in the throat—and all of a sudden an electric rush traveled up my body.
Uh-oh.
The next thing I knew, I was watching the guard through a sheet of flames. Flames that were coming from… me. Again.
“Agh!” the guard shouted as the sleeve and pants leg of his uniform caught fire. He ran and grabbed an extinguisher, spraying himself as a team of his buddies converged on my cell.
“Wisty!” Whit yelled. “Duck!”
I threw my hands up to cover my face as I was drenched with flame-smothering foam. Correction: Wisty-smothering foam. Then suddenly the flames were out and I looked like a flocked Christmas tree, a lemon-meringue pie, a red-haired zombie snowman, risen from the dead.
“No more tricks,” said the guard hoarsely. “You’re coming with me.”
Four New Order guards with bats and stun guns stomped in and grabbed my arms, hauling me out to the walkway. Four more creeps were opening Whit’s cell.
By the time the guards shoved us into a room marked INTERROGATION, I was ready to show The One Who Interrogates just why I had two weeks of detention racked up at my school.
But when the door opened, it was just that spud, Byron Swain, followed by a pair of guards. “Miss me?” he asked with a sickening grin.
Chapter 13
Whit
BYRON’S INSURANCE-SALESMAN HAIRCUT, colorful polo shirts, and ironed chinos—but most of all his know-it-all attitude—had marked him as a major kiss-up back at school. This close, his face looked pinched and mean, like that of a pet ferret with hall-monitor aspirations.
Tossing a folder on the metal table, he nodded to the two guards, and they stepped back against the wall.
“Have you been working out, Swain?” I asked, clenching my fists. “I mean, it doesn’t look it, but don’t you need to have at least six guards backing you up?”
Swain’s face flushed bright red. “We both know why you’re here,” he said, pacing. “Hmmm?”
The little twerp was trying to sound authoritative and manly, but his naturally whiny, nasal voice cracked through at the end of every sentence. His cold eyes didn’t leave my face. “The sooner you admit your secrets and tell us what we want to know, the better it will be for you and your freaky fire-breathing sister.”
“Got no idea what you’re talking about, skippy,” I said.
His weaselly eyes narrowed. Suddenly he leaned on the table, getting nose-to-nose with me.
“You can back off the drama-queen performance, okay?” I told him.
“Are you two miscreants protecting someone?!” he snapped, ignoring my taunts. “Well, they’re certainly not protecting you. Your good friends have already told us everything we need to know. We’re aware of your drinking problems, Whitford. And we hardly need corroboration of your sister’s pyromaniac tendencies. But those are just the license plates on the truckload of information your ‘friends’ delivered up. It was beautiful. I mean, a handful of marbles couldn’t have rolled any easier.”
“That right?” I said. “Like, they told you where