Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [11]
I flip to a fresh page in my journal, and Murry Robinson’s words unfold on the page before me:
Though Death but seldom turns aside
From those he means to take,
He would not yet our hearts divide,
For love and pity’s sake.
I shut my eyes tightly, and a shudder goes through me as I imagine the blurred, skeletal image of Death pointing a spindly finger at Wisty, then turning away in defeat.
He looks more like The One, actually.
The anger builds within me until I’m shaking with all of the rage, pain, and frustration that comes from losing everything you love in the world. I say the poem over and over, my voice forceful and sure, and I hear Pearl chanting beside me, too, her words warped by tears for Ziggy and the others whom Death didn’t turn away from.
Energy surges through us into Wisty’s frail body, and the single lightbulb in the room flickers and shatters. My fingers burn with the spark of raw, healing power.
When the surge subsides, I peek at Wisty tentatively. I hold my breath, waiting to see the effects of my power, the color rushing into her cheeks, the familiar wry smile, her own magic emanating from her again. It has to have worked. I felt it.
But she’s not moving. I’m not even sure she’s breathing.
My pulse quickens. It’s like … she’s already gone. Pearl is looking at me with big, nervous eyes. What if whatever I just did actually killed Wisty instead of saved her?
And then, just as I’m ready to give up all hope, my sister’s eyelids flutter open.
I don’t know what I was expecting — lucidity, maybe? The magic hasn’t made Wisty shiny and new again, or even totally well, but still, something has changed. Her eyes are dazed and feverish, burning into mine.
And they’re no longer ringed with red.
“Wisty!” I shout, squeezing her way too roughly in a hug I can’t stop.
“Hi, Whit,” she chokes out. “I’m … okay.” Tears slip down her cheeks, and I’m nearly sobbing with relief myself. With that small effort, Wisty passes out, but sheer, unfiltered joy floods through my system anyway. Somehow I know she’s going to make it.
I have the power to heal. This is what it’s like to feel invincible.
Chapter 11
Wisty
IT’S COLD. SO, so cold.
I’m wrapped in blankets, but I’m as icy as a slab of beef hanging in a meat truck: chilled to the bone. The air tastes stale and recycled, but I can’t even seem to lift my head to get a better look at this room.
My vision is still a little blurry, but I’m suddenly aware of a figure next to me. I flinch, adrenaline rushing to my head as my body sends out the alert: Stranger. Dark, claustrophobic room. So many people want me dead. And where is my brother?
I squint to focus my eyes.
It’s just a kid, I realize with relief. Her eyes are glued to me, a little smile on her grimy face. She has this weird beauty to her, and for a second I think she might be an angel.
Then I see the glint of her knife.
I try to lurch away from her, but my body won’t obey. I feel paralyzed. I try to scream for help, but it comes out as a raspy, gurgling moan. The kid raises an amused eyebrow at me. I’m drugged, I think. She’s drugged me and is about to carve me up.
She moves toward me. Not knowing what else to do, I grip the covers with white-knuckle panic. A whimper escapes my lips.
“Relaaax,” the girl says, her round, gray eyes inches from my face. They’re almost hypnotic; I’m still afraid, but I find myself automatically calming down. She sits cross-legged next to me and starts whittling at splinters of wood, the edge of the knife catching the low light of the single candle. I try to slow the blood thundering into my brain, and after a minute she looks up.
“So, you’re finally awake. People were placing bets that you’d be dead before sunrise, you know,” she says matter-of-factly.
I stare at this morbid little girl, not sure at all what to make of her.
“When Whit brought you in, he said he didn’t know how much longer you’d last. But thanks to my help, you pulled through.”
“How —?” I cough, then start again. “How do you know my brother?