Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [16]
She’s absentmindedly combing her fingers through my hair as she talks, like I’ve seen her do with her children. I normally hate to have my hair touched, but it’s surprisingly soothing to feel her strong hands kneading my scalp. I feel safe.
“What about the hall? That’s where my family always heard the readings,” I say, tracing my hand along the neat braid she’s somehow made of my tangled strands.
“It’s gotten a lot worse lately,” Hewitt explains, walking up with Whit. He hands each of us a dessert plate heaped with pie. “They’re cracking down on anyone caught believing in any greater power other than his. After all those people were executed in the square last month, the hall is pretty much defunct.”
Mama May shakes her head and sets aside her pie slice untouched. “Besides, you can’t find anybody who’ll say a strong word against him anymore, let alone folks who want to pray for better days.” Her eyes are brimming.
Pearl tugs at her mother’s dingy dress. “Don’t cry, Mama. Look what God got us anyway — nothing but sickness and death. The One is the only being I can see who has any control in this world.” Mama May gasps at the forbidden name, but Pearl continues.
“Who knows anyway? Maybe The One is God.”
Chapter 17
“ISN’T SHE SOMETHING?” The One Who Is The One says to the man behind him, his eyes still locked on the small screen. “While others rot from the plague like sewer rats, still The Gift prevails.”
The One’s young protégé sighs and stalks across the room, his polished soldier’s boots echoing on the metal floor. He is tallish, no more than seventeen, and his straight-backed posture and sour, pursed lips hint at a strict upbringing among the very wealthy. His dazzlingly convincing smile and his straight white teeth make him a living poster for the clean, optimistic New Order. With white-blond hair combed severely back from his forehead, pale blue, almost clear eyes, and prominent cheekbones, he seems made of glass — sharp and colorless. Beautiful but hard. Cold. His name is Pearce.
Pearce surveys the rows upon rows of surveillance screens that light up the control tower, showing every corner of the compound. With a tap of his fingertip, The One can incinerate any of the children pictured. He often does so for sport on lazy afternoons.
But The One’s attention is focused on a different monitor now — one depicting a scene far across the capital.
Pearce peers over The One’s shoulder at the group of filthy-looking individuals passing around candles in a tiny, dank room. The girl is there, The One’s precious chosen one, standing among them.
Alive.
Pearce follows The One’s gaze to the fire roaring in the corner. “It’s barely a spark,” the soldier says with disdain.
“Ah, but the power of a single spark!” The One smiles, amused. “You didn’t find it so easy, as I recall,” he notes.
When Pearce remains bitterly silent, The One clears his throat. “I have to say, I’m growing a bit impatient at this point,” he says lightly, as if commenting on the weather or the civilian death toll. “Was I not clear when I said I wanted her captured?”
“The squad and the mutts are on their way,” Pearce replies with cool confidence.
The One presses his lips together. “Ah. So am I to understand that you employed demonstrably incompetent idiots to do a job that I brought you here specifically to do?”
Pearce runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. The trouble is, the thought of getting close to Wisty Allgood stirs intensely conflicting emotions in him — and he is not one accustomed to feeling much emotion at all.
“Couldn’t we just kill her?” Pearce suggests. The words are out before he can stop them. The One raises an eyebrow, and Pearce sees his grave blunder. “It would be easier, faster,” he explains quickly. “Without the existence of The Gift, there’s no threat. We’ll have all the power there is to have.”
The One stands up and stares down at Pearce as if seeing