Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [25]
A broad, almost garish smile plays across his face as he joins us on the second level and takes in the hordes of near-death children, and when his piercing blue eyes settle on mine, it’s as if ice water is flooding my veins.
I catch Whit’s eye. This morph isn’t going to last forever, and I sure as heck don’t want to be in a claustrophobic obstacle course of a room crawling with cops when I return to my usual, conspicuously redheaded self.
I start to pack up supplies as Whit whispers healing words to Jamilla, but sucking the plague out of so many kids has taken a lot out of him already, and I can see that his M is weak.
The soldiers are selecting beds to be wheeled into an armored truck.
“No!” the nurse protests as they begin to cart away a weak little girl who has already started to heal. She wails, and tears spring to the nurse’s eyes. “Have you no heart? These people are sick, dying. You can’t just snatch them up like rats to run your ‘tests’ on!”
“The One Who Is The One demands compliance.” The soldier with the clipboard cocks an eyebrow, his young face alight with cruelty. “Unless you’d like to go in her place?”
The nurse steps back, terrified, and the soldier laughs, high-pitched and haunting, and I’m reminded again of the hyena. “Thought not.”
Jamilla moans in pain.
“Whit,” I plead, “can’t you do something? We’re losing her.” Whit places his hands gently on her shoulders again and concentrates.
“It’s no use.” He sighs heavily after a minute. “She’s too far gone.”
The soldiers are getting closer, and our time is almost up.
“Jamilla,” I beg the dying girl. No response. “I know you can hang in there. You’re going to get out of here and see everyone you love again. Emmet, Janine …”
Her eyes snap open and bore into mine with terrifying intensity. She’s clutching at my arm with every bit of strength left in her frail body. “Janine …,” she croaks, “Janine is … lost …”
“What do you mean, lost?” Whit asks harshly, and I bite my lip.
“Whit, don’t. Just let her be —”
“Lost as in dead?” His voice cracks.
“Lost …,” Jamilla whispers, and then her grip on my arm slackens and her eyes flutter closed. I can’t believe this is happening. Another tragedy.
Whit shakes her shoulders, and I wince. “What do you mean? Where’s Janine? Come on —”
I swear my hands are starting to look younger, paler, and soon my fiery hair will be falling around my shoulders. Not now. Please, not now.
“Whit, we have to go.”
And then I feel the blond soldier’s cold, calm smile on me. It’s almost flirtatious, and I’m stunned by desire, then shame. But before I can sort out these strange emotions, Whit grabs my arm and we’re running, running, running, again.
Chapter 25
Wisty
“JANINE,” MY BROTHER huffs between breaths as we run near the icy gray harbor. “What Jamilla said. Lost. Can’t let her down …” He sprints ahead. “Gotta … find her.”
We’re finally headed for the steam pipe to see if we can gather clues about what might have happened to Janine and the rest of the Resistance kids, regardless of the risks. We’ve run through the now-inactive war zone where our old headquarters at Garfunkel’s used to be, past the bombed-out holes and craters scarring the streets. We’re nearly to the manhole that leads down to where we last saw our friends.
But when I see the angry, frustrated look on Whit’s face as he slows to a stop, my stomach knots up around my heart and I can’t help but imagine the worst.
But the reality is even worse than that.
Cold horror stops me in my tracks as I spot a crowd in the clearing, poking and jeering at two teenage girls tied to wooden posts. Stacks and stacks of kindling are piled at their feet.
They’re about to burn them alive.
“Please, we don’t —,” the one with the longer hair pleads, sobs choking through her words. “I swear, we’re not even real witches.” At this word the crowd goes wild, surging