Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [31]
He leans forward and squeezes my skull even harder. My jaw is clenched tight enough to grind steel. I grasp at his fingers, frantically trying to rip them free, and I feel my legs buckle, my knees smashing into the hard ground. I wonder vaguely if other bodily functions have given way as well, but it’s a fleeting thought as my entire being is immersed in another explosion of anguish.
I have a hazy understanding that that awful sound — that shrieking, that brutal, animalistic howl echoing off the buildings and drowning out the waves from the harbor — must be coming from me.
How am I still alive?
With this realization, this glimmer of hope, I focus through the physical pain, somehow numb my senses, and concentrate every effort on shutting out the energy flowing into me, pushing away the blinding light, healing. But still the pain throbs, and I’m done for, I can feel it, the life leaking out of me, my systems shutting down, when …
Abruptly it stops. The pain. The dying. All of it.
Pearce screams, clutching his head as I had only moments before, and staggers backward, collapsing onto the ground in a dead faint.
At that instant, nausea overtakes me, and I spend a moment retching on the ground, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. When I can see straight again, I wipe off my mouth and sit up, trying to focus on my surroundings.
The giants are edging away from me with baffled, horrified looks on their faces, and my sister’s mouth hangs open, her expression a mixture of shock, concern, and victory. Tears are streaming down her face.
I’m nursing the worst migraine in the history of headaches, but I’ve still got enough brain matter left to understand this simple fact: for maybe the first time ever, Pearce’s skull trick didn’t work.
What does that mean? I wonder, right before I black out.
Chapter 31
Wisty
“WHIT? ARE YOU alive? Whit!” I’m shaking my brother’s shoulders violently, trying not to get hysterical while I’m alone with a dozen bewildered giants and two passed-out wizards. Whit’s fine, I tell myself. He looked okay, or relatively okay, right before his eyes rolled up into his head.
Wake up, wake up, wake up, I urge silently. Wake up before Pearce does.
I eye the handsome psychopath sprawled on the gravel. His hard features look softer, almost gentle, in his unconscious state.
Whether as a result of my telepathic begging or not, my totally ridiculous, irresponsible, admittedly awesome older brother finally stirs, his eyes fluttering open. I don’t know whether to hug him or smack him, but he’s not registering my shock/awe/relief anyway. He’s preoccupied with something else.
“Is that —?” He squints, looking past me.
I turn to see Mrs. Highsmith, our parents’ longtime friend, standing just behind me, looking grand in an extravagant hat and an impeccable bloodred silk suit.
The last time I saw her she was pressed up against her ceiling, being tortured by The One until her eyes bulged out of her head. Yet somehow I’m not surprised to see her now — she’s that kind of lady.
“You silly children! Out here without proper coats!” she scolds, seemingly unaware that Whit’s covered in blood, there’s an unconscious guy on the ground next to him, and we’re surrounded by confused, brawny bouncers. Is the dotty-old-witch persona an act? I have no idea; she likes to keep us guessing. “What would your mother think? And I’m supposed to be looking after you!”
She hasn’t exactly consistently lived up to that task so far in our sad tale, but I have to admit, she’s gotten us out of a couple of jams with some surprisingly powerful M, and I’d bet she’s got another few tricks up her designer sleeve. You know those teachers you think are totally kooky and weird but whom you actually learn the most from in the end? Well, I’m hoping that’s how this turns out.
Mrs. H. glances over at Pearce, who seems to be regaining consciousness. “Tsk-tsk,” she clucks. “I knew that one was a bad apple from the start. What a temper! I expect he’ll be a bit crabby when he wakes up, hmm?”
She squeezes our hands,