Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [4]
“Freeze, wizard,” his adolescent voice cracks. “One more step and I blow you from here to the next dimension.” It’s like he’s been rehearsing his lines on action figures.
“I’ve been to the next dimension, actually,” I quip. “The Shadowland’s not so bad.” Even with my hurt hand, I could easily deck him, if I could just get a few steps closer.
At my nonchalance, his expression changes to one of sour insolence. He evidently decides to up the ante. “Or I could just kill her instead,” he says, swinging the gun toward Wisty. “They might even give me a medal.”
They wouldn’t. They’d be furious that he destroyed the potential of so much power, and probably execute him on the spot. I don’t say this, though; the eager way he’s fingering the trigger has my attention.
“Hey, now. No need to overreact,” I say, putting my hands up. “Let’s all just remain calm.” I try to keep my voice even.
Boy soldier, brainwashed. When the first kill still feels like a game, when it still seems as if the victim will sit up afterward and ask to play again.
But Wisty won’t.
Silence hangs thick between us as the kid debates between his conscience and his pride. I already know which will win, which always wins. His eyes narrow on the mark, his finger tightening. I start to sweat, ready to leap in front of my sister.
But before I get that far, his eyes flutter — and he crumples to the ground.
I let out a long breath. What just happened? Did my power suddenly flare up and go rogue? Did I have a perfectly targeted spasm of some kind?
No. Something had nailed him in the back of the head. I spot an object rolling to a stop nearby. A snow globe?
In the entryway behind him is that same big-eyed, grim-faced little girl who was watching me in the square. She looks fierce, her tiny mouth twisting in annoyance.
The expression kind of reminds me of Wisty at the height of her frustration with me. The girl is standing outside the door, beckoning me into the alleyway.
“You just gonna gawk at me, wizard boy? I’ve got more where that came from, if you need a little nap.”
Chapter 3
Whit
“YOU HAVE TWO choices,” the pint-size vigilante professes.
I look at her warily. There’s no telling if she’s really on my side. They’ve used kids to get to us before, and there are almost no rebels left in the capital. There’s a reward for our capture, no doubt; maybe she’s got dark motives.
She’s filthy and bone-thin, but she’s got this strangely confident expression. And — weirder — she’s wearing antlers.
Then it sinks in: the Holiday.
In my panic I must’ve missed the details. Though celebrating the Holiday is forbidden under pain of death, I now see hints of it everywhere as I glance out the window: ribbons clipped to New Order flags, candles winking from windowsills, and the kind of ice sculptures that Wisty and Mom went nuts for — only these are shimmering tributes to The One.
“You have two choices,” the little girl repeats impatiently. “And they are your choices, and yours alone.”
She’s got her hands on her hips, her round, silvery eyes glaring out of her tiny face. She’s probably around seven or eight, but her eyes look way older, like those of the wizened elves Wisty and I used to read about in the Necklace King series — back when we got a kick out of fantasy books and didn’t know we actually had magical powers.
“You can either come with me or let the red-haired girl die. It’s no big thing for me,” the little fountain of goodwill says, like death is something she’s intimately familiar with, even bored by. “You should dump her and save yourself.” She eyes Wisty and frowns. “That’s what I’d do.”
Chapter 4
Whit
“PEARL MARIE NEEDERMAN,” she huffs, making no effort to shake hands. “My place isn’t far.”
Against my better judgment, I follow the kid out behind the building and duck into an alley roped off with a sign that reads: QUARANTINE ZONE. Still, dragging my dying sister back through the N.O. squaddie-packed capital square doesn’t exactly