Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [58]
“In what way are we the same?” Anger creeps into my voice. “I could never do what you do.”
I look away from The One but only see his image reflected all around, and he takes a step closer, looming over me, his voice vibrating in my ears.
“Teachers, principals, your parents. They failed you. They never loved you, never appreciated the talent you possessed, never helped you hone it, grow it. Instead they wanted to squash it, kill it, to destroy you.”
I think of my mom threading her fingers through my hair, my dad rocking out with me to a song on the radio, giving me a hard time about grades but giving me the space to be creative. Loving me, letting me be a kid instead of a prophet. Trying to protect me from this life of greed. How did The One get all of his power? Ego. Persuasion. Indoctrination. And a serious grudge against humanity.
“No.” I shake my head, steeling my mind against The One’s brainwashing. “It’s you who’s been trying to destroy me. You.”
“Can’t you see, child?” he asks, his voice dripping with false tenderness. “I’ve only wanted to be a good father to you, to give you the encouragement I never had. I’m inviting you to sit beside me. Everything I have” — he stretches his arms wide, and a thousand mirrored arms seem to reach for me, closing in —“could all be yours. I’ve only been trying to help the world, Wisty, to make them see. We only have to cleanse it of the useless and the pitiful, and then we can start anew. Come, I’ll show you what you could have.”
I can’t even respond to that. One minute he’s talking about trying to help the world, and in the same breath he proposes genocidal “cleansing”? What a sociopath.
Still, as The One walks to the end of the hallway, his thin frame guiding me along the mirrors, I follow. I’m in too deep to turn back now.
I realize I’m holding my breath, and when he turns the doorknob and presses forward, the hallway fills with warm, dazzling light.
And when I see what’s inside that room, my head nearly explodes.
Chapter 63
Wisty
“NO … WAY,” I whisper. My eyes bug out of my head, and I’m so dazed you could knock me over with a breath — even if you weren’t The One.
Somehow, in this brick-and-mortar palace lies a door to a room that is infinite. It’s bigger than a ballroom, a foolball field, a mall. I cannot see the far end, and as I press my hand against the golden walls to test if they’re real (they are), my synapses are overloaded and my brain can process only one thought: Beauty.
On the walls and the floor, stacked in piles and leaning against corners, is everything that’s been taken away from us. I stumble forward, breathlessly trailing my fingers against harps, guitars, centuries-old paintings by true masters. Light seems to emanate from these objects, drawing me in. All the greatest art, the greatest books, the greatest films, the greatest music, is right here. Every last thing.
Well, almost.
The collection we saw in Mrs. Highsmith’s apartment was just a tiny fraction of what’s in this room. It must have been what she hid from him, what she salvaged. She needed to save it for the rest of the world when the iron grip of the New Order had eased.
The One steps beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts.
“This is the good life, child, the only life worth living.” He turns me toward him, holds my face in his hands, his thumbs pressing into my forehead, and I flinch. “You are superior. You should live a superior life. Look what you can share with me.” My eyes flit to the stacks of music, the amplifiers, the sleekest guitar I’ve ever seen.
His thumbs press harder, and his eyes are wild, desperate. “Just give me your Gift. Give it to me.”
Chapter 64
Wisty
AS HIS TECHNICOLOR eyes bore into mine, I finally see what he’s capable of. It’ll never end; it’ll never be enough. One man’s ego will leach all the life, all the beauty, from the whole world.
I think of all he’s promised me, every lie, but my mind latches