Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [67]
He nods vigorously but is still fighting back a sob. This is totally awkward.
“I will never let you down again, Wisty. I know I’ve said some things in the past, but … I just think you’re amazing, and you don’t know what it means to me to hear” — he sniffles —“to have your friendship, I mean. I swear that you can depend on my allegiance and expect the highest level of commitment in the future and —”
I put up a hand. “Okay, got it, Byron. No need to go overboard, just … c’mere.”
I let the flame extinguish for a second and hold my arms out tentatively for a totally platonic, not-weird-in-anyway, tiny hug of friendship. Byron practically leaps at me, squeezing me half to death and probably getting snot and tears and God knows what else in my hair.
Still, the whole thing is kind of heartwarming, and I can’t help being a bit relieved.
Chapter 72
Whit
WE, THE LIVING, are bloodied, weak, and struggling to breathe the air in this wretched place. But as we shuffle in a line through the crowds milling along the river — Sasha and Emmet, wounded but defiant, Ragan with his surviving young charge, Janine and I — we positively radiate life against this backdrop of dead.
Well, all of us except Celia. We follow her Half-light through the sea of spirits, to a group of more people I know — or knew. People from our town. People who might be able to help us locate my parents.
“Have you seen Benjamin and Eliza Allgood?” I ask no one in particular, trying to shift their focus. “Please — has anyone seen my parents?” I ask more forcefully.
“Whit!” Sasha waves me over to a stooped spirit.
The man is ancient, with papery skin. He’s draped in a flowing black robe. I don’t recognize him at first, but without warning he leans in and gives me a stiff, very cold hug. He smells sour, but there’s something else there, too: the faint smell of cinnamon.
Memories flood back to me as I realize that I know this man, too: it’s the old minister from the church that our parents used to take us to, when we were little kids, back when religion was legal. We stopped going when Wisty and I were pretty young, but it’s him, all right.
He mumbles something that I can’t understand, and I lean in closer, eager for direction.
“Can you bear it, son?” he croaks. “Can you bear to witness the truth?” Then he points a spindly finger. I hold my breath as I follow it with my eyes, and Celia grips one of my trembling hands, Janine the other.
My feet are carrying me forward before my brain even registers the scene. Down the banks of the River of Forever, there is a couple, a man and a woman, working their way through the crowds of people, lining them up, organizing them, comforting them.
“Mom! Dad!” I shout midstride. Their heads turn to look at me, and emotion rips through my chest.
It’s really them.
“Whit?” my mom gasps, her voice part hope, part anguish. I reach her first and swing her into a fierce embrace.
“Mom, I thought I’d never —” My voice breaks off. I have to stop talking or I’ll lose it.
She’s so, so thin. Emaciated. Her arms encircle me, but I can barely feel her. It’s as if I’m being hugged by a ghost.
But I can feel her. She has substance, even just a little, and the spark in her eyes burns so, so bright when she looks into mine.
A sob catches in my throat, and my whole body shudders as I grip my mother in my arms with every bit of my strength.
I’m not sure how long I’m clutching her before I spot a man behind her whom I hardly recognize. He’s aged a hundred years and seems shrunken, slight.
“Dad?” I whisper, unbelieving. I untangle myself from Mom’s arms and run to meet the man who has always been my rock, my solid ground. The man I thought I’d lost forever.
He grips me in a ferocious hug, and his arms are stronger than ever. Strong and solid.
I can feel both of my parents.
Which means … Are they dead or alive? I