Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [8]
An older man with a weathered face and a braid running down his back is leading some kind of vigil. These people, whoever they are, have lost someone. My heart aches for them; I know what loss feels like, too.
Believe me.
“Let’s not let them take everything from us yet, though.” The weathered man looks from face to face, eyes fierce. “Let’s sing for family. Let’s sing for hope.”
The crowd of filthy, gaunt survivors all hold hands, and there’s barely enough space in this tiny basement room to fit them all. The whole place is radiant with candlelight, and the broken glass dangling from the ceiling shimmers.
Then the singing starts up.
It’s low at first, and then, as more and more voices join in, the volume builds, like the vibrations of a bell or the mournful echo when you trace a finger along the lip of a glass. You feel it inside you.
It’s so beautiful, you almost have to turn away.
When I realize what they are singing, it’s like an arrow to my chest. “Silent, Silent.” Even buried under all this grief, I can see Dad’s expressive face mouthing the words over our heads on Holiday Eve, hear Mom’s sweet voice dancing along the verses. A sob catches in my throat as I hum along to the familiar melody, tears streaming down my cheeks.
I lock eyes with Whit across the room. He’s looking at me like his heart is breaking, like he’s saying good-bye. To me. I shake my head. No. No.
The candles are blurring again, I’m drowning in darkness.
Silent, silent.
But I’m not ready to go.
Not yet.
Chapter 7
Whit
I AWAKE DISORIENTED in cold, damp darkness, my body aching, my sister nowhere in sight. There are shadowy figures all around me, but I can’t make them out. Something jabs me in the ribs and I flip onto my feet, muscles tensed, ready to tear it to shreds. In the millisecond before I move to strike, there’s a hyena-like laugh, high and mocking.
“Ooooh,” a familiar young voice teases, “someone is a leetle bit jumpy this morning. Come on, wiz boy, let’s get going.” I make out Pearl Marie’s mop of ratty hair in the darkness, and yesterday comes flooding back to me. I must’ve passed out on a pile of rags.
“Go? Go where? It’s still dark out!” I groan. What with being a fugitive on the run from the most powerful being in the universe, rewatching our parents’ execution, and carrying my dying sister on my back through a maze of plague victims and trained wolves, I’ve been put through the wringer, physically and emotionally. I could sleep until next Holiday season.
“It’s half past quit-your-whining o’clock.” Pearl Marie is already crouched down, digging through the rags. “You’re fit to work, ain’t ya?” The tiny drill sergeant starts lobbing bedding at my head.
“Well, yeah, but —”
A moth-eaten sweater soars through the air. “Gotta” — warped sun hat to the gut —“pull your weight, like everybody else. Find a disguise.” I duck as a shredded blanket makes a beeline for my nose. Pearl stands up, hands on her hips. “Everyone knows your stupid face.”
“What about Wisty?” I protest. “I can’t just leave her —”
“No prob.” Pearl shrugs. “Mama May told me to stick close to the house and look after her.” I soften a bit at the mention of Mama May, remembering how much the Needermans are risking by taking us in, how dearly they’ll pay should they be found out. I owe them this.
I reluctantly start climbing into the crusty clothing. After a minute, I peek out from under my disguise of toga-like moldy blanket topped with a half-unraveled scarf as a face mask topped with a large sun hat. “Does it still look like me?”
“Big muscles? Small brain? Yep, I can definitely still tell it’s you under there.” Pearl frowns.
I sigh in frustration. It used to be so easy before. I could just morph a bit, take the form of an old man, a bird, almost anything I’d need to be … .
Wait a minute. Something is different. Pearl’s looking at me in wonder, and I feel