James Patterson - The Gift

“Actually, it’s lucky any of us -,” I start to say.

“Find her!” The speakers mounted in the plaza start vibrating with The One’s irate voice. “There’s another conspirator in the crowd! She has flaming-red hair! Close the courtyard exits. Capture her now! ”

Whit grabs a gray hat off a passing businessman and plunks it down on my head.

“Tuck your hair in, quick,” he says.

I’m doing just that when a policeman spots me. He’s a couple of dozen yards away.

Now he’s grabbing for the whistle at the end of a cord around his neck… and he’ll soon have the attention of every soldier in the plaza. Not to mention that of The One, whom I hate to mention.

But then a small black figure leaps up and knocks the policeman down flat on his rear.

Whit and I exchange looks of surprise. He says, “Did you just -?”

But before Whit can finish, the black figure-an old woman-is at our side. She presses into my hand a crumpled, gritty piece of paper. “Take it, take it!”

I swear she’s the weirdest-looking creature I’ve ever seen in my life, and yet I know her from somewhere.

“Who are -?”

She cuts me off. “Follow this. Go! I’m a friend. Run. Run. Don’t stop for a single breath, or it’s over. For all of us. Go! ”

Somehow she gets behind us, and then she delivers a kick to both of our butts. That sends us staggering into the surging crowd.

I immediately turn back… but there’s no sign of her.

“You heard her,” says Whit. “Go! Now! Go!”

Wisty

THE CRUMPLED, quintuple-folded paper the old woman had forced into my hand is a map. She said she was a friend, right? Besides, what better plan do we have? So Whit and I follow the map.

The dotted line on the dirty, handwritten piece of parchment leads us through the south side of the city. So far, so safe and alive.

“I can’t place her,” I muse as we hike outside the city’s perimeter toward a set of railroad tracks. “Was she… maybe one of Mom and Dad’s friends?”

Whit shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Any person willing to risk her life tackling a New Order policeman is a friend. A really good friend.”

Whit rips down a NOTICE from a loudspeaker post near the track and tears it into shreds. “By the way, when did you become a ‘leader of the Resistance’? ” he asks with a chuckle and a glint of his baby blues.

“Hey, if The One says it’s so…”

“Leave it to you to be launched into fame and fortune by a totalitarian thug.”

“Shut up!” I start chasing him down the track, laughing in spite of myself. “You’re just jealous!” And Whit starts pumping his arms into a sprint, back in football mode.

“No fair!” I call after him. He’s bigger and older, and of course he can run faster. A lot faster.

For just a few minutes, we let ourselves be kids again. A brother and sister racing along the train tracks. Pretending that one of their best friends hadn’t just been murdered, that they weren’t on the run from half the world.

With a burst of enthusiasm, maybe even fun, we run those last few miles to our destination-a little brick building that appears on the map with an X and the instruction: GO THROUGH SIGNAL HUT.

“You have keys? ” I yell to Whit, noting the chain and padlock on the door.

“You have spells? ” he calls back.

Oh yeah-that’s right. I’m a witch. And Whit’s a wizard.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember things like that when you’re busy running for your life. But I do have spells-and they do seem to occasionally work on chains and padlocks.

And pretty soon we’ve actually escaped from the fiends of the N.O.

For the moment anyway.

HE IS SURROUNDED BY a dozen or more famous works of art that he’s had confiscated-works by the likes of Pepe Pompano, Pondrian, Cezonne, Feynoir-the best of the best. All banned and forbidden. All his now.

“Bring me The One Who Commands The Hunt,” bellows The One. He can’t take much more of this incompetence, this stupidity, this repeated almost capturing of Wisteria Allgood and the very, very potent Gift that she possesses.

As if on cue, the hunt commander appears in the doorway, looking-despite his gray hair and middle-aged paunch-like a dim student who has just arrived for a midterm he hasn’t studied for.

“You failed to capture Wisteria Allgood. Is that correct? Is that true?”

The commander nervously clears his throat.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. He’s heard unsettling stories of citizens who have tried to defend themselves in similar situations with The One.

“And would you say today’s spectacle was anything short of a public relations disaster? I honestly want to hear your opinion.”

“Well, you did execute the other witch in a most decisive fashion, Your Excellency. The citizenry was uplifted by -”

“ She wasn’t a witch! She was just a friend of the witch. Actually she was bait for the real witch.”

“Well, but… still… she was a valued member of the Resistance, and your destruction of her was magnificent and uplifting to the public in its awe-inspir -”

“The One Who Makes Up The News is going to have her work cut out with tonight’s broadcast. Do you have any good ideas about that? How we explain that we executed Wisteria Allgood and then, moments later, we suddenly happened to be chasing another red-haired teenage witch through the city plaza? Be honest. Be forthright. Be quick.”

“Umm, well -”

“Silence!” yells The One in a stentorian voice that seems to make the building shake.

The next pause is deadly, truly deadly, and seems to suck all the air out of the room.

Now The One sighs and finally smiles, if you can call it that. “Well, I suppose it could have been worse.” His suddenly bright tone entirely belies the anger from just seconds before. “Tell me, Commander, do I recall that all you huntsmen enjoy cigars? I’m sure that’s correct. Is it correct?”

“Why, um, yes, thank you,” stammers the commander. He briefly wonders how he so suddenly has stumbled into his leader’s good graces. He accepts a very fine cigar. And then-a light.

“I’ve always been fascinated with fire, Commander… Have you? ”

But the soldier doesn’t have a chance to answer.

The glowing red ember at the tip of his cigar quickly expands. It runs up the entire length, then across the man’s face, over the back of his skull, and down his neck. Then the bright red, smoldering line races around and around his torso and arms, down to the tips of his toes-leaving the hunt commander, for the briefest moment, a statue of ash.

Then The One taps his cane lightly on the ground, and the gray powder collapses in a soft plume of smoke.

“You failed to capture Wisteria Allgood, and failure isn’t an option in this Brave New World.”

Whit

WOULD YOU THINK that I was completely mad if I told you that what saved us in that signal hut was a portal that sucked me and Wisty through several dimensions and hurled us back into our current hellish reality at a completely different location?

A year ago, I would’ve checked myself into a psych ward for that, but crazy is the new sane in a society defined by New Order nutjobs. FYI, a portal is one of these elusive spots where the fabric of this world is… soft. But stepping through one can be anything but. It can hurl you into an entirely different place, time, or dimension… or sometimes force you into places you’d rather not be. Violently.