James Patterson - The Gift

“Wisty,” he whispers urgently, but so quietly I’m convinced not even a bug planted right on his person could pick it up. Dang, he’s good. No wonder the guy’s practically a professional double agent. “I didn’t mean to alarm you with my note, but you had to know the truth, so you’d believe me when I tell you I can help. Probably.”

I don’t need to have night-vision goggles to sense the daggers flying from Wisty’s eyes. “Pardon me if I’m asking the obvious, B., but whose side are you on anyway? It’s, like, the last burning question I have before I die.”

“Okay, listen. I’ve figured out something incredible,” he goes on. “I believe that the times you’ve used your powers on me… have changed me. ”

“No kidding, Swain,” I hiss. “Get to the point, or get the H out of here.”

“Your magic… I think… it can sort of… rub off. I think I have some small degree of your power now that can rejoin with yours… and become… like, greater than the sum.”

Wisty pauses, trying to absorb this latest bizarre info dump. I expect her to drop a bomb, but she’s actually listening. “Like… maybe I’ve… given you a kind of… electrical charge?” I can’t believe she’s starting to regurgitate Onespeak.

“Maybe. I don’t quite know. Here, let me show you. Quick. I need both of you to take a hand-we need to be touching.”

“If this is just a ploy to hold my hand, B., you’re dead,” Wisty says.

“Concentrate on the food,” Byron orders. “Dream of what you want. Wisty, say something.”

“Um…” She whispers something under her breath, and I have a pretty good idea of what it might be.

I still can’t see anything, but in a matter of seconds, I smell something unmistakable. Cheeseburgers, onion rings, and-I think-black-and-white milk shakes. It’s strong enough to make my knees feel weak.

“How’d you do that?” I ask Byron.

“Remember the prophecies?” he says. “Have you ever wondered how an army of kids might possibly prevail against the New Order’s army of soldiers-with their guns, their tanks, planes, and ships? What I’ve started to understand at this place is that, unlike New Order soldiers, we’re overflowing with ideas and creativity and potential.”

Once again Wisty surprises me with how she seems to get where Byron is going. As much as she hates the guy, they do seem to have some weird connection. I felt it when they were onstage making music together. I’d never tell her that, though.

“The One Who Is The One is scared to death of us and our potential. Our energy. That’s what all the schools and prisons for kids are about.” Byron’s voice picks up volume with excitement, and he has to quiet himself down. “He wants to figure out how to steal it, which is what this place is for. Failing that, he wants to remove the threat.”

“How can you steal somebody’s potential?” I wonder aloud, not expecting an answer.

“That’s what he’s trying to figure out. He wants to unite with Wisty -”

“Ew,” my sister interjects. “Ew, ew, ew, ew!”

“Silence!” screams ERSA suddenly, and she’s sounding quite a bit more human-and stressed-out-than I’ve ever heard her. “If there is any more nonessential speech, you will spend the remainder of your time gagged and shackled!”

Wisty

BYRON IMMEDIATELY RELEASES his sweaty hand from mine. Or maybe it’s my hand that’s sweaty. After all, death is really close now. Really close.

“ERSA,” Byron calls out, proceeding from our dark dining corner to a slightly less dim area of the basement, “the condemned have requested use of a proper bathroom. One last time… before the execution. I’ve refused the request, but they’ve been insistent. What should I do?”

I’ve heard about last meals, but last potty breaks?

“They may not leave the basement,” says ERSA, but then I swear I hear her sigh. Can a machine sigh? “There is a toilet behind door B12. I will release it for five minutes.”

“Yes, ERSA. I’ll accompany the prisoners to make certain they’re…”

Byron trails off as a door in the wall clicks open. “Compliant.”

Next, Byron sweeps us into a room about the size of an old-fashioned telephone booth. “Quick. We need to hold hands,” he says.

“But I haven’t gone yet,” I protest. I actually do need to use the toilet. As you might imagine, I’d been avoiding crouching in a corner. With no toilet paper.

“You don’t have time to go. We need to use your magic ASAP.”

“And why would it be working now?” Whit asks. “We’ve been trying to use magic since we got here.”

“You saw what happened with the food. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but there’s something about the power that was transferred through Wisty to me, I think.” Great. I turn the guy into a weasel, and he gets the ego of a lion. “Maybe it’s like evolution. Each generation develops new characteristics to cope with new forces in nature -”

“Generation? Cripes, Byron, it’s not like we had a baby together -”

“Just be quiet and hold me, Wisty. This is serious.”

Talk about evolution… is this really Byron Swain coming to the rescue-again? He’s changed. He clutches my hand, and his feels warm and confident.

Byron turns to my brother. “Whit, do you believe me?”

“I hate to say it, but what choice do I have? Sure, Byron. Do what you can.”

“You two have nothing to lose. And neither do I-I’m dead regardless. Quickly now, look for a spell. Something about… water.”

Whit opens his journal and flips through a few pages. He finds an entry he likes.

Although you hide in the ebb and flow

Of the pale tide when the moon has set

And here’s the weirdest thing: the air is kind of hurting my lungs a little; it’s too dry or something -

The people of coming days will know

About the casting out of my net

Whit’s face-I don’t know how to describe it-it’s gotten pointy, and his lips seem oversize and -

And how you have leaped times out of mind

Over the little silver cords

Byron grabs the journal out of Whit’s hands, and I gasp. My brother’s skin has gone silvery, and something bizarre is going on with his neck. It’s as if he has… scales?

Byron finishes the spell:

And think that you were hard and unkind,

And blame you with many bitter words.

We’re turning into fish! What good will that do, ending up as fish on the bathroom floor?

Have I trusted Byron one too many times?

And why is he so huge all of a sudden?

Then there’s this unusual popping sound, and… the two of us are resting in Byron’s outstretched hands, looking up at his giant face.

We’ve apparently turned ourselves into guppies. And now we’re 100 percent relying on Byron to go find us a fish tank?

“Wisty,” Byron’s voice seems to boom inside my head. “I meant what I wrote. I love you. I know you think it’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. But I can’t help it. You’re everything I always wished I could be. Funny, relaxed, strong. Smart, rebellious, and you don’t care what others think-unless it’s your family. You know what’s important. You’re perfect.”

I’d love to say Thanks, B., but I’m seriously drying out here. My skin, my mouth, my gills … they’re all stinging like mad.

“You and Whit are on your own now,” he continues. “I know I won’t make it out of here alive. Not when The One finds out what I’ve done.”