James Patterson - The Gift

I tense up and dispatch all of my concentration and energy toward the torch. It takes more effort than I would have thought. But then the torch stops in midair, hovers, and then zooms straight back at the potbellied official. To my utter delight, his hair catches fire.

The crowd quickly goes silent, but we’re not done yet. I see Wisty staring at the book pile. And she closes her eyes and mutters something-I get only a brief snippet of it: something about kissing joy as it flies -and then the books’ pages start heaving up and down. Almost as if they’re breathing… alive.

The covers start flapping… like wings.

They’re flying! The books are flying!

They cascade up into the sky with a glorious rustling sound, like a thousand birds singing with new energy and life. They drift into the form of an enormous V, as you would see geese or swans doing, only of course there are tens of thousands of book-birds in this flock. And then these escaped prisoners-having narrowly dodged execution-start winging toward the setting sun, to the west. Just like us.

“They’re a protected species in Freeland,” says Wisty.

A GEYSER OF FLUTTERING shapes erupts out of the city ahead of Byron Swain and momentarily casts a shadow over him and his team of N.O. killers. Though calling them a “team�� is being too kind, or at the least is imprecise.

They had certainly been brainwashed to kill the person they had smelled on the broken drumstick that had been thrust into their cages. They were definitely powerful and fast. They had teeth designed for tearing through raw flesh, and they had long, untrimmed fingernails that looked and sliced like claws.

And they were just kids. Once human kids. Byron isn’t quite sure what they are now. Only that they are the best of the best at one thing: killing other kids.

He is certain that any one of them could take apart a full-grown adult in a single pounce. A whole pack of them set loose on one victim is utterly gratuitous, and The One knows it. It is as if he wants Wisty to be brought back in as many pieces as possible, Byron thinks bitterly.

His feral soldiers are always hungry and easily distracted by anything that moves-i.e., potential food. So when the strange flock of boxlike birds sweeps toward the horizon, the little freaks take off running.

“What the…?” Byron wonders, trying to make sense of the enormous cloud forming over the city.

Not birds, but… books? Flapping books?

There is only one explanation for such an outrageous sight. The One has the power to do it, but he would never set an entire library free.

Only Wisteria Allgood can. And she would, too.

“They’re close,” he whispers. At first his heart leaps at the thought. He can save her-it’s what he is meant to do.

And then it crashes again. There is no point in saving Wisty, really.

“They’re close!” he yells, this time to his crew, pointing ahead toward the majestic plume in the sky. “Find her!”

There is no hope for him or for this world, he knows-indeed, he knows so much more than the rest of the innocents in Freeland. So he will proceed with his plan.

Byron Swain and Wisteria Allgood will both die-together-at the hands and teeth of his own feral soldiers.

Byron hangs back a bit farther than usual. The young killers probably aren’t intelligent or experienced enough to notice, but he doesn’t want them to see him cry.

It’s just that… his heart aches so much.

Whit

ONE THING WISTY AND I learn about looking and feeling old is that it’s not only inconvenient but really problematic for prison escapees like us.

“What is up with this? I feel like I’m about ready to have a heart attack just from walking up this hill,” I pant when we get a few miles outside the town where we liberated the books. “Don’t tell me I’m gonna be this out of shape at age sixty-five. When will this spell wear off?”

“You’re already sounding like a grumpy old fart, Whit. If you can’t hack it, we can try some more sp -” Wisty breaks off when she’s interrupted by the world’s most terrifying screech.

And I do mean screech. A high-pitched, frenetic wail of something that I can describe only as murderous delight.

And they haven’t even begun the murdering part yet, I realize as I turn my head and see a swarm of hunched shapes scampering madly after us at an incredible speed. It’s pathetic that the millions of dollars spent on sports-car design seemingly can’t duplicate nature’s design for the insane charge of starving animals eyeing their prey.

“Run!” I grab Wisty’s arm, and we run-if you can call it running, that is.

You see, running just isn’t the same when you’re a senior citizen. There’s no way we can outpace these things, I’m thinking. They’re like greyhounds from hell.

“Oh my God, Whit! ” Wisty gasps as she realizes that our magic, which saved us in the last town, may actually end up being the death of us now.

The fearsome creatures let loose a terrifying group howl, and an electric shiver runs up my spine. I drag Wisty under an overpass and duck off the road, out of sight behind the rampart, but I know the creatures will be able to smell us at any moment.

“Okay, Wisty, I’ve got an idea.” I actually don’t have one. But I’ve got to figure something out this time. My sister’s way too freaked to focus her powers right now.

I peek around the rampart and see that the… strangely shaped humans? baboons?… are still a good quarter mile away. I also spot a figure gliding along behind them on one of those two-wheeled electric scooter things.

I recognize the stiff-backed, pompous posture immediately, even at this distance. “Byron!”

“What?” Wisty spits out in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“He’s behind this!” I hiss.

“Whit, you don’t know that. Last time we saw him, he saved us!”

“Correction: last time we saw him, he flushed us down the toilet.”

“But maybe he can help -”

“Wisty, we don’t have time to play guessing games. Okay?”

The howling is uncomfortably near, and I press Wisty hard against the wall of the overpass so we’re as flat and as far out of sight as possible. “Listen to me. We’re going to turn ourselves into birds. That’s our only hope. I can’t do it alone, but we can probably do it to -”

And that is as much as I get out of my mouth before the wall where we are hiding falls away. Wisty and I collapse with it, and everything goes mostly dark.

Whit

NEVER IN OUR ENDLESS days of fighting in the Overworld have Wisty and I accidentally fallen through a portal. I mean, usually they come and go, and when you get in, sometimes it’s like being sucked into an F5 tornado. And you can’t always be entirely sure where you’ll end up.

But this time, I know exactly where we are the second we get through the passageway. I know it from the cold. As if it’s coming from my own bones. In the Shadowland, you feel the chill deep inside you even before you feel it on your skin. That’s just one of the place’s many charms.

The next thing I notice is that we’ve returned to our regular teenage bodies. Maybe it’s hard for a spell to hold through different dimensions?