James Patterson - The Gift

“Hey, everybody!” he yells in his permanently annoying, ratty little voice. Then he climbs up next to me on the counter. I should turn him back into a weasel so I can put him in a box, wrap it in duct tape, and mail it to the General Bowen State Psychiatric Hospital. Without a supply of his icky hair product.

“I guess you haven’t heard the bad news, Byron,” Jamilla begins tentatively.

“Oh, indeed I have,” he says. Who talks like that? “Seen it with my own eyes.” Everyone gasps. “On this.”

He pulls out a top-of-the-line smartphone that he’s gotten from who knows where, swipes it a few times, then holds up the device with the screen facing the group.

Oh God, it’s the Courtyard of Justice, where Margo’s hooded figure is seen kneeling before The One.

“Put it away,” I snap at him, reaching for the phone. “That’s a snuff film.”

“Absolutely not!” Byron shouts, tightening his grip. “They need to see it.”

“You are truly horrific!” I screech, practically clawing at his hands for it. But Byron, being weaselly, is an artful dodger, and I have to attack him like a lioness to get my hands on the thing.

“Wisty,” Janine says out of the blue, steely and determined as she pulls away from Whit’s comforting arms. “He’s right. I need to see it. What they did to her.”

I exchange a defeated glance with Whit and step to another counter so I don’t have to be so close to Weasel Boy. He holds the phone up triumphantly, and though I try to turn away, I can’t.

In the most stomach-turning slow-motion replay I’ve ever seen, we watch Margo’s complete disintegration by The One Who Is The One. Her hood, her clothes, the skin of her hands, her wonderful sneakers, turn gray for an instant and then she just kind of comes apart, billowing away in a puff of crematory ash.

“You see,” he explains as the footage continues, “they want everyone to believe Wisty is dead. So, because of my connections high up at the Ministry of Information-my father, to be precise-I was able to hack into their system and share some truth with the world.”

I look closely. He’s evidently got his weaselly hands on a broadcast from Channel One Who Is The One- and changed it. The caption accompanying the footage now reads: THE PERSON EXECUTED HERE WAS NOT WISTERIA ALLGOOD BUT AN INNOCENT GIRL NAMED MARGO. THIS WAS A MURDER.

The screen cuts back to the totally annoyed news anchor. “People of the New Order,” she says, “as you can see, a small group of terrorists is attempting to undermine our broadcasts. Pay no attention to that absurd caption under the pictures. We are getting unequivocal verification from the Office of Executions that the public enemy seen here is indeed Wisteria Allgood. ”

Now Byron’s manipulated caption reads: IF IT IS WISTERIA ALLGOOD, WHY IS SHE IN A HOOD SO WE CAN’T SEE HER FACE?

The newscaster puts her finger to her earpiece-clearly her producer or producers are urgently advising her about what to do next.

“Citizens of the New Order,” she continues, “the Office of Executions wishes all to note that the single reason Wisteria Allgood is in a hood is that witches cannot cast spells when they have hoods over their heads.”

Byron smiles smugly. Another caption appears under the newscaster: LIAR! WE CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES.

Whit and I are speechless. My brother actually looks impressed with Byron’s efforts, while I’m thinking he just ruined my chances of hiding from all the New Order-loving neighborhood snitches.

I launch another lioness attack, and Whit catches me just in time.

“Stay out of my life, you creep! Did it ever occur to you that I might be perfectly happy to be presumed dead?”

“I say way to go, Byron baby,” Sasha cuts in smoothly. “You looking to be our leader of the week anytime soon?”

“Over my dead body.” I glare at Sasha. He’d been referring to the Freeland tradition of appointing leaders for one week at a time-to avoid the corruption that power usually brings.

“I highly recommend you get over it, Wisty,” says Mr. Patronizing. “You’re all lead characters in the New Order’s most wanted primetime public-informant program. He’s now got photos of everybody from the raids-including Janine, Jamilla, Emmet, and Sasha.”

Silence. Janine finally asks the question on everyone’s mind. “How…?”

“Those displays we see out on the streets in their part of the Overworld? They’re two -way. If you’re looking at one of his newscasts, chances are he’s looking at you, too.”

“That’s impossible,” Whit says, dismissing Byron’s idea.

“You doubt me? Then check this out,” he says. “Not only is he all over the New Order broadcasts, he’s making his way into our transmissions. Look.”

Byron snaps a picture of himself with the phone. I grab it and look at the image. My jaw drops. In the picture, The One Who Is The One’s face is directly over Byron’s shoulder.

“It’s probably just proof that you’re a traitor,” I say, handing back the phone.

“Oh yeah?” snarls Byron. “Then why does it happen with everybody? ” He turns and snaps a picture of Whit.

Whit takes the phone and looks at the photo of himself. And promptly turns white. He starts to shiver, and this little tic he has in his left eye starts up.

“You see? ” Byron squeals.

Whit shakes his head and passes the phone back to me. He’s shaking all over now; the facial tic is getting worse.

And I see why: it’s not The One Who Is The One in the photograph. It’s Celia.

The One has Celia.

Whit

MY TEMPLES ARE POUNDING, and the edges of my vision swirl. My heart feels as if it’s trying to climb up into my throat. I have to find her. Have to get back to the Shadowland. Need to be swallowed by Celia’s beautiful eyes, her hair, her scent. I have to merge with her at least one more time.

I leave the phone in my sister’s hands, push through the others, and take off running toward the store’s loading dock. There’s a portal there, a portal I’ve promised Wisty I’d never take alone.

That’s unfortunate, but I need this-I need Celia. I have no free will in this matter.

I charge toward the portal wall at a sprint, figuring if it’s been closed off since I was last here, it will serve me right to run full-speed into brick and mortar, maybe knock some sense into me.

It gives, but traveling the portal is like swimming through stone. It feels like an impossible task to break through, but finally I’m soaking in the vaguely familiar, penetrating dark and cold of the Shadowland.

It’s an extraordinarily bizarre place between realities, full of wandering Half-lights-souls of the dead who are stuck here, who can sometimes find their way through to a world but who can’t stay for long. Like ghosts slipping in and out of purgatory, I think to myself.

“Celia!” I yell at the top of my voice. “Celia, it’s me! Whit! I’m right here.”

I want to be everywhere at once, to bridge the vastness and strangeness of this place in an instant. The problem is that keeping your bearings in the Shadowland is like getting oriented in the middle of an ocean on a bleak and foggy day. Without a GPS. Or a compass. And maybe with a bucket over your head.

I can’t allow myself to get lost. But I don’t know where to go. “Ce-li-a!” I turn and yell in another direction. Wandering away from the portal could be disastrous. I’ve never been here alone before. I’ve been warned against it.