James Patterson - The Gift

This time I get a response.

Only it’s not the response I’ve been aching for. It’s a terrible moan that makes my heart feel as if it’s been skewered by an icicle.

The moan trails off, and then there’s another one, even louder, closer.

Disaster. I’ve attracted the attention of Lost Ones-less-than-angelic humans who have been in the Shadowland so long that they’ve become like rotting souls. Like monsters, I suppose.

I turn and feel around for the way out. Where is the portal?

I can’t find it-there’s just this cold, damp fog everywhere.

They’re getting even closer. I can feel their cold and smell their mustiness. Think! Think! Think!

I definitely see something moving toward me. A dark shape in the fog-low, limping, searching. I spin a quarter turn to my left-and there’s another disturbance in the mist… or three… or six.

This could be the end for sure.

Another quarter turn-the portal’s got to be in front of me, or maybe just a bit to the left -

There-I can feel something, or…

Ooomf.

I’m on the ground. On my back. Without my breath. Then I hear fabric tearing. My shirt?

My eyes are open, but all I can make out are the terrible shapes, figures made of flesh but also smoke. A dozen cold hands are upon me, restraining me as if I’m on an operating table.

Am I on an operating table? What in God’s name do they want?

What is that snapping sound? That sensation in my shoulder? I feel as if my flesh is being pulled, pushed, torn, even. It doesn’t hurt, though. Am I too cold? Or in shock?

All I see for certain are wicked, broken, jagged teeth.

I tell myself not to, but I can’t help it: I scream. “Celia!” I wail, realizing this will probably be the last thing I’ll ever say. “I love you!”

They’ve pinned me down. They’re biting me. They’re eating me, aren’t they?

But then I hear a new noise through the fog. Can it be?

A bark!

“Feffer!” I shout. And the biting stops. Or, at least, it pauses. Do the Lost Ones sense the dog? Another piece of fresh meat for them?

I look at the gaping wraith faces as they cast glowing yellow eyes around for the source of the noise. One of them starts moaning again. I look into its shadow-planed face and I recognize who it is. I’m in shock.

Am I hallucinating, or is it the traitor of all traitors -Tall Jonathan?

Jonathan was a Freelander who’d betrayed one of our most important missions. Wisty almost died because of him. For a moment, it makes me almost happy to see him as a creature of ravenous evil.

“Jonathan?” I say, but then he’s retreated into the mist. There’s a frenzy of furious moaning and snarling to my left. Either Feffer’s on the attack or the poor dog is making her last stand. The next thing I know, a large brown shape is tugging at my tattered shirt.

“Feff!” I gasp as Jonathan resurfaces and lunges toward me again, along with a half dozen other horrifying shadow creatures who seem to be drooling.

I stagger after the fearless dog, and though I’ve never been more glad to be alive, I almost hesitate as Feffer plunges back through the portal.

Where is Celia?

Whit

IF YOU’VE EVER BEEN AWAKENED by a mysterious crash in the middle of the night, you know the sensation of adrenaline that was pumping through me the second I became conscious. My body’s horsepower was revving at about four hundred. I’m talking luxury sports car, here.

I’m not sure, but I guess that’s how Janine ended up on the floor next to me, flat on her back.

Apparently, she’d been putting bandages and wraps on my arm, and the sensation of the tight grip freaked me out. Reaction? I involuntarily flipped and pinned her to the floor.

Obviously Feffer must have saved me in the Shadowland, but that’s the last thing I remembered. Until right about now.

“Oh God,” I say. “Sorry, Janine. I thought you were a Lost One. That I was still in the Shadowland. Are you okay?”

“What, you think I can’t handle a takedown? I’m fine.” Janine props herself up on her hands. “You, on the other hand, are not.”

I glance at my arm. “This? It’ll heal.”

“Your arm might, sure. But…” Janine’s brow furrows. “There are other parts of you that are seriously hurt. Damaged, maybe beyond repair. Your heart, Whit.”

Totaled, I think. Decimated, even. I don’t argue with her on that score.

She goes back to her Nurse Janine routine with the wraps. “Everyone knows it’s a suicide mission to go to the Shadowland alone-at least not without a lot of experience or a trick to find your way back. Wisty and I are pretty upset with you. Do you know how much your sister loves you?”

“I’m fine.” This sounds hollow, even to me.

“Going on a suicide mission is not fine. We need you. I need you. Does that… mean anything to you?”

“It does. I swear it does, Janine. I’m sorry I’ve been so…” The word Celia had used escapes me now.

“Self-absorbed?” Janine finally smiles. “That’s okay. Happens to the best of us, I guess.”

“Celia told me to think about the bigger picture. But sometimes I can’t think of anything else… but her.” I know it’s not a great idea to say this in front of Janine.

But she doesn’t even flinch. “Tell me about it. About how you’re dealing with it, I mean.” She finishes with the wrap and levels her eyes at me.

“Well… I don’t really know how to talk about it, where to start. Celia disappeared back in our hometown, and suddenly there was this gaping hole in my chest. In my life. We did everything together, and then she was gone.”

Janine notices my journal nearby. “Maybe try to write about it, instead of talking.”

“Actually, I do. I’ve got…” Should I tell her? “A poem.” I laugh nervously. “It’s nothing. Dumb.”

“A poem?” Janine looks startled. “Can I… hear it?”

“Umm… I don’t think -”

“Please, Whit. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Okay,” I concede. “I guess. But you have to promise you won’t tell anybody -especially my sister. This is between us.”

“I swear,” she promises. I trust her more than anybody but Wisty. Janine is actually a very sweet person.

But still, I can’t believe I’m reading this to her.

Methought that joy and health alone could be

Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here.

And is it thus?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils

Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold…

We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more…

As I finish, Janine is gazing thoughtfully. I’m not sure if she likes it or hates it. But then I think I see that her eyes are damp.

“You okay?” I ask. I reach out and touch her arm. Her skin is soft, warm.

“It’s so… beautiful,” she says, wiping away a tear with her sleeve. “Not dumb at all. Definitely not dumb.”

And the next thing I know, Wisty’s stepping out from behind a clothing rack. “That’s a Lady Myron poem,” she says incredulously. “That is, if I’m recalling Ms. Magruder’s eighth-grade English class correctly.”

Wisty