I turn to find Whit in a similar state, only he’s holding his head with both hands and sobbing. There’s not much that’s worse than seeing your older brother cry. Except maybe seeing your parents that way.
I scramble over to him and hold him as he tells me what happened. It’s a pretty incoherent jumble, but one thing is clear: Celia said we had to turn ourselves in. Nice one, Celes. I’ll chew on that. First let’s go over your connection to the New Order one more time. How did you get up on the propaganda board?
“We’re not turning ourselves in,” I tell him dismissively. “It’s a video trick. The N.O. is getting desperate.”
“It’s BS!” he says indignantly, suddenly straightening. “I know it now. That wasn’t Celia talking. It couldn’t have been. We’re going to destroy this regime, and we can’t do it if we’re prisoners. Or dead.”
I pull myself up. “Wow,” I say, brushing the dust off. “Got knocked back by charging testosterone, there.”
Whit manages to laugh at my lame joke, then surprises me with a fake bull charge, shoulder to gut.
“Yeah! We’re gonna take ’em down!” he yells.
“Yee-ha!” a bunch of little voices shout. What now?
We turn and see the most ragamuffiny band of ragamuffins poking their heads out of the doorway of a boarded-up video-game store.
“Who are you?” I ask, wide-eyed. They’re clearly not so nervous that they don’t want to be seen, but not so trusting that they want to be in arm’s reach.
One little boy with an incredible burr-tangled mane of brown-blond hair steps forward.
“Are you guys regular people?” he asks. He can’t be much past the third grade.
“If you mean we’re not brainwashed by the New Order, yeah,” I say. “We’re not. Where are your parents?”
“They’re gone. We don’t know where. Taken.”
“Taken?”
“The soldiers put them in trucks and stole ’em away,” he says. Some of the smaller boys and girls start to rub tears from their eyes.
A flash of emotion crosses Whit’s face. Sympathy, empathy—call it what you will. My brother’s not exactly a softy, except when he ought to be. He takes off his knapsack and puts it on the ground in front of him, then rests his hands on it for a moment with his eyes closed.
And then—it’s the most surreal thing—a puppy and two kittens poke their heads out of the bag.
The children’s sorrow turns to wonder and laughter as the puppy and kittens scamper out of the bag. The kids who can’t get in to pet the animals are looking back at Whit with awe. Frankly, so am I. “Whoa!” I say.
Now he’s pulling back on his collar, and white doves are fluttering out of his shirt and up into the sky. And now—gross!—he sneezes and a cloud of yellow bees comes out of his nose and zooms up after the doves. The kids are laughing hysterically.
“Where’d you learn the parlor tricks?” I ask Whit. “Sweet. You’re becoming a rather charming wizard.”
He shrugs. “I thought I should do something nice for someone else for a change, instead of just worrying about us all of the time,” he says, and turns back to the merrymaking kids. “You guys want to come with us?” he offers.
Wow. The things that can happen when you black out for a few minutes. Suddenly my brother’s become Mr. Whitford Fountain-of-Charity Allgood, Esq.
“You gonna open a soup kitchen next?” I say with a big smile.
“Maybe,” he says. “Why not?” And then my brother conjures up a big pot of hot tomato soup, with bowls and spoons, and just the right amount for everybody.
Chapter 13
Wisty
WITH THE HELP OF some spells that appear in Whit’s journal, we’re able to find our way back to Garfunkel’s department store, which thankfully is only several miles away. But trying to dodge New Order surveillance with a stream of dirty, chattering kids in tow is no picnic, let me tell you. I’m never becoming a camp counselor.
As we stride in, the first thing I notice from the back of the crowd—where I’m rounding up stray kids like a kindergarten teacher’s aide—is Janine. She’s our most reliable Freeland icon after Margo. Her eyes light up brightly as she runs past the empty cosmetics counters to welcome her hero.
My brother, Whit, that is. In case I haven’t mentioned this enough, a lot of girls adore Whit. Which, I guess, makes his faithfulness to Celia kind of extra impressive.
“You did it!” Janine clutches him before he has a chance to explain that these kids aren’t the ones we were supposed to rescue. “This is way beyond our expectations! We didn’t think —”
Whit gently pushes her away, pain in his eyes. “It’s not that simple, Janine.” Next, Feffer, our rescued hound, comes prancing up, barking with excitement.
“Where’s Margo?” Sasha, our resident zealot, asks with confusion all over his face.
Oh God. They think we succeeded on our original mission. They don’t know…
And so, for the next fifteen minutes, utter devastation drowns the group as we explain the sordid outcome of the mission that failed.
Margo was one of the original and most beloved Freeland leaders, one of the real rocks in our ever-changing existence. As it turns out, those on the mission who had escaped got back to Freeland without witnessing her execution. And Garfunkel’s—whose power mostly comes from an ingenious method of siphoning energy from perfume bottles—doesn’t have regular access to New Order broadcasts. Actually, that’s probably a blessing.
“We were all just keeping vigil for your return,” Sasha says. “For all of you.”
Having to tell the story just tears me up all over again. And looking around at everyone makes it worse. The ragamuffin crew’s light of hope seems extinguished. I’m even sorry for Sasha, whom I don’t particularly trust because he lied through his teeth to us once. But he and Margo had the same fire of resistance in their blood. They would do anything for the cause.
And Janine—well, she and Margo were like sisters. Her green eyes, which had shone so brightly for Whit, were glazed over with shock and grief. Whit was stroking her hair comfortingly. Finally, she buried her head in the crook of his neck. “We grew up together,” she moaned. “Best friends since preschool, you believe that?”
“Sure I do,” whispers Whit. “Everybody loved Margo.”
Emmet, my best bud here, comes over to me and puts his arm around me. Normally it would make me beyond happy—because, let’s face it, Emmet is extremely wicked cute—but right now, strangely, it almost annoys me.
I’ve had it with falling apart. If Margo walked in here right now, she would probably revolt against all this pitiful weeping and feeling sorry for her.
A revolt. Not a bad idea actually.
“Look!” I say, sliding away from Emmet’s arm and climbing on top of a glass makeup counter. “The hankie festival is over. The last thing Margo would want is to see us sitting around moping.” Sasha nods. “We have to keep moving; we have to stay ready. The New Order is just getting stronger.”
Jamilla, our “team mother” shaman, dries the tears on her cheeks. Even Feffer shows a little more of the steely glint she usually has in her eyes.
“The One Who Is The One wants to crush our spirit!” I yell. “Would Margo have let her spirit be crushed?”
“No!” Sasha yells back. “Absolutely not.”
“The One Who Is The One wants us to stop, to turn ourselves in, to quit!” I shout. “Did Margo ever stop resisting?”
“No!” a group of us says in unison.
“The One Who Is The One doesn’t want us to execute our next mission. And the one after that. Would Margo have told us to execute our next mission?”
“Yes!” Almost the whole room’s on board now.
Then Emmet—who’s looking maybe even cuter than usual—stands up with his fist in the air. The volume in the room grows, and I’m definitely feeling giddy. Maybe there really is something to this leadership stuff.
But then something happens
to let all the wind out of my sails.
The person I detest the most in the whole world has just entered the room.
Well, maybe not quite the most. But darn close.
Chapter 14
Wisty
BYRON TRAITOR SUCK-UP P. Weasel Swain skulks into the room, bobbing his head like an animal trying to pick up a scent, and then makes a beeline for me. Byron was a know-it-all snob in high school and then a New Order puppet who was complicit in our capture—and who, by the way, I actually turned into a weasel once. He has supposedly left the N.O., but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.
“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.
Chapter 15
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.
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?