Whit frowns. “No offense, sis,” he says quietly, “but it’s not you I’m worried about.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “Well, see if I care the next time you nearly amputate a finger trying to cut carrots for a salad. See if I care when you—”
“Wisty, just listen,” Janine interrupts.
I’m so surprised by her tone (Janine’s nothing if not nice) that I shut up. And right away, I understand why my brother is freaking out.
They’re talking about Excision. The technical term, apparently, for submission.
I can barely believe it. That pompous blond maggot we elected Speaker of the Council is up there on the dais, calmly betraying everything I’ve ever believed in and counted on.
I don’t want to hear another word. I shoot up from my seat. “You mean submission,” I yell. “Don’t make it sound like you’re doing surgery on something malignant, like a tumor. What you’re talking about is stealing the essence of who we are.”
“Ms. Allgood—”
“Don’t Ms. Allgood me, Terry. And don’t you dare suggest I give up my powers. I saved this City with them!” I point my finger at him, and he flinches.
“Had you arrived on time, you might have heard the reasons—”
“Oh, I’ve heard all I need to hear of your so-called reasons. Assuming that I might use my powers wrongly is biased, bigoted, prejudiced, and illogical.”
“Also small-minded and unfair!” pipes up the kid who can turn into a dog.
“Right on, Fido,” I yell. By now I’m hovering six inches off the ground and giving off waves of heat. “Are you going to put us in ghettos the way Bloom did, Terrence?”
He offers me a smug, excruciating smile. “If you agree to Excision, Wisteria, then we won’t have to.”
People are shouting, but I’m not done. “Your job is to follow the will of the people, and people like me aren’t interested in submitting!”
Then, above the fray, I hear a familiar voice, and I turn to see Whit standing on the bench. Not hovering, like me. Just… standing. Like a regular person.
“I would like to say,” he yells. And when the room quiets, he lowers his voice. He always hated speaking in front of a crowd. Right now he’s strangely calm, though. Almost cold. He sets his jaw. “I would like to say that I will consider anything that serves the cause of uniting and strengthening our City.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
The room stays silent for another moment. And Whit slowly sits down.
“What?” I hiss, dropping down next to him. “What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said,” Whit says flatly. “I’ll consider it.”
I shove my finger into his chest. Hard. “Whit, I love you, but you’re talking like a perfect idiot.”
He gazes at me with exhausted eyes. “Am I, though? Isn’t it the opposite of idiotic to try to see both sides of an argument?”
“No,” I bark. “It’s not. Because you are a wizard. It’s the soul and spirit of you, Whit. Without your powers, you’re just another ex-jock! A former prom king whose best years are already behind him!” He flinches like I’ve just hit him.
I realize, belatedly, that everyone in the room is watching our little sibling spat. “Who brought down The One Who Is The One?” I yell. I’m not arguing with Whit now, I’m arguing with the whole room. “I did—with magic.”
Terrence’s voice lifts. “He was a wizard who wasn’t stopped in time. Excision, citizens, is a process that prevents crime before it happens.”
“He’s right,” someone calls.
“No,” I yell. “It prevents that which is extraordinary and wonderful. What makes life inspiring is energy, creativity, and magic—a bit of healthy, delightful chaos!”
I’m expecting to get a few hoots and cheers. But the room is strangely hushed.
“Chaos,” Terrence utters through clenched teeth, “is never delightful.”
“Oh, really?” I holler. “Are you sure?” And with that, I wave my arms above my head, close my eyes—
And turn everyone in the room into kittens.
It’s totally, completely hilarious to watch them pouncing on one another, chasing their tails, and leaping up to catch dust motes. Tell me they’re not having some nice, chaotic fun!
After an extremely satisfying minute of watching Kitty Terrence trip over his big white paws and then lick his own rear end, I turn them back into people.
“Tell me that wasn’t delightful,” I pronounce as I head for the door.
But before I exit, I turn around and look every member of the Council in the eye. “Think about it. If you had powers like mine, would you ever give them up?”
No one answers. They just gaze at me coldly.
“I didn’t think so.”
Someone grabs my arm as I leave, and I whirl around, ready to fight. But standing before me is a tall and unbelievably gorgeous stranger, a guy with dark hair and pale, almost golden eyes.
His full lips part to show perfect white teeth. “You’re the only one with any guts around here,” he says. His voice is almost a purr.
But I’m so mad I don’t care if he’s the hottest thing since the center of the earth. I yank my arm away and hiss, “You’re damn right.”
Chapter 9
Whit
BACK AT HOME, Janine unpins her hair so it falls in dark curls past her shoulders. On any other night, I’d steal up behind her, brush it away, and cover the back of her neck with a thousand kisses.
But I’m too upset now; I can’t stop thinking about what Terrence said. How he twisted his words to make magic sound as dangerous as a loaded gun. And how Wisty didn’t help matters by nearly setting the room on fire and turning everyone into kittens.
Janine pats the couch next to her. “Come sit,” she says. She props her feet on the old traveler’s trunk that serves as our coffee table. It’s battered and covered in old bumper stickers, but she claims to love it—maybe because it was my one contribution to the household. When we moved in together six months ago, the only other thing I brought was a suitcase of wrinkled clothes.
Oh, and the ghost of my dead first love, who still visits me sometimes from Shadowland. It takes a special girlfriend, like Janine, to be okay with that.
So I flop down next to her, and I try hard to be still. A moment later, though, I get up again in agitation. Sit down, get up, repeat. I’m like a human pogo stick.
Our powers are being demonized: how could this be happening—again ?
“Talk to me, Whit,” Janine urges.
I’m pacing the room now, clenching and unclenching my fists. “I want to be a good citizen. But do I have to be Excised to do it?”
“It seems like a lot of people think so,” Janine says.
“Wisty said I’d be nothing without my powers.”
Janine frowns. “That’s not true.”
I meet her lovely sage-green eyes. “But who am I with them? A demon? A menace?” I slam my hand against the wall in frustration. “I don’t want to be looked at like I’m some kind of enemy.”
“People fear what they don’t understand,” Janine says.
“But is it my fault they don’t get it? Am I supposed to suffer because of their ignorance?” I ask bitterly.
Janine bites her lip. She doesn’t answer. Maybe because she’s never felt the thrilling, electric surge of magic—or the crushing despair when it doesn’t work. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be awed by your own power.
She and I have been through so much evil together: we’ve dodged bombs, we’ve seen our friends murdered—and we’ve witnessed the triumph of good, too. Twice. Basically, we’ve been through the best and worst moments in our City’s history together.
So why does it feel like a gulf has opened up between us? Is it just me, or are magic folk and nonmagic folk suddenly on two different teams?
Then I shake my head, hard, like I can rattle these disturbing thoughts away. I’m being crazy. Of course Janine
and I are on the same side. We always have been, ever since we met in Resistance headquarters a few years ago.
I’m still pacing, and Janine is watching me with concern. She lets me do this for a few more minutes, and then she holds out her arms. “Come here,” she says. “Stay here.”
I finally collapse, exhausted by everything, onto the cushions. She traces her fingers along the palm of my hand, then kisses it. Her lips are as silky as rose petals.
Now her hands are running through my hair. Her touch is tender, thrilling.
“Poor Whit,” Janine says. “You look so beat. But I think I know what might help you.”
Considering I just heard my stomach rumble, I’m sure she’s going to say a bowl of chicken soup or something.
I start to tell her I’m not hungry. But she’s already standing up and pulling me into the hallway.
Not to the kitchen, though. To the bedroom.
“Trust me,” she says. “I’m a medical professional.”
And suddenly I’m ravenous. It’s just an appetite of an entirely different sort.
Chapter 10
Wisty
MAYBE I SHOULD have expected something like the whole Council fiasco. I mean, when has life ever been simple? Honestly I can hardly remember. Must have been when I was twelve or something—before I knew I was a witch, or my brother a wizard.
I decide to take a walk to blow off some steam. My cats come with me, meowing and waving their tails like furry flags. (They’re a lot better behaved than the Council kittens I created earlier tonight.) As much as I hate to admit it, I’m basically on my way to becoming a crazy cat lady these days. It wasn’t on purpose. But then again, does any woman wake up one morning and say to herself, Today I’m going to guarantee eternal singledom by acquiring five hundred cats?
I only have six cats, though, so maybe there’s still hope for me. First I rescued three kittens from a bombed-out apartment building, then a three-legged stray showed up on my doorstep, and then my parents’ cats, Pancho and Lefty, decided they wanted to move in, too. (My mom’s still not over it.)
“Hey, that’s her,” someone murmurs.
I don’t pay any attention, because I assume they’re talking about Nevada Manning, an actress who lives in this neighborhood with her sister, Belle.
“I saw her at the market,” says someone else. “She, like, flew. On a motorcycle. It was insane.”
Oh, wait: they’re talking about me? I pick up my pace. I can’t believe I’m being recognized. Being famous (or infamous, more like it) is definitely not something I bargained for when I made my first fumbling attempts at magic.
“Excuse me, uh, Wisteria?” the first girl calls.
But instead of answering her, I smile, wave, and quickly duck down a side street. I’m not sure if they were going to ask me for my autograph or call me a demon, but I guess I don’t really want to know.
Mittens, Puff, Tink, and Tux go crazy sniffing all the trash cans and stoops, while Pancho and Lefty, who are older and grumpier, hang back by my heels. I watch Mittens take a flying leap at a moth, and suddenly I’m struck by how much fun being a cat looks.
I wonder… Could I…?
The fact is, I’ve rarely used my powers for a romp. That’s probably because I’m usually trying to save someone with them (often, as it turns out, myself).
The urge is too strong to resist. I imagine my body shrinking, my fingers curling into tiny fuzzy toes, and whiskers sprouting from my nose. Immediately, I experience an uncomfortable feeling of contraction, of shriveling—and then the weird, prickling tingle of fur growing out of my skin.
A second later, I’m a cat. A black one, of course.
I dash away, and my own, real cats take up the playful chase. Together we cross the neighborhood by scooting along the tops of fences. My balance is perfect. And suddenly I can see all the degrees of darkness—how black is not one single color, but instead has a million subtle shades.
I spy a mouse in a clump of grass, a tiny quivering thing, and part of me wants to pounce on it. But I’m still Wisty—a human, a girl—and I don’t want to be picking fur out of my teeth.
Also: considering I don’t even like sushi, I’m definitely not going to dig raw mouse.
I skitter up a tree while my pets keep going down the sidewalk (they know their way home). I pause to think. What do I do next? What things come naturally to cats? Napping, shedding, sneaking into places they don’t belong…
And that’s when it comes to me. Sneaking into places they don’t belong: I’m going to creep my way into Terrence Rino’s apartment, and I’m going to shred his couch to pieces.
The idea’s so perfect that I don’t pause to consider the potential problems, such as: what happens if he’s home, or what if he has a cat-devouring dog, or what I should do if my spell suddenly wears off and I find myself scratching at a sofa with sorry, bitten-down fingernails that haven’t had a manicure since before time began.
Nope, I’m off and running, and I’m slipping in through Terrence’s door and unsheathing my needle-pointed claws before you can say “hairball.”
The first scratch is delicious. The soft fabric catches in my claws, and when I pull back, I can feel the threads breaking, one by one. Pulling harder, the weave begins to unravel and shred. In ten minutes I’ll have mutilated this couch beyond recognition.
I’m having so much fun with my art project that I don’t even hear Terrence come into the room.
“Aaaaagh!” he screams, and every single hair on my body stands straight up like I’ve been shocked.
I skitter toward the front door, but he blocks my way, his normally pale face purple with rage. He lunges at me, and the broom in his hands slams down an inch from my head.
The only way to escape is up the stairs. I make a mad dash up two twisting flights to the attic, and I leap to the nearest window ledge as I hear Terrence sprinting up behind me.
I slip through the gap between window and sill. Ten feet away is an elm tree, its branches offering shelter and safety.
I’m pretty sure I can make it.
I leap.
I feel my paws touch green leaves, and my claws come out. I’m scrabbling madly to catch the branch, to keep from plummeting—
Cats always land on their feet. Right?
Right?
That’s my only thought as I fall spinning through the air.
Chapter 11
Darrius
LAUGHTER, HE BELIEVES, is a sign of a feeble mind. But when Wisty, in the form of a cat, falls onto a pile of trash bags under the Council Speaker’s window, bounces off, and then zips away—well, he laughs for a long time about that.
Which for him is about five seconds.
He’s enjoyed spying on her today. Getting to know her. He likes what he’s seen very much. If he believed in having friends, Wisty could be one of them.
Barring, of course, their very different opinions on stealing, assault, and murder.
Invisible, he follows Wisty as she begins walking home. Returned to her human form, she’s got a slight limp from her fall. He can tell that she’s annoyed, that she hates to feel vulnerable. He understands: he used to feel the same way, before he became, for all intents and purposes, indestructible.
Darrius escorts Wisty all the way to her stoop, an unseen gentleman. Who says chivalry is dead?
He notes that she has four dead bolts on her front door. A nice attempt at safety, but when he wants in, he’ll get in.
He follows her up the steps. He’s so close to her now, he could reach out and touch her fragile white neck.
Suddenly she whips around, and he has to leap back. “Hello? Is someone there? If you are, come out and show yourself!”
It’s a very tempting invitation, but it’s time for him to go. After another moment, lovely Wisty goes inside and shuts the door.
Click, click, click, click go her useless locks.
An instant later, Darrius is all the way on the north end of town, where most of the bu
ildings are still bombed-out and vacant. Becoming visible again, he strides through the door of the Family’s headquarters.
It’s in an abandoned toy factory, still full of old assembly-line machines gathering dust. The décor is decidedly macabre: severed doll heads line the windowsills, and dismembered arms and legs—from dolls, teddy bears, and vintage superheroes—dangle from pieces of wire, like Holiday garlands in hell.
The factory floor is dotted with tents, makeshift walls, and pallets nailed together to make sheltering cubes. It’s a chaotic, indoor shantytown. Darrius could have housed his gang of thieves in an abandoned hotel, but this way everything’s visible to him at once: Sean, his deputy, berating a kid for coming home with empty pockets. Sam, the one who killed the theater girl, dozing on an ancient beanbag. Ellie cooking on a camp stove. Jake hanging up laundry.
The room suddenly hushes: they’ve realized Darrius is back. The kids, who range in age from seven to nearly twenty, all stop what they’re doing to press a fist to their sternums. It’s the Family greeting.
Darrius puts his fist to his chest and nods curtly. “As you were,” he says.
And then, rising from her place on a stolen couch, Sybil comes gliding toward him. She’s his… well, he wouldn’t go so far as to say girlfriend. Perhaps “companion” would be the best word. Or maybe “plaything.” She’s wearing a green silk dress, and her gold hair is coiled in an elaborate, twisting braid.
Sybil presses herself against his arm. “I missed you,” she says. “Where have you been all day?”
Instead of answering, he takes a drink of home-brewed wine that Sean offers him. It tastes bitter. Someone’s going to pay for that.
Sybil’s eyes narrow. Beauty is her primary magic, but she has supernaturally acute senses, too. “You’ve been with a girl,” she says sharply.
Still he says nothing.
“There’s someone else,” Sybil insists. “I can smell her on you.”
Darrius throws the wine to the ground. He pulls Sybil toward him and wraps his arms around her waist, kissing her deeply. Their lips generate heat, and she melts into his embrace. His hands caress the silkiness of her dress and skin.