The Gift

Chapter 48

Whit

I'VE BEEN HIT PRETTY HARD during a few N.O. attacks, but right now I feel like I've been ploughed into by a speeding truck. Wisty's on the floor looking spent, but then she hauls herself up. She's okay, thank God, but apparently still too dumbfounded by The One's completely absurd claims to say anything.

This is my chance. My one chance to find out what Celia was talking about. I just wish I'd had time to figure out how to broach the subject first with His Oneness.

"Um, excuse me?" I use the wall to help steady my body as I peel myself off the floor. "I have a question. Excuse me?"

Wisty and The One both stare at me as if I've just risen from the grave.

"I need to ask you about Celia Millet." Hearing her name aloud, here, in the Building of Buildings, feels so… ancient. From another time and place. So out of reach, despite how close she'd seemed just hours ago.

"Celia Millet?" He raises his eyebrows. He knows her name. But he pretends he doesn't. "I can't possibly keep track of all the pernicious children we've had to process through our retraining systems. I'm afraid I can't help you. Was she a"-he smiles condescendingly-"special friend?"

"You know exactly who she is. She told me to come here. To turn ourselves in-for our parents' sake." It's probably insane, I know, but I take a deep breath and say it. "We need to talk about a deal."

"Whit?" Wisty is agape, agog, astonished, every word you can think of for "in total disbelief." "Are you high?"

The One just laughs. And laughs, and laughs.

"Well," he says, finally recovering, "it looks like we have one boy suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and one girl with…" He chuckles again. "Developmental disabilities, of a sort. Thank heavens we rescued you before your conditions got any worse. It looks like both of you need a little… recuperation. And education."

I can't hear him. I shake my head. "I need to talk to you about Ce -"

He speaks right over me. "And it just so happens I have a new facility designed for just that purpose. I think you'll find it much more suitable than your last accommodations with us. Call it a spa, if you will. I'm sure your sister will enjoy it, at least."

He casts an amused eye at Wisty. "Perhaps they can even help you with your unfortunate-hair situation, Wisteria." Another nasty snicker. Wisty growls as if she's trying to turn into a werewolf. Whatever it is, it doesn't work.

"Listen." I finally collect enough energy to take a stride toward him. "I'll go to your stupid school or whatever if we can strike a deal."

"Ah, but you're going regardless, Whitford! First, though, I'll need to ask that you hand over any personal property-like that journal you have under your shirt."

He raises his snaky fingers at me, and the journal flies out from where it was tucked under my belt. And as the book zooms right into The One's grip, I find myself flying backward and slamming into the wall. Again. And it really hurts-again.

"There is no power in the pen and page anymore, my friend. Remember that. There is only power in energy. Now let's see what you have in here," he says, licking a finger dramatically and riffling through the pages. "Po-ems?" He starts to chortle. "And, oh my goodness, they're bad poems-listen to this one!" Out-out are the lights-out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

He laughs as if his sides are going to bust open. Unnaturally glittery tears spill down his cheeks. "That," he says, struggling to form words through his fit of amusement, "is the most pathetic, juvenile thing I've ever read!"

Wisty gives me a look that says she knows it's a poem by one of the most famous poets ever, the darkly inspired Edmund Talon Coe.

"Well, clearly you couldn't write your way out of a paper bag, so go ahead and keep it, you pathetic poetaster."

He flings the journal back at me. I make a perfect catch even though I'm still getting my wind back.

"And you," he says to Wisty. "Hand over the stick, my girl. I'd like to finish what your dear friend Eric, may he rest in peace, began."

Wisty goes gray at the mention of the drummer's name, and grayer when she tries to process The One's implication. She's already gripping the drumstick tucked in her back pocket, but her fingers fly open and the stick zips through the air and into his waiting hands. He considers it for a moment and then fakes a little one-handed riff.

"You look pretty natural," she says as her face clouds with anger. "What's your stage name again? The One Who Can't Get A Recording Contract?"

"You!" he screams. "Are… not… funny!" He takes the stick and breaks it in two, flinging the remains at her feet.

"Bully!" she yells, dropping to her knees.

"Tsk-tsk," he clucks. "I assure you that names will never hurt me, Wisteria. Now," he says, swiping the broken drumstick out of her hands before turning to leave, "somebody come and get these two ready for the school bus!"