The Gift

Chapter 65

Wisty

I pause and look at the falling snow, beautiful in kind of a fake way, and remember that time when nothing scared me. And now I'm not scared anymore of what's going to happen. I'm at peace.

"First of all, let it be known to the world-and to the Curves and Half-lights and Lost Ones and even the New Order zombies-that I'm a witch and proud of it.

"All of my powers, whatever they are, I hereby bequeath to my dearly beloved brother, Whitford P. Allgood, for as long as he gets to live. No one else. Period. I'd rather have a Lost One dismember me limb by limb than to have my powers extracted for the New Order."

"Aw, shucks, Sis," Whit says with mock modesty.

"I leave my drumstick, should it ever be found, to my mother. If no Allgoods survive me"-I shiver a little-"I leave it to Mrs. Highsmith. Rock on, very cool lady. Next, I leave my wig to Janine. You don't have a clue how beautiful you are, girl. I used to kind of gag on your crush on Whit -"

"Do I really need to write that?" Whit breaks in.

"Every word."

"Then slow down."

"Okay. So, Janine. After the part about gagging, write: Now I dream of you two getting married and having lots of little rebel babies together." Whit rolls his eyes. "Further, I leave my electric guitar to -"

"Wait a minute. You don't have an elec -"

"Shut up. Let me dream for a minute, okay?"

Whit nods.

"I leave my electric guitar to Sasha. I forgive you for lying to me 'cause now I really do understand why you did it. There's nothing more important than fighting these arrogant and obnoxious N.O. fiends. I'm sorry if I let you down in the end."

I'm feeling the melted snow seeping through my saturated sneakers now. Black toes, here I come. I curl them tightly back, as far away from the wet chill as possible.

"And Emmet. Man, I miss you already. You make everything better just by smiling. I wish I could leave you everything you deserve. A new world. Or, rather, the old world back. Instead… I leave you… my hair."

Whit starts to protest again, since I have no hair, but I give him another "shut up and keep writing" look.

"I hope you didn't trash it after the hack job. Apparently they're treating it like the Holy Grail now. It's the only part of me that'll be left after they vaporize me. Maybe if the world ever gets normal again, you can auction it off on uBay."

"To some rabid Wisty fan who'll pay a million beans for it," Whit suggests.

"As if -," I start.

"I know just the person who would," Whit says, and then the person Whit's thinking of shows his sorry, sad face in our sad, sorry space.

For all of his faults, Byron has absolutely flawless timing.