The Gift

Chapter 91

Wisty

We're dead quiet, Whit and I. There is just not much to say after you witness something as strange and horrible as what just happened in Mrs. Highsmith's apartment.

But then Whit is ever practical. "Let's get out of here before The One shows himself. Or sends his soldiers."

Too late. Sort of.

We don't even have a chance to get to the door before I hear an eerie and familiar song drifting in through the broken window. Notes that have forever burned themselves into my memory.

The Command Pipe. The Command Pipe of Byron Swain, to be exact.

I go to the window, ignoring Whit's cry of "Wisty! No! Stay away from there!"

Down on the City of Progress's unblemished sidewalk is a depressingly familiar crowd of feral freaks led by-quelle surprise-Mr. Untrustworthy himself.

But you know what? I also feel a wave of relief-completely out of my control, I might add-that Byron is alive. Go figure.

Whit's standing behind me protectively, then he leaps to the apartment entry to start barricading the door, just in case this ends in, you know, a little reprise of our last encounter with B. and his toothy, drooling friends.

"So, Wisty, I guess you didn't figure it all out yet," Byron says with little emotion. "If you'd done the right thing-if you'd been listening to what we've all been telling you-I might be able to help you right now. But you didn't. So I can't."

A note of anger enters his voice, and he glares at Whit, who's back by my side. "So now I'm afraid I have to do what Celia told me to do."

"What are you talking about, Swain?" yells Whit. "Don't you dare talk about Celia."

"When I chased you into the Shadowland, I met up with your old girlfriend. To be more exact, her people met up with my people." I remember the moment, and I know Whit does, too. "And I regret to inform you, lover boy, she's a Lost One now. She and her new friends were about to consume us-and that means she'd eat you, too."

I don't even need to look at Whit to feel the energy radiating off his body: he wants to launch himself out the window at Byron. "But that's impossible!" he screams.

"What's wrong with you, Byron?" I yell. "You act like you care about me, and then you lie, and threaten, and betray me every time we meet -"

"Lie? Wisty, tell me one good reason why I should lie. Tell me what I have to live for now."

I have to admit, I can't answer that one. Never could. Not even when Byron was in preschool with me.

"Prove to me that you spoke to Celia," Whit presses. "Prove it!"

"Okay, Whitford. I can do that. Tell me, does this line sound familiar? 'We only have a short time together. Let's not waste it.'"

Judging from the shade of gray my brother turns, he has heard those particular words before.

"Had a dream the other day, didn't you? And Celia wore a lot of perfume, right?"

I've seen fireplace ashes with more flesh color than Whit has right now.

"And you know why she was wearing so much perfume? It's because even in a dream, she stinks like a rotting zombie-the way all Lost Ones stink."

Whit is shaking his head in denial, or disgust, or horror. Or all of the above.

"But you know the irony here? She's not haunting you because she loves you. Or because she wants you back. No, she's after somebody else."

"What do you mean?" Whit asks.

"In fact, the deal she struck with me-the reason I was allowed to live and return here-was that she made me promise to bring her your sister. That's what this is all about, jockstrap."