Witch & Wizard (16 page)

Margo, who was a logic-police kind of gal, just shook her head in dismay.

I had to admit, looking at my handiwork—Whit in his guard uniform, a dead ringer for a guy in his thirties—that I was getting much better at my craft.

Not to mention that I’d managed to turn myself into
vermin.

I hadn’t realized how weeny mice were. I was now about the size of a large fig, covered everywhere with white-and-brown glossy fur. I had long white whiskers that tickled my face and ears that were hair-trigger twitchy.

I whipped my tail around my side and caught sight of it.
Okay,
that’s
pretty cool! Makes up for the embarrassing ear-twitch tic.

Whit showed me my reflection in his regulation New Order silver belt buckle, and I had to admit, I made a cute enough mouse, as far as mice go. And a very promising witch.

But then I looked up and down the street where we were, and my confidence flagged. Imagine, if you will, a fast-moving car tire that seemed the size of an elephant on steroids, or a lumbering human being the size of a rocket-ship. I never realized how traumatized your average mouse must be.
It may take me years of therapy to get over this….

“What time is it?” Emmet whispered.

“Five minutes to seven,” Margo answered. “We’ve got two blocks to go. Come on! This is it. Shift change.”

“Margo,” I said, “pick up my drumstick, and please, please, keep it safe.” She reached and grabbed the stick where it had fallen when I no longer had hands to hold it.

Next, I looked up at Whit. “Put me in your pocket,” I said.

I DIDN’T LIKE IT one bit inside Whit’s pocket, especially once he started to run. It was like being on a boat in a rough sea: up and down and up and down. Within a block I felt myself going green, and I half wondered if there was a spell I could mutter for mouse-size motion-sickness pills. It would not be cool to barf in my brother’s trousers.

“There’s the van with the new prisoners,” Whit said. “Same one we came in.”

“Hurry!”
Margo urged.

We sped up, the horrible rocking motion of Whit’s powerful stride making me moan and close my eyes.

Then he reached into his pocket and plucked me out so I could see. We had gotten to the prison gates just as the van pulled up and honked.

“Go,” Emmet told Whit. My brother tossed something into a wire trash can near the street corner. With a soft
floom,
the contents of the can turned into a giant fire.

“What’s that? What happened?” Whit cried, pointing at the trash.

Immediately the gate guards leaped into action, racing down the street, leaving the van and its driver for a precious moment. The driver entered a code on a pad, and the high metal gates began to open. Whit slipped inside, staying just out of the man’s view.

Once we were within the gates, my nose twitched uncontrollably. The odor seemed like it was piped in from the Hospital.

For a moment, I couldn’t bear the idea of facing it again. And then I remembered my parents and knew there was no turning back.

The driver opened the van doors, and a lot of scared kids slowly climbed out, looking around with saucer-wide eyes. A guard stepped out of the inner gatehouse, ready to process the new prisoners, some of them no more than five or six. I felt sick at the thought of what horrors were in store for these innocent kids.

Whit and I locked eyes—and yes, I swear that a mouse and a human can actually do this—and we each whispered the identical words that we’d practiced:

Sleep now, little ones,

Rest your heads and sleep.

The night will hold you in its arms,

And safely you will keep.

Our mother and father had sung this lullaby to us when we were little, and I hadn’t been able to remember a single thing past the last word because I’d always dropped like a stone into sleep when they’d finished. Whit and I were banking on the fact that they’d actually been using magic to put their totally wired kids to bed at night.

Okay, so it was a stretch.

And, sure enough,
nothing happened.

The guard and the driver talked nonchalantly and flipped papers on their clipboards, chatting, just another day incarcerating innocent children, la-di-da. Whit and I looked at each other, and I saw panic starting in his eyes.

Sleep, you goons, sleep!
I thought desperately, wishing I had my drumstick and hoping I wasn’t going to end up as mouse paste in the next few seconds.

The gates slammed shut behind us, our friends locked outside the prison, and here we were, a fake guard who might turn back into a teenager at any second, a mouse who might turn back into a girl at any second, and two New Order goons who were going to notice that something strange was going on and sound the alarm.

Any second now.

PEERING OVER WHIT’S curled index finger, I saw the humongous men slowly turn to look at my brother. One of them wrinkled his brow.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked Whit. “Haven’t seen you around before. What’s your name, bub?”

You. Will. Sleep. Now!
I thundered the words.
Inside
my head, of course.
YOU. WILL. SLEEP. NOW!

(I figured all CAPS and italics had to work.)

And then… the two men crumpled to the pavement at Whit’s feet. Dead asleep. Gonzo to the worldo.

The kid prisoners stared at the goons with alarm, as if maybe they were next to go la-la.

“It’s okay,” Whit told them. “We’re your friends. You have to trust us, okay? We’re
kids.
”

Then Whit held me up close to his face. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered. “This isn’t a game, Wisty.”

“Whit, there’s no turning back now. Mom and Dad, and all those kids who could be turned into smoke and ash, are inside. Get these new kids in the van and get them out of here. Pick up Margo and Emmet. Tell them to stay close by. If I can disarm the alarm or the gate, they’ll have to shuttle the escaping kids through the tunnels
really
fast.”

Whit frowned, and it was so weird—even the creases in his skin looked huge. Even his one zit. “If you see chunks of cheese or peanut butter, like, lying in the middle of a small wooden board, with wire all around it—”

“I got it,” I said. “Drag those sleeping guys into the gatehouse.”

Whit let out a breath, looking extremely unhappy with me. “We’ll all be standing by. I’ll be watching for you, Wisteria.” Which, he knew, was what Dad always called me in times of great stress.

“Okay,” I said. I stared down at the ground, which looked about ten stories away. I closed my eyes and jumped, quite pleasantly surprised when I landed neatly on all fours, ready to run. “See, I didn’t go splat!” I called to Whit.

“You be careful!” he called back.

“‘Careful’ is my middle name!” I looked ahead at the very large, gray prison building. Right away I saw a drain-pipe and headed over to it. Before I actually entered the pipe, I glanced back at my brother, trying not to think this might be the last time I’d ever see him.

“See ya,” I called in a voice he couldn’t possibly hear.

Then I peered up into the darkness of the rusty pipe. I could smell damp air, old leaves, and other nasty things I couldn’t identify. I’d heard mice were excellent climbers.

I guess I was about to find out.

I SHUDDERED AND CRINGED as I watched Wisty’s tiny tail corkscrew, then disappear, up that drainpipe. No magic could wipe away the grotesque image of her being crushed under a New Order prison guard’s jackboot.

But my job now was to save the kids who’d just been brought in the van, and then I could get to my parents. The quicker, the better.

“We’re not staying here?” one of them asked timidly as I backed the vehicle out of the gates. “Isn’t that against the New Order rules?”

“No to your first question, yep to the second,” I said, making sure there was no oncoming traffic. “Change of plans. It’s all good.”

I popped the truck into drive and swung out into the street fast, racing to the alley we’d passed on our way in. I rolled down my window and waved.

Margo, Emmet, and the others emerged from the shadows.

“Where’s Wisty?” Margo asked.

“Up a drainpipe. Where else?” I said. “We have to ditch this van.”

“No! We can use it later,” said Emmet, sitting beside me in the front seat. Margo crammed herself in too. “Go up three blocks and take a right at the light.”

Margo reassured the kids as we drove. “You aren’t criminals. We’re taking you to live with us. It isn’t fancy, but it’s better than prison.”

“We’re not going to jail?” one girl asked, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with both hands.

“No,” said Margo, “we’re going to Garfunkel’s.”

Seeing their little faces relax was incredible, I must admit. I knew they’d have lots of questions, but at least they had hope. They had us.

“This next part gets a little tricky,” Emmet said nervously. “But it’ll get us back to Garfunkel’s without being seen on the main streets.”

“Oh no, not
that,
” Margo yelped, looking alarmed—okay, make that
frightened.
“It’s a death trap!”

“It’s the only way!” Emmet said.

“Uh, can we go back to the death-trap part?” I asked.

“Right
here!
” Emmet shouted suddenly, grabbing the wheel. “Sharp left!”

“There’s nothing there!” I shouted back as the van hopped the curb.

“Hang on, everybody!” Margo commanded. “This could get a little rough!”

I whipped my head from side to side, checking for innocent pedestrians I should avoid mowing down.

“There!”
Emmet said, pointing again.

“Where?”

Then I saw what he meant… too late.

I SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES, but apparently if you’re driving a heavy van full of kids and you’re suddenly on a steep
staircase
going
down,
the brakes give out immediately.

The children in back screamed like they were strapped into a thrill ride built by a serial killer. I had a split second to wonder if they all wished they were back at the prison, getting little gray-striped jumpsuits to try on.

But that was the only coherent thought I managed before we were bouncing around too much to think straight.

Down, down, down!

Gachonk, gachonk, gachonk!

Why is it that time flies when you’re having fun, but when you’re behind the wheel, plummeting down a flight of steps in a van full of hysterical kids, time virtually stops? The laws of physics are
so
unfair.

“What were you thinking?”
I yelled at Emmet. “This is a subway station!”

“That’s right!” Emmet shouted over the
gachonking
noise of the crunching shock absorbers—which didn’t seem to be absorbing too much shock. The sound of the kids’ screaming bounced up and down like hysterical hic-cups. “Another abandoned subway! We can ride the tracks all the way to the portal, which will bring us home!”

Oh, no way,
I thought as the van got a couple of huge jolts—smashing through the turnstiles—then bounced across a platform and skidded sideways in horribly slow motion… toward the edge.

Everyone shrieked in panic as the van skittered along the platform’s lip for a few long, agonizing seconds before dropping like a ton of concrete right onto the subway tracks.

Silence rushed in to fill the void where the
non
-amusement-park-ride screaming had been. I felt like someone had just taken us out of one of those paint-can shakers at the hardware store.

We were right smack on the tracks of the subway, though, our now cockeyed headlights shining into cavernous darkness. I turned the van off and stared at Emmet.

“There we go. No problem,” he said finally, his voice a little shaky in the crushing silence. His face was also whiter than a marble statue’s.

“Everyone okay?” I croaked.

“Let’s not do that again,” one of the kids said through tears. “Okay, mister?”

“The worst part’s over,” said Emmet. “Now we can ride these rails without anyone looking for the van or any of you missing prisoners. A turn off tunnel will take us right to the portal.”

A long, low whistle suddenly echoed through the blackness.

“Another train, far away,” said Emmet. “Okay, let’s get a move on.”

I reflexively checked the rearview mirror as I felt for the ignition key under the steering wheel.

What I saw was a bright, single light piercing the darkness behind us.

“Um,
not
so far away.” I turned to Emmet, my heart slamming into my chest.

“What?” asked Emmet.

“Take a look out the back window.”

He didn’t need to. The kids’ screams told him everything he needed to know.

IF YOU’RE EVER on the brink of death—or, in my case, of ill-fated eternal life as a rodent—I recommend singing childhood songs to lift your spirits. How can you be climbing up a drainpipe without indulging in a cheerful round of “Itsy Bitsy Spider”? I sang the line about the spider being
washed out
with a nervous titter as I ascended into the prison complex.

From the drainpipe, I came out into a gutter. I raced along the roof edge until I found an air-conditioning vent, just like I’d seen in the prison schematic back at Janine’s computer.

Excellent
. I squeezed through and then ran along the duct until I found another vent. And then another. And another.

I was as close as I ever wanted to being a rat in a maze.

But right then I was becoming increasingly aware of another mouse side effect: you can smell a million times better than you can as a person. I quickly found out that I could actually
follow my nose.
Pretty soon I came to a turnoff that I knew had to be the right one. It smelled like hell on a particularly hot day.