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Witch & Wizard: The Kiss

Whit and Wisty Allgood have finally triumphed over the evil that has long overshadowed their world with their defeat of The One Who Is The One. Now they move on to their next mission: becoming members of a governing Council that will return the Overworld to a place of creativity, magic, and freedom from persecution.

But it isn't long before the city is threatened from inside and out. The adults on the Council want to control the use of magic in the city, and a fearsome Wizard King threatens war. As Wisty begins a new relationship with an intense and mysterious boy and the pressures of leading the city bear down on them, Whit and Wisty find themselves growing apart. Will they be able to come together to fight the mounting threats that could return their world to the hands of a tyrant?

James Patterson delivers what the fans have been asking for—the story of what happens next—with an epic fourth installment about the heroic teen witch and wizard that have captured our imaginations.

Book One | The First Truth: You Can't Trick the Inner Eye

Chapter 3

Whit

MY TURN.

I am not an awkward person. But this is one of the most awkward moments of my life. Wisty lives for the spotlight, but me? I’d rather write the script.

I step up to the small platform where Ross, the DJ, was spinning. Wisty hoots “Woo!” embarrassingly loudly, and Byron follows her lead with his best off-the-cuff cheer: “Go Whit!!”

The Allgood magic has always felt kind of sacred, something not to be used lightly. I’ve used mine to escape from prison, heal the sick, and defeat the most evil dictator our world has ever known. But now that he’s gone, now that we’ve won, we all deserve a little joy. So, hey, I’ve been working on a new use for my M. I start with a poem.

“Brush the ash from your bones.”

I concentrate on the power building in me, and make it visual.

“Cast aside your red tears.”

The gathered crowd gasps in delight as a three-dimensional scene swirls behind me, morphing and changing with my words. The hologram isn’t much—just colors and energy. But it’s as beautiful as my sister’s fireworks, or the paintings on the wall. It’s a bit of performance art that has every soul in the place completely enraptured for a good five minutes. Until—

My head throbs suddenly. I double over in pain as a bright light cuts through my vision.

It feels like it’s slicing my brain.

Janine grabs my arm, a worried look on her face. “You okay?” she asks quietly.

I nod, standing up again. The hologram flickers behind me like static. I start reading the poem again, trying to get my bearings. Trying to get the energy back.

“Weep for the fallen, stand against those you fear…”

This time, as I continue, the expressions of the audience members change from concern to confusion and then shock.

Something’s wrong. Something’s seriously wrong.

I turn around, and the three-dimensional images playing out behind me are awful. A sea of black rats scurry over one another, attacking their own tails. Worms crawl out of an eye socket, bathing it in their milky trail. They writhe outward toward the crowd, so real in their holographic existence that a few people jerk backward, shrieking.

It’s like the movie has been switched, but it’s all in my head.

How are these things coming… out of me?

Just keep going, Whit. Get it back on track.

I concentrate hard, my whole body shaking with the effort, but the horrifying images keep projecting behind me.

The image flickers: now a child bangs his head against the wall, over and over, as blood pools in his eyes. A mask is removed from a face, and behind it is the chill of death. An avalanche of snow barrels outward, and members of the crowd turn away in terror.

“Whit!” Wisty yells, a look of horror on her face. “Stop it!”

But I’m utterly helpless as the darkness feeds on itself. I shake my head and jump off the stage, leaving my sister and friends and a roomful of people gawking after me.

I run, and keep running. Out of the room. Out the big double doors, knocking them against the wall on their hinges, and out into the street. I take huge gulps of the night air as I try to keep from vomiting.

Voices are calling in the distance, yelling my name, but I can’t face them, not now, not until I shake this diseased feeling. I won’t stop running until my lungs are screaming and my legs ache.

I have to escape the thing that’s in my head.

Copyright © 2013 by James Patterson

Read by Spencer Locke, Justin Long,
and Cassandra Morris

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