The Gift Read Online Free PDF Page B

phone. I grab it and look at the image. My jaw drops. In the picture, The One Who
     Is The One’s face is
directly over Byron’s shoulder.
    “It’s probably just proof that you’re a traitor,” I say, handing back the phone.
    “Oh yeah?” snarls Byron. “Then why does it happen with
everybody?
” He turns and snaps a picture of Whit.
    Whit takes the phone and looks at the photo of himself. And promptly turns white. He starts to shiver, and this little tic
     he has in his left eye starts up.
    “You
see?
” Byron squeals.
    Whit shakes his head and passes the phone back to me. He’s shaking all over now; the facial tic is getting worse.
    And I see why: it’s not The One Who Is The One in the photograph. It’s Celia.
    The One has Celia.

Chapter 15

    Whit
    MY TEMPLES ARE POUNDING, and the edges of my vision swirl. My heart feels as if it’s trying to climb up into my throat.
I have to find her.
Have to get back to the Shadowland. Need to be swallowed by Celia’s beautiful eyes, her hair, her scent. I have to
merge
with her at least one more time.
    I leave the phone in my sister’s hands, push through the others, and take off running toward the store’s loading dock. There’s
     a portal there, a portal I’ve promised Wisty I’d never take alone.
    That’s unfortunate, but I
need
this—I need Celia. I have no free will in this matter.
    I charge toward the portal wall at a sprint, figuring if it’s been closed off since I was last here, it will serve me right
     to run full-speed into brick and mortar, maybe knock some sense into me.
    It gives, but traveling the portal is like swimming through stone. It feels like an impossible task to break through, but
     finally I’m soaking in the vaguely familiar, penetrating dark and cold of the Shadowland.
    It’s an extraordinarily bizarre place between realities, full of wandering Half-lights—souls of the dead who are stuck here,
     who can sometimes find their way through to a world but who can’t stay for long.
Like ghosts slipping in and out of purgatory,
I think to myself.
    “Celia!” I yell at the top of my voice. “Celia, it’s me! Whit! I’m right here.”
    I want to be everywhere at once, to bridge the vastness and strangeness of this place in an instant. The problem is that keeping
     your bearings in the Shadowland is like getting oriented in the middle of an ocean on a bleak and foggy day. Without a GPS.
     Or a compass. And maybe with a bucket over your head.
    I can’t allow myself to get lost. But I don’t know where to go.
“Ce-li-a!”
I turn and yell in another direction. Wandering away from the portal could be disastrous. I’ve never been here alone before.
     I’ve been warned against it.
    This time I get a response.
    Only it’s not the response I’ve been aching for. It’s a terrible moan that makes my heart feel as if it’s been skewered by
     an icicle.
    The moan trails off, and then there’s another one, even louder, closer.
    Disaster.
I’ve attracted the attention of Lost Ones—less-than-angelic humans who have been in the Shadowland so long that they’ve become
     like rotting souls. Like monsters, I suppose.
    I turn and feel around for the way out.
Where is the portal?
    I can’t find it—there’s just this cold, damp fog everywhere.
    They’re getting even closer. I can feel their cold and smell their mustiness.
Think! Think! Think!
    I definitely see something moving toward me. A dark shape in the fog—low, limping, searching. I spin a quarter turn to my
     left—and there’s another disturbance in the mist… or three… or
six.
    This could be the end for sure.
    Another quarter turn—the portal’s got to be in front of me, or maybe just a bit to the left —
    There—I can feel something, or…
    Ooomf.
    I’m on the ground. On my back. Without my breath. Then I hear fabric tearing. My shirt?
    My eyes are open, but all I can make out are the terrible shapes, figures made of flesh but also smoke. A dozen cold hands
     are