Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (18 page)

T
he Siren has remade herself once more. Straight, shoulder-length blue hair. A sparkling turquoise dress that seems to swim around her invisible feet as she crosses the tangled yard. Waves of rain sweep across her, but then gloss away, as if bouncing off of an invisible force field.

As untouched by the rain as the Siren is, the beggar man is soaked to the bones, his long trench coat clinging to him like a wrinkly second skin.

And I can’t get over the fact that they’re both here. There are way too many coincidences in my life.

With an angry
caw!
Crake dives from the sky, right at the Siren. I feel a bolt of fear in my chest, and I find myself unwittingly struggling against my bonds, which cut painfully into my wrists and ankles.

The Siren raises a slender arm, aims it at the vulture, and…

The vulture drops from the sky, smashes into the ground, and skids across the waterlogged lawn.

A door slams and the bull charges out into the storm. Sledge has joined the fight, and the Siren is still focused on Crake, who’s slowly pulling himself up, using his wingspan to balance his gangly body.

The bull crashes into the Siren, sending her soaring through the air, raindrops bouncing off of her fluttering gown. My body aches as if I’m the one who was hit by the Shifter.

“Carter!” Laney yells. “What are you doing?”

I tear my eyes away from the scene outside to find Laney staring at me in horror. My lip is stinging and I realize I’m biting into it with so much force that blood is rushing out, copper-flavored on my tongue. My wrists and ankles are on fire, as I continue to pull with all my strength against the tethers binding me to the chair. All at once, I stop chewing my lip, stop struggling.
What
am
I doing?

Get control. It’s just the Siren’s magic. She’s pulling me to her, trying to control me, like the Sirens in crazy Bil’s story. Trying to make me her slave.

But why? Why me? Why is she here, going to such lengths to save me—is that really what she’s doing?—putting her own life in danger by fighting a gang of Shifters?

With a sharp
woof!
Hex appears back in his cage, which fades around him as if evaporating into the air. He bounds to Laney first and bites at her ropes, which fall away, uncut.

My dog is more talented than Houdini.

He lopes over to me, pauses, as if considering whether I’m worth the effort, and then does the same. I’m free!

Laney rushes to the door and I step to the window. “What are you doing?” Laney hisses. Hex barks at me, as if to ask the same question.

But I ignore them, because I have to see what happens to…

To the Siren?

To the beggar?

To both of them?

Something tugs me to the window, holds me there, fastens my gaze on the violent scene unfolding before me like a creased painting.

The Siren is back on her feet, raising an arm, but she never gets to unleash her spell, because the vulture is on her, clawing at her face, tearing at her perfect ivory skin. The bull is there, too, practically on top of the both of them, stamping and bucking, trying to find a way to harm her.

For the moment, the beggar is alone, running toward the house, looking up at me, his eyes locking on mine, and then—

The black panther streaks from the shadows, a graceful blur of agility and speed. There’s no escape for this man. No way he’ll be able to outrun or outmaneuver the natural predator who’s got him in her sights.

He raises his arms, and—do his lips move? And…

Nothing happens. His expression flashes with surprise, and he tries to duck out of the way, but the panther—the witch, Flora—is too close, too quick, and she rips into him, knocking him back, landing hard on his chest.

No! I don’t know who this guy is or why he keeps popping up, but I can’t let him die like this, not if he’s trying to save me. I start to turn away, a plan of attack forming in my head, but wait.

Wait.

With a yowling scream, the panther is flung off the man, clawing at the air, twisting to land on her feet. And the beggar no longer looks old and weak, but powerful, almost throbbing with energy.

And in a flash, it’s gone, and he’s just an old man again, a pained expression cutting into his cheeks. He looks up at me, his finger pointing away from the house.
Go
, is what he means.

The panther charges toward him.

Laney pulls me away from the window, through the door, down the steps—pausing only to grab our bags and weapons from the bloody kitchen countertop—and out the backdoor into a raging storm and away from the shouts and screams of the battle that saved our lives.

And I let her. I let her pull me away while a Siren and a homeless man die so we might live.

Words have power, for better or worse.

Like the smell of fresh rain on cut grass,

Or the stench of a decaying corpse,

Like the soft comfort of a warm blanket on your shoulders,

Or the agony of a dagger splitting your chest in two.

Use them wisely.

Words to the Wise
, Rhett Carter

C
orpses and daggers and split chests feel like the right words for our current situation, even as I shiver so much I can barely hold the pencil I use to write the new poem. Somehow I find the poem more comforting than formulating a blog post for a book about shape shifting witches that will never be written.

Laney’s not much better off. She and Trish and Hex—thanks a lot, buddy—are huddled under a dusty old blanket we found in the abandoned home furnishings store we managed to break into. Wet footprints and sopping articles of clothing are strewn everywhere, illuminated only when lightning flashes through the cracks in the boarded up storefront window. I almost expect a scraggly, bearded janitor to shuffle out and stick a yellow
Slippery When Wet
sign in the center of the entrance.

If the Shifters manage to track us here, we’re in no shape to defend ourselves. My only hope is that the heavy rain—while cold and miserable for us—will be enough to confound their heightened animal senses.

My poem finished, I tuck my journal into my backpack and pull the covers up under my chin, covering the whole of my naked body. I hope none of us catch pneumonia.

“D-Do you th-think we lost them?” Laney asks, her teeth chattering like she’s in the middle of a snowstorm in her underwear.

“Yeah,” I say.

“That w-woman…w-witch…she looked familiar.”

I nod, although I’m not sure Laney can see my face in the dim lighting.

“From just b-before we b-battled the b-boners?”

I nod again.

“Why is she following us?” she asks. “And what g-gang is she with?” Her voice is getting stronger as she exercises her numb lips.

“She’s a Siren,” I say. “I think she wants me to be her sex slave.”

A sharp laugh escapes Laney’s throat. “Seriously? You are into some weird stuff, Clark Kent.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Clark Kent?”

“Y-yeah. You know, like Superman’s mild-mannered disguise identity?” Laney says.

Hex’s chuff is muffled under the blanket, but I can still tell he’s laughing.

“You think I’m like Superman?” I ask, unable to hide the incredulity in the question.

“You rushed into a dangerous situation to try and help people,” she says matter-of-factly.

“I’m black and can’t fly and didn’t save anyone,” I say. “And Superman is
never
black and
always
flies and wins
every
time.”

There’s a flash of lightning and I see Laney roll her eyes in the dark. “For being so smart you can be a real dumbass sometimes,” she says. “The President of the United States was
never
black or a woman until Obama and Collins. Just because something hasn’t ever happened doesn’t mean it won’t. And anyway, being a hero transcends race and color and religion and age and gender. It’s ordinary people doing things that are beyond what they think is possible, all for the sake of another. You might look like a total geekball behind those glasses, but I’ve seen what you’re capable of. It’s like with playing football, you might not want to do it, but if you play, you’re going to be the hero.”

Her words take me by surprise, but then I realize something. “I never told you I didn’t want to play football,” I say.

Her eyes dart to her feet, stay there. “I’m—I’m sorry. I read your journal. Beth seems like an amazing person.”

“You what?” I’ve never felt so violated, so disappointed. I didn’t even want Beth reading my journal, although now I’d let her read every page if I could only see her again.

“You were asleep—I was looking for food. I found your book and flipped it open. I only read one entry, and when I realized what it was, I stopped. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever touch my stuff again.”

“I won’t.” I try to read the expression on her face, but come up empty. Does she look guilty? Or is it the face of sadness? I can’t tell.

As the minutes tick off in silence, and weariness and fatigue pull me toward sleep, three words dance circles in my head.

Never. Trust. Anyone.

I
awake to abject darkness. I realize right away that something woke me. A sound. An eerie creak, like an unoiled door hinge opening. There are no doors in this place—at least not that kind. And the sound is too close to be a door opening and shutting.

Staying silent, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, my hand slowly reaching for my sword, which I always keep next to me when I sleep.

Gone. My sword is gone.

My heart begins to beat faster and my mouth goes dry. Who would take my sword? Laney? Did she grab it and take off?

As the inky black slowly transitions to a murky gray, I see two white eyes staring at me in the darkness, not far away. The creaking sound is coming from near them. “Hello?” I whisper.

A small, pink hand flashes in the dark. The eyes belong to Trish.

I scoot over to her, getting close enough to see her face clearly. Her hand moves near the floor.
Creeeeaaakk!

Peering down, I see that my sword is laid out in front of her, and she’s running her finger back and forth along the metal face, creating an unpleasantly high-pitched sound. Trying not to spook her, I slide my hand over to the sword and grab the hilt, withdrawing it slowly.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

She just stares at me. Another question hits me, one I’ve been wondering about for a while now. “Why were you looking at those photo albums before? In the apartment. The pictures were of strangers.”

She blinks in the dark. Her bottom lip seems to quiver for a moment, as if she might cry, but then firms up once more. She points to her mouth, then to her head.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Your head and mouth can’t connect?” I guess.

She shakes her head. Using both hands like claws, she moves them all around her head, as if trying to poke holes in her skull. What is she trying to tell me?

She taps her ear. “You’re hearing things?” I ask.

She nods, continuing the assault on her head. “Lots of things?” More nodding. “It’s all too much for you?” At that, she shakes her head. No, it’s not too much for her. She can handle it. I remember the way she pointed at her mouth and then at her head. “But all the things you’re hearing makes it too hard to speak, is that right? You have so many thoughts that speaking becomes too difficult?”

One big nod. She stops clawing at her skull.

She takes my hand and squeezes it, her palm so hot it’s almost burning, and then lays down to sleep.

Once more curling up next to my sword, I call the whole thing a major breakthrough in my strange relationship with Laney’s mute sister. And, despite the flurry of thoughts swirling through my head, sleep takes me once more.

~~~

B
eth
’s lips move against mine, slow and tender.

Her hand runs along my jawline, down my neck, and to my shoulder, where she begins shaking me. Pulling back to take a much needed breath, I open my eyes and gasp.

It’s not Beth.

A red swirl of hair that seems to shimmer, even as it changes to gold and then blue, almost tauntingly; shining blue eyes; soft pale skin; graceful, seductive movements.

Crying out, I squeeze my hands between us and shove the Siren as hard as I can, launching her against the wall. In one fluid motion, I leap up while grabbing my sword, which I raise to her neck.

“What the hell?” she screams in my face, but it’s not the Siren, and I’m breathing heavily, my heart racing at full speed, my eyes wide and searching, searching, searching for a trick…and finding none.

There’s no Siren.

Only Laney, her eyes full of anger and a hint of fear.

I stumble backwards, withdrawing the sword, staring at her.

Laney raises a hand to her throat, as if to check that her flesh is still intact, and then glances to the right. Still panting, I follow her gaze to where Trish is watching with big, blue eyes, her hand on Hex’s back.

“I—I—” I say, looking back at Laney.

“You scared the crap out of my sister,” she says. And I can tell I scared Laney, too.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I felt someone shaking my shoulder.”

“I was just trying to wake you up. I thought I heard something, you psycho.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, wondering how I’ve gone from Superman to psycho overnight. “I haven’t slept well since…”
The witches killed my family.

“I’ll use a ten-foot pole next time,” she says, grinning slightly. Already her anger’s gone. She can go from zero to sixty faster than a Ferrari, but without the sleek lines. She’s all hard edges.

“Better make it a twenty-foot pole,” I say, attempting a laugh but having it come out more as a cough. “Wait. You said you heard something?”

She nods slowly, points toward the rear of the store. “A bang.”

A twist of dread wrenches through my chest. Have they found us already? Managed to track us down despite the severity of the storm? It would make sense that creatures born from magic would have abilities beyond even that of the animals they’re attempting to mimic.

My sword shines as a shred of the coming dawn peeks through the front of the store. Laney reaches down and snatches her shotgun off of a display counter, checking that it’s loaded. In one swift motion, she cocks it.
Chook-chook!
She almost seems to relish it.

As she starts creeping toward the rear, between the aisles, I say, “I’ll go first.”

She stops, looks back, amusement on her face. Whispers, “I get it, you’re the big hero, but as long as I’m around you’re going to have to get used to sharing the dangerous jobs. Okay?”

I hesitate but then nod.

As she slithers toward the rear of the store, I stay as close as possible without crowding her, readying myself to spring into action at the first sign of shape shifting witches. We pass ornamental lamps and picture frames and a funky-looking chair that promises “a massage so good you’ll think you’re in Sweden!”

My heart stops when there’s a clatter off to the side, behind a row of desks. We freeze, listening, trying to pinpoint the exact source of the sound. In the silence, a high-pitched keening comes from somewhere beneath us. I jump back, but Laney just bends down and plucks a light bulb from where it rolls to a stop at her feet. Holds it up. Smiles. Points two fingers to her eyes, then at mine.
Watch me.
She motions to the left. Points to me. Motions to the right.
Split up.

I give her a single nod to confirm my understanding of the plan.

As I duck away to the right, there’s a scrape off to the left. My eyes dart in that direction, and I see a thick shadow bolt from cover, hear the slap of feet on the tile floor. Laney rushes forward, her shotgun raised like a club, leaps, brings it down with a heavy
thud!

She disappears behind one of the displays, crying out.

My body takes over and I hurdle an easy chair, slip around the corner of an aisle as easily as I used to evade would-be tacklers on the gridiron, and spring forward where…

Laney’s got the barrel of her shotgun pressed into a man’s face.

But not just any man.

My friend, the beggar.

~~~

“Who are you?” Laney demands, shoving the dark-skinned man into the area where we were sleeping. She’s still got her shotgun pointed at his face.

As usual, Trish is just staring at what’s happening, her face devoid of expression. To my surprise, Hex runs up to the man and starts licking his fingers.

“Get your dog out of the way, Rhett!” Laney shouts.

“Hex!” I command sharply, as if I’ve ever been able to control him. Hex turns in my direction, and then goes right on lapping at the beggar’s dirty hands.

“Answer my question,” Laney repeats, through gritted teeth.

“Laney,” I say evenly.

“What?” she says, keeping her eyes—and gun—trained on the man.

“He can’t speak,” I say.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve run into him before. He doesn’t have a tongue.”

The man bobs his head and, as if to demonstrate, opens his mouth and waggles the stub of a tongue he’s got left.

“Gross,” Laney says. And then: “What do we do with him?”

“For starters, don’t shoot him. He helped save our lives from the Shifters.” A thought springs to mind. “Hold on.” I move to where my backpack is stowed, unzip it, and rummage through my stuff until I find my notepad. I tear one clean page from the very back. Turning toward the man, I ask, “Can you write?”

He nods, but then cringes, his face contorted in what appears to be pain. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

Still cringing, he shakes his head. If he’s not hurt, then why does he look like someone’s driving nails into his forehead?

I rest the torn-out page on the cover of my journal and hand it to him with a pencil. “Will you answer my questions?” I ask.

“No,” Laney says. “He
will
answer your questions or he’ll get a face full of hot metal.”

I give Laney a sharp look, which she ignores, and then take in the man’s reaction to her directness. He just shrugs. Is that a yes?

“Who the hell are you?” Laney says, before I can ask anything.

The man glances at me, almost curiously, but I can still see a twinge of pain in his eyes. I dip my head in encouragement. He lifts the pencil, holding it awkwardly, like he hasn’t used one in a long time, and then scrawls something on the page. Holds it up. Written in shaky block letters is a name.

MARTIN.

“Good,” Laney says. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Her tone is mocking. Not helping.

I jump in before she makes things worse. “Why are you following me?” I ask.

The man purses his lips and tucks them in his mouth. Returns to the paper.
I’m not
, he writes.

Laney takes two big strides forward and shoves the shotgun under his chin. “Listen, Stinky, Rhett says you keep showing up and there are no coincidences in this freak show of a world we’re living in, so you better tell the whole damn truth before I blow your brains straight through your scalp.” Almost as an afterthought, she glances over at Trish, a flash of regret crossing her face as she seems to realize her sister’s watching her every move.

The movement is so quick I barely see it. All that’s left is the end result: Laney’s gun twisted from her hands, spun around, and pointed back at her head. She backs away slowly, arms above her head. “Man, I’m sorry…I wasn’t actually going to—”

Hex barks, as if to say
Silence!

I realize the beggar is still holding the pad in one hand while gripping the shotgun in the other. He’s much stronger than he looks, his muscles likely hidden beneath the thick folds of his brown trench coat.

“Don’t,” I say, my sword raised. “You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger.”

Nonchalantly, he flips the gun in the air, catching it by the barrel and handing it back to Laney, who looks as surprised as I feel when she accepts the weapon.

Hunching over the paper, the man writes something else, taking his time, almost child-like in the way he seems to form the big letters. Hands it over, where Laney and I huddle around it.

I’m sorry. This was a mistake. Beware the Siren.

When I look up to ask another question, the man is gone.