Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (33 page)

I hold my breath as if everything hinges on this one question. “I didn’t know that’s what you were,” he says.

What does that mean? That if he knew what I was that he would have done things differently? “And now you just want me because I can help you? That a lowly human could help your side come out on top?”

“No,” he says, backing away slightly. “I’m just trying to keep my promise. Out there”—he motions beyond the walls of the dungeons—“there are powerful witches trying to find you. They might try to turn you to their side, or they might just find it easier to kill you, to eliminate you from the equation.”

“And why did you split me and Laney up? Put us in different cells?”

“I don’t know her. I don’t trust her. I have to protect you, no matter what.”

“Rhett,” Laney finally says. “You’re not buying this, are you? C’mon, his lies smell like horse manure, even from over here.”

I hate to admit it, but everything he’s saying makes sense. His words are answering so many questions. But still…

“If you want us to believe you, let us out of these cages.”

Mr. Jackson cringes, as if in pain. “It’s not safe yet.”

I roll my eyes. “When will it be safe?”

“When I figure out which Necros I can trust.”

“See?” Laney says, as if she’s just won an argument. “You can’t even control your own kind. This whole world is a screwed up awful place because of the witches, and you want us to believe you, to
trust
you?”

“All I’m asking is for you to think about what I’ve said. You’ll have more questions later. I’ll answer as many as I can, and hopefully all of them one day.”

I can’t think about it. Not now. And I can’t be thinking about Mr. Jackson as an ally, someone to make choices with, someone on my side. He’s already done too much evil; and even under a flag of peace, evil is still evil, murder is still murder.

I pull to my feet and round on him. “What you’re doing with Xave, leading him on like that—it’s cruel.”

Mr. Jackson’s dark eyebrows lift. I’ve surprised him again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You gave him Felix to make him more pliable, less rebellious through all of this. It’s the same reason you told him I was dead.”

“Is it so wrong to give your friend happiness? That’s all I’ve ever wanted for the both of you.”

“And when this is over? Felix dumps him, is that it? What then?”

“You don’t know everything, Rhett,” he says.

“And whose fault is that?” I say, suddenly wishing we never had any of this conversation. Wishing things could go back to how they were when my parents weren’t magic-born and the Reaper was just another evil warlock.

“I loved your parents,” Mr. Jackson says. “I always will. But I won’t let her death go to waste. Do you want to meet her?”

“What?” I say, not understanding. “Do you have a picture?”

“Better,” he says. “Bring her in.”

Two warlocks step into the light, dragging a cage on wheels. I shrink back when I see the creature inside. A woman, greased dreadlock-like hair hanging in brown vines around her face, which is eyeless and noseless, with just a gaping hole for a mouth, filled with rows of pointy teeth.

“I couldn’t leave her to rot in the ground,” Mr. Jackson says, and what freaks me out the most is that he seems so serious about it, like this…
thing
actually makes sense to him. The creature’s hands squirm through the bars, her clawed fingers raking at the air, her sexless body writhing with pent up fury and madness.

The bile rises faster than I can choke it down and I throw up all over myself.

L
ong after the creature who the Reaper claimed was my mother brought back from the dead has been wheeled away, the image of her bony, naked body pollutes my mind, bringing up fresh waves of revulsion.

The smell of vomit on my soiled clothes doesn’t help either.

Laney’s been silent for a long time. She asked if I was okay. I grunted a response, and she didn’t say anything after that.

Honestly, I don’t think either of us are okay.

Eventually, I think we both drift off to sleep.

If my dreams are filled with horrible nightmares, I don’t remember them when I awake. “Laney,” I whisper to the flickering lantern-light, which never seems to go out.

“Yeah.”

“What do we do?” I ask. It’s a weird question considering the circumstances, but Laney doesn’t so much as snicker at it. She understands.

“I don’t care if he’s Xave’s father or your uncle or a god. He’s not telling us everything. We need to ditch his magged-up ass. And then we’ll find New America and find out what’s really going on.”

Instead of responding to her idea, I say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You mean a prisoner in a cell?” she says seriously.

“No. With me. I couldn’t get through this without you and your snarky comments.”

“Good to know someone appreciates me,” she says, but I can feel a sliver of pride in her voice. And then: “Do you think Trish is okay?”

“Hex will protect her. Not that she needs it. She seems more than capable of protecting herself.”

“But they’re hunting her. She’s powerful, and the rest of her kind has been destroyed. Everyone will be after her.”

I didn’t realize Laney believed that part of what Mr. Jackson said. “We’ll find her first,” I say, although I don’t have the slightest idea how we’ll accomplish that.

“A fine pair we are,” Laney says. “My sister’s a witch who killed my witch and warlock parents. And your parents were magic-born, only when they died no one could find your father’s body, and your best friend’s father—who, oh yeah, is
also
a warlock—brought your mother back from the dead as some creepy monster. Oh, and don’t forget your best friend is a warlock, too, or at least thinks he is.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty messed up. We could start our own support group,” I say.

Laney laughs. “Yeah, yeah! Screwed Up Witch Families Anonymous,” Laney says.

I laugh, too, doing my best to pretend we’re back on the road, far, far away from this place. Reality swoops in almost immediately. “So you believe what Xave and Mr. Jackson are saying?”

Laney sighs, deep and blustery. “I don’t know what to think. But the Reaper seemed pretty sincere the last time.”

I nod silently, thinking.

Laney says, “What I don’t get is why he would show you your mom like that. It was obvious he was getting to you with his softer side.”

I think about it for a minute. A thought springs to mind. “I think he was showing me that he’s done with the lies. That he’s willing to lay everything on the table now. His past, his present, and his plans for the future.”

“We can use that,” Laney says.

“Yes. Yes we can,” I say.

~~~

Three days go by without visitors, and then Xave shows up. His jaw is tense, all hard lines. Unfortunately, he’s the type to hold a grudge. I waste no time on subtleties.

“Xave, I’m sorry,” I say.

His black cloak shivers slightly, as if he’s cold. He hugs himself. “I…I was angry,” he says.

“I know, and I’m really, reall—”

“No,” he says, cutting me off. My eyes dart to his face, which is no longer hard and tight. In fact, it’s the opposite—soft and falling. Is that shame? “I was angry because what you said about Felix is probably true.”

I’m stunned, but I don’t say a word for fear of changing the trajectory of the conversation. Laney’s smart enough to withhold the
Told you so
that’s surely on the tip of her tongue.

“I’ve known for a long time that Felix was probably just helping me get acclimated, trying to ensure I didn’t do anything silly. I considered dumping him, but…”

He trails away and I can see tears glistening in his eyes. “What happened?” I say.

“Nothing,” he says, “and that’s the problem. Felix is as perfect as always. We never fight. There’s never any drama. And you know how much I love drama.”

I manage a smile, which he returns weakly. “You’ve always loved drama,” I say. “Hence your obsession with reality TV.”

“I miss it,” Xave says.

“Reality TV?”

“No…well, yes. That. But not
just
that. Everything. How things used to be. You know, shopping and studying and movies.”

“You hate studying,” I say.

Xavier looks at me seriously. “You wouldn’t believe how much I miss studying. I’d kill for a good biology exam.”

I laugh for the second time this week, which makes me realize this is the first normal conversation I’ve had with Xavier since I found him. No robotic voice. Just Xave. My best friend.

“How about a French final?” I say.

He screws up his face. “I don’t miss studying
that
much,” he says.

“Do you have any books? We could start a dungeon study group.”

I thought it was funny, but tears well up in Xavier’s eyes. Uh oh. Normal conversation over. “You know, I really am a warlock,” he says. “A really powerful one. I know, I know, it’s hard to tell just looking at me, but it’s true. I’ve raised people from the dead.”

The image of my mother-monster flashes through my head. “Like my mom?” I say.

All humor is gone from Xavier’s face. “No. Father brought her back years ago. I know it’s hard to see her like that, although I guess you never really saw her before that anyway. I know it seems heartless to bring bodies back like that, but I believe they’re still in there somewhere, the people. We’re trying to use our creations to bring about good, as weird as that sounds. And my work is much more precise than Father’s. I’m an artist. I can reanimate a corpse and make the person look almost exactly like they did before they died. Fewer mutations.”

Is he really comparing creating monsters to art? “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,” Laney says, finally unable to hold her tongue.

I’m glad she says it, because I was about to say the same thing and I don’t want to destroy any bridges Xavier and I have built during this short conversation.

Xave ignores Laney like she’s not even there. “Did you know it takes the same number of weeks to reanimate a body as the number of years old they were when they died?”

The random fact startles me, because I didn’t know that. Mr. Jackson taught me so many things, supposedly everything there was to know about the Necromancers. But not that. I shake my head.

“What about the Boners?” Laney asks. “There seem to be a lot of them.”

Xave wrinkles his nose in confusion.

“The skeleton warriors,” I explain.

“Ah,” he says. “Skeletons can be raised very quickly, almost instantly. In a desperate pinch, a bunch of them can be quite useful. But they’re weak. Or at least they were. And then I created a more powerful version of them.”

“The Super-Boners,” Laney says.

“We fought them,” I add. “On the field.”

“Yes,” Xave says, nodding eagerly. “They take a week to create, but they’re less brittle, wielding nearly the same strength as a fully reanimated corpse. The only caveat is that you have to strip the bodies all the way to the bones in order to perform the magic.”

Who is he? Xavier was the one who used to cover his eyes during the scary parts of horror movies, who’d scream when the killer jumped out wearing a ski mask and carrying a bloody knife. And now he’s talking about stripping flesh off corpses? About new procedures for raising the dead?

Apparently I’m unable to hide my disgust, because Xave says, “You don’t understand anything,” and walks away.

When he’s gone, Laney says, “Freaks. All of them.” Although Xave’s my friend and I should defend him, I don’t, because I’m leaning toward agreeing with her.

M
r. Jackson’s been stopping by more and more. Sometimes staying for an hour, talking and talking and talking, and other times for just a minute, more than enough time to impart some pearl of wisdom.

Slowly, the full picture comes into view, however skewed it might be by the artist painting it:

President Washington and the New American military have built a fortified compound, which is really a refugee camp, housing thousands of human survivors. Attempts to invade the camp by rogue witch gangs have been unsuccessful so far, but it’s only a matter of time before enough gangs unite to attack. The only thing the humans have going for them is that the various witch gangs generally don’t like each other and prefer to operate independently. Mr. Jackson seems to think it’s a wonder they managed to unite long enough for Salem’s Revenge.

Bil Nez and some of the witch hunters, like The End, have been recruited by New America to kill witches. Other witch hunters, like me, operate independently, almost like a calling. While The End has been ordered to kill me on sight, it’s not their primary objective, which is to locate large groups of witches and call in air strikes. Contrary to what Bil said, it’s The End and not him who are attempting to destroy the Necros. According to Mr. Jackson, they might have succeeded if not for him convincing a sufficient number of Wardens, like Felix, to join the cause and protect Heinz Field. Bil, on the other hand, has only one objective: To kill any human Resistors, like me, who refuse to join New America. I’ve never received a formal offer to join New America, but I guess because I’m best friends with a Necro—or at least I was—I have a major target on my back.

Again, according to Xavier’s very biased father, the Necromancers are stuck in the middle between New America and the “rogue” witch gangs. He’s willing to destroy anyone who gets in the way of his version of “peace,” a world in which both witches and humans can live together in harmony. Although it sounds like a pipedream to me, I’ve listened patiently to his monologues, in hopes of gleaning as much information as possible from him.

Today, I’ve had enough.

“Why did you bring my mother back from the dead?” I say heavily.

“We need all the warriors we can get,” Mr. Jackson says.

“You say you cared about my parents?” I move closer to the bars, sticking my nose through.

Mr. Jackson nods slowly. “I did.”

“Then why would you turn my mother into a monster? She doesn’t even look human anymore.” I grit my teeth and try to fight off the memory of her grotesque, writhing body in the cage.

Mr. Jackson sighs, something he seems to do a lot these days. “It was the best I could do,” he says. Although he pauses, I can tell he’s not finished, his mouth hanging open thoughtfully. “Her soul wasn’t particularly willing.”

Seriously? Is this guy for real? If I wasn’t so flabbergasted I’d probably try to bend the magged-up bars with my bare hands.

“Would yours be?” Laney asks. “Your soul, I mean. Would you want to come back as some monstrosity?”

Without missing a beat, Mr. Jackson says, “Yes.”

I let out a sarcastic scoff.

“No, I’m serious,” he says. “To help our cause, I’d do almost anything. But I understand your mother’s reluctance. She probably wanted to be with your father—on the other side.”

“I’m sorry,” Laney says, not sounding sorry at all, “but I don’t know anyone who would want to come back like a zombie. Not even a freak like you.”

“She’s not a zombie,” Mr. Jackson says, sounding annoyingly patient. “She’s a Reanimate. And her new life will help the world find peace once more.”

“So you want to create an army of the dead in order to make peace?” I say, summarizing. Laney laughs at the sarcasm in my voice.

“You think I’m evil,” Mr. Jackson says.

“Yes,” I say. “And I don’t believe you. Once your army destroys anyone getting in the way of ‘peace,’ then what?”

“I call them off.”

“You call off the walking dead?”

“They’re Reanimates, not zombies,” Mr. Jackson reiterates.

“I’m not sure I see the difference.”

“One day perhaps you will,” he says in his usual cryptic way.

“You’ll never stop,” I say. “Not until you control everything.”

“I’m not looking for power, Rhett,” he says. “Only to make your parents’ and my wife’s sacrifice worth something.” With that, he turns, his cloak whirling around his feet, and walks away.

~~~

The following day arrives thunderously.

I awake to the ground rumbling and Laney shouting. “What’s going on?” she yells.

I try to stand, but the ground moves and I stumble over, scraping my knee. “I don’t know!” I yell back.

Footsteps slap the stone.

Xavier appears, skidding to a stop, water sloshing from the sides of a bucket he’s carrying. “Xave! What’s happening?” I drag myself to the bars.

Xavier’s eyes are wild, panicked. There are streaks of blood on his face and hands. He shoves the bucket to the ground, nearly spilling it. In his other hand there’s a knife, a bar of soap, and a wiry scrub brush, the bristly kind you’d use to clean crusty dishes.

When the knife clatters to the ground, I see the ribbons of blood slithering from it.

The ground shakes.

A heavy
BOOM-BOOM-BOOOOOM!
echoes through the dungeon corridors.

He doesn’t look at me, just crouches and dunks his hands in the bucket, retracts them, and starts furiously scrubbing his hands with the soap and brush.

“Xave!” I say, but my friend is gone, somewhere else, a place beyond hearing. He keeps scrubbing, dunking, scrubbing some more, even as new explosions shake the plastic bucket, chattering it along the stone. I say his name a few more times, but if he hears me, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Carter, what’s going on?” Laney says.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I say. Somehow.

My shell-shocked friend is our only option, and I have an idea. “Where’s Beth?” I shout as loudly and as forcefully as I can.

Xave’s head snaps toward me, as if someone has slapped him from the other side. His eyes lock on mine and widen, as if he’s just now realizing that I’m here. For a second, he stops scrubbing, and then continues, more violently than before.

He speaks. “Father’s taught me to do things…”—he stops, seems to rethink his words, continues”—…I’ve done things…”—back to his hands, scrubbing harder and harder, turning them redder and redder, like hot coals. “No matter how hard I scrub, I can still see the blood on my hands.”

His hands are perfectly clean, and yet I know exactly what he means. “Yeah, me, too,” I say, although I know it’s different for him. Our conversations feel like they’ve become a confessional between friends.

“You have?” he says, his expression so child-like and innocent, although I know it’s hiding acts that are anything but.

“Yes,” I say. “This world has changed us all. We’re harsher than we want to be. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have the chance to turn back, to find redemption in doing the right thing.”
Like getting us the hell out of here.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Xavier says, finally dropping the soap and brush into the bucket. “Thank you, Rhett. Thank you for understanding. You’ll be safer here.”

He stands and runs off amidst shaking ground and rattling bars and thunder in the distance, even as I shout my best friend’s name at the top of my lungs.