Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (4 page)

M
r. Jackson exits through the back door, taking his long sword with him. Funny how you can know a man living a few doors down for a long time and not really know him at all. He doesn’t even look middle-aged anymore, as if the years have been exfoliated away like dry skin.

I pass the time pulling individual hairs out of the skin on the back of my hand.

When he returns an hour later, he has my journal and a thin smile. “Not all is lost, son,” he says.

“What did you do, search my house?” I say, but I accept the book like a sack of gold.

“Ex-CIA, remember?” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, surprised when no tears well up. “Did you…?” I let the thought disappear like dew in direct sunlight.

He shakes his head. “They were gone,” he says.

I don’t ask who would remove the dead bodies of my family from an abandoned house because I don’t want to know.

“Is it safe?” I ask.

“It might never be safe again,” he says. I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “But if we’re smart and careful it’s safe enough for us to try to find your friends.”

“When?” I say.

“Tomorrow at first light,” he says.

It’s not soon enough for me, but I don’t argue with the man with the sword.

For an hour I watch Mr. Jackson try to get news from the rest of the country. Although TV and the internet are officially “broken,” he has a shortwave radio and a lot of patience, which is more than most people. From the snippets of chatter we pick up, it’s clear that no one was unaffected by the attacks. Those who survived are hiding or on the run. People are even saying some humans have joined the…I have to swallow hard even to think it…witches, helping to track down any humans who have escaped. Which is seriously messed up stuff that doesn’t surprise me in the least.

And there’s a rumor that the President of the United States is dead.

“This is so screwed up,” I say aloud. At least a thousand times worse than Todd Logue and his constant bullying. And a hundred times worse than the abuse Xave and I took from Big Hank back in the day.

I stare at the wall for the next hour, while Mr. Jackson sharpens his sword, the sound growing more and more hypnotic, until my eyelids are heavier than anchors.

When I wake up, Mr. Jackson is fiddling with the radio again. But I don’t care about the news anymore. Not when all I can think about is Beth and Xave.

“I have to find them,” I say.

“Soon,” Mr. Jackson says. And then, “You know, we’re going to need strong people to fight against the witches.”

I stare at him. Fight? The witches? “You mean
me
?”

“You’re strong,” he says.

“Not in that way,” I say.

“You might surprise yourself.”

“No,” I say. “I won’t. Let me try to explain this to you. Do you know what a book blog is?”

“I know what a blog is, so I can take a guess.”

“That’s what I do. I read books and I write about them. Yeah, I play football, but only because I’m good at it and I need a scholarship. And I don’t even hit anyone. I just catch passes and run like hell. I’m not a fighter. Okay?”

“Not okay,” Mr. Jackson says.

I let out a heavy sigh, exasperated. “Look, I just want to find my friends and get the hell away from the witches. That’s all. I don’t want to fight anyone.”

“Hmm” is Mr. Jackson’s only response.

Eventually the artificial darkness of the room becomes real as the sun sets over Atlanta. We eat something meaningless, and I fall into a fitful sleep that’s thankfully ended when Mr. Jackson looms over me.

“It’s time to find your friends,” he says.

I feel a flutter in my chest, both because I desperately want to find them and because I’m scared of what I might find. I don’t respond, just stuff my feet in my old sneakers.

“Stay close,” he says before opening the back door, stepping out into a dark pre-sunrise morning.

For the next hour or so, I guide him step by step across town, to the street where Beth and Xavier live next door to each other. The streets are eerily quiet and deserted. Abandoned parked cars stand like exhibits in a museum, frozen in time.

We don’t see any bodies, but there are bloodstains everywhere. On the streets, on the sidewalks, on fences and cars and crusted on the sides of mailboxes. My heart pounds like cannon blasts and blood rushes in my head. Where are the dead?

Did most of them die in their own homes? Because Salem’s Revenge came at midnight, west coast time, it’s likely most people in North America were inside when it happened. The unlucky ones who were out would’ve been the first to go.

Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I try not to look at the crimson smears leading from the houses we pass.

When we reach the right street, I take a deep breath and hold it, only exhaling when Mr. Jackson puts a finger to his lips and leads me through the side gate and around the back of Beth’s house. The backyard, once pruned and manicured by Beth’s green-thumb mom, is in disarray, the turf muddy and chewed up, several bushes just piles of ash, like our rosebush.
The witches were here
, I think, a pit forming in my gut.

The backdoor is cracked in half and lying unhinged on the patio, shreds of peeling blue paint curling around its edges.

And inside: carnage.

The kitchen looks as if a tornado passed through it, pots and pans and spatulas and chopping boards strewn about on the floor and countertops. Shards from shattered glasses and mugs look like fallen ice chips.

My heart pounds. My stomach hurts. No one could have survived something like this. Could they?

I stand in the destroyed kitchen, unwilling to move. “Wait here,” Mr. Jackson says.

I close my eyes, willing the world to change back to normal, where Mondays mean school and homework and football practice and lying in the grass with Beth and Xavier and a good book, and writing a blog post called “Weekend Reads” to help my 889 blog followers decide which book to read next.

When I open my eyes, I’m still in Beth’s ransacked kitchen, and I know the old world is gone forever. A trembling shiver runs up my spine.

“In here,” Mr. Jackson shouts from the next room, and I hate all the things those two simple words could possibly mean.

But still I go, one foot at a time, crunching glass and broken uncooked spaghetti noodles under my trod. By the fireplace, Mr. Jackson crouches like a gargoyle, inspecting something. Not a body. That’s all I care about as I whistle through my teeth.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A message,” he replies without looking up.

I squat next to him, taking it all in. A nail pounded into the edge of the white-painted wooden mantle. A silver ring hanging from the head of the nail, the very piece of jewelry I gave Beth a month earlier for our one year anniversary of becoming an official couple. Three small, turquoise stones, shaped like hearts. And beneath it, a message, written in red ink:

The ones with the black hoods took X.

The final diagonal line of the “X” runs away like a bloody slash in the wood, as if the writer lost all strength at that point. And that’s when I realize the truth: It’s not red ink, it’s blood; and I would recognize the handwriting anywhere.

“Oh, Beth,” I whisper.

Mr. Jackson catches me as I fall back and lays my head gently on the carpet. I want to pass out, to close my eyes and sleep forever and ever and ever, but I can’t do it, no matter how hard I try.

Mr. Jackson looks down at me and says, “Do you want to find your friend?”

I can’t speak, can’t answer him, can’t not notice that he didn’t use the plural word. Try to swallow. Can’t. Try again. Find my breath, my words. “Friend
s
,” I correct.

A grim expression hovers overhead. “Let me teach you how to fight witches,” he says.

~~~

I can’t say no to Mr. Jackson’s offer, even though the thought of facing a witch like the one that killed the Smiths raises goose bumps on the back of my neck. Not when there’s still a chance my friends are alive.

The first class is Witches 101.

Mr. Jackson hands me a mug of hot coffee prepared on his propane grill.

“What’s the difference between witches, warlocks and wizards, Mr. Jackson?” I ask, cupping my hands, which are suddenly cold, around the mug. “Witches are female, right?”

“Correct,” he says, drawing on one of the white walls in his living room with a black permanent marker. You know things have taken a turn for the worse when a retired ex-CIA guy would graffiti his own house. He writes “Witches” and “Warlocks” on one side of the wall. “Witches and warlocks are the same, but referred to by different names based on gender. They are the magic-born, typically with at least one magical parent, although sometimes the magic gene can skip a generation.”

“And wizards?” I ask.

Mr. Jackson adds “Wizards” to the other side of the wall, apart from Witches and Warlocks. “Wizards are…different,” he says slowly, as if trying to formulate his thoughts. “No one really knows where they come from. They’re not born, and when they appear they have no recollection of their own creation. Some believe that they’re a byproduct of powerful spells performed by dark sorcerers, but no one knows for sure.”

“But they have magic, too?” I ask, thinking immediately of Harry Potter flicking his wand and muttering spells.

Mr. Jacksons nods. “Powerful magic. One wizard would be a good match for three or four full-grown witches or warlocks.”

“How do you know any of this?” I ask. “And don’t give me that ex-CIA crap.”

Mr. Jackson squints at me. “It doesn’t matter how I know. Just that I do.”

Evasive much? In typical fashion, I continue firing away. “So if magic can skip a generation, then a witch and a wizard’s kid might not be one?”

Mr. Jackson scratches his head, as if wondering why he signed up to teach me. “Right.”

“So you could theoretically have witchy parents and not be a warlock yourself?”

He motions to himself, as if to say
Me?
“I’m not a warlock,” he says.

“I didn’t say you were. If you were, you would have helped that witch kill me, rather than fighting her off with your sword.” A bead of sweat runs down his forehead. Are my questions striking a nerve?

“So why the questions then?” he asks, turning away to draw a line under the three types of magical beings he’s listed.

I smile. “Because I bet you know all this stuff because one or both of your parents has magic.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But we won’t be talking about that anytime soon.” I consider responding, but he walks off before I can even start to pull the right words together.

When roses are ash,

And violets are dust,

And words turn to blood,

It’s Mr. Jackson I trust.

Mr. Jackson
, Rhett Carter

T
he days blur together almost immediately. Has it been three days since the attack, or four? It feels weird that I don’t know. Sometimes what Mr. Jackson calls Salem’s Revenge seems like something from the distant past, blurry and fuzzy and full of holes. A broken thing. Even putting pen to paper feels full of smoke and ash, like the very words I write might catch on fire or turn to blood in remembrance of the millions lost in a single night, the vast majority in less than an hour. But still, writing in my journal gives me much-needed comfort.

In between Mr. Jackson’s lectures on witches and warlocks, I spend my time on his couch in a ball under an old blanket. Not speaking. Barely eating. He mostly leaves me alone, as if he knows I’m too shattered to touch.

Because Beth and Xave are gone. Which Mr. Jackson keeps telling me means they’re probably dead. Some of our biggest discussions, like the one we’re engaged in now, are directly related to this topic.

“Wouldn’t the witches have left her if she was dead?” I argue, immediately remembering that my family’s dead bodies were taken, too. Who would do such a thing?

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

“That’s because you insist on explaining what you know at the pace of snail,” I retort. “And not a fast one,” I add.

“What do you want me to tell you?” he says. “You’re a kid. A broken kid with no place to go and if I dump
everything
I know on you in one lump I’m afraid you might never come out from that blanket you keep hiding under!” I’ve never seen Mr. Jackson this frustrated before, and I take a step back.

I put my hands out. “Look, I’m sorry. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. Taking me in, teaching me…you didn’t have to do any of that. But I feel like I know nothing, even after you explained where baby witches come from.”

Mr. Jackson folds his thick forearms across his chest.

“I’m ready,” I say. “I won’t crawl under the blanket. I won’t bawl and wet my pants. Give me the truth. All of it.”

He chews on his lip thoughtfully, raising one hand to stroke his graying beard.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Sit down and pay attention.”

I sit on the couch, shoving the blanket under a pillow and out of sight.

Mr. Jackson sits backwards on a chair in front of me. “Witches and warlocks tend to form groups,” he starts.

“Covens?”

“They don’t really call them that anymore. The word gang gets used sometimes.”

“Is it based on extended families?”

“Geez, son, can I just take you through it without a million questions?” Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows.

I nod.

“The gangs aren’t based on familial relationships. What matters to magic-born are skills and powers. Not every witch or warlock is created equal. Some have a knack for spellcasting, and others have the ability to summon demons.”

An image of acid-drooling hellhounds snapping and snarling as they rip apart a group of fleeing survivors flashes in my head. Maybe I’m
not
ready for this. I grit my teeth because I have to be ready for it. Beth and Xave are counting on me. I say, “Go on.”

“Some skills are very common, like creating and controlling fire or electricity—we call these witches Pyros and Volts, respectively—and other powers occur less frequently, those that are violent and laced with dark magic.”

“Okay,” I say. “All that makes sense. What are the gangs I need to worry about?”

“All of them,” Mr. Jackson says. “Compared to the meager skills of a human, any witch is a deadly foe.”

“You handled the witch at my house pretty easily,” I point out.

“I had the element of surprise and plenty of experience on my side. Never underestimate the magic-born. That’ll get you killed.”

Killed. The word hangs heavy in the air, but I ignore it, moving on. “So which gang wears black hoods?”

“The Necros,” he says immediately. “They’re led by a powerful warlock known simply as the Reaper.”

“Then they’re the ones who took Xave. It’s what Beth’s note said.” My voice, along with my excitement, rises slightly.

Counter to my own eagerness, Mr. Jackson shakes his head, his expression grim. “You don’t know what she meant, son.”

“Then enlighten me,” I say, feeling an icicle of fear slide through me.

“The Necros don’t deal in the living—they specialize in the dead, raising them to use as their slaves.”

~~~

Despite my promise to the contrary, I fall into a deep well of despair. The thin shell of hope I’d been building around myself crumbles to sawdust, and I find myself clenching the pillow
and
blanket to my chest.

Mr. Jackson puts a firm hand on my shoulder and then leaves me to torture myself.

Two steps forward and ten back. It’s like every twist and turn in my life has led me down a path with more potholes than the last, until finally, I’ve reached the precipice of a cliff built on the lives of those I’ve lost.

Jump
, my soul tells me.

Just one step forward and gravity will do the rest.

Do it. Do it. DO IT!!!

“No!” I scream, hurling the pillow against the wall, knocking a large painting from its hook. The painting falls, hitting the floor with a heavy thud and then toppling forward where the glass shatters into a million diamond-like shards, tinkling like wind chimes.

Mr. Jackson is at my side in an instant, pulling me off the couch, dragging me behind it, covering my mouth with his large dark hand. He raises a finger to his lips, his eyes wide and white.

What have I done? If any witches are nearby, they’ll surely come to investigate. While my biggest mistake was clinging to a fool’s hope, Mr. Jackson’s was trusting me with his life.

It’s the longest ten minutes of my life, waiting. Expecting the door to smash open, like it did during Salem’s Revenge. Preparing to fight for my life, against an enemy wielding weapons I might never fully understand.

But it never happens. Ten minutes pass and Mr. Jackson lets out a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a surprising turn of events.

“What?” I say. “No. I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re just trying to help me, and I’m screwing things up for you.”

His eyes soften and gone is the grizzly sword-swinging witch-lecturing warrior, replaced by the familiar neighbor who never failed to offer a wave when I passed by and he was sitting on his porch.

“I know this is hard,” he says, and this time I don’t argue with him. “Your friends are probably gone.” He doesn’t say
dead
, which I appreciate. “But you’re not. And maybe I can help you stay that way.”

“I still have to try to find them,” I say, feeling stupid and childish, like some little kid who searches for his pet bird even after finding its feathers dangling from a cat’s mouth.

“I know,” he says. “But first you need to prepare. And then we’ll go together.” He grips my arm and then, to my surprise, pulls me into a hug.

~~~

Beth’s laughter fills the air, the bright, cheery sound joining the rustling of the apple tree’s leaves and the birdsong from the orchard around us. We’re meant to be picking fruit, but climbing the tree was too tempting to pass up. After over a year of dating, we’re getting more and more creative with our outings.

Our feet dangle below us. If one of our sandals were to slip off, they’d land practically right in the basket full of red, green, and yellow apples.

She leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re a football player,” she says.

I bury my lips into her hair, relishing the clean smell of her rose-scented shampoo. “You don’t even really like football,” I say.

“Yeah, but your broad shoulders make great pillows,” she explains, kissing my bare skin. A thrill shoots through my nerves, and I find myself unable to breathe. I manage to exhale slowly, trying to keep my cool as she rests a hand on my tank top, right over my heart. It’s thudding so loudly I swear it’s going to burst right out of my chest. As she continues to kiss a line up my shoulder to my neck, I slip a hand around her waist, just under the bottom of her shirt, and tuck a thumb in the waistband of her shorts. Her skin is warm and brown and smooth. She lets out a sigh and tilts her head, her lips rising like a cresting wave, meeting mine at the perfect spot, melting together. Her tongue slips in my mouth, wresting all self-control from my brain and sending my body into a frenzy of desire. Desire to be with her forever, to hold her, to touch her, to say things to her I’ve never wanted to say to anyone.

But do I dare? I learned from a very young age that to give away one’s heart is to risk its destruction. And the walls I’ve built around my own heart are tall and thick and surrounded by a moat full of hungry crocodiles. 

Will I lower the drawbridge for Beth?

I pull back suddenly, knowing the answer is yes and that I already have. I know exactly what I have to say, as if the words are running through my veins.

The words disappear. They have to be perfect, for she deserves no less. What would I write in my journal? What
have
I written in my journal?

My mind goes blank, a black sheet of empty space. I’ve got nothing.

“Uh…”

“Rhett Carter, if we stopped kissing for ‘Uh,’ we might as well go back to picking apples,” Beth says, but there’s no real anger or truth to her threat.

“No, I—” I start, my mind cycling through random words that don’t seem to fit together the way I want them to. “I just wanted to tell you that…” I love you. I freaking love you, Beth, with all of my heart, in every waking moment and in every dream at night. The pedestal I have you on is so high it communes with the clouds, touches the moon, showers starlight across the night sky. You saved my heart the moment I met you.

I picture my fingers stabbing the keys, bringing my thoughts to life on my screen. I could say them out loud. I could.

“Just tell me,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.

“Kiss me,” I say.

“Now that’s a demand I can get behind,” she says.

And when her lips meet mine this time, I don’t stop, willing the words I left unspoken to reach her through each and every kiss.

~~~

I wake up gasping.

Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t

Breathe

I realize my nose is congested and my mouth closed, my lips shut tighter than a clamshell.

I open them and suck in a ragged, shaky breath, the whoosh of air sweet and somewhat painful in my lungs.

I never had the chance to tell Beth everything I felt for her. Could she feel it? Why couldn’t I…

(…just say it?)

Why did she have to…

(…die?)

Hot tears spill from my eyes, rushing down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, soaking Mr. Jackson’s blanket.

I sit up quickly, the empty sadness morphing into a hot plume of anger in an instant. I want to throw something, to hit someone, to cry into someone’s shoulder, to run and run and run until my legs give out and my heart explodes and I’m so exhausted that I can’t feel
anything.

Instead, I turn around and hit my pillow as hard as I can.

Sobbing, I fall back, my head fitting perfectly into the punch-hole in the pillow.

~~~

Today we’re going on what Mr. Jackson referred to as “a field trip.” I’m guessing it won’t be to a museum or the planetarium or the zoo. Well, unless the zoo doesn’t have cages and habitats, and the animals are free to slaughter each other as well as the people paying to see them. Then it would be exactly like going to the zoo.

We transition from the suburbs to the city, sneaking along back alleys and the sides of buildings until we reach our destination: the service door for a hotel on Market Street. The elevator doesn’t work, so we climb the stairs and file into one of the rooms, which was apparently unused on the night of Salem’s Revenge, its king-size bed still tightly made. Mr. Jackson motions me to a thick-draped window and we peer down to the street four stories below.

“What are we looking for?” I ask.

“You’ve been asking a lot about what’s happening in the world beyond my house,” Mr. Jackson says. “Well, you’re about to find out.”

I spot a young girl, no more than nine, barefoot and creeping along the sidewalk, hiding behind cars and peeking in garbage cans. Scavenging for food, most likely. “Is she a witch?” Mr. Jackson asks. A test. Part of my training, which seems to have become a 24/7 part of my life.

“She’s too young,” I say.

“Wrong, son.”

“So she is a witch?” I ask.

“No,” Mr. Jackson says. “But your reasoning was wrong. Witches are born, not raised. Age is meaningless when it comes to magic. The most wizened old warlock or brand new witch babe are equally deadly to us.”