Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (41 page)

Laney

J
ust before the tree crashes through the cabin roof, I sense it coming and dive to the side, rolling hard on my shoulder, barely hanging onto my gun. Chunks of tree bark rain over me, some getting in my mouth and eyes, and leaves and branches scrape my skin.

The orange morning sky looms over me, far too beautiful for the situation.

I stay low, not moving, hoping the magic-born will move on, assuming they’ve already killed me. At the same time I wonder which gang I’m facing. I’ve never heard of witches throwing tree trunks around like toothpicks.

Everything’s quiet for a few long moments, before there’s an ear-numbing
BOOM!
and the wall explodes inward, showering me with wood chips as a huge black ball flies overhead, punching through the wall behind me. Not a ball—a
cannon
ball. It’s a straight through-’n-through, like a bullet hitting you in the abdomen and exiting through your lower back. Only it’s not a bullet, it’s a cannonball, and it’s just ripped right through a log cabin.

I know immediately which magic-borns I’m facing, and it does little for my confidence. Slammers. I’ve seen the enormous, giant-like witches and warlocks before, on the streets of Morgantown, West Virginia, outside of the restaurant Trish and I were hiding in. They pound their fists together and cannonballs shoot from their hands, destroying everything in their path without discrimination.

Not the version of witches kids used to dress up as for Halloween.

And I’m in their path.

There’s another boom and the door shatters as if it’s moth-eaten fabric. As another cannonball flies past, the doorknob rolls to my feet. My mind races as I wait for the next blast. If I run I’ll be cut down like a hare facing a shotgun. If I stay I’ll be killed by a cannonball or the resulting shrapnel. I have no choice but to fight.

Before I can lose my nerve, I stand amidst the rubble, shredded wood sticking to my clothes, leaves in my mouth, taking in the scene before me.

My jaw drops open. Three mountains loom over me, their fists the size of basketballs, their muscles bulging from their arms and legs, their heads the size of mini-Coopers. A witch—her enormous breasts bulging against her tank top—and two warlocks with thick beards and shaved heads covered in dark tattoos.

I’m dead meat, but I won’t go down without company. Before they can even think about pounding their godforsaken fists together, I raise my Glock and aim it at one of their heads, hoping the cursed bullets are potent enough to take down elephant-size targets.

When I pull the trigger, the sound it makes is like a peashooter compared to the raucous booms their fists made a few moments prior. Worse, the poof of purple mist seems to have zero effect on the warlock, as if his skin swallowed the bullets whole.

He laughs loudly, his fists parting, preparing to slam together. My breath catches and I prepare to dive for cover…but then…

His laugh is cut off sharply as his cheeks bulge outwards, turning bright purple. His companions stare at him, their huge eyes even huger.

And then his head explodes. Chunks of torn flesh, brain matter, and unidentifiable ichor splash against the other two Slammers, coating them in a vomit-inducing slime.

The two remaining Slammers’ focus returns to me. “Oops?” I say.

They roar and I raise my Glock once more, squeezing the trigger again and again and again, in rapid succession. The slam of their fists drowns out the sound of my tiny weapon. Purple smoke fills the air, full of sparks and black shadows, until my enemies are completely invisible to me.

I keep waiting for the impact, for a cannonball to rip through me, ending everything I’ve fought for, but it never comes. The booms continue and I keep pulling the trigger until I figure out that my magged-up bullets are destroying the cannonballs before they can get to me, and the cannonballs are protecting the Slammers from my bullets. I continue firing, wondering how long the stalemate will last, vaguely recognizing that there’s only one set of booms now, as if I’ve killed one of the Slammers or one of them has…

Moved.

The stark realization hits me a second too late, as my body is grabbed by thick fingers, lifting me upward, knocking the wind out of my lungs and my Glock from my hands. The gun clatters to the cabin floor beneath me, growing smaller as the Slammer lifts me above her head. Looking down I get an unfortunate bird’s eye view of her ample cleavage, and I almost wish she’d kill me faster.

Run, Trish
, I think. Whatever you are, whatever you have to do—do it. Be who you are. Become what you have to become. And as the witch laughs, her mouth wide and red, my biggest regret is that the one time Rhett and I kissed I had to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

It’s when I’m about to close my eyes and hope for a painless end that I see it.

In any other time, in any other life, I’d do a double take, blink my eyes, assume I was seeing things. But after all I’ve seen I know it’s real.

A skeleton carrying a long silver knife sprints through the woods, right toward us. And behind it are hundreds more skeletons, charging in its wake.

“Boners!” I shout.

~~~

I’m falling, the world spinning around me in a dizzying spiral.

I cover my head and bear the brunt of the impact on my right shoulder, which screams with pain. No time for that. No time. The skeleton warriors are swarming over the cabin debris, their feet clacking across the wood, their—

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

The giant witches are doing what they do best: slamming their fists together to create magic. Cannonballs speed past me and smash through the attackers, splitting bones and cracking skulls. White bone fragments scatter around me like kindling under a woodsman’s axe.

But the Boners keep coming, leaping over their fallen brothers and sisters, screaming silently from their lipless maws. Carrying swords and chains and tire irons.

I see the shadows of the Slammers as they back away, retreating from the tide of the raised dead. Lying on my back, gritting my teeth at the sharp pain in my shoulder, I feel helpless as one of the Boners sprints toward me. But if this is the end, I’m going down fighting.

Ignoring the pain, I push to my feet, looking for a weapon, grabbing the first long, hard object I can find. A leg bone. It’ll have to do.

The skeleton warrior approaches, waving a club over its head, prepared to smash it into my skull…

And I swing my leg bone…

The force of my swing spins me in a complete circle, missing its mark as the Boner dodges and…runs past me?

I watch as it continues onward, joining a dozen of its kind that manage to avoid the Slammers’ cannonballs and leap on one of them, the massive warlock. I have to look away as they claw and beat and stab his face, his chest, his stomach.

There’s a loud boom and a crash and when I look back the warlock is on the ground, covered in bone shrapnel, a gaping hole in his chest. My head jerks back toward the witch with the breasts that would make Dolly Parton jealous, shocked to realize that she just shot her companion in order to kill a few of the Boners.

The skeletons continue to push toward her, mindless drones without fear. Each cannonball blast destroys dozens of the warriors, until I finally see a distinct decrease in their numbers. She’s winning.

And if she wins, she’ll come for me next.

The word
RUN!
hammers in my skull, and I know that’s the smart thing, but I’ve never been much of a runner. Why run and get all sweaty and short of breath when you can just throw a punch and stay right where you are?

The ache in my shoulder having become a dull throb, I push through the wreckage of the cabin, looking for it. Brown and white and wood and bones and—

Something catches a ray from the rising sun, sparkling. Metal.

The Glock!

The gun is under a big ol’ pile of logs, but there’s a decent crawlspace. After taking a quick glance at the battle—the steroidal witch punches a Boner and it flies fifty feet in the air before colliding with a tree trunk, its skull separating from its spine—I dive beneath the timber, reaching for my weapon. My shoulders jam against the wood as I stretch my arm as far as it can go, my fingernails scraping on the floorboards, my fingers at their limits…

An inch short.

More like half an inch.

A child like Trish could easily grab the gun and pull it out, but not me. Unless I get a rush of that crazy adrenaline that allows people to pick up cars, there’s no way I’ll get to it. I pull my hand back, breathing heavily, hearing another blast and the resulting clatter of broken bones falling to the ground.

Try again
.

Although not more than a whisper, the voice is loud in my ear, as if spoken by someone just next to me. I whirl around but no one’s there.

Try again, my earthly sister.

I recognize the voice, although it’s not one I’ve heard much recently. Trish. Where is she? Doesn’t matter, only that she’s here and she’s telling me what to do. And if I’ve learned nothing else over the last six months, I’ve learned to trust my sister.

So I push into the gap once more, stretching out, reaching, ignoring the burn of the wood scraping my skin, bruising my body, fighting for that last half inch.

Something moves and suddenly I’m free, able to gain not only the last half inch, but a full foot, grabbing the Glock and pulling it out. I’m on my feet in an instant, analyzing the situation—a cannonball erupts from the witch’s fists and tears through what appear to be the last five or six Boners—taking aim, watching as the Slammer realizes the skeletons are no longer her biggest threat as she turns…

I. Pull. The. Freaking. Trigger.

She tries to slam her fists together, but she’s too late: my magical bullets have already entered her body. The witch claws at her skin, as if trying to extract the bullets with nothing more than her fingers, but they’re gone, absorbed into her.

I smile and duck behind a log. I’ve watched enough death for one day.

The sickening sound of her body exploding from the inside pushes bile up my throat, but I choke it down because I survived.

Trish whispers in my ear.
Be safe, Laney.

And before I can even begin to comprehend how my sister is talking to me from somewhere else, as if she’s a human cellphone tower, another thought hits me, one I didn’t have time to consider in the midst of the battle:

Where there are Boners, surely there must be…

Necros.

The Reaper steps out from behind the half-destroyed cabin wall.

Rhett

“D
rop your freaking weapons,” I say, “or Hex will…uh…do something really bad to you.”

I glance at my dog, who looks at me like I’m crazy. “Just play along,” I whisper, praying he gets the message. My sword is nearby, but if Hex decides not to help, Bil will have a distinct advantage with his long range weapons.

Hex just lies down, resting his chin on his front paws, apparently bored by the whole situation.

“Whoa, whoa,” Bil says, his hands—and weapons—thankfully still above his head. “There’s no need for all of that. I was just having a bit of fun with you.” He takes a step closer.

“You almost impaled my brain on one of your skewers,” I say, reaching down slowly to pick up my magged-up sword. “And from what I’ve been told, you’re on a mission to kill me.”

“Who told you that?” Bil says, an eyebrow raised.

“If it’s the truth, does it matter who told me?”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Bil says.

“That doesn’t mean you haven’t been sent to kill me,” I say.

Bil tosses his crossbow and rifle on the ground in front of him. “I could’ve killed you a dozen times already,” he says. “Remember?”

Well, maybe
half
a dozen times, I think. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you’re not one of the bad guys,” he says.

“But you really are working for New America?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And they told you to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think you already know.”

I chew my lip. “I was told it’s because they knew of my connection to the Necros. Because my best friend is a Necro. Therefore I’m a threat. They don’t want someone like me—a Resistor—fighting against them.”

“That’s right,” Bil says.

“You’re a Resistor, too,” I say. Bil seems to realize it’s not a question, so he just stares at me. “That’s how you were able to fight off the Call of that Siren.” I’m just thinking out loud.

Bil takes another step forward, leaving his weapons behind. His hands drop to his sides. “New America is trying to do the right thing, you know,” he says. “President Washington is the only one holding the surviving humans together. She’s a true leader. She’s smart, and strong, and is doing everything she can to fight back. She was wrong about you, but she could’ve been right. She could use you, you know. If you went to her, showed her you’re not allied with the magic-born, she’d understand. She’d want your help. Our kind is in high demand these days.”

Don’t I know it. I blink away the memories of the Reaper and Xave trying to convince me to join their “great cause.”

“How do I know she won’t just kill me the moment I let my guard down?” I say.

Bil moves forward more swiftly, until he reaches the porch steps. He sits on the second one, leaning his back against the railing. Pulls a rubber band from his dark ponytail and lets his hair fall to his shoulders. Bends one knee and leaves the other leg straight, as if settling in for a long conversation.

He turns to look at me. “Because the president isn’t like that. And because with you on her side she’ll have two of the three known Resistors.”

“Who has the other one?” I ask, having already heard the answer but wanting to confirm it.

“We think it’s the Changelings,” Bil says.

I think about that for a moment, remembering everything Mr. Jackson taught me about that particular witch gang. They’re a powerful group because they’re so hard to identify, carrying the ability to change their appearance significantly. Not like Shifters, who are limited to taking on the forms of animals, Changelings can take on the forms of other humans, as well as magic-born. They can hide in plain sight, without anyone ever knowing what they really look like. On the recording my father had said the Head of the Witch Council has been hiding in plain sight. Could she be a Changeling?

“Do we know what side the Changelings are on?” I ask.

Bil pulls an arrow from a sheath strapped to his back, twirling it in his fingers a few times before answering. “Technically they’re on the same side as the Necros,” he says. “The side that wants to exterminate all humans.”

I jerk my head hard to the side. “Don’t get me wrong, the Necros are as screwed up as they come, but I’m not sure they’re looking to kill all humans.” Am I really defending the witches that raised Beth from the dead? The witches that kept Laney and me locked in a cell? The witches that almost got us
killed
?

Bil looks at me the way I usually look at him: like I’m crazy. “Um…” he says.

“I spent time with them,” I say, trying to explain. “There’s more to them than I originally thought.”

“I wouldn’t go saying things like that when we get to New Washington,” Bil says. “Or maybe they
will
kill you.”

“Look, I’m not trying to defend the Necros,” I say.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I take a deep breath, trying to line up my thoughts in some kind of a logical order. “I think the Necros want peace as much as anyone, they just don’t know how. And because of the powers they have—”

“You mean raising the dead?” Bil says, still looking at me like I’m the crazy one.

“Exactly,” I say. “It’s hard for humans to understand something so…crass…but to them it’s who they are.” I should stop talking now. Is this really what I believe?

Even as Bil stands up and walks toward his weapons, I realize that I do believe what I’m saying. I’m not sure what that means.

“I guess I was wrong about you, Rhett,” Bil says, collecting his crossbow and rifle. “I thought we at least had the same understanding of the enemy.”

I tense up, ready to dive for cover if Bil starts shooting again, changing his mind about whether I’m one of “the bad guys.”

Instead he heads off down the road, shouting back once over his shoulder. “Good luck, my old friend,” he says.

~~~

Bil Nez is no more than a smudge on the road when I make the decision. He’s the only connection to New America I’ve got, and if I really and truly want to join their war against the magic-born, he may be my only way to do it. New America and their leader, President Washington, have proven to be resourceful and capable. If nothing else, they might be willing to let me fight alongside them.

Assuming they don’t kill me first, of course.

“Go get him, boy,” I command Hex.

My dog looks up, his eyelids drooping. When he sets his chin back on his paws the message is clear:
Go get him yourself.

I sigh, my tired legs aching before I even stand.

I start to run. The long dirt track is riddled with mud puddles that I don’t have the energy to jump over, so I just splash through them, wishing it didn’t take me so long to realize that I need Bil Nez’s help.

When I reach the main road, I look left and then right. To the right, south, Bil’s standing in the middle of the road, his hands on his hips, his tanned face grinning at me. “Changed your mind?” he says.

“Take me to New Washington,” I say.