Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (63 page)

I clamber out onto the lawn, pulling Laney behind me. When I see what Bil is looking at, my breath hitches, sticking in my lungs like it’s made of glue. Hundreds of witches and warlocks, far more than President Washington had inferred were her allies, are lined up in rows on the White House lawn. I spot members from all different gangs—Volts, Pyros, Brewers, Casters, Destroyers, Sirens, Shifters, Slammers, Conjurers, and, of course, one General, in the form of President Washington, standing on the steps above them all, her hands raised above her head like some kind of a prophet. She’s flanked by the wizard, Charles Gordon, who looks exactly like he always did in his movies, and Samsa, the giant. It’s the most diverse gathering of the magic-born that I’ve ever witnessed.

Thankfully, the masses of magic-born are facing away from us, and the president and her two protectors are focused intently on their army.

Huddled around the edges of the group is what’s left of the U.S. military. They’re whispering amongst themselves, pointing at the witches, gripping their guns with white knuckles. Even after defending the borders alongside them, the humans are still not comfortable in the presence of so many magic-born. Noticeably absent are the witch hunters.

“We knew this day would come!” President Washington shouts. Although she casts her gaze across the humans and magic-born alike, I get the sense that she’s speaking only to the witches and warlocks. “But we will not falter, will not fall to our enemies. We will fight to the bitter end and we will destroy our foes. And then, finally, the world will be ours again!” A cheer rises up from the magic-born, accompanied by a smattering of uncertain applause and hollers from the humans. Even though they don’t know the truth about their leader, the humans seem to realize there’s something off about her speech and the fact that she’s delivering it amongst so many magic-born.

Because she means to rule them, too.

“It’s time to cast off those who we’ve used for our purposes, the last defenders of humanity. It’s time to be free of their unwanted presence. They’re a cancer that needs to be cut from the face of the world. With them gone, enslaving the rest of the humans will be child’s play.” A scattering of murmurs roll through the U.S. military as realization sets in. She’s talking about them. Guns go up, pointed at the witches and warlocks, who just laugh at them.

My mind is racing ahead of me, already calculating the approaching death toll. No matter what I do and how hard I fight, there’s no way I can save even a tenth of them. And none of us have weapons, except for Bil, whose crossbow is already drawn.

Movement to the left, well away from the crowd, catches my attention. When I turn, my breath catches in the back of my throat, choking me. I swallow heavily, trying to understand what I’m seeing.

The dirty old beggar, coatless now, is running toward me. Martin Carter. My father. Well, he’s
trying
to run toward me, but it’s like he’s on a treadmill, his feet moving but his body remaining in one place. His face, as it has always been since I met him, is contorted in pain, as if every step is the equivalent of being stabbed.

Despite the pain and the fact that—due to President Washington’s curse—every moment in my presence quickens his death, he’s trying to get to me. To help us. To protect us. To save us. Like a real father.

And yet, the very earth seems to betray his motives, stopping him at first and then pushing him backwards, his eyes widening in shock. It’s as if the curse has strengthened in the presence of its creator, forcing father and son apart, denying us what might be our final moment together.

In seconds, he’s gone, removed by a curse far stronger than I could’ve ever imagined.

“Rhett, what do we do?” Laney hisses, trying to get my attention. Evidently she didn’t see my father, her gaze locked on the crowded scene in front of the White House.

And for once, I don’t have the slightest idea. This is normally where my feet start moving, almost of their own accord, carrying me off to do something stupid, to try to save someone I can’t possibly save. But this time it seems, even my heroic but fool-brained feet know that our efforts would be futile. If I kill the president she won’t be able to remove my father’s curse. Can I make such a sacrifice for the greater good? Is it even my decision to make? And even if the curse never existed, she’s powerful—perhaps too powerful. I know what Mr. Jackson would say:
Cut your losses and live to fight another day.
It’s advice I’ve always struggled to listen to, but which seems like the only choice in this situation. If we die here, today, with the rest of the humans, who will save the few that are left? If we run, however, maybe there will still be a chance to win this war. Maybe there will still be hope.

But at what expense?
a voice says, appearing in my head as clearly as the waters of a mountain spring. Laney’s head jerks toward me sharply, her eyes widening. And I know.

I know.

She heard the voice, too.

And the voice is Trish’s.

~~~

Laney

I tear my eyes from Rhett and whirl around, scanning the crowd. Is my sister among them?

No, she can’t be. She’s not some Changeling hiding amongst her enemies. She might be with the Changelings, but she’s not
of
them. Is she?

The crowd is frothing like waves churning against the shore, their cries melding into a dull roar. Jeers and taunts stream from the magic-born toward the human soldiers, who inch backwards, their guns trained on the witches. “No one has to die,” one of them says. I recognize the voice. Hemsworth. He’s one of the few soldiers not pointing his gun at the magic-born. Instead, he has it aimed skyward, his arms out in surrender. “Let us go and we won’t fire a single shot.” When I hear the president’s response I realize he was talking to her.

“No.”

A roar goes up and the crack of a gunshot rings out.

From there everything pretty much goes in the crapper.

There’s gunfire and the crackle and whir of spells being cast, filling the air with sparks, flashes of bright color, fire, and the tangy scent of gunpowder. Bodies fall and blood spurts and men and women and witches and warlocks cry out in pain and anger and determination.

And I’m frozen—weaponless and helpless. Not my finest moment.

One of the warlocks—a stunningly handsome Siren—notices us and strides forward, a blood-streaked blade clutched in one fisted hand. The sudden pull feels like a harness around my waist, tugging me toward him. Into his arms, onto his blade—it matters not. Only that I get to him. He represents everything I want: safety and warmth and love and sleep and
peace
. This Siren is the epitome of peace on earth.

Rhett slams me to the ground, crushing the air from my lungs, and I hate him I hate him I hate him.

I wheeze and scratch and claw and struggle to breathe, my heart beating like a hammer on a fiery anvil in my chest. And beyond Rhett I see Bil Nez raise his crossbow and take aim at the Siren and
NO!
I try to scream but I still can’t breathe, can’t do anything but draw blood from Rhett’s back with my nails and watch as Bil shoots his weapon.

When the bolt hits the warlock in the chest it feels as if my breast has been pierced, too. My breath comes back in a horrific groan-shriek that cuts through the roar of battle.

And then I’m me again. “What—what happened?” I whisper. Everything’s a blur. There was fighting and dying…but why? I can see the crimson lines soaking through Rhett’s shirt, just beneath my fingers, which are rigid and hooked, like claws. Did I—did I do that?

Rhett rolls off of me and helps me to my feet. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he says, keeping his body between me and the battle. Humans are dropping left and right, some of their bodies mangled beyond recognition. Occasionally a witch drops when their magical defenses break down and a stray bullet gets through and pierces their flesh.

“We have to help them,” I say.

“Laney, we can’t,” Rhett says. It’s something I’ve never heard him say. Normally I’m the one trying to talk him out of risking his life for strangers. But they’re not strangers; at least, not all of them. Hemsworth was good to me, treated me like his own daughter. Cared what happened to me. And now…

I see him, his face moist with sweat and dappled with blood, amidst a final group of living humans. They’re not giving up, forming a wall of flesh and blood, forcing the magic-born to go
through
them if they want to get to the non-military humans in the rest of New Washington.

A laser of blue light streaks across the sky, bursting into a cloud of blackness over Hemsworth’s head. “No!” I scream, charging toward my friend. Or at least I try to. My legs are churning, my eyes focused on getting to the lieutenant, but I’m not moving. Rhett has me around the waist, his grip like iron, holding me back. “Let me go!” I scream.

Hemsworth tries to run, but the black cloud follows him, spitting jagged swords of lightning that tear into his flesh, stopping him dead in his tracks, his body convulsing violently. “Please,” I whisper, the fight going out of me as his body slumps to the ground, white foam dribbling from his lifeless lips.

Rhett continues to hold me as my body turns to rubber. “We couldn’t save him,” he says. “We have to go.”

Yes, you must go to safety
, Trish says in my head.
Death has arrived.

“She’s my sister,” I say weakly, trying to make Rhett understand.

“She doesn’t need you anymore,” he says.

I nod, tears dripping from my chin, and allow Rhett to pull me away from the waning battle, toward the south. Bil Nez covers us the whole way, and then follows closely after.

Trish

S
he watches her sister go just moments before the Changelings arrive. Their scaly skin reflects the light like mirrors, temporarily blinding the magic-born standing between them and the president.

And when they attack, it’s like a tornado carrying harbingers of death, a flurry of claws and fangs and barbed tails that sever limbs and impale flesh.

Trish rises above it all, watching and conserving her strength, one eye on the fight and one on her sister, Rhett and Bil Nez, who are heading toward the southern edge of the White House lawn.
Good
, she murmurs.
Fly away little bird.
She smiles because this time is different. This time she’s done it. Saved her Children. Saved her earthly sister. Lived up to her abilities as a Clairvoyant and changed the future.

Raising a hand, she deflects an errant spell headed in her direction, sending it into a passing Destroyer, who simply vanishes into thin air, only his dark cloak remaining, fluttering like a wounded bird to the ground.

One of the Changelings is hit by a white ball of magic and flies back fifty feet, landing in a heap just below Trish. The black reptilian eyes stare at her for a second, before morphing into the green eyes of a young Changeling girl, whose lips open and close, as if trying to speak. Her last words unuttered, she dies, her pale white skin deepening to purple bruises in a dozen places.

Although she has no admiration for the Changelings, Trish feels the swell of sadness for this life cut short. Unlike her Children, this girl will get no second chance at life, no reincarnation.

Across the savage battle, she notices the president watching her intently. President Washington smiles and makes a motion for Trish to come over. Is this her destiny? Can she do what she failed to in her last life? She knows she has to try.

Just as she’s about to make her move, she senses movement on the edge of her vision.

No. Go back
, she commands.

But this isn’t one of her Children, who will honor her every wish. This is an independent woman. This is her protector and her family. This is her sister.

Laney strides confidently across the lawn, Glock in hand.

~~~

Rhett

Sometimes reasoning with Laney is like trying to get a stubborn mule to move.

In other words, impossible.

“I’m going back,” she says. “And you can’t stop me.”

“Your sister can take of herself,” I say.

“I know,” she says, “but family doesn’t abandon each other.”

“You mean like she did to you?” I say, resorting to the only verbal option I have left: a cheap shot.

Laney’s glare is full of daggers. “She came back and you know it.”

“You’ve got no weapon,” I say, trying to step in front of her.

Like a football player dodging a defender, she jukes to the side and out of reach. “I’ve got two fists,” she says.

She’s not making any sense. Two fists against magic are like slingshots against a rocket launcher.

“You’ve got more than that,” a voice says from behind us. I was so engaged in my argument with Laney that I didn’t see him approaching. Laney and I both turn to find Tillman Huckle standing awkwardly before us, carrying a large duffel bag. He’s flanked by Hex, who grins as if we’re all just out here to spend a nice day chasing sticks on the White House lawn.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say to Huckle. Hex cocks his head as if to say
And you should?

“Normally as soon as the spells start flying I’d be taking my solar-powered van and making tracks,” Huckle says. “But first I wanted to make sure you were outfitted for battle.” He dumps out the duffel on the lawn. I cringe as the metal weapons clank against each other, hoping nothing accidentally explodes, killing us all in a spectacular example of why magical weapons should require a permit and safety training.

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” I say, grabbing my new sword. I’m not sure where he got it from, but I don’t ask. “But we’re getting out of here.”

“No we’re not,” Laney says, snatching her magged-up Glock. “Thanks, gotta run!” Before I can react, she’s past me and streaking back toward the White House, Hex nipping at her heels.

~~~

Laney

Rhett is shouting my name and I sense him chasing after me, but it’s like I have wings under my feet, propelling me faster than I’ve ever run.

I hear Trish commanding me to stop in my head, but I won’t be deterred. I won’t run away while she faces the gravest danger on the planet. As long as we have the same blood flowing through our veins, I’ll stand beside her. I’ll die if I have to.

I feel a force pushing against my chest, powerful but gentle, stopping me. Rhett pulls up beside me, breathing heavily. “Had a change of heart?” he says.

“No,” I say, looking up a Trish, who’s hovering above us. “She’s stopping me.”

Rhett tries to move forward, but finds himself as stuck as me. “Both of us,” he says. “I could Resist her, but I’m afraid it might take some of her energy.”

Hex passes us and looks back as if to say
Well?
Apparently Trish’s magic, as powerful as it is, can’t touch him.

“Trish. I have to do this. I have to fight. For you. For everyone.”

She looks down at me with those deeply intelligent eyes of hers, which burn with intensity.
No
, she says.
Stay safe.

“I’m safe with you,” I say, pleading, trying to make her understand.

Her face falls, as if she’s embarrassed, an expression I don’t think I’ve ever seen cross her face.
Maybe not
, she says.

Is she saying she could hurt me? Or that she can’t protect me anymore? I don’t want to ask, but even before I have the chance there’s a blur of movement shooting across the sky, nearly invisible. “Trish, look out!” I shout, but it’s too late.

The spell hits her in the back, twisting her tiny, angel-like body around. Her eyes roll back in her head and she falls. Rhett and I both take off, trying to get under her, but Hex is already there, a giant bubble growing from his mouth. Trish hits the top of the bubble but it doesn’t pop; instead, it brings her inside, where she bounces around harmlessly before coming to a stop.

“I distracted her—this is my fault—is she okay?” The words rush out all at once, aimed at no one in particular. I try to reach her through the bubble, but the barrier won’t allow me through.

“I’m okay,” Trish says through the bubble, a rare occasion where she uses her lips to communicate. She looks frail, the opposite of the strong, powerful witch that she is. My heart sinks. “You must go somewhere safe.”

“No,” I say. Trish tries to protest, but she doesn’t seem to have the energy. Whatever spell she was hit with did a real number on her. But she seems to be safe in Hex’s bubble, and there’s only one way to protect her permanently. “We end this now. Hex, take care of my sister while Rhett and I take out that presidential bitch.” Hex barks his understanding and stands in front of the bubble protectively.

“Don’t forget about me,” Bil Nez says, now at Rhett’s side. “I’m with you.”

I’m surprised, but not about to deny Bil’s offered help just because he may freak out and become some crazy, unpredictable killing machine at any second. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Rhett opens his mouth to speak, but I shush him. “We’re doing this, Rhett. No more protests, no more excuses.”

“I was just going to say to be careful,” he says.

“I always am,” I say. For what could be the last time, we charge into a battle meant for witches.

~~~

Rhett

Thank God for Tillman Huckle. In my mind, I keep repeating that like a prayer as my sword splits into three, taking out triple the number of foes with each strike. A trio of spellcasters surrounds me, chanting a deep-throated and solemn curse that never reaches me. It can’t reach me because I’m so locked in mentally that my ability to Resist magic is like an impenetrable steel fortress. The curses, which physically appear as streaks of green, fall harmlessly to the grass. I swing my sword and the three spellcasters lose three heads. They bounce and skitter like dropped basketballs, eventually coming to rest with wide, unseeing eyes.

Gross.

I don’t have time to even think about throwing up, because the next witch is upon me, a disfigured creature with rough, gray-green skin, like a crocodile, and seven-inch claws like a wolverine. The monster’s eyes are fully black, like dark windows into a shrouded soul. Raising my sword hand, I deflect the claws to the side and plant my feet, preparing to go on the offensive.

I stop my swing mid-stroke, because my attacker is changing, her visage flickering between the croco-wolverine and a red-lipped, red-haired woman. A woman I know all too well. “You,” I say.

“You,” she echoes, her voice a gravelly mixture of growl and speech. “Fight well.” Her body once more solidifying into the deadly reptile thing, she turns away and launches herself at an enormous Slammer, who begins spouting blood from the ten slash wounds now intersecting his chest.

I spin around and relocate my friends. Bil Nez is trying to keep his distance from the witches, using his crossbow to methodically cut them down one at a time. He seems to be doing okay, considering we’re the only humans caught in the middle of a millennium-old battle between warring magic-born factions. Laney, on the other hand, is in the thick of things, her Glock booming again and again, Tillman’s patented purple cloud of destruction following her around like a tracker beacon. She’s fighting her way toward the front of the fray, toward where President Washington stands watching the scene, occasionally targeting the Changelings with spells of her own. Charles Gordon’s eyes are closed and he’s muttering under his breath, presumably spells of protection for the witches fighting under Washington’s command. Samsa is absently slapping his fist into his palm, as if just waiting for the opportunity to crush some Changeling skulls.

If Laney reaches the president before I do…there’s no way she can win against those three, even if she had twenty of Huckle’s magical weapons. Without a Resistor—Bil Nez or me—she doesn’t stand a chance. Bil’s too far away and seems happy to keep his distance. Which leaves me.

I’m about to make my move when a heavy gong sounds. It’s almost funny to watch as everyone’s head turns toward the sound. Toward where dozens of raised corpses are flooding the White House lawn, running the way no zombie should ever be able to run. The Necros have arrived.

The magic-born allied with President Washington and the Changelings forget their hatred of each other momentarily, standing shoulder to shoulder as the Reanimates charge toward them. When the running dead reach them, it’s like a car crash, bodies and weapons flying all over the place while magical curses are uttered with reckless abandon.

The dead have no regard for their own re-lives. Their orders are simple—
killkillkill!
—and they mindlessly carry them out, swinging spiked clubs and crowbars and rusty daggers at their foes. A Pyro tries to defend itself by throwing a fireball, but it’s too slow, the Reanimate bludgeoning him to death with a club, which catches on fire, racing up the handle and over the living corpse’s body. Still he fights, swinging his flaming club at anyone near him, setting witches and Reanimates alight. Eventually, however, the flames overcome whatever magical strength is in his decaying flesh and bone and muscle, and he folds like a crappy hand of poker, burning to ash on the ground.

Even as I watch with morbid fascination, I wonder who infused life into this particular corpse. Was it Xave? Is he here? Or was it his father, the Reaper?

I’m snapped out of my revelry when a Reanimate—a woman with pale, freckled skin on one half of her, and black, charred, burnt flesh on the other—comes at me with a knife, already slick with blood. I raise my sword to block her strike, but it never comes. It’s as if I’m not even there; she runs past me and leaps at a warlock, cutting deep into his back.

What the hell? What just happened? I don’t have time to consider my questions, because I spot Laney again. She’s still fighting hard, but moving swiftly through the magic-born, who seem more concerned with the Reanimates tearing through their ranks.

Spinning my sword over my head like a helicopter, I hack my way through the opposing witches, doing my best to avoid the crocodile-like Changelings and Reanimates who, at least for the moment, seem to be loosely on my side. I’m aware of the blood and gore flying around me, but I don’t stop, because Laney is almost to the White House steps.

With a final flurry of slashes, I break through just ahead of her.

But not ahead of the red witch, who transforms back into her “normal” beautiful self, her dress black this time, swishing around her feet as she climbs the stairs.

Samsa swings at her, but she ducks and swipes a hand forward. Her manicured nails vanish as a single sword-like claw extends, puncturing the Slammer’s gut like a piece of meat on a skewer. With a shriek, the red witch twists the sword like she’s turning a screw. Samsa gasps, his sharp intake of breath audible despite the dull roar of the background noise.