Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (68 page)

Rhett

“T
his place needs a new name,” Tillman Huckle says, jamming his thumb so hard against his controller I half-expect him to punch a hole right through the plastic.

Instead, there’s a huge boom and a zombie’s head disappears in a spray of blood and ichor. The headless corpse continues to lurch forward for another three groaning steps before collapsing in a heap on the floor. Hex, my German shepherd, bounds forward and barks at the screen.

I have the sudden urge to draw my sword. The screen is so big—covering one whole wall of Huckle’s van—that the video game almost seems real. There are zombies everywhere, closing in on Huckle’s character, a dark, swarthy dude with muscles like cannonballs. It reminds me way too much of when we fought the Reanimates on Heinz Field.

Huckle’s van is even bigger—on the outside it looks like a normal vehicle, but on the inside it’s a giant warehouse—having been magically pimped out by a few witches who turned out to be feigning kindness in an effort to infiltrate the last major pocket of surviving humans.

Unfortunately, the fake worked and what was left of the U.S. military was wiped out during an epic battle I’d rather not remember.

It’s been a long, hard week since that battle, and tensions are high between the humans and their magic-born allies. As a group, we’re leaderless. More and more, both groups are looking to me to speak for them, something I’m not thrilled about. I guess that’s what I get for being the one to insist they form the bond in the first place. At least no one has been killed for two days, ever since Flora’s bloody message was delivered by the mortally wounded witch hunter scout.

“What name?” I ask.

“Beats me,” Huckle says, switching his character’s weapon to a double-edged axe, which he promptly uses to hack off another three undead heads. “But New Washington won’t work anymore. People are scared enough as it is. New Washington has become a curse word around here. We can’t live in a place named after the witch who almost killed the lot of us.”

He makes a good point, even if changing the name of New Washington seems like the least of our worries. Even still, we need something to give the people hope. Something to help us start over. Something to make us all feel connected to each other. A new name might just do that.

“How about Unity?” I say.

Huckle laughs, and at first I think it’s because he’s just used a grenade launcher to blow up a pocket of the walking dead. “What about Peaceville? Or Harmonytown? Or did you consider The Land of Butterflies and Kittens?” Huckle says.

Hex chuffs his own sarcastic response, and for once I’m glad I don’t speak dog. He also raises a leg and pees a rainbow of colors that fades away, as if evaporating into the air. It’s the closest I can get to training him to go outside.

Now I
really
want to draw my sword.

“Ha ha,” I say. “Shoot a guy for having an idea.”

Huckle pokes at the controller and his character turns away from the zombies and aims his gun right at my head. I flinch when the barrel explodes with fire and smoke.

Huckle laughs. “I’m just saying you need something less…fluffy.” He throws his controller down and watches gleefully as his character is mauled by the zombies. Turning to me, he tries to smooth down his messy hair, which keeps popping back up the moment his hand passes over it. He pushes his glasses higher on his nose, at least three strips of duct tape holding them together. For a moment, the world seems normal again. Or at least more normal than it’s been in a long time.

“Alliance,” I say.

Huckle raises an eyebrow and then stands. With awkward, loping strides he moves along the side of his van-warehouse, running his fingertips across the various weapons resting neatly in racks on the wall. Gleaming swords made of cursed steel; portable explosives filled with potions; guns loaded with magic bullets, like Laney’s Glock.

My friend pirouettes, raising his long arms clumsily over his head like the world’s worst ballerina. I smirk and wait for an insult that never comes. “I like it,” Huckle says. “We’ll call this place Alliance.”

Hex barks and it sounds like “Yes!”

~~~

As we leave from our daily visit to Huckle’s van, I think about the news I received earlier. A lion was spotted prowling outside the perimeter fence. Then a jaguar. Other beasts followed: wolves, snakes, cheetahs, bears… No, they haven’t escaped from a zoo. Shifters, transformed into wild animals. Their spells require only a few drops of a child’s blood and a dash of evil.

Finally, a lone panther, which moved so swiftly between the trees that it was nothing more than a blur of black, appeared, eventually stopping to stare with gleaming yellow eyes through the fence. There’s no doubt in my mind the panther was Flora, the leader of the Shifters.

It’s the first sign of the Shifters since the scout was killed. The witch hunters have seen them perhaps a half-dozen times since Trish gave me a vision just before she sacrificed herself to save Laney. In the vision, the last remaining humans were being mercilessly murdered by the Shifters. I don’t know if it was a promise of the future, or a warning of what might come to pass. Either way, I’m not taking the Shifter threat lightly.

In this case, the human perimeter guards fled the border, racing across the uneven terrain for the cover of the buildings of New Wash—no, the buildings of
Alliance
. The name feels good on my lips and in my head. But can a name really change a bunch of scared humans into the warriors they need to be?

Without the assistance of our magic-born allies—the Claires and the (cough) Necros—we’d have been overrun with Shifters already. As it happens, the magic-born were able to stand their ground at the border and scare them off. There simply aren’t enough witch hunters left for the humans to stand on their own.

A few months ago I wanted to kill all the dead-raising Necros, including their leader, the Reaper, who turned out to be my mentor, Mr. Jackson, but now they’re helping us. They’re helping me.
It’s a weird world
, I think wryly.

Hex stops and looks up at me, pawing at my leg. I realize he’s stopped because I’ve stopped. The weight of the world seems to close in around me. After all the battles I’ve fought, after all those I’ve lost, the earth is still a haven for evil. Will there always be another enemy to defeat? I wonder. Will the circle continue from one side to the other and around again, never reaching an end? Is the idea of peace between humans and magic-born a child’s dream?

The whole world feels as if it’s been cast under a dark shadow. Wait, no. It’s just a cloudy autumn day. We may be surrounded by supernatural beings, but there’s nothing unnatural about the weather.

Hex farts loudly, drawing my attention. And yeah, it smells like roses. Sometimes I think my dog can do no wrong. He whines softly, his mouth opening and closing as if attempting to engage in conversation.

If only. I suspect Hex’s wisdom would rival even that of the Claires’.

He turns suddenly and barks at the shadows of the alleyway we were approaching before we stopped.

“What is it, boy?” I say, crouching down to stroke his back. His tail hits me in the face, wagging a mile a minute.

A mucky, slurping sound precedes the creature’s arrival, like someone walking through a bog after a rainstorm. Hex runs forward a few steps, then back to me, then forward again. Excitement seems to resonate from every cell in his body.

Grogg plods into view, leaving a trail of mud with each footstep. He’s moving slowly, almost grudgingly, as if each step is taken against his will. Which is probably true, considering creatures like Grogg are created and controlled by Shifters. In fact, this particular mud-creature is the very one that was used by Flora to bend me to her every will and whim, turning me into nothing more than her puppet. I may be able to Resist magic, but I’m still a human, every bit as susceptible to lies and logic as the next guy or girl.

“What do you want, Flora?” I say, standing so that I can tower over him—or it. Hex rushes forward, sniffing around Grogg’s hind parts while the creature tries to scamper away, slipping between my legs. The chase only further encourages Hex, who barks at Grogg around my leg.

“Not. Flora,” the creature groans, his voice like scraping bark and rusty nails.

“Right,” I say. “Just like you weren’t Flora before?”

Hex whacks Grogg’s face and his paw comes away dripping with muck, leaving an indentation in the creature’s cheek. The dent quickly fills with fresh mud.

“Yes yes yes,” Grogg says. “Yes Flora yes. Gone. Grogg not needed. Left us. Left us wandering in circles, nowhere to go.”

“More like leaving you here to spy on us,” I say. It makes sense. If Flora can use Grogg to see everything we’re doing it will give her a huge advantage.

The mud-creature sneezes, brown globules spattering my shoes. Awesome. I’ll have to burn them later and get new ones. Hex sniffs at my toes and then swipes his pink tongue across my shoes, turning it brown. Gross.

“New master moves us. New master speaks us. New master sends us to you,” Grogg says.

I pause for a moment, thinking. This could be another of Flora’s tricks. And yet, what if there’s another Shifter out there who wants peace, too? What if there’s a traitor in her midst, looking to undermine Flora’s war against humanity?

“What master?” I ask, feeling like a mouse reaching for a piece of cheese in a trap.

His voice comes out like a creaky door. “Marr—tinn—Carr—terr.”

A sharp intake of breath whistles through my lips. “My—my father?” I say, trying to make sense of things. Creatures like Grogg are created and controlled by Shifters. How could—of course! My father—even carrying a terrible curse—is a General, able to use all forms of magic to at least a small degree. But that doesn’t mean he’s controlling Grogg.

“What’s my birthday?” Even if Flora could find out this kind of information about me, I doubt she would. I mean, what would be the point? So she could send me a card and a gift on my birthday? I think not.

Grogg scurries around my leg, avoiding a lick from Hex. “April,” he says.

“April what?”

“One,” he says.

Wrong. My birthday is April 13
th
. My heart sinks. It’s just another trick.

“Three,” Grogg says.

One-Three. Thirteen. Is that really my father in there? I have to be sure. “I have a birthmark,” I say. “Where?” Only my father would know this one.

Grogg trips and Hex pounces on him playfully. Around Hex’s furry face, Grogg shouts, “Hip! Left hip!” There’s a stutter in my chest.

“Hex,” I say, “Please.”

My generally disobedient dog seems to understand the gravity of the situation, rolling off of the mud-creature and sitting nearby, his tongue hanging out.

Grogg pulls himself to his feet. “My master is with us,” he says.

“Dad?” I say.

Grogg says, “Time. The time he was near you hurts. Hurts him. Hurts our master. He can’t be close again. Keeping distance. Helping if he can. Would do anything. Anything to protect you. Wants you happy. Wants you safe.”

“Dad,” I say. Tears pricks at my eyes, but I blink them away. “I’m sorry. I might’ve screwed up. I killed President Washington and I think she was the only one who could remove your curse.”

The curse of never being close to your son. Never being close to me.

Grogg says nothing, just stares at me with huge eyes half hidden by hideous strands of brown hair stringing from the crown of his head.

I want hope. I want the hope that the willowy Claire offered me a week ago.
There is another way to remove the curse
, she said in my mind.
All will be revealed in time.

“There might be another way to remove the curse,” I say, willing it to be true.

Grogg grunts. “No other way.”

“But the Claire said—”

“The Claire is WRONG!” Grogg shouts, and for the first time I can almost hear my father in his tone. Grogg’s voice drops to a whisper. “Live,” he says. “Love. Fight. Forget me.”

Before I can respond, the creature melts into a puddle of mud and slips through a sewer grate.

Laney

W
hen Rhett arrives back at the makeshift camp we’ve erected north of the White House, he looks like hell. He’s bent over at the waist like an old man, his eyes red with bruise-like shadows under them, like spots of night on his brown skin. Hex, on the other hand, seems happy enough, his tail wagging, his tongue dripping drool. He’s covered in mud though—apparently he’s been rolling around in it.

“Bad day?” I say, hoping his dark mood means we’ll get to go out with the witch hunters to shoot some enemy magic-born.

“Something like that,” he says, flopping down next to me. He doesn’t even offer a half-smirk, which immediately concerns me. Hex bounds up and I give him a rousing scratch on the belly when he rolls onto his back. My hand comes away filthy with mud.

“What is it?” I say. “And why is Hex so dirty?”

He tells me about his conversation with Grogg, how the creature proved it was really his father controlling him.

I know I shouldn’t say it, but I can’t stop myself. “Maybe he’s right.”

Rhett’s head jerks toward me and his eyes meet mine. Despite how weary he looks, his expression is sharp, the lines of his jaw like steel girders holding up the rest of his face.

“He’s not right,” he says.

“Because Tara told you there was another way to remove the curse,” I say, reading between the lines.

“Who’s Tara?” he asks, his expression softening to confusion.

I share my own story about watching the Claires, about talking to the one named Tara, the very same Claire that gave him the shred of hope that his father’s curse could still be removed.

When I finish, he lifts his chin and gazes out over the camp, as if taking it all in. Women and men toiling side by side, cleaning clothes in buckets by hand; people cooking over fires and eating from cans; dark-hooded Necros moving between the tents like shadows, seemingly oblivious to the way the humans shrink away from them. This is a different Rhett than the angry, vengeful guy I parted ways with a short while ago. He’s stronger, and not in the physical sense. Physically, he’s always been a specimen, a football player turned witch hunter. But now, for the first time since I’ve known him, he seems equally emotionally and mentally sturdy, like a tank.

“These people don’t have much to believe in,” Rhett says.

“And they’re the lucky ones,” I say wryly. “They’re the survivors.”

“We have to give them something more,” he says. “Everyone will have to fight if we’re going to defeat the Shifters.”

I’m about to tell him that half of them can barely pull themselves out of bed in the morning to take care of the camp, but he’s already on his feet, striding away.

“Attention!” he shouts. “All of you, gather around!”

All activity stops. Heads turn. When Rhett speaks, people listen. Maybe it’s because of his sheer size, or because of the stories being circulated about how he defeated President Washington, or simply because he’s a Resistor, a word now being spoken with hushed reverence around camp. Whatever the reason, he has their respect and trust, as he does mine.

The humans mill about, murmuring, moving closer. Rhett waits patiently, meeting each of their gazes in turn. On the fringes of the crowd the Necros stand as still as statues, their faces shrouded by shadows cast by their hoods. Two of them have their hoods thrown back. First, the Reaper, the man Rhett always knew as Mr. Jackson, his aging face full of curiosity. Second, his son, Xavier, Rhett’s ex-best friend, or still best friend, or something else that I can’t put a label on.

Starting a third ring, the Claires arrive, as quiet as the wind, clothed entirely in white, flowers adorning their hair.

Rhett says, “We are not defeated. We’ve been hurt. We’ve had our friends and family taken from us. But President Washington couldn’t finish the job. She fooled us all, but she didn’t win. And from our trials, we have become more than we were.”

He’s losing them. The humans anyway. They’re looking down, shaking their heads. They don’t believe they can win. They don’t believe they’re “more,” as Rhett said.

“Easy for you to say,” one man grumbles, a thick beard making his wide face look almost bear-like. “You’re a Resistor.” He pushes through the crowd, leaving the circle. He gives the Necros a wide berth and flinches when he sees the Claires.

“No,” Rhett says, his expression hardening. “We can do this. We have friends who can help.”

A woman in a filthy tattered dress follows after the man, muttering, “Yeah, that worked well the last time,” under her breath, glaring at the witches and warlocks with undisguised contempt. Her eyes are dark and dangerous. “Filthy magic-born.”

Others begin doing the same, turning their backs on Rhett, who starts shouting frantically.

“There’s still hope! We have true allies now! We are no longer citizens of New Washington! From this point forward, we will be called Alliance!”

I feel a shiver run through my bones, but no one else seems to share the feeling, the humans slipping away back to their tents and cook fires, leaving only Necros and Claires standing around Rhett, who drops his gaze to his feet.

That’s when I notice the red Changeling—who I’ve recently learned has a name: Angelique—watching the scene unfold from a distance. She’s tall and stoic and perfect in every way, not a single strand of her red, silky hair out of place. It’s a stark contrast to the devastated, kohl-smeared woman who tried to kill herself a week ago. If not for the Claires’ magic, she would’ve succeeded.

For the first time in a week, she smiles.

So much for respect and trust. Rhett may be a Resistor, but he’s still fighting a losing war, most of which is being battled in his own camp.

~~~

“That went well,” I say when we’re inside our tent. Night is falling like a scythe, chopping the daylight to bits, replacing it with inky gloom.

“They’ll come around,” Rhett says, the whites of his eyes a distinct contrast to the growing murk.

“Will they?”

“Probably not.”

I catch the dryness in Rhett’s tone and it makes me smile. “Then I guess we’ll just have to save the world…again,” I say.

“Third time’s a charm,” Rhett says.

“You think it’ll stick this time?”

“Probably not,” Rhett says again, and I laugh.

I grab his chin and guide him to my mouth. His lips are warm and soft against mine, a complete contradiction to the rest of him. When we pull back we’re gasping and laughing.

“You’re one helluva kisser, Rhett Carter,” I say. At least we have this. At least we have each other.

Rhett smiles. “At least I’m good at something,” he says.

“You’re definitely better at this than making inspirational speeches,” I say.

“I thought it was pretty good up until everyone left.”

“It
was
pretty good,” I say. “And not everyone left. The magic-born hung around until you slunk away in shame.”

“There was no slinking,” Rhett says.

“Call it what you want. If you were Hex your tail would’ve been tucked firmly between your legs.”

In the corner of the tent, Hex chuffs in his sleep.

“If I were Hex, you wouldn’t have enjoyed that kiss nearly as much,” Rhett says. “Trust me, I know from experience.”

“You have experience French-kissing your dog?” I say. “That’s somewhat disturbing.”

“I can’t help that he likes to lick.”

I screw up my face and Rhett does the same, as if realizing the turn for the worse our conversation has taken.

“Let’s just make out and go to bed early,” I say. “There will still be humans to inspire tomorrow when we wake up.”

“Can’t,” Rhett says. “I’m on perimeter watch tonight.”

I frown. “You look like you could sleep for two days straight,” I say.

“Thanks,” Rhett says.

I grab his shoulders, which feel like grapefruits. “You can’t do everything. You can’t lead
and
fight on the front lines. You can’t be both a foot soldier and a general.”

“Lately I feel like neither,” Rhett says.

“Look, I’ll trade shifts with you,” I say. “I’ve got the morning shift. You sleep, and then we’ll swap at dawn.”

“Negative,” Rhett says.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fallen for someone as stubborn as me.

“Then we’ll keep watch together. I’ll do a double shift. Or get someone to take mine.”

“Double negative,” Rhett says.

“Doesn’t that make a positive?”

“Damn,” Rhett says. “I thought I was being clever.”

“I’m coming.”

“No you’re not,” Rhett says, but there’s almost no confidence behind his words. He knows me too well. Telling me no is like an invitation to be proven wrong.

“Let’s go,” I say.

~~~

The night air is cool and crisp. If we were to walk hand in hand, we could almost be a normal high school couple going for a stroll to the movies, or to dinner, or to the mall. Instead we’re heading out to defend humanity from murderous shape-shifting witches.

Fun.

We leave Hex snoring in the tent. At least somebody gets to sleep tonight.

When we reach the portion of the fence Rhett’s scheduled to keep watch over, a middle-aged woman with short graying hair offers a nod and walks away carrying a strange-looking purple rifle that’s almost bigger than she is, her shift completed. It used to be the remnants of the U.S. military defending the border, but now it’s the young and the old, the meek and the mild. People who have never shot a gun, now wielding magical weapons from Tillman Huckle’s shop.

The fence is an amalgamation of random bits of metal mesh, poles, and various other debris, all strung together with wires and ropes. If any Wardens had survived the battle of Heinz Field, we might’ve used them to set up protective wards around the city, but instead we’re resigned to relying on this tragically inadequate fence.

For some reason, it still feels safer being on the inside.

Each post has at least one human and one magic-born. In truth, without the magic-born, we’d have been overrun already. And yet, most of the humans hate them.

A familiar hooded profile comes into view. Just a few weeks ago I probably would’ve pretended to throw up, if only to get a laugh from Rhett, but now my reaction is more neutral. I don’t know how I feel about Mr. Jackson these days. He’s done terrible things, but he’s also saved our lives more than once.
Confused
is a good way to describe my feelings toward the leader of the Necromancers.

He turns toward us and throws back his hood, revealing a dark-skinned aging face speckled with gray stubble.

The Reaper says, “Nice speech.”

“Shove it up your—” I start to say.

“Laney,” Rhett says, silencing me. Closing my lips doesn’t lessen the urge I have to punch the Reaper’s teeth out.

“I was being serious,” the Reaper says.

“Sure,” I say.

“Just because you didn’t get the response you were hoping for doesn’t mean the words weren’t good,” he says, sounding surprisingly genuine.

“That doesn’t change the fact that the humans’ resolve is faltering,” Rhett says. “No words can change that.”

“True,” Mr. Jackson says. “But maybe actions can.”

“What actions?” Rhett says. “We’re sitting around on our thumbs just waiting for the Shifters to attack.”

“Exactly,” the Reaper says.

Rhett and I look at each other. I roll my eyes. “Could you be any more cryptic?”

“Probably,” the Reaper says, flashing a smile.

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “I see you’ve finally learned the art of sarcasm,” I say. “It’s about time you stopped being so damn literal.”

“I learn from the best,” the Reaper says.

Is he seriously
joking
with me? The master of the dark art of raising the dead has become a standup comedian? Surely this is the end of the world.

“What can we do?” Rhett asks, pulling the conversation back on track.

The Reaper folds his hands together. “Attack first.”

Rhett shakes his head. “The humans aren’t ready for that. They’ve only been training for two days. They’re more likely to accidentally shoot each other than kill any Shifters. By attacking first, all we’ll do is ensure we’re killed off quicker.”

The Reaper’s gaze never leaves Rhett’s. “Time is the great devourer, taking days, months, and eventually years from us all. It doesn’t discriminate, doesn’t differentiate, shows no mercy. None can escape its grasp, even the magic-born.”

“How poetic,” I say. “What about the Claires?”

The Reaper turns toward me. “They still die,” he says. “And they have no control over when they’ll be reborn. No, not even the Claires are immortal, not in the way you think of the word.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should all die today,” Rhett points out.