Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (72 page)

~~~

If it wasn’t so indicative of the strength of the invisible wall between us, the scene would almost be comedic.

Witch hunters on one side, cracking jokes and firing glares across to the other side of the road, Floss silently moving amongst them; Necros on the other, the Reaper at the front with Xave by his side, leading grotesque Reanimates who seem to require constant reminders not to attack the witch hunters.

And me, stuck in the middle, walking in the empty gulf between them, feeling more and more like I don’t belong on either side. A real outcast. However, if I’m being honest with myself, I’d feel more comfortable with the wise-cracking witch hunters than the silent, gloomy Necros. Other than Mr. Jackson and Xave, none of the Necros have ever tried speaking to me. Apparently raising the dead requires intense nonverbal concentration or something.

And though I keep moving them forward, my legs are like iron cauldrons.

After fifteen minutes of traipsing down the traffic-less road toward the area on the map where our scouts spotted the Shifters, Mr. Jackson falls in next to me.

“What’s up?” I say slowly, expecting yet another verbal battle.

He surprises me when he says, “We’ve got company.”

When I raise my eyebrows he motions off the road, to the right, past where the Reanimates are strung out in a line, moving in that herky-jerky fashion that instantly gives away their undeadness.

I see it. A flash of red amongst the trees. Snow-white skin set against a black backdrop, like the moon in the night sky. The red Changeling. Angelique.

What the hell is she doing here?

I only realize I’ve asked the question out loud, when Mr. Jackson says, “You should find out. We could use her as an ally again.”

Great. Time for another witch apocalypse therapy session with Dr. Rhett Carter, licensed Hearer of Grievances, Taker of Crap, and Maker of Unforgivable Mistakes. Feel free to kick off your shoes and lie down on my couch.

And yet I am curious as to her sudden appearance. Other than last night and today, she’s been staying out of sight, doing who knows what. Plotting and scheming most likely.

I nod to Mr. Jackson and drop back behind the column of Necros. I’d rather pass behind the Reanimates so they don’t mistake me for the enemy.

Fallen leaves crunch underfoot when I step into the forest. Branches reach like gnarled claws across my path, daring me to try to slip by unscathed. I stand stock-still, watching for movement. Laney appears before me, her golden hair falling like sunbeams around her sky-blue eyes and smirking lips. She looks so much like the real thing that I have to physically steady myself by grabbing the trunk of a small tree, which shakes under my weight, its leaves vibrating like a rattlesnake’s tail.

“Are you going to try to seduce me by pretending to be my girlfriend?” I ask.

Her lips flash the smile I’ve grown to love. “Will it work?” The voice is deeper and more seductive than Laney’s, missing her rasp and sharp tongue.

“Not in a million years. You’re nothing more than a fake.”

She grabs her chest, which is now twice as big as Laney’s, as voluptuous as the winner of a Dolly Parton lookalike contest. The Changeling brushes her silky red hair away from her face, making it dance like flames when it catches the beams of sunlight filtering through the branches and leaves. “Ouch, Rhett Carter. My heart. I think you broke it.”

She has one thing in common with Laney: She knows how to use sarcasm like a knife.

“Just tell me what you want,” I say.

“What I want?” she says, her eyes and mouth widening. “I thought you knew me so well. You certainly judge me enough.”

I stay silent, unsure what to make of her. This version of her is so different than the previous one. No glitz. No glamour. Her sparkling red dress has been replaced with one of sheik black, tight enough to hug every inch of her curves. The change in fashion seems consistent with her emotional changes. Before there was always an agenda, some ulterior motive to each and every word, each and every action.

Now there’s just a hurt, friendless woman in mourning. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“No one’s judging you,” I say. “We’re just trying to figure out where you stand now that—”

The black holes that swallow her eyes stop me.

“Now that
what
, Mr. Carter?” she says, a threat looming heavy in her words.

Now that all the rest of the Changelings are dead, I think. “Now that President Washington is dead,” I say. “I mean, wasn’t that your main goal the whole time? So I just want to know what’s next for you?”

Her chin drops and her eyes fall to her feet. No, this is a very different witch than the woman I fought weeks ago in that deer hunter’s cabin in the woods. That woman would never have looked away from a challenge.

When she looks up again there’s wet anger in her eyes and in the snarling line of her mouth, which spits out her next words. “What I want, Rhett Carter, is a front row seat for the end of the world.”

“What do you know about Flora?” I ask, changing tact.

Although she raises her eyebrows in surprise, the hardness doesn’t leave her face. “Flora? That slinky little bitch is unpredictable. Her family is quite well known in magical circles. Her mother was a stalwart defender of co-existing with humanity. Flora worshipped her, but she was always the black sheep—or should I say panther—of the family. Her mother was ashamed of her, although Flora never ceased to seek her affections, all the way up until the day she died in a mysterious accident. No one really knows what happened, but there were always suspicions that Flora murdered her and made it look like an accident, regardless of what lies her sick mind created to let her sleep at night.”

Ugh. I’m almost sorry I asked. Not really though—knowing one’s enemy is crucial to victory. I open my mouth to ask another question, but it seems the conversation is over.

Angelique is already gone, red and black flashing amongst the green and brown foliage.

Another successful session with Dr. Carter, I think wryly. I’ll bill your insurance provider directly.

Hex

M
aking sense of the smells around him was so much easier before the little boy made of mud showed up. Now his odor seems to dominate Hex’s every last smell bud, like a pungent overused perfume. Grogg, he remembers. Grogg Grogg Grogg. Hex likes Grogg. He likes his smell, his taste, and the way he plays hide and seek with Hex. He even likes how it sounds when Two-Leggers say Grogg’s name. Almost like frog. And Hex
loves
chasing frogs.

Hex is very lucky. All he wanted to do today was follow Laney’s scent, because Rhett asked Hex a long time ago to “Protect her,” and all he wants to do is make Rhett happy. He’s the best Two-Legger Hex has ever met, way better than those Two-Leggers who used to throw him bones and scraps in the alley. And way
way
better than the Two-Leggers who used make Hex swim in the big black bowls full of hot, murky liquid, until Rhett came along to take him away. But today Hex is lucky because Grogg’s scent and Laney’s scent seem to be heading in the same direction. Lucky lucky lucky.

Given how much the two of them smell, Hex could easily follow them with his eyes closed, but Grogg makes it even easier because of all the mud he leaves behind. It’s distracting. Hex can’t seem to resist himself, stopping to smell it and lick it and roll in it. It makes him want to bark to the birds in the treetops. But he doesn’t, because he knows following means being quiet.

His mouth waters when he sees a particularly large clump of mud, just sitting there in a ball. His tongue lolls out as he goes to lick it, but he can’t reach, even when he bends his neck toward the ground.

Oh.

Curious and weird.

Weird and curious and most definitely interesting.

He’s floating off the ground, his feet still moving as if he’s walking, but they’re only touching air. They do that sometimes, usually when he’s excited or angry or scared or trying to protect one of the good Two-Leggers. Other, even weirder and more curious things happen sometimes too. He must’ve gotten really excited about that clump of mud.

He tries to think boring thoughts, like sleeping and peeing and—
peeing!

The very thought makes his leg spring up and the waters start flowing. Peeing used to be more boring—necessary but boring—but now he
always
makes it more fun. Today he makes his stream turn into ice, leaving a frozen waterfall all the way to the ground. He wishes Rhett was here to see it. Hex can always make Rhett laugh with his interesting peeing.

As his legs once more gain hold on the earth, Hex tries to remember why he’s here, what he’s doing.

Protect…um…protect someone…protect…

Chipmunk!

The tiny brown creature bursts through the undergrowth like it’s been shot from a cannon, but Hex is already giving chase, his paws kicking up acorns and leaves. But the chipmunk is fast and this is its home, so it seems to know every tree, bush and root, bounding between, under and through obstacles while Hex is forced to go around almost everything. Finally, the chipmunk leaps onto the trunk of a large oak, scurrying up the tree as easily as a bird soaring into its nest.

Hex is not to be defeated. And though dogs can’t climb trees, he’s not a dog anymore, his body morphing into that of a cat. A big cat. A lion!

His claws sink into the bark and he climbs after the chipmunk, which is diving for a tiny hole in the trunk, and Hex the lion throws himself upwards and—

Time stops. Hex can see everything: the chipmunk, its tiny eyes wide with fear; his own outstretched paws, claws extended; a leaf frozen in midair, having broken loose from a branch high above.

Hex knows it’s him again. He’s doing it. He thinks maybe it’s on purpose, like some part of him trying to tell him something, or trying to make him do something, but he’s not sure. It’s hard to be sure of anything other than his desire to play with that furry creature running from him.

And then he remembers.

Laney.

The Two-Leggers are counting on him and he can’t let a chipmunk stop him from protecting her. A squirrel might be too hard to resist, but a chipmunk?
Woof
. No contest.

When time starts again, Hex is a dog. The chipmunk slips into the safety of its hole, and Hex floats himself to the ground, following his nose back to Grogg’s intoxicating scent.

Yep, he thinks, Laney’s scent is there, too. Follow one and you get the other.

It’s a lucky day indeed.

Laney

G
rogg’s stink is getting to me. Despite my valiant efforts to stay upwind of him, the traitorous breezes won’t allow it, swirling and sending his noxious body fumes into my nostrils.

A clothespin might work, but alas, I haven’t done laundry in weeks so I didn’t consider them worthy of being included in my vital survival supplies. So I try to breathe through my mouth and not throw up my light breakfast of salted boiled eggs, or the bread-and-mystery-meat lunch I consumed while following the mud-creature.

While the sun chased the clouds across the sky, Grogg led me through dozens of apartment buildings, a museum, multiple discount stores, at least eighteen Starbucks (I might be exaggerating), and a playground. Between all of those were a whole lot of random roads and nature and neighborhoods. His strangely difficult and convoluted route seems to be borne from an innate need for the mud troll to always take the most linear path from one point to another. If not for me, he would’ve likely walked up and over the buildings, rather than going through them. A couple of times I recommended we just go—ahem, here’s a novel idea—
around
them, but he almost choked with laughter, so I stopped suggesting it. In the playground, he even climbed the steps of a jungle gym, crossed a child’s rope bridge, and slid down the slide, all to avoid taking five steps to either side to pass to the left or right of it. I considered following, but the rope bridge wasn’t looking too sturdy and I wasn’t particularly keen on using a slide in the wake of King Sludge.

Now we’re just outside of what used to be D.C., in an area with brief copses of dense forest amongst upscale residential neighborhoods. With long, branchless trunks, the trees look like rows of teeth. I hustle past them, hoping Grogg doesn’t notice my uneasiness.

When we finally stop at a large house with a mailbox in the shape of a sailboat—you put the mail into a slot in the side and raise the sails—I’m beginning to wonder whether Grogg is lost.

“Master waits,” he says, pointing toward the front door.

“Here?” I ask stupidly.

“Master waits,” he insists, gesturing again.

It seems random, but then again, my entire life seems random these days, so I head up the path, thankful the wind is blowing Grogg’s stink away from me. The garage door is open, showcasing a large four-car garage. One spot is vacant, but there are black skid marks on the cement, as if someone drove out of there in a hurry. The second spot has a red sports car, the kind that almost looks like a toy. Rhett would have to sit in the trunk to be able to extend his legs far enough to drive it. The third slot showcases a large black truck with a trailer hitched to the back, presumably used to haul a boat. The trailer takes up the entire fourth spot. A million questions about who used to live here float through my mind, but I blink them away. I’ve learned that some questions are better left unanswered.

When I reach the ocean-blue front door, I consider knocking for about half a second. But that’s not the world we live in anymore, where common courtesy requires pleases and thank yous and knocking before entering.

Instead, I turn the handle and shoulder it open, my Glock drawn, just in case this is really an elaborate trap by some tricky Shifter. Nothing moves, nothing stirs. I glance behind me and Grogg is gone, his muddy footprints leading to the backyard. Maybe there’s a pool back there. Maybe he’s going to get cleaned up, revealing a skinny pink-skinned midget underneath all those layers of grime. Ha. Wouldn’t that be a shock?

Turning back to the inside of the house, I step inside. Whoa. Nice place. The open foyer is like a sailboat museum, with replica watercrafts resting atop delicate antique tables covered in a thin, undisturbed layer of dust. On the walls are photographs. Most of them look like selfies—just a close up of a middle-aged guy with various angles of his sailboat.

In all of them he looks happy. Alone, but happy.

Although I know it’ll only make me crazy, I wonder whether he made it. Whether his frantic decision to race off in whatever car left the skid marks in the garage saved his life, or doomed him to a violent and fiery demise at the hands of some wizard directing traffic with the effectiveness of a no-armed man.

I hope he did. I hope this guy will one day get to sail again.

Even though I know I’m hoping these things for this stranger because I want to hope them for myself, it still gives me a small measure of comfort and strength.

Blinking quickly, I say, “Hello?”

There’s a weird gurgling sound that would’ve totally freaked me out if I hadn’t heard it before. It’s the sound a person with a severed tongue makes when they try to talk.

And there’s only one person I know with a severed tongue.

“Mr. Carter? It’s Laney. I’m coming in. Don’t do any of your crazy ninja magic on me, okay?”

Gurgle gurgle
.

I find Rhett’s father in what used to be a large sunroom in the rear of the first floor. He’s sitting in a large, plush leather recliner staring out the window at Grogg, who’s bouncing up and down on a trampoline, doing backflips and somersaults. Well, there goes the resale value, I think. It’s even going to be hard to sell it on Craigslist now that it’s covered in stinky mud.

“Are you making him do that?” I ask.

Martin Carter turns toward me and I almost gasp. He’s aged. Not in a it’s-really-stressful being-a-cursed-warlock-during-the-witch-apocalypse kind of aging; more like in a better-hire-a-lawyer-and-draw-up-a-will kind of way. He looks terrible. It’s not just his dirty, torn, ragged clothes, which he never seems to change, but his actual body. When I last saw him he was middle-aged but strong-looking. Sturdy. It didn’t seem all that crazy that he was Rhett’s father. Now he could be his
grand
father, his hair shock-white, his face crabbed with lines and spots. His arms and legs are thinner, seemingly swallowed up by his gray sweatshirt.

He shakes his head in response to my question, and I look away, trying not to stare.

“What’s happening to you?” I say, because I have to say something, even though he’s already told me. I guess I didn’t really believe him until now. I answer my own question. “You’re dying.”

When I meet his gaze again, his expression is soft, comforting. His hand shakes as he points to a notepad and pen on the coffee table. I place my Glock next to it and pick up the pen and paper and hand them to him. He rests the pad in his lap and begins scrawling. Although I’m hesitant to get too close to him for fear that he’ll break as easily as crystal, I stand behind his chair so I can watch him write:

Even Grogg deserves some freedom
.

Not what I expected him to say. I never really thought of Grogg as a living creature. More like a puppet, used by whoever his current master is and then passed along or forgotten. Apparently there’s more to him than just the orders he follows. Apparently a level of free will can be afforded to him by his master. In this case Grogg’s using it to bounce on a trampoline. Or he was. Now he’s running across the lawn toward the house. When he reaches the exterior, he doesn’t stop, just keeps running, his body going horizontal as he scurries up the window and out of sight, leaving his tiny mud-prints on the glass.

I can’t help my laughter. Martin’s eyes dance to mine and they’re so similar to Rhett’s that I can’t look away. Rich, brown pools of strength and beauty and something so
real
you almost wish you could harvest it for those moments when you’re at your weakest.

“Why don’t you speak through Grogg now?” I ask.

He moves the pen quickly over the page, his handwriting messy but readable.

It’s not necessary
.

This is a good man. I barely know him, and yet I know the truth of his character. He doesn’t deserve to die. He doesn’t deserve to be separated from Rhett. He’s done nothing wrong except fighting for what he believes in and loving his family.

In that moment, I know I’ll do anything I can to help him, and not just for Rhett’s sake. For his too.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

Have to keep my distance
, he writes. F
ar enough away from Rhett that I feel no pain.

Gah.
I can’t imagine the suffering this man has been through just to see Rhett the few times he’s seen him. Just to see his son, he’s been forced to bear unfathomable pain. Pain that’s brought him to the precipice of life and death.

Why are you here?
he writes, echoing my question.

I’ve never been very good at holding things back, and now it’s like the dam cracks open, unleashing a deluge of words. I tell him everything I know about his curse—or at least what I think I know based on what other people have told me. I focus on the contradictions, how President Washington said she’s the only one who can break the curse because she’s the one who cast the spell, and how Tara the Clairvoyant cryptically mentioned there was another way. Lastly, I tell him how Rhett blames himself for killing the president and thus eliminating any chance of the curse ever being removed.

“The guilt is going to eat him alive, especially now that you’re…”

You can’t tell him about me
, Martin writes.

“He deserves to know,” I say, looking up when there’s a thump on the roof.

Martin glances at the ceiling, but then immediately goes back to his paper.
Not until he defeats Flora. He can’t know. He’s had enough heartache for a lifetime.

“We all have,” I say. “But that doesn’t change the fact that your son wants to get to know you and can’t. All I want is the truth.”

Martin sighs loudly, his stump of a tongue wriggling in his mouth. I look away. He stares at the page for a long time, as if he can avoid this discussion simply by not writing anything more.

Maybe he can. I could talk a blue streak and he could just stare at that page, withering away before my very eyes. I’d be powerless and he’d get his wish.

Then he moves his hand. I read every word as he writes it.

President Washington lied
, he writes.
Tara’s right. There’s another way to lift the curse, but I’m not willing to take it.

“That’s not fair,” I say. “To Rhett or to you.” Or to me, I think.

I know, but you have to trust me. It’s for the best.

I’m shaking my head before he finishes the last word. If he wasn’t so frail-looking I’d grab him by the shoulders and haul him to his feet and rattle some sense into him. I stand still for a minute, taking deep breaths, trying to get control of my emotions. When I finally speak, I’m surprised at how low and steady my voice is. “Whatever the other way is, we’ll figure it out together. We’re not just going to let you die.”

He turns his head and smiles, and I hate how condescending it feels, even though I know it’s not. Even though I know it’s because he likes me, despite my hotheadedness and barely concealed frustration.

I realize he’s writing again.
Do you love Rhett?

“What kind of question is that?” I ask, laughing.

He offers a half smile.
An important one
, he writes.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say.

He nods in understanding.
Forget about the curse
, he writes. I’m about to object, but he’s still writing.
There’s something else Rhett needs to know. Something more important.

Grudgingly, I nod. “I’ll listen, but you’re not getting out of telling me more about the curse,” I say.

He chuckles and motions back to the page:

I’ve been doing research. Genealogy you could say. I discovered something
. I raise my eyebrows at that, but stay silent, watching as each word unfurls from the tip of the pen.
I figured out how Resistors are created.

“What?” I say. “Rhett’s your son, he wasn’t ‘created’.”

Martin shakes his head.
Not what I mean. I mean that Resistors only come from certain kinds of parents.

I raise a hand, massaging my forehead. “Rhett came from you and your wife, both magic-born. Bil Nez came from some American Indian dude and…” I squint, trying to remember if Bil ever mentioned his mother. Not that I can remember. Then again, it’s not like I ever asked. “Sorry,” I say, dropping my hand. “I’m not making the connection.” There’s an even louder thump from above, followed by a hardy crash somewhere on the side of the house, but I’m too focused on Mr. Carter’s hand to give Grogg’s antics a second thought.

All three known Resistors have two magic-born parents, one of which is a General
, he writes.

My heart stops when I see the last word. No, that can’t be right. It fits Rhett perfectly, but not Bil Nez. “But that would mean Bil’s father was magic-born,” I say.

Footsteps sound on the hardwood floor and I instinctively dive for my Glock. When I raise it toward the sound, dark, pin-prick eyes are staring down the barrel.

“My father was a Dreamweaver,” Bil Nez says.

I lower my gun and place it back on the table. “You followed me?” I accuse.