Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (84 page)

Pulling him behind me and feeling ahead with my free hand, I lead him carefully across a gentle rise, the unnaturally slick terrain climbing steeply before levelling off. When my fingers brush against a barrier, I stop. “A wall,” I whisper. “I’ll try to find a way out.” I head left, feeling along the wall, squishing far too loudly for comfort with each step. If there’s a Shifter anywhere nearby, surely their super hearing will pick up our movements and our great escape will be stopped before it ever really gets started.

For several suction-cup steps, my fingers run along the wall, but then it disappears, my hand batting at open air. “This way,” I say, squeezing into a tight crease in the wall, which I hope will lead us somewhere useful and Shifter-less, preferably to a way out of the caves. What I wouldn’t give to see real daylight again, not the imitation stuff filtered in through the cracks in the cave ceiling.

My wish fades as the tight nook dead ends. “Back,” I hiss. “Nowhere to go.”

Bil starts to jimmy his way out, sliding against the rock walls, but then he freezes when a voice rings out clearly. “Flora and her stupid games,” the she-leopard says, her high-pitched voice as shrill as a blown whistle. Crap. There must be another entrance—and therefore another exit. Somehow we missed it when I went left instead of right, although the inadvertent error might’ve just saved our lives, as long as our sogginess is enough to mask our smell from the animals prowling through the caves.

“Shut yer trap,” a gruff voice retorts, trailing off into a series of apish grunts. Awesome. Today just gets better and better. The gorilla and the leopard are searching for us. Every heartbeat sounds like a boxer hitting a punching bag in my chest, and I swear the Shifters will be able to hear it from a mile away. My lungs tighten as I try to breathe as quietly as possible.

“Oh, I see. I didn’t realize you were Master’s little pet monkey,” the leopard says. “Do you do tricks for her? Let me see one and I’ll give you a banana.”

The gorilla’s answering snarl is every bit as terrifying as the leopard’s growl. For a second I think we might get lucky and they’ll kill each other, leaving the exit wide open, but then the gorilla says, “Save it for the humans, kitten. Once we’re finished with them, I’ll gladly crush your spine.”

Lovely. Of all the magic-born gangs I’ve come across over the last six months, the Shifters are the ones who can’t even seem to get along amongst their
own
kind, much less with anyone else. In some ways I think that only makes them all the more volatile and deadly.

“I’ll be waiting,” the leopard croons. “The humans aren’t here. We have to split up.”

“Gladly,” the gorilla responds, and their voices trail off again, disappearing into the dark.

Once more, we’re safe, although I’ve got a feeling that’s not going to last. We can’t hide in this nook forever.

Rhett

A
ll I want to do is sit here in misery, dwelling on Tara’s great and mysterious revelation about my father’s curse, but I can’t even get five minutes to feel sorry for myself any more.

“Does the great and powerful witch hunter need a tissue?” Angelique says, startling me from behind.

I don’t look up. Maybe if I pretend not to hear her, she’ll go away. Fat chance.

“Why so sad, Rhett Carter?” she says, sitting across from me, her second-skin red dress somehow managing not to burst at the seams. Evidently she’s not in mourning for her sisters anymore.

“Yeah, life sucks sometimes,” she says, although I don’t say anything to prompt it. “Get over it.”

I finally look up and take in her angry, but beautiful expression, which only infuriates me more. “Like you did?” I scoff. “Should I shove a dagger into my stomach and hope a Claire comes along to patch me back up? Or maybe I should just sacrifice myself so the Necros have another foot soldier for their army. So many options, I just can’t decide which one to take.”

Angelique raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows, which seem to pull the corners of her delicate lips into a hint of a smile. Great, even when I’m trying to insult her, I’ve amused her.

“No,” she says. “You
should
be angry. Anger is better than sadness every time. At least anger will get you off your ass so you can do something. I let my misery guide that blade into my skin. But now I’m angry. Now I’m ready to collect on the deaths of my sister-witches. Someone will pay.”

“Newsflash, President Washington is already dead. We killed all those loyal to her, too. There’s no one left to punish.” My words come out scathing, like hot coals, but Angelique doesn’t react at all, as if she’s become completely immune to the power of words.

“There’s always someone to punish,” she says.

I’m about to respond, but a commotion in the distance stops me, turns my head. “What?” I murmur, my errant thought drifting through my lips.

There are a handful of Necros walking solemnly toward camp, their faces shrouded. But they’re not what draws my eyebrows into a tight, narrow V. It’s the hundreds of others marching behind them. The others are clearly not Necros, but they’re also not human. I scan the crowd, connecting what I see with what Mr. Jackson taught me all those months ago and what I’ve experienced in the days since.

A handful of Spellcasters carry thin, reed-like wands at their sides, staring straight ahead.

Dozens of Brewers haul strange-looking packs jangling with glass baubles and test tubes.

A trio of model-perfect Sirens—two warlocks and a witch—approach with perfect posture, pretending not to notice anyone around them.

There are also Conjurers and Pyros and Volts and Destroyers and even two Slammers, their monstrous feet thundering with each step. My mouth gapes open, but what causes my jaw to break loose and drop into my lap is the wizard who brings up the rear, at least a head taller than everyone else save for the giant-like Slammers. He carries a long black staff and has his impressive white beard braided into three distinct vines that swing from his chin.

“Well, it seems we have company,” Angelique says. “Just in time to bid the humans a not-so-fond farewell.”

I rub the scruff on my chin, trying to decide whether to greet the newcomers with a smile or a sword. When I spot Xave, he waves and approaches cheerfully. When compared to the somber darkness that seems to surround the other Necros, he shines brighter than the sun.

“What do you think?” he says.

There are so many things I want—I need—to say to him, but I can’t seem to get any of them out, because I’m so confused by the situation. “How?” is the only word I’m able to form.

Xave laughs that contagious laugh of his. “My father,” he explains. “Did you think he was idle while you were dealing with all the crap around camp?”

Well, uh, yes, I sort of did. I certainly felt like everything was falling on my completely inadequate shoulders. I shrug.

“He wasn’t,” Xave says. “Just after we formed the Alliance, he sent out scouts to find other magic-born who might be sympathetic to the human plight.” His eyes darken. “Some of them didn’t return. They were likely killed by those who disagreed with their…politics.”

“And the others?” I ask.

“You’re looking at them,” Xave says, waving a hand at the carnival-like atmosphere behind him. A Conjurer flicks her hand and a red-scaled demon scurries out from behind a barrel, grabbing one of the Siren’s feet with long clawed fingers. At first the Siren squeals in disgust, but then she seems to concentrate, grabbing the demon by the scruff of his neck like a naughty kitten. A minute later the demon is cradled in her arms, looking at her with huge red eyes and cooing like a baby.

“They’re here to help us?” I say in disbelief. My brain seems to be taking forever to catch up to a reality where not everyone wants to kill the humans.

“Of course,” Xave says matter-of-factly. “That’s what my dad and I have been trying to tell you from the start. Not all magic-born wanted Salem’s Revenge. Amongst us there are those who support it, and those who don’t. Our politics and agendas and people are no different than humans. There’s black, white and gray in all parts of life.”

Shaking the cobwebs from my head, I scan the crowd, noticing that thick knots of humans have approached, keeping their distance, looking on with undisguised fear mixed with disgust. Some of the men carry weapons, smacking them into their hands. They look ready to fight. For the most part, the magic-born ignore them, carrying on as if the humans don’t even exist.

My muscles tense and I prepare to intervene as Arnold Jones steps forward, wielding a heavy axe with a purple handle. It’s clearly magged up.

Xave says, “Wait,” and stops me with a hand on my arm, as Cameron Hardy strides forward, looking as smooth and well-kempt as always, cutting Arnold off. He says something to him, calm in the face of a human firecracker who looks to be at the very end of his fuse. At first Arnold tries to push past him, but then Cameron says something that stops him. Reluctantly, he turns and retreats, pushing through the wall of human onlookers and out of sight.

Cameron gazes across the hodgepodge group of magic-born, eventually spotting me watching him. His expression confident but wary, he traverses the area between us via a wide arc that maintains plenty of distance between him and the newcomers.

When he’s close enough that I’ll be able to hear him without the need to raise his voice, he says, “Looks like we’re leaving just in time.”

“No,” I say. “You’re leaving at the exact wrong time. These people came to help you.”

“People?” he says.

“Yes, and they were your one hope and you’re going to throw it away because of your own fear.”

“My fear?” he says, putting an open hand on his chest. “I’m not scared. But the other humans are. They’ve been through too much and it’s time for it to stop. They need a fresh start, and so, it seems, do you. So take my advice and leave while you can, either with us or with your other friends. The magic-born can have their gang wars, and we can have our peace.”

“Separate but equal, right?” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “That’s how intolerance starts.”

“I’m not a racist,” Cameron says, a hot undercurrent to his words. For the first time I’ve managed to get under the young politician’s skin. “This isn’t about race; this is about species. Humans of all shapes, sizes, and colors have to stick together. There’s simply no room for the magic-born. They might as well be from another planet.”

At one time, I might’ve agreed. But not anymore. I’ve seen magic-born violence, but I’ve also seen the same violence in humans. And I’ve seen magic-born goodness, as I’ve seen the goodness in humans. No matter what Cameron Hardy says, we’re the same, but different, just as all people are the same but different, our connections as numerous as our diversity.

“Do what you have to do,” I say, nodding. “We all have a choice.”

His anger fades back into his plastic-perfect smile, and he returns the gesture. “Good luck,” he says, before departing the way he came. With a few simple words and motions, he corrals the human spectators and herds them back toward The Exchange, where they’ve been preparing to leave the city.

“Good riddance,” Angelique says when they’re gone.

“No,” Xave says. “We’re going with them.”

“What?” Angelique says, incredulity narrowing her eyes. “You can’t be serious. They hate us. They want nothing to do with us. We can’t help those who don’t want our help.”

I look at my friend who’s come so far on the rollercoaster of his life. Before Salem’s Revenge, he was my protector, not afraid of anyone or anything, except maybe the occasional cute boy. When I was reunited with him as a warlock, he could only pretend to be confident, when inside I could see his turmoil, his confusion, his fear. He was scared of himself, of what he’d become. But now…now he’s an even better version of the teenager he was before. Confident, wise,
good
. So good. “Everyone deserves help when they need it,” Xave says, “even if they think they don’t want it.”

“They want us dead,” Angelique says coldly.

“They’re not all like that,” I say, jumping in. “Look at it from their perspective. They’re scared. They feel powerless. All they want is to be left alone. I can understand that.”

Angelique’s expression seems to soften slightly, before hardening back into stone. “But what if we help them and they still hate us?”

“Then we still did the right thing,” I say.

Xave’s eyes meet mine, and it’s like we’re back in a foster home again, sharing a secret, one mind, one heart, one soul. Blood brothers from the moment life tossed us together on the waves of fate.

“You’re delusional,” Angelique says, having had enough of the conversation. She gracefully regains her feet and whisks herself away.

When she’s out of earshot, I say, “Thanks for helping us.”

Xave gets my meaning. Thanks for helping
the humans
.
My people.
As opposed to
his people
, the magic-born. “There’s no us and them,” he says. “If we’re going to make a change, we’re all going to have to stop thinking that way.”

“Sorry,” I say. “You’re right. It’s just hard. Hard for everyone.”

“I know,” Xave says. “But it doesn’t have to be. Not anymore.”

He leaves me to think about things as he melts into the crowd of magic-born, seeming to fit in instantly. As for me, I feel like a sore thumb, distinctly apart from the rest, who I still can’t stop thinking of as “them.”