Brew (Salem's Revenge Book 1)

by David Estes

  Ultra sexy just doesn't do it for me. Maybe I'm going against nature or a freak or something, but whenever I'd catch a touchdown pass and turn to the crowd, my eyes always skipped right past the short-skirt-wearing cheerleaders to Beth. She’d usually look up from whatever book she was reading to smile at me, her finger keeping her place. And I was never angry that she didn't see me catch the ball or score or anything, because, you know what? If the roles were reversed I'd have my nose in a book, too, or be writing, or something. It was enough to know that she came to be there for me. The book nerd kind of girl is more my type, not the diva in front of me—and yet…

  I can’t take my eyes off of her.

  She frowns, raises her hand, and I dive behind a table, pulling it down to create a bunker of sorts. The drapes over the window catch on fire as thousands of volts of electricity slam into them.

  Leaping up, I snap off another throwing star. At the last second, I have the urge not to throw it, even to chase after it once it leaves my grip, but I bite back the desire. The witch, now wide-eyed with surprise, tries to duck out of the way. She’s too slow and the star slices into her stomach, opening up a ragged gash.

  Witches bleed just like the rest of us.

  Thick, red blood bubbles from the wound. Her eyes narrow for a moment, as if daring me to throw another, and then she rushes across the large room and through the lodge entrance, which is now missing its door.

  I’m left speechless and wondering why I’m digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands so hard I’ve drawn blood.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The blood is seeping through the bandage on my hand, so I wrap another one around my palm, tighter this time. It seems the decision of when to leave the cabin has been made for me.

  There’s a bark and the scrape of claws on wood. Hex charges in, stopping only to sniff around the base of the broken door, which is leaning against the wall. My German shepherd looks up, cocking his head as if to ask, “Is there a reason you’ve removed the door?”

  “A witch decided to invite herself in,” I explain, even as the beginnings of a blog post spring to mind. “Let’s see, if this had been a book…” I rattle off the points, raising a different finger for each one, formulating the post just like I would have in the old days, for my now-deceased book blog, Rhett Carter’s Geek-Friendly Books:

  Today’s Geekologist Report

  Book title: The Red Witch Next Door

  My teaser synopsis: When a lightning-wielding red witch invites herself over to a dashing, but reclusive, witch hunter’s cabin in the woods, sparks are sure to fly.

  Geekyness: 7/10

  Happy ending: So far

  Cliffhanger: Most definitely

  Overall rating: 4/5 techno-gadgets

  “What do you think, boy?” Hex trots over, sniffs at my wounded hand, whines. “Some help you were,” I say. “Where were you, chasing squirrels again?”

  Instead of answering, he licks my face. “All right, you’re forgiven,” I say. “But only this one time.” As if. Beth used to say my soft spot for animals is the size of my entire body.

  I bite back a roiling swell of sorrow. Don’t think about the past, for it will destroy you. Mr. Jackson’s words, as poignant and sharp as if he were here, tumble through my head like they always do.

  Think, think, think.

  The fires set by the witch’s lightning bolts were anything but normal, burning themselves out on their own, rather than spreading across the wood lodge like they should have. They’ve left black scorch marks on the couch and drapes. She escaped, but not before I could wound her, and the potion baked into the throwing star could very well kill her. But these things aren’t predictable, and if she survives…

  Surely she’ll return, and next time it won’t be just her.

  The way the red-haired witch threw lightning bolts around the lodge, it’s a good guess she’s one of the Volts, with the ability to create and control electricity. My guess is she’ll bring her friends with her the next time she shows up.

  But if she happens to die from the throwing star…

  Could I be safe here again? Could I replace the door and go back to living the way I have been? The thought of going back on the run makes my abs clench in frustration. Two months spent living in random motel rooms, abandoned homes and cars has left me yearning for stability. And this lodge has given me that.

  Never become complacent.

  “To become complacent is to die,” I murmur, a whistle through my teeth. Sometimes I wish my memory wasn’t so good. Maybe then I could forget a few of Mr. Jackson’s lessons.

  I shake my head because I’m being as idiotic as some of my old teammates, all muscle and no brains. It’s Mr. Jackson’s lessons that have kept me alive all this time.

  For a moment I wonder when violence became so easy. Even in football I hated the violence, and yet now, I fight to kill whenever necessary. Whenever I’m threatened.

  Easy. Too easy. What have I become?

  Hex barks and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s saying. “I know, buddy, it’s time to move on,” I say.

  My dog jumps up, wags his tail, and makes his way to the open doorway, stopping only to look back and wait for me.

  “You know, you could help pack,” I say.

  He barks again, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying to convince me that there’s no time for packing. Again, he’s right.

  If the red witch survived, it won’t take her long to return with reinforcements, and then the world will lose yet another witch hunter.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder, content with having a few bottles of water and bags of beef jerky to tide us over until we can scrounge up some more food.

  “Not that way,” I tell Hex, and he follows me out the backdoor, down the porch steps and past the unused fire ring that once was likely the site of many a tall tale of the thirteen-point buck that got away.

  Using my hands like flippers, I push between two bushes on the edge of the wood, letting their branches and leaves spring back behind me, hiding any evidence of where we entered the forest.

  Birds sing overhead. If there’s a gang of Volts nearby, they aren’t close yet. Listen to the birds; they’ll tell you the story of your enemies.

  “I know, I know,” I mutter.

  Hex leads the way through the thick undergrowth, along a path that only we know. It was once a game trail, but has now become overgrown and choked with weeds and roots.

  Red, yellow, and purple flowers float by on either side, and I sneeze. It’s funny how in the middle of a witch apocalypse the world barely even seems to notice, just keeps going about its business, growing things and rotating on its axis and circling the sun, moving through the seasons. Does the earth even notice our struggles? Or are we nothing more than squatters on its blue/green/brown flanks?

  As we cross a small creek that’s been our main source of water, Hex stops to drink. I watch him for a minute, his pink tongue lapping greedily at the moving water, marveling at how adaptable this dog has been. When I found him, he was malnourished, badly abused, and cowering in the shadow of a large black pot—a cauldron. His eyes were bloodshot and he flinched when I reached out to pet him. The spell-casting witch he used to belong to—who met with a rather miraculous demise that included using mirrors to turn her own spells against her—had subjected Hex to all kinds of nasty tests involving her spells and potions. It seems she’d been playing the middle between the Brewers and the Casters, unwilling to commit herself to a single gang. Hex still has some lingering effects from the experiments, which tend to exhibit themselves at the strangest of times.

  As we start walking again, I wonder whether the red witch discovering my hideaway was a blessing in disguise. After all, my mission isn’t going to complete itself.

  The Necros have to pay for what they did. I’ll make an example of their leader, the Reaper. As much as I want to believe Xave and Beth are still alive somewhere, I know they’re not. Which leaves me
with only one thing left to cling to:

  “Revenge,” I say. It’s a word that used to leave a bad taste in my mouth, but now feels like an old friend.

  Hex bumps my leg “accidentally,” and I know he’s trying to distract me from my dark thoughts. I could clench my fists in anger for hours if I let myself. But there’s not time for that, because now I have to think.

  We lope along in silence as the weight of the world presses on my shoulders.

  ~~~

  Why did I feel such a strong desire to not hurt the red witch?

  The question has been playing around in circles in my mind for hours—even after we stopped to make camp for the night—encompassing my every thought. Was it simply because she was beautiful? No, it can’t be. She wasn’t even the type of beautiful that would normally hold any attraction for me. That was Beth, with her thick, pink-rimmed glasses, her chocolate skin, her arm muscles tight and strong from carrying around a bag full of books—I could never convince her to buy an e-reader. “Books are better when they have pages and a distinctive smell,” she always said.

  It’s weird to think she’d be almost eighteen now, six months older than me. Xave would be eighteen, too. For a few months I’d hoped they were still alive.

  Hope will pick you up and slam you into a shallow grave, Mr. Jackson told me. And he was right. The day I let go of my hope and focused on my anger was the day I found something to live for.

  As I chew on a shred of beef jerky, I absently stroke Hex’s fur while he sleeps beside me, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. The moon is nearly full, its bright, shining face slashed to ribbons by the branches overhead, surrounded by a black star-speckled sky.

  “Onward,” I whisper to the trees, even as my eyes close and I escape into sleep.

  ~~~

  It’s still dark when my eyes flash open. As I rub at my eyes with the back of my hands, I realize they’re wet. In fact, my whole face is slick with recently cried tears. A memory-dream rushes back: When I killed my first witch and failed to save the kid that had tormented me for years.

  When I’m awake I try not to think about that dark, dark day. But my mind finds a way of dredging it up again and again when I’m sleeping.

  I’ve come a long way since I killed that first witch back in Georgia. The Brewer. I couldn’t save Todd, but did I save any other lives? Or did my act just enrage her fellow gang members, pushing them to work harder to end the human existence? Have any of the lives I’ve taken since then made a difference? Does it matter? I’m no closer to finding the main body of the Necros than I was six months ago, when Mr. Jackson first took me in and began my training. As I listen to the heavy whoosh of Hex’s breathing in the dark, which seems so unexpectedly normal, I wonder whether any of it was worth it. After all, I’ve followed Mr. Jackson’s advice for most of the journey. Stayed alive. Walked away from more fights than I’ve joined. Played it safe. I’ve watched people die. People I might’ve saved, even if at the expense of my own life.

  And I’ve killed witches, and not just a few. When did killing witches and warls and wizzes become so easy for me? That question seems to be repeating itself more and more often these days.

  I know the answer, but I don’t want to say it or even think it. But you know how the more you try not to think about something the more you can’t stop thinking about it? It was always easy for you, my mind whispers.

  It’s true. From the moment that damned black-cloaked witch took the lives of my entire family—a major part of the happy world I’d stumbled upon—killing became easy, almost meditative.

  You were born to be a witch hunter, Mr. Jackson told me numerous times. But how did he know? Although he told me about his magic-born wife and son, I still knew so little about his past. But my past was like an open book to him. He knew all about me, about what happened to my first foster family, about the abuse I suffered at the hands of some of the worst families I got stuck with, about my mother giving me up when I was a baby, disappearing from my life forever. Mr. Jackson said it was his job to know those sorts of things. He also said to use my past and my anger as fuel.

  I never wanted to be angry, never wanted to lose three families and two best friends, but I didn’t have much say in the matter, did I?

  A chip on the shoulder is when your mom gives you up for adoption when you’re six months old. Being a seventeen-year-old witch hunter with two dead foster families and no idea who your real parents are…well, that’s two giant stone blocks on your shoulders.

  Killing witches is what I have left, I remind myself. And that’s the truth, although it seems to sit in my gut like bad Chinese food. What once started as a mission to find Xave and Beth, who I’d deluded myself into believing were alive, has become a mission of death. And wrapped around that mission are the Necromancers, who were at least in part responsible for the deaths of everyone I loved.

  Xave and Beth are dead, I remind myself, crushing the tiny bloom of hope that springs up inside me every time I think of them.

  It’s only after having numerous near-death experiences that I’ve come to realize that we all used to be just a misstep off a curb into the path of a bus away from death; but it’s no different today, except now it’s like the buses have grown teeth and are jumping the curb to eat you whole.

  There’s a soft whine and Hex wanders over to me, barely illuminated by a thin sliver of moonlight that finds its way through the branches to our makeshift campsite. He rests his chin on my lap, stares up with those impenetrable brown eyes of his, and sticks his tongue out at me.

  I laugh and laugh and laugh and scratch him behind the ears until my face hurts and both our eyelids start to droop.

  And then I make a resolution.

  ~~~

  I awake to a throaty bark, whipping my sword from its sheath before my eyes have a chance to spring open.

  Hex is beside me, hackles raised, teeth bared and rumbling out a growl at a man who’s backing away slowly, trying to fade into the woods.

  The brown-skinned man isn’t old, but not young either—sort of in the middle somewhere. Forty, maybe forty five, with a hint of silver around the edges of his medium-brown, thick hair, which is so greasy and matted it looks as if an entire generation of head lice might’ve taken up residence on his scalp. He’s wearing ripped black jeans tucked into heavy brown boots, and an old blue-and-white striped sweater, stained with dirt and grease and time. He looks like one of the homeless men I used to pass on the city streets, playing harmonicas and homemade drums for money. Of course now we’re all homeless, in a way.

  And he’s holding an unopened bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water.

  “Those are ours,” I say, as if the thief wouldn’t be aware that he was stealing. Hex growls his agreement.

  The homeless guy doesn’t speak, just drops the water bottle and raises his hands above his head. He winces, as if in pain.

  “The jerky, too,” I say. Hex barks, practically right in my ear. “Down, boy,” I say, hoping I can calm my dog’s nerves. Hex barks again, as if in protest, but then lets his growl fade away as he settles onto his haunches. “Good, boy.”

  The man looks up at the jerky, which he’s still holding above his head, and then back at me, as if trying to decide whether the threat of my sword is bigger than his empty stomach. I sigh. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  Cautiously eyeing Hex, the man drops his hands to his side. His face still twisted in pain, he gestures to his mouth and shakes his head. Doesn’t say a word.

  “You’re hungry?” I say.

  He shakes his head again, stops, then nods. Is he hungry or not? And why won’t he speak?

  I chew on my lip, trying to decide my next move. Other than the red witch, I’ve never seen anyone in these woods before. Could this be a trick? It’s hard to tell the difference between friends and foes these days. Witches, warls, and wizzes look the same as everyone else when they want to. Could he be a warlock, a gang member scouting the forest for easy human
prey? The rumors claim that more than fifty percent of the surviving population is “magicked-up” (or magged-up, as some of the witch hunters I’ve met like to say). Which makes it a definite possibility that this guy’s one of them, and I’m not really into taking chances.

  “Get out of here,” I say. “Take the jerky and water bottle with you.” I point my sword into the woods to emphasize my point.

  Eyebrows raised, the guy bends down and picks up the water bottle. He opens his mouth, his lips wagging as if to speak, but it sounds like a child trying to form its first words. “Eh ooh.”

  I shrink back in horror, shocked at the dark hole within his mouth. For where a full, pink tongue should be there’s a severed stump, wriggling like a worm on a hook.

  His chin dips, as if he’s ashamed, and he wheels around and runs off into the woods, surprisingly agile and quick considering his bedraggled appearance.

  Creepy, I think.

  Hex looks at me and chuffs, begins pacing back and forth. Runs toward the spot where the man exited the clearing, and then runs back. Barks.

  “Shhh,” I say, extending a hand. Hex lets me pet his head and back. Although we take a moment to eat an unsatisfying breakfast of jerky and water, I can’t shake the feeling that Hex wanted me to follow the homeless guy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I reach Morgantown, the streets of the once-bustling college town are quiet. Far too quiet. Students should be walking and laughing, hauling book-filled backpacks and flirting, sitting on the lawn and reading thick textbooks. Instead it’s a ghost town, an empty shell, like so many other towns I’ve passed through.

  But that’s a mirage, as I’ve learned the hard way before. The places that look the emptiest are usually the most dangerous.

  We desperately need to find a place to hole up. Tired from the long walk from the mountains, if I run into a witch gang now…