Brew (Salem's Revenge Book 1)

by David Estes

  Laney goes silent for a moment. And then: “I’m not a witch. My parents tried to kill me.”

  “I’m not a warlock,” I say.

  “Do you think Beth is alive?” Laney asks, changing the subject faster than she changes moods.

  “I…” I say. My mind spins and I try to force my muddled thoughts into a coherent order. “If Xave really is a part of this—or even just thinks he’s a part of it—then he would have demanded that she be protected. I know him.”

  “But that was the old him,” Laney says.

  I want to respond, to contradict her, but I can’t. The Xave I just saw was a far cry from the sixteen-year-old teenage boy who used to be my best friend.

  There’s more silence, each dead second ticking by with the teeth-chattering throb in my skull. At least the pain in my head has taken my mind off the pain in my injured shoulder, I think, trying to be optimistic.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about some of Trish’s air-drawing,” Laney finally says, surprising me.

  “Why?” I say.

  “Look, Carter, I’m not in denial about my sister. I know I acted like I was, but I wasn’t. I just…didn’t want to think about it. But I accept her for what she is now, you know? I don’t care that she’s a witch, because she’s not a bad person. She’s just a kid.”

  “I don’t think she’s evil,” I say.

  “But she’s a witch,” Laney says. “How can some witches be good after all they’ve done to us?”

  “Because they weren’t necessarily all involved in what happened. It’s like saying a war is caused by all humans. It’s just not true. Trish is good. That homeless guy might be, too. That Siren that saved us…maybe her, I don’t know.”

  “And that’s it? A good witch, a ‘might-be’ good warlock, and a ‘maybe her?’”

  My frustration boils over. “I don’t know, okay? Is that what you want me to say?” Gritting my teeth through the pain and nausea, I finally push to a sitting position, scooting back until my spine cracks against a wall.

  “Sorry,” Laney says, her voice closer now. “I know this is all…confusing.” Now that’s an understatement.

  I sigh. “What were you going to say about Trish’s messages?” I ask, trying to think.

  “Right. That,” Laney says. “The first one is easy, if we’d just thought about it for two seconds. Tall dead no, right?”

  I nod, but then remembering that she can’t see me, I say, “Yes. I think it’s clear that she meant ‘Not all dead.’ We just cut off the letters at the wrong place.”

  “Okay, Einstein, what does it mean then? What was she trying to tell us?”

  “Could be a number of things. That there are still humans alive. Maybe she was referring to New America.”

  “That’s what I figured, too,” Laney says. “And what about Ads hall rise’?”

  I scratch my head. Nothing jumps out. “I dunno.”

  “We were missing two letters. D and E. ‘Dead shall rise.’”

  “Meaning what?” I say.

  “That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? We’re in Necro-land. Clearly they’re raising an army.”

  “We already guessed that,” I say.

  “Yes,” Laney admits. “But Trish confirmed it, and she’s never wrong. But the bigger question is: Why haven’t they unleashed their army on what’s left of the world yet?”

  As it is with most of the questions we raise, I don’t have an answer. As I rest my head against the wall to think about Laney’s questions, a light blazes somewhere in the dark and footsteps echo down a corridor.

  Xavier whistles a tune I’ve heard a thousand times, one he used to play on the saxophone.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The light approaches, but at first I have to close my eyes as they adjust to something other than abject darkness, like when Beth and I used to exit a matinee movie into sunlight.

  “Rhett,” my best friend says. If I keep my eyes closed, we could be hanging out on the football field bleachers, just talking, joking. If I never open my eyes again, can I erase everything that’s happened?

  Squint-blink-blink-squint. Ease my eyes open. Scan my surroundings. As I thought, I’m in a cell. Stone walls on three sides and red, magged-up bars on the fourth. Xavier is looking at me through the bars, his face tinted with the reflection of red lines from the lantern light off the bars. I can’t see Laney.

  “Are we prisoners?” I ask. I don’t attempt to stand.

  “No,” Xave says. “This is for your own protection. Now that the Reaper has realized he has enemies within the Necros, he’s being very careful with you. These bars will protect you.”

  Whatever. Not worth arguing about. Not yet, anyway. “Where’s Beth?” I ask.

  “God, Rhett, I still can’t believe you’re alive,” Xave says, ignoring—or avoiding—my question.

  “Where’s Beth?” I say again.

  “My father lied to me for so long. At first I was so angry, but now I understand why he did it. He was only trying to protect both of us. He told me everything. How he lied and said you were dead so I’d join the Necros and be safe from the other witch gangs. How he trained you in case you were ever on your own. How he kept making excuses to not let you leave his house.

  “I asked him why he didn’t keep us together. I mean, wouldn’t you have been safer here with the Necros? But I understand now. He knew you wouldn’t understand—that you’d be your own worst enemy. And we’ve got a target on us. There are powerful humans, and even more powerful witches, trying to destroy us.”

  “He shouldn’t have lied to us,” I say.

  “Maybe not,” Xave says. “I think he realizes that now. But he’s not lying anymore. He even told me about how when you escaped he freaked out and desperately tried to find you, eventually sending a Siren after you.”

  “What?” I twitch slightly and my head cracks off the wall, sending a fresh wave of agony through my skull.

  “The Siren. She was supposed to draw you to her and bring you in.”

  Another piece clicks into place, and I scratch the Siren’s name off the list of possible “good” witches. “Stop calling him your father,” I say, feeling ill. “He’s not. And you’re not a warlock.”

  “I know this is hard to understand. It was for me, too. But I am what I am.” His voice isn’t his. It’s his voice, but his tone and the words he’s choosing aren’t the Xave I once knew. “It’s a relief in a way. Knowing. Knowing who I am, where I come from.”

  “You sound like a robot,” I say.

  “I—Rhett, I—” The words seem to stick in his throat and he swallows twice before continuing. When he speaks again, he sounds like my best friend. “Since I was little, I was always alone,” he starts. “But then I met you.”

  “So was I. But then I met you and Beth.”

  He visibly jerks at Beth’s name, and then grips the bars with two hands. “I know,” he says. “But still. I always wanted a father.”

  “The. Reaper. Isn’t. Your. Father,” I say, flinging the words at him one at a time.

  Xavier shakes his head. “You don’t understand. He is, Rhett. Eventually you’ll come to realize it.”

  “Prove it,” I say.

  Xavier laughs, and I hate that it feels so good hearing his laugh. “You’re different and the same,” he says, and I swear it’s just him again, not the brainwashed robot I was talking to just a moment earlier.

  “You, too,” I say, my breath hitching slightly. What have you done to my best friend, Mr. Jackson? Give him back.

  “I can do things, Rhett. Things that would’ve seemed impossible six months ago. Things that only the characters in those fantasy books that you love so much should be able to do.”

  No. “Like what?” I say, keeping my voice steady. Please no.

  “I’ve raised the dead, Rhett,” he says, and all the oxygen exits my lungs, leaving me gasping and hanging my head. God, no, this is wrong, so wrong. My friend, my best friend is…gone.

 
Gone.

  “That’s disgusting,” I say, even as I’m hoping this is another one of Mr. Jackson’s tricks, that somehow he’s convinced Xave that not only is he his son, but that he’s a warlock.

  “No, Rhett,” Xavier says. “It’s beautiful. They’re our creations.”

  His voice sounds so Stepford Wife again that I want to plug my ears, say Lalalalala.

  Instead, Laney, who I’d almost forgotten was nearby, says, “We saw one of your so-called beautiful creations, and it looked like a demon-zombie-monster. You’re all sick in the head.”

  In the lantern light, I can see Xave’s face fall. “Is that what you think, too?” he asks.

  What I want to say is, Damn right, but I realize I need a change in tact. If we’re ever going to get out of here, playing along might not be the worst idea, as much as it will make me want to throw up. Hopefully Laney will catch on quickly. “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Carter!” Laney says. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This is between me and Xave!” I shout. “Butt. Out.”

  I hear her mumble something obscene, but then she goes quiet. I can picture her in her cell, back to the wall, silently fuming.

  Xavier’s smiling. “Thank you,” he says.

  I push to my feet, swaying slightly as the room spins around me, and then walk to the bars. I clasp my friend’s hand through the barrier. “Look, Xave, I want to believe everything you’re saying, but it’s hard. The witches have killed so many, destroyed so much. They killed my foster family, the closest thing to a real family I’d had in a long time.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I know,” he says. “There are a lot of bad witches out there.”

  Out there? Meaning what? That in here all the witches are good? I raise my eyebrows in confusion.

  Xavier sighs. “I forget there’s so much you don’t know. While you’ve been fighting every inch, I’ve been participating in a cause so great it can only be good.”

  I’m still trying to play-act, but I can’t stop from shaking my head at the sheer wrongness of his words. “But all the killing,” I say, trying to appeal to the old Xave, who abhorred violence in any form.

  “Exactly,” Xave says. “We’re trying to stop it. Trying to bring peace.”

  “What?” I say, my voice rising in surprise. It’s the last thing I expected him to say.

  “It’s true. That’s why you have to listen, to hear us out. Join us.”

  Laney’s scoff-laugh carries across the space, but I block it out and focus on my friend’s face, which suddenly seems full of life and full of him, not the brainwashed kid I’d seen earlier. Is this really what he believes? That the Necros are doing good in the world? And if he wants me to join them, does that mean he thinks I’m a warlock?

  “Tell me,” I say earnestly. I need to know what Xavier thinks the Reaper is doing.

  Xavier shakes his head, gives my hand a final squeeze, and says, “My father will tell you everything. But first, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  I want to demand answers, to pound the bars, to shout and shout until he tells me everything I want to know, but I’m too tired and too hungry and too thirsty. So I just wait.

  Xave waves to the shadows, smiling so broadly that he almost looks giddy with excitement. What is this all about?

  The shadows move, shift, coalesce to form a warlock, who steps from the shadows. It’s like he stepped right off the cover of GQ. Wearing a smart, athletic-fit gray suit with pearly cufflinks, the warlock has the face of a model, or maybe a god. High cheekbones, a thin well-trimmed beard, startling blue eyes, perfectly tousled hair: He’s handsome in exactly the way that Xavier always dreamed his first boyfriend would be.

  And I know, even before Xavier steps toward him and takes his hand, that this warlock means a great deal to him.

  “Rhett—meet Felix,” he says, almost proudly. “We’ve just celebrated our four month anniversary.”

  “Four months…” I mumble numbly. Xave’s been dating a warlock for a third of a year?

  “Best time of my life,” Felix says, and Xave beams. “Nice to finally meet you, Rhett. Xave has told me so much about you, and I never thought I’d get the chance.” Because Mr. Jackson was telling them I was dead, I think. He extends a hand through the bars.

  What is happening? I’m in a cell, having just fought and killed dozens of skeleton warriors, after finally hunting down my best friend only to find he’s a wannabe Necro with a warlock boyfriend…who he’s now introducing me to?

  “W. T. F,” Laney says loudly, which pretty much sums up my thoughts on the subject.

  “Uh, hi,” I say, taking the warlock’s hand, which is soft, with well-manicured nails. He’s clean, well-dressed—is that a hint of aftershave I smell?—everything Xave ever wanted in a boyfriend. He’s even polite.

  I have the sudden urge to squeeze hard enough to break his hand, but instead I just withdraw my handshake.

  “I can’t wait for the two of you to get to know each other,” Xave says, doing that thing where he talks with his hands that I always used to love about him. Now it just fuels my anger. Get to know each other? “I’m sure you’ll become great friends.” Great friends?

  He reaches out and grabs Felix’s hand, leans way up to give him a quick peck on the lips. “We’ll see you later, okay Rhett? As soon as we identify the traitors in our midst and you realize what you have the chance to be a part of, you won’t have to stay in this horrid place anymore.”

  “Wait,” I say, but they’re already disappearing into the shadows, leaving the lantern burning on the floor behind them. “Xave! Xave! Where’s Beth?” My hands grip the bars until they ache, and I shout and shout until my throat burns and my voice starts to crack.

  And then I slide down the bars and weep into my hands until exhaustion takes me away.

  ~~~

  I’m ten years old. The foster system doesn’t want me and I don’t want the foster system.

  I keep my head down, don’t talk to anyone but Xave, who’s in the same compound as me, awaiting our next foster home. This life will harden you if you let it, but not Xave. For all he’s been through, he’s just a happy-go-lucky kid who hides his scars beneath the biggest smile in the world, which is eclipsed only by the size of his heart.

  But despite all my efforts, trouble is the leech that just won’t let go of me.

  “Hey loser,” someone shouts as I hurry down the narrow walkway between the dormitories, attempting to make it all the way through the facility to Xave’s building without talking to anyone. When I try to ignore the voice and keep walking, it gets louder. “HEY LOSER!”

  I push my glasses up further on my nose and start to run, but slam to a stop when someone steps out from an open corridor. A teenager who looks like a man. Everyone says he’s fifteen, but he looks more like twenty-one, with thick meaty arms and ropy beard that he ties into a braid in front. His birth records also say his name is Hugh, but call him that to his face and you’ll quickly find out why everyone calls him Hammer.

  “Going somewhere, Brainiac?” Hammer says.

  “Uh, just to my…uh, to my room.” My hands start to shake and I clamp them together.

  “Isn’t your room back that way, loser?” the voice from before asks from behind.

  I wheel around to find another teenager. They call him Jay Money. Jay is for Jayson and Money is because if he talks to you, you have to empty your pockets.

  And he’s talking to me.

  “I, uh, I mean…I’m going to my friend’s room,” I say, my unchanged voice rising pathetically high.

  “Ha! You hear that, Hammer? He thinks he has a friend! That’s the funniest freaking thing I’ve heard all day.”

  “For being so damn smart you’re a real moron,” Hammer says, kicking the back of my knee so I stumble forward.

  “Leave. Him. Alone,” a voice commands.

  I clamber to my feet to find Xave, who’s now shorter than me but still bigger by abou
t thirty pounds, staring down the two meanest kids in the whole facility. He must have been coming to find me at the same time as I was looking for him. Figures.

  My heart falls. This is a scene that has become all too familiar. I get picked on. Xave stands up for me. Xave gets a black-eye and a bloody nose, taking the worst of it while I get knocked over and shoved aside. Xave’s been fighting my fights since the moment I met him.

  “I got this, Xave,” I say. “Get out of here.” The words come out with all the strength of a wet paper towel.

  “This is too good,” Jay Money says. “We’ve got a two for one deal. Listen, fatso, we’ll forget about this misunderstanding if you pay up. Both pockets—turn them out.”

  I’m already starting to rummage through my pockets when Xave says, “Make me.”

  Silence drops like a bowling ball thrown off a roof. Even the walls, which normally blare with radios and foster kid chatter, become quiet, as if listening.

  “Say what?” Jay says. “Hammer, tell me I’m hearing things. Did that chubster just invite me to beat the living crap out of him?”

  “Hell yeah,” Hammer says, smacking a fist in his palm.

  “Forget fists,” Jay says, reaching behind him. “I’ve wanted to try my new toy for a while.”

  The gun is small and black and pointed at my head as Jay stalks toward me, holding it sideways like a gangster. My heart is skipping beats all over the place and my head suddenly feels like it’s full of ants scurrying through my brain. I’m going to die I’m going to die

  I’m. Going. To. Die.

  The five years since my first foster family died have sucked, but that doesn’t mean I want my life to be over. Not when I have Xave. Not when we can crack each other up so bad our sides hurt for the rest of the day.

  But I can’t speak, not even to plead for my life. My mouth is so dry it’s like it’s full of sawdust, my tongue twice its normal size, my spit gone on vacation.

  And I feel warm…down there.

  “Aw, did the little baby piss his pants?” Jay says, the gun so close to my head that I can see the letters tattooed on his knuckles. LIVE, they read. I know from experience that the tattoo on the knuckles of his other hand spells DIE. Funny that he would aim a gun at me with this hand.