by David Estes
“Yes. The head of the witch council arranged it all. Made it look like an accident. But I knew it wasn’t, just like I knew my wife’s death wasn’t. First her, then your mother, then your father. But before your father was murdered, he made me promise to watch over you. I promised him I would, and promised myself I would protect my son, Xavier, too, in the best way I knew how.”
Despite the fact that I know this man is a liar, something about what he’s saying makes too much sense. It does explain a lot. “You abandoned us to foster care,” I say.
“Getting you two away from me was the only way to protect you,” he says sadly. “I was in the throes of the biggest battle of my life, and my enemies would use any weapon they could against me. They’d already proven that.”
“But you lived so close,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “As you were handed from foster family to foster family, I watched from afar. I protected you where I could.”
I can’t stop the sarcastic laugh from escaping my lips. “Oh yeah? Where were you when Big Hank was beating the living crap out of me and your so-called son?”
Mr. Jackson winces slightly. “I was afraid they were watching me. That they’d see me protect you and Xave and that they’d realize who you were. That they’d kill you. But eventually I couldn’t stand watching the abuse any longer.”
My heart dips. “Wait. What?”
“I killed him,” Mr. Jackson says.
“No,” I say. “His wife did. It was her gun. Her fingerprints.”
“She was so drugged out half the time she didn’t know what she was doing,” Mr. Jackson says. “I wore gloves, used her gun. I shot him in the head. He got what he deserved.”
Oh man oh man oh man. I cross my arms defiantly, but really I’m hugging myself, trying to hold it together.
“If Laney’s here because of Trish, why am I here?” I ask. “Just because of some promise you made to my father?”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes brighten and I hate that it sends an exhilarating thrill through my blood because that’s the way he always looked when I mastered something new in training. “You are one of only a handful of known humans who seem to have a natural resistance to magic,” he says.
I stare at him. Laney was right. So right. Then that means… “I’m not a warlock,” I say.
“No.”
“But magic can’t hurt me?” I say.
Mr. Jackson smiles. “Not exactly. Like anyone else, magic has great power over you, but unlike everyone else—including magic-born—the strength of your will plays a major role in how effective that magic is on you. You’re a powerful weapon.”
“I—I don’t understand,” I say. But I do. Or at least, sort of. What Mr. Jackson just said explains so many mysteries. How I’ve managed to resist the wiles of the Sirens, why I didn’t die at the hands of the magic-poisoned arrow, how I fought off the hallucinatory magic of Flora’s warlock guards.
Mr. Jackson’s eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t say anything. Surprisingly, Laney is silent, too, perhaps shocked at how close to the truth she was.
“But I’m human?” I say. I have to confirm it one last time.
“Yes,” Mr. Jackson says. “We call those like you Resistors.”
“There are others like me?”
“Only three that we know of.” Mr. Jackson’s eyes never leave me, but that doesn’t mean anything when it comes to a professional liar like him.
“Who?”
“You, a girl who we think is working with the Changelings, and a friend of yours. Bil Nez.”
I blink. Why does that guy’s name keep popping up? “He wants to kill me, right?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Jackson says, which confounds me. Is he lying? I was so sure he’d been the one to send the Siren down to warn me about Bil.
“Uh…” I say, buying time to think, my mind spinning like a Tilt-a-Whirl.
Laney, unfortunately, spills the beans. “But that Siren said Bil Nez was supposed to kill Carter. Maybe the two of you should get your stories straight.”
“The Siren?” Mr. Jackson says, and I almost enjoy seeing the astonishment on his face. “She spoke to you?”
I nod and tell him what the Siren said, watching his expression carefully. As usual, his face doesn’t give away his thoughts. When I finish, Mr. Jackson says, “Although the Siren cannot be trusted, she told you the truth in this instance.”
“Wait,” Laney says. “You’re admitting that the Siren, who’s working for you, is a liar?”
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Jackson says. “She’s supposed to be our spy within New America. She’s been pretending to work for President Washington, while feeding us information. She’s the one who warned us of the missile attack on Pittsburgh, allowing us to move here and set up our wards. Without her, we’d all be dead.”
“Then why don’t you trust her?” I ask.
“She’s missing,” Mr. Jackson says.
“She was just here,” I say.
“And now she’s missing. She took off. We’ll find her.”
What next? Will Mr. Jackson tell me the Siren is my real mom? Things are already getting too crazy and confusing. “I don’t understand. So Bil is on a New America mission to kill me? Why would they want to kill me if I can resist witches? Wouldn’t they want me on their side?”
“They believe you’ve gone rogue, because of your friendship with Xave, who, as my son, is the second most powerful Necromancer. Bil is working with President Washington and has been charged with killing you, but we’re not sure where his true loyalties lie. We’re still holding out some hope that he’ll join us when he finds out we’ve got you on our side.”
“Join you,” I laugh. “He’ll never join you and neither will I.”
Mr. Jackson sighs. “You said you’d listen. The other two sides want to take you out of the equation, and I just want to keep you safe.”
“What sides?” I say, already feeling like the last few hours will bring on information overload, causing my brain to explode.
“There are three,” Mr. Jackson says, scratching his chin. “First, New America, who seeks to control the world and wipe every last witch gang from the face of the earth.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Laney chimes in, earning her a glare from Mr. Jackson.
“Second, the other witch gangs, who wish for chaos and bloodshed. Those gangs hate humans with every breath. Killing them is their life mission.”
“And the third group?” I say, growing impatient, just like I always used to when Mr. Jackson would lecture me about the various witch gangs, providing information in that slow, methodical way of his.
“Us,” he says. “The Necros and our allies, who seek to find a peaceful resolution, allowing both witch and humankind to live together in harmony.”
“Bullcrap,” Laney says, disguising her opinion in a cough.
“And how do you propose reaching this so-called peaceful resolution?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“By killing all who oppose us,” Mr. Jackson says.
“You’re completely nuts,” Laney says. “That makes no sense.”
Mr. Jackson shakes his head. “If only the world still made sense. Unfortunately, the enemy we’re fighting won’t stop until they’re dead.”
When my fists clench, Mr. Jackson says, “I know I’m a harder person than you want me to be, Rhett. I know I’ve let you down. But this world has left its mark on all of us, myself included.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Hours slip into days.
Xave visits every day, sometimes alone, sometimes with Felix. He seems so…happy. When he’s alone I try to argue with him, to change his way of thinking, but he’s convinced the Reaper’s his father and that he’s part of a great cause. When his boyfriend’s with him, I just listen and observe. Felix is so perfect…too perfect. Everything he does is for Xave. Although I’ve always believed my friend would be a great catch for some guy, Felix just doesn’t seem like the type to g
o for a guy like Xave. I don’t trust him.
Mr. Jackson hasn’t visited again since the first time.
They give us food and drinks, and eventually pillows and mattresses. My small cell even has a proper toilet in one corner and a shower in the other. It’s not the Shangri-La, but we’re not roughing it either.
“They’re trying to slowly make us think of them as generous,” Laney says. “They’re trying to brainwash us.”
“I know,” I say, but I can’t help enjoying the way my head sinks into the pillow, as opposed to the neck-breaking stone floor.
Every time Xave visits, I ask about Beth, and every time he pretends he doesn’t hear me. I never raise my voice. Keep playing the game, Laney and I tell each other when we’re alone. Good cop, bad cop. You can guess who’s the bad cop.
“How’s your bore of a boyfriend?” Laney asks when Xave arrives alone for his daily visit.
He ignores the jab. “He’s working today.” The way he says it makes it sound so normal, like he’s waiting tables or something. As it turns out, Felix is a Warden, one of the warlocks maintaining the protective wards around Heinz Field. If those wards ever get broken, New America’s missiles can destroy everything.
I’ve had enough of the play-acting. It’s time to get real. “How did you and Felix meet?” I ask casually.
Xave’s eyes light up. “Father introduced us. Felix has been working with Father from the beginning. He knew it was the right thing to do.” His words make me want to gag, but they also make me realize: All those times Mr. Jackson went out and wouldn’t tell me where he was going or what he was doing, he was probably recruiting witches and warlocks to his supposed cause, setting things up remotely. The thought only makes me feel like even more of a pawn in this whole game.
“Felix sounds like a great guy,” Laney says sarcastically.
“If you’d bother to get to know him, you’d see what I see,” Xave says definitively.
I have to try. “Xave, don’t you think it’s a little strange that Mr. Jackson—I mean, your father—introduced you to him and he fell so hard for you right away?”
The moment the words leave my lips, I know I’ve struck a chord, but it’s too late to take it back.
Moisture fills Xavier’s eyes. “You don’t know anything, Rhett! You never believed I’d find someone so perfect for me, and now that I have…now that I’m happy…you’re jealous! Well, I’m not going to let you spoil everything that’s good in my life. I’ve got a family here. A real father, a boyfriend. All I wanted was for you to see that and be a part of it.”
I open my mouth to apologize, to try to make things right, but he’s already storming away. “When did you become so cruel?” he fires over his shoulder.
“That went well,” Laney says when Xave’s gone.
And although I feel bad that I hurt his feelings, I manage a weak smile because of what I saw in my friend’s tear-filled eyes before he left:
Hatred of the truth.
~~~
Mr. Jackson shows up a day later.
I’ve got a million questions, but he holds up a hand before I can ask them. “You hurt my son’s feelings,” he says.
“He’s not your son,” I say.
“He is,” Mr. Jackson says, exasperation in his breathy tone and the slump of his shoulders. “And I care about you both. The last thing I want is for the two of you to become enemies.”
“Where have you been?” I say. “If you cared about me, why have you left us down here so long?” He’s about to answer, but I cut him off. “And don’t say ‘for your own protection.’”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’d forgotten how difficult you can be. You’re not that unlike your mother. She was a proud woman.”
I cringe, but I feel something swell within my chest. “Don’t pretend like you knew her.”
“I’m not going to lie to you,” he says. “Not anymore.”
I sigh. “Fine. Then I have some questions.”
“Shoot.”
“What happened to Beth?”
“Like I said, I won’t lie to you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll answer all of your questions either.”
“Shocking,” I say. “Then I’m not going to waste my breath.”
“Rhett,” he says, and I hate how familiar it sounds, as if he has the right to say my name. “I’m not the enemy.”
“Is Beth alive?” I ask, hating the silence that always hangs after I ask the question.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says, looking away.
I almost explode with frustration. “Okay, you want to talk about something else? What part did you play in Salem’s Revenge?”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes dart back to mine. I expect another refusal to answer, but he surprises me. “I was part of the group of witch leadership in charge of considering the witch rebellion,” he says. “I had…reservations about the whole thing. I was one of only a few leaders that wasn’t in support of a large-scale rebellion.”
“Lies,” Laney chirps.
“And my parents were also on your side?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“As if,” Laney says.
“So then what happened?” I ask.
“We made enemies. Powerful enemies. This was all happening shortly after you and Xavier were born.”
“So that’s why you and my parents were siding with the humans?” I scoff. “Because you were cursed with human children.”
“No,” Mr. Jackson says, but then looks away, unable to hold my gaze. “Well, yes and no. I can’t say that having Xavier didn’t change me. That would be a lie. But I was always for peace, Rhett. My wife, your parents, a few others on the council—we just wanted to live.”
“But your skills are in necromancy. Surely you wanted to use them,” I say.
Bingo. He flinches and I know I’ve hit on something important. Is that shame on his face?
“You’re not wrong,” he says. “Having the ability to do something and not be able to use it is hard. It doesn’t feel natural to withhold something that’s a part of you, built into your very soul. But I was willing to. For Xavier. For my wife. For peace.”
Laney laughs humorlessly. “You’re a piece of work,” she says. “You throw around the word ‘peace’ so easily, and yet you throw out a blanket request on Witches ’R Us for as many corpses as you can get your hands on.”
It’s my turn to flinch, because I hadn’t been thinking about that. About how the Sirens were killing innocent farmers in the field in order to provide corpses to the Necros.
“It wasn’t like that,” Mr. Jackson says. “Not exactly. I asked for corpses, yes.”
“To build an undead army,” I say.
He nods. “But I only asked for witches to bring in corpses that were already available—from Salem’s Revenge.”
“What did you think would happen?” I say. “Your friends went after any corpse they could find, even if that corpse happened to still be walking around with a beating heart. Do I have to spell it out for you? All your request did was encourage witches to kill more humans.”
There’s a touch of sorrow in his eyes, and I can’t help but notice how real it looks. “I was desperate,” he says. “I still am desperate. Our enemies have become far more powerful than even I expected. And they’re doing everything in their power to crush us so they can continue to carry out their plan.”
“Which is?” I ask.
He clams up suddenly, his lips pursed, as if he realizes he’s become far more loose-tongued than originally planned.
“Okay,” I say. “How about what happened during the planning for Salem’s Revenge. How did those in favor of a rebellion against the humans manage to win?”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes cloud over, as if filled with the mist of a sorrowful memory, but his lips open. “At first it was just a stalemate, but then Salem’s Return began…”
“Witches being burned…” Laney murmurs, her voice sounding faraway, perhaps because it’s the first thing out
of her mouth that hasn’t been some form of an insult.
“Yes,” Mr. Jackson says. “Not all real witches, mind you. But some were. In any case, it turned the favor somewhat in support of carrying out Salem’s Revenge sooner rather than later. You and Xave were very little when the talks of rebellion were intensifying. Because your parents and I were unwilling to support the rebellion, we started getting threats from those in support.”
“So you were worried that…what? Your enemies would hurt us?”
“Yes,” he says. “Another disagreeing leader died mysteriously in a house fire. His wife and three children were there, too. Some of the biggest supporters of the rebellion were Pyros.” An empty pit cracks open in my stomach. “And then they took Xave’s mother, my wife.”
“And then?”
“Your mother.”
“My mother?” I say sharply. Having no memories of her, I’ve rarely thought of my mother. Of course, like any orphan, I’ve wondered who she was, what she looked like, whether I’ll ever see her. But over time those thoughts disappeared as fantasies.
Xavier’s father nods. No, not Xavier’s father. Mr. Jackson. Or the Reaper. Who is this man standing before me? Am I really believing any of this?
“She got caught in the middle of a gang war, staged by two rival witch gangs. Each had leaders on the committee.” His dark lips form a tight line. “They killed her.”
He keeps talking, but my mind is like a clamshell, blocking out everything except the thud of my heart and my ragged breaths, which seem to burn my lungs. I never even knew my mother, but hearing of her death seems to tear me apart from the inside out. I should feel nothing, like hearing about the death of a stranger, but I find myself aching with sadness. Can the blood-bond with one’s mother be so powerful that even years and years and miles and miles of distance can’t fully sever it?
“Rhett? Rhett?” Xave’s father—and it’s only now that I’m truly beginning to think of him as my best friend’s father, whether I want him to be or not—is trying to get my attention. My eyes snap to him—not to his eyes, but to his hand, which I realize is touching mine through the bars. Comforting me.
