Boil (Salem's Revenge Book 2)

by David Estes

  “Martin Carter,” I say. “Rhett’s father.”

  “Martin Carter is dead,” the Reaper says, not missing a beat. But I can see in the way his body stiffens, in the way his eyes widen, that I’ve shocked him.

  “So you say.”

  “So I know,” the Reaper says.

  “Then I guess we’re done talking,” I say.

  Xave puts a hand on my arm, drawing my gaze to him. He’s frowning, not angrily, but intently, as if concentrating deeply. “Laney,” he says. “Tell us why you think this is Rhett’s father’s.”

  “Rhett’s father is dead,” I say, mimicking the Reaper’s deep, gruff voice.

  Xave shakes his head. “Can’t you be serious for two seconds?”

  I harden my expression and say, “One…two. I guess I can. Anything longer might be pushing it though.”

  I’m surprised, not by the twinkle of amusement in Xave’s eyes, but in the fact that seeing it makes me grin. “Look, I’m happy to share what I know about Martin Carter, which isn’t much, but what do I get in return?”

  The Reaper offers a smile under a cloud of dark, frowning eyebrows, something that’s harder to do than one might think. I should know, my friends and I used to practice a similar expression all the time. “I’ll help you find your sister,” he says.

  It’s my turn to frown, only without the smile. “I thought you were already going to do that,” I say.

  “No,” the Reaper says. “I promised to help you find the Changelings.”

  “Who can lead me to the Claires,” I say. “Where my sister is.” Either I’m missing something or the Reaper is a damn fool. And I don’t usually miss much.

  The Reaper’s frowny smile is beginning to piss me off. “The Changelings won’t be able to lead you anywhere if they’re all dead,” he says.

  “You’re going to kill them?” I ask, feeling stupid right away. Of course that’s what he’s going to do. There are rumors that the Changelings are killing humans, and as part of his “plan for peace” he’s going to kill anyone, witch or human, who’s fighting against each other. And then, magically, there will be peace. “You can’t do that!” I shout, before the Reaper can respond. “They might be my only way of finding Trish.” Am I really defending that red-haired witch and her gang members?

  Yes. Of course. To protect Trish I’d defend the most notorious serial killer in the world. I’d defend alien invaders hell-bent on sucking out all of Earth’s natural resources using enormous vacuum cleaners. I’d even help them by pressing the big red SUCK button.

  “Then tell me what you know about Martin Carter,” the Reaper says calmly.

  I chew on my lip. The interesting thing about this entire negotiation is that the head of the Necros never threatens me or my sister, which would be the logical thing to do to get me to talk. He only threatens a group of human-murdering witches who I happen to hate even more than him. Interesting.

  “So if I tell you, you won’t kill the Changelings?”

  He hands me the filthy coat. “I won’t kill all the Changelings,” he says. “I’ll leave one alive. The one who pretended to be a Siren. Who pretended to be on my side. Her death will come later, after your sister is safe. And hers will be slow.”

  A chill works its way up my arms to the back of my neck. One minute the Reaper can sound like a pioneer of peace, and the next a sadist. Am I really going to trust him with my sister’s life? I realize I have few other options. Wandering alone in the woods won’t get me far.

  “Deal,” I say, holding the ragged coat away from my body, as if it’s contaminated. So I tell him everything I know about Martin Carter. About how he’s been following Rhett, protecting him on several occasions. The Reaper’s eyebrows shoot up when I mention the part about Rhett’s father fighting alongside the red-haired Changeling to rescue us from the Shifters. But he doesn’t say anything, just listens, even when I tell him about Martin using magic to get us out of the dungeons below Heinz Field before New America’s missiles could blow us apart.

  Before I can finish, however, the Reaper finally interjects. “How do you know his name? How do you know it’s him? Did he tell you?” There’s something in the Reaper’s tone that makes me stop to think before answering. Is he trying to trick me?

  “His tongue’s been cut out,” I say, which makes the Reaper’s lips part. He believes me now.

  “They cut it out when they accused him of being a traitor,” he says. “A few days before they executed him.” He pauses, rethinks his words. “Or I guess before they pretended to execute him.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  The Reaper stretches, cracks his neck. “Those in favor of Salem’s Revenge,” he says after a minute of silence. “So if he didn’t have a tongue, how did he tell you?”

  “He wrote his name on paper. Just his first name though. We didn’t find out who he really was until he played a recording for Rhett.” I tell him about the last time Rhett saw his father.

  The Reaper’s hand goes to his forehead, massaging it as if he has a headache. “I gave him the device he used to make the recording,” the Reaper says. “He was supposed to tell me where he hid it before they executed him, but then they cut out his tongue and it was too late. I had one conversation with him—he told me to protect Rhett, by drawing in the dirt. But it ended too quickly, before he could reveal the location of the recording. I watched them burn his body. I swear to God it was him.”

  “Unless this guy is pretending to be Rhett’s father, I’d say you were tricked,” I say. Then I drop the last bombshell on him.

  I tell him about Martin Carter’s curse.

  He stares at me, his gaze dancing from one of my eyes and then back to the other, as if trying to decide whether I’m telling the truth. “You lie,” he says.

  “Believe what you want,” I say. “But I don’t lie.”

  He grimaces.

  “If you were really friends with Rhett’s dad, you should be happy,” I say. “Although I doubt he was that good of a friend if he never told you about his curse.”

  “I am,” the Reaper retorts. “I’m happy that Martin’s alive. And he did tell me about his curse. But I didn’t think he meant…that. I thought he meant he was cursed to die.”

  “For him I think not being able to be near his son is almost the same thing,” I say.

  He nods. After that he stands up and, without another word, walks off by himself into the forest.

  ~~~

  We spend the day at Martin Carter’s old camp, sleeping and eating and drinking. Even when most of us are awake, there’s not much talking. I’m starting to learn that Necros aren’t big conversationalists. Xave seems to be the exception, however.

  “That’s incredible that Rhett’s father is alive,” Xave says. “All this time we both thought we were orphans, and it turns out neither of us are.”

  I have nothing to say to that. Since I got bored with sleeping, I’ve been scouring Martin Carter’s discarded coat for a patch of fabric not filthy or burned or bloodstained. I’ve finally found a tiny unscathed square, and now I begin to cut it out using one of the knives Tillman Huckle gave us. If I ever see Rhett again, I’ll give it to him.

  An awkward silence stretches between Xave and me. A question has been gnawing inside my skull for a while now, and finally I blurt it out. “How do you do it?” I ask. I know the question is vague, but I can’t bring myself to elaborate, even when Xave raises an eyebrow, his dark eyes, so much like his father’s, boring into mine.

  “You mean the reanimation?” he asks.

  I was going to say “Create zombies,” which might’ve offended him, so I’m glad I let him fill in the blanks. I nod.

  He puckers his lips and then asks, “Are you looking for the technical process or how I sleep at night knowing what I’ve done?”

  “Both,” I say, impressed at his understanding of the way my mind works. Maybe he’s starting to get me the same way I’m beginning to figure out him.

  “You saw the brew
?” he says.

  Vivid images cycle through my mind: black iron cauldrons tipping over, their sludgy brown contents spilling out; grotesque half-formed flesh and bone creatures on the ground, mangled and twisted; a stark white bony hand emerging over the lip of a cauldron; reanimated children clawing and biting and killing. I shake my head to try to clear away the thoughts. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw it. What do you put in that sludge?”

  He laughs, which seems highly inappropriate under the circumstances. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. It’s not flour, sugar and baking soda, I’ll tell you that much. I can’t even think about it without feeling ill.”

  For some reason, his weak stomach confuses me more than anything I’ve heard before. “How can you raise the dead if you can’t even control your stomach?” I ask.

  He keeps on smiling, as if I’ve just asked the silliest question in the world. “There are two types of Necros,” he says, which is news to me. They all seem the same. Dark magic, dark cloaks, making zombies, et cetera, et cetera. “My father and I are responsible for the actual reanimation. Our magic gives the bodies new life. We only come in to do our part after all the preparation has been completed, which is done by the other kind of Necros. They gather the dead, perform initial spells, create the brew, marinate the bodies…”

  Did he really just use the word marinate? Like he’s making teriyaki chicken for dinner?

  “How many of your type are there?” I ask.

  “Most are the other type,” he says. “Their magic isn’t quite strong enough to perform the final reanimation. My father’s and my kind are about five percent of the Necro population.”

  I can’t stop the thought from popping into my head: If there were none of Xave’s kind of Necro left, they wouldn’t be able to reanimate any more corpses.

  But I blink away the thought as quickly as it comes. Even if I’ve wanted to kill him and his father in the past, those plans are long gone. Everything has changed now. All that matters is safely recovering my sister and finding Rhett. They’re all I have left.

  “Okay,” I say, not wanting to think about any of it for even one second longer.

  “So you want to know how I’m able to bring them back without hating myself?” Xave asks.

  A minute ago I did, but now I’m not so sure. I chew my lip. Slowly, I nod.

  “For us it’s like breathing or drinking or eating or the beat of a heart,” he says. “We can’t not do it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Trish

  It takes all her mental capacity to withhold her thoughts from her children. Speaking in their heads is as easy for her as thinking, and yet she must separate the two. If nothing else, her thoughts must remain her own.

  The Changelings have gone ahead to scout, while she and her children will follow behind soon after.

  Her children gather around her, clothing her in a silver satin dress and braiding white flowers into her hair. They sprinkle sweet-smelling liquid on her neck and the inside of her wrists. Finally, they adorn her with a necklace made from rolled up leaves and bright white stones.

  You look beautiful, Mother, they tell her when they’re finished.

  Thank you, my children, she answers, wondering how they all look so perfect without help. But she doesn’t ask for fear of sounding silly.

  As they move through the verdant green grass toward the edge of the forest, the spirit deer from the night before flanks them, bounding ahead. Leading them. What is it? she asks before she can stop herself.

  Her tall, reed-like child glides next to her, appearing as though her naked feet don’t touch the grass. With a start, she realizes her own feet are a handbreadth off the ground, too. Mother, you’ve seen this deer before. Many, many times. Remember what it is. Remember.

  She strains at her memories, seeking for something buried deep inside her. All she remembers is the deer leading her the night before. How could she have seen the deer before then? She’s only a child. She’s never even walked through the woods before. And yet, she does know the deer.

  Our Creator, she says, the truth of the answer as clear as the pink sky overhead. Despite having not slept the night before, she feels as refreshed as if she’s just swum in a clear, cold spring.

  Yes. She guides us, her child adds.

  But how can she be the Mother when she’s not the Creator? She already knows. She’s always known, but could never access the knowledge. Until now. The Creator made her first, called her Mother. Gave her the power to bear Children. The Creator is the spirit of the earth. The giver of power. And the taker away.

  Flashes of lifetimes rip through her mind. A woman with jet-black hair, flitting amongst the dead on a haze-filled day, tending to those still living, bandaging their wounds, cupping their heads and dripping water from a sponge past their dry chapped lips; an ivory-skinned girl touching the backs of dark-skinned slaves, pushing energy into their sapped muscles, giving them the impossible strength required to pull the ropes that burn their hands, to lift monstrous stone blocks many times heavier than their combined weight; an old woman, her skin wrinkled and aged and weather-beaten, knocking a child away from the gaping maw of a fanged beast, screaming until the tiger-like creature bounds away, leaving them in peace. Many more lifetimes rush past, so many she can barely keep up.

  And though it’s impossible, she knows that the black-haired woman, the ivory-skinned girl, the old woman, and all the other females in her visions…

  Are her.

  ~~~

  As the day passes, her Children tell her stories of past lives. The memories begin fuzzy, blurry around the edges, but seem to sharpen with each passing moment. They are the forever Children, those who have been there from the beginning and those who will be there at the end. And she is their forever Mother.

  And they have a role to play in clearing the darkness that has covered the earth. The only thing she doesn’t understand is why the President of New America must die. Have the Claires given up on humankind after being their protectors for thousands of years? She’s afraid to ask. She doesn’t like the Changeling woman, but whatever alliance has been formed is moving forward already, and she feels powerless to stop it.

  She doesn’t even know if she should stop it.

  A night passes, her children marching on, their silver, blue, and white dresses glowing softly in the dark. Her own garb seems just a shade brighter than the others. Night turns to day and day to night again, and they travel onwards, never tiring, as if time stands still all the while.

  For the last half-day, a dangerous thought has been tugging at her heartstrings. What if I’m on the wrong side? She should know right from wrong—she’s the Mother after all—but her thoughts are not yet complete; and anyway, each memory is a reminder that humans and her people have co-existed peacefully for centuries.

  There’s only one person she trusts implicitly in this lifetime, who’s never steered her wrong, who’s always been there for her:

  Laney.

  She might not be her child, and although she’s only her sister in a single lifetime, barely a second in the infinite expanse of her existence, she is the essence of right.

  The words come to her as easily as breaths during a deep sleep.

  Just as the first rays of orange morning light slip over the horizon, she murmurs the words of an old spell she hasn’t used in decades.

  Kul tu alla ketra, she says to the earth. And then she speaks their names.

  Two slivers of the pulsing white light inside her slide from her fingertip and drop to the forest floor, disappearing into the earth.

  This is good, she thinks to herself. This is right.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rhett

  It’s more of a thud than a splat.

  The sound makes me cringe and turn away from Eddie X’s body, which surely will never throw another grenade. What he saw to prompt him to leap from the roof, I’ll probably never know, but I do know who caused it.

  The witch. Even as she pushes to her
feet, one of her legs wobbling slightly, I’m stuck to the street. I can feel my fingers and toes and I can move my head, which I think are all good signs, but I don’t have the strength to stand.

  With measured strides, she makes her way over to me. Her legs are fleshy pale between a black mini-skirt and black knee-high boots. A white tank top reveals strong arms and a lean torso. She brushes her hand across her face, pushing her hair away, sticky with blood from the gash on her forehead.

  She stands over me and all I can do is watch, my sword clutched in a hand too weak to lift it.

  This could be it—the end. All I’ve fought for, all I’ve been through, for nothing. I couldn’t save Beth, nor could I avenge her death.

  “Poor wittle witch hunter,” the witch says, picking at one of her nails, which are long and painted black. The one she’s playing with is broken. She peels it off and flicks it in my face. “Now. Tell me how you did it.”

  “Did what?” I wheeze, playing dumb. It even hurts to speak.

  “Oww!” I scream as she steps on my hand with her boot heel. “Okay, okay!”

  She lifts her boot, but far too slowly for my liking. I can’t flex my fingers; it feels like my knuckles have been removed. “Tell me,” she says.

  “I’m…I’m a…”

  “Spit it out!” she shrieks, raising her boot again.

  Two things happen at that moment:

  First, her command is cut off when an arrow punches through the side of her cheek, and because her mouth is wide open I’m able to see the shaft sliding all the way through, before it exits out the other cheek. Before she can even drop to the ground, another arrow plunges through her ear. Blood sprays in a liquid arc that reminds me of the way water shoots from some kinds of backyard sprinklers.

  Her body thumps beside me, her vacant green eyes staring lifelessly into mine.

  Gross.

  The second thing that happens is harder to describe. A strange, glowing sliver of light runs along the street, popping up once or twice, almost like a gopher peeking its head from its hole. Eventually, however, the gopher-light reaches me, and as my eyes widen and my lips part in awe, the sliver slips inside my mouth.