Boil (Salem's Revenge Book 2)

by David Estes

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I keep silent.

  “You believe there are good witches?” Laney says. I immediately realize the importance of the question to her. Trish is still out there.

  “In a word—yes,” President Washington says. “Witches have been misunderstood from the beginning. Fear led to rash decisions, rash decisions led to animosity. Animosity led to war, as it does.”

  “So the humans are to blame?” I say, finding my voice. The anger is gone, allowing my brain to function again. Even still, I’m aware of the edge to my question.

  “In part,” the president says. “After all, they started killing witches without cause. Salem’s Return was a travesty. I lobbied against it, the president, too, but popular opinion won the day. I don’t blame the witches for fighting back.”

  “How can you say that?” I ask. Millions dead. Millions. Maybe even billions, if the witch apocalypse spread across the whole of the world. The number still doesn’t seem real, even after everything I’ve seen. How can millions of souls just disappear in seemingly the blink of an eye?

  The president’s eyes meet mine, and her expression is the picture of patience. “You didn’t let me finish,” she says. “Although I think the witches defending themselves is justified, the extent and methods used are not. The utter annihilation many of the gangs strive for is sickening. They’re seeking the extinction of the human race, ushering in a new age, where the magic-born rule the earth. We can’t let that happen.”

  “And witches are helping you,” Laney says, as if to confirm the very words that pushed me into a rage.

  “Yes,” the president says. “Some of them came to us not long after Salem’s Revenge. We were all scared, fighting for our lives, desperately taking any measures we could to protect the pocket of resistance we’d created. They surrendered; they let us take them into custody. They suffered abuse at the hands of some of the soldiers before I could put a stop to that. They didn’t fight back, not one bit.

  “I didn’t trust them, not after all that had happened. I couldn’t trust them. I thought they were on a mission to gain our trust, to act as a Trojan Horse. If we let our guard down, they’d rip us apart from the inside.”

  “But you don’t believe that anymore?” Laney asks. Again, I can practically see images of Trish behind her eyes.

  “There was an attack on New America. There were lots of attacks in the early days, until we’d established ourselves as a threat and built up our defenses. But this particular one came after we’d taken these witches captive. A large mixed gang of Pyros, Volts, and Destroyers came at us from two sides. There was no fence then, no buffer. Our armed forces fought with everything they had, but they were pushed back. Panic swept through the survivors, who took to the streets, fleeing before the onslaught.

  “I realized at that moment that we were done for. It didn’t matter whether the witches who had surrendered were the enemy. We had to trust someone. I had to trust someone. I had to take a risk. So I released them.”

  “They fought against the invaders,” Laney says, a hint of excitement in her voice.

  “More than that,” President Washington says. “They saved us. Without them, there would be no New America, no real resistance. Yeah, there would still be pockets of humans hiding from the magic-born, but they’d eventually be snuffed out as easily as melting candles. I would be dead.” There’s the heavy beat of finality in her words.

  “How do you know which magic-born to trust?” Laney asks. “Are certain gangs okay?”

  “No,” the president says, answering the second question first. “It’s more complicated than that. We’ve had witches and warlocks from almost all the gangs come to support us.”

  “And wizards?” I ask, remembering the last wizard we fought. He definitely didn’t seem interested in sitting around the campfire and singing Kumbaya with a bunch of humans.

  “One,” she says.

  I take a deep breath. I can deal with one. Any more might be a struggle.

  “Madam President,” Hemsworth says, cutting into our conversation. “These two are dangerous. Surely we can’t let them roam free.”

  “True,” the president says. I hold my breath, waiting to hear our fate. “I think this one…” she says, gesturing to Laney.

  “Laney, ma’am,” Laney says.

  “Laney would be perfectly suited to join the city guard,” the president says.

  “Ma’am I don’t think—” Laney starts to say.

  “Madam President, she’s just a child,” Hemsworth says, cutting her off.

  “Give me my Glock and we’ll see who’s a child,” Laney growls.

  President Washington almost seems to enjoy the exchange, her lips curling. “There are no children these days,” she says. “And anyone capable of helping must help. Plus, you can personally keep an eye on her, Lieutenant Hemsworth. Please show her to the guards’ quarters.”

  “What about my sister?” Laney says. “I’m not lifting a finger unless you’ll help me find her.”

  “Do you know which gang took her?” the president asks.

  “I think it was the Changelings,” Laney says. I notice how she doesn’t mention the Claires.

  President Washington’s eyebrows go up. “The Changelings…” she says, trailing off, sounding as if she’s lost in thought. “What would the Changelings want with a little girl?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Laney says, despite knowing exactly what they want. I stay silent.

  The president gives Laney a long look, as if searching for a crack in her confident exterior, but then relaxes and says, “It just so happens that the Changelings are enemy number one now that the Necros have been neutralized. We’ll help you find your sister.”

  “Great,” Laney says. “What about Rhett?”

  “I’ve got other plans for your Resistor friend. He’s a powerful witch hunter, after all. He’ll join one of our upcoming missions.”

  “A mission to do what?” Laney asks. I was about to ask the same thing.

  “What else?” the president says. “Kill witches.”

  ~~~

  Laney manages to give my hand a quick squeeze before Hemsworth guides her away. I wonder if I should refuse to be split apart, to insist we stay together while we’re in New Washington, but my mouth stays shut. Twice Laney shrugs off the hand that Hemsworth tries to keep on her shoulder, until he gives up, perhaps afraid she’ll bite off one of his fingers.

  When she’s gone, I say, “Will I be able to see her later?”

  “Of course,” President Washington says. “Friendship is one thing we still have left, and to deny it would be to deny life.”

  It sounds like something she’s rehearsed. But still, her words do give me hope.

  “Okay,” I say. “What next?”

  “Time to meet your new team,” she says. I don’t mention that I didn’t really have an old team, unless you count Hex, Laney, Trish, and Bil Nez. Weirdest. Team. Ever.

  “What about my dog?” I say instead. I reach down to pet his head. He licks my hand. I’ve never seen him act so…normal. He’s hiding his real talents. I wonder whether Bil has told her about what he can really do.

  “We have a kennel,” she says.

  “No,” I say. “He comes with me. Nonnegotiable.”

  The president raises her eyebrows. “Fair enough. As long as he doesn’t get in the way of your work.”

  “He won’t,” I say. I don’t say that he’ll likely make the mission a success all on his own. Despite her open-mindedness toward witches, I don’t know where she stands on magical animals.

  “Follow me,” she says, turning to go, immediately surrounded by soldiers. One of them stands a head taller than the rest. His grey beard stretches all the way to his chest. A chill runs through me because I realize what he is.

  A wizard.

  I don’t know how I didn’t notice him earlier, especially given his professional-basketball-player height. Maybe he used magic to hide him
self from me. Or maybe I was too focused on meeting the president, which isn’t exactly an everyday experience.

  Whatever the case, he now turns slowly in my direction, and I gasp when I see his face.

  Charles Gordon.

  No. Way.

  He’s a famous actor. Or at least, he was an actor. Although I only now realize that he was never really acting at all. The only roles he ever took in major Hollywood movies were that of a grey-bearded wizard, which would have been a cinch for an actual wizard to play. I loved him in The Elf Lord, loved to hate him in The Dark Wizard of White Castle, and never missed one of his interviews, in which he always described the challenges of playing such legendary types of characters.

  Some challenge.

  He smiles and winks and I’m torn between wanting to scream “Wizard!” or ask for his autograph. The president said there was one wizard on their side, but I never would’ve guessed it would be the wizard-actor Charles Gordon.

  If I had any doubts left that the world has gone completely insane, they’ve now disappeared.

  It also explains why the president looked so nonchalant, even when both Laney and I threatened to hurt her. More than threatened—tried. If Hemsworth and his soldiers hadn’t been quick enough to stop us, there’s no doubt the wizard would have.

  The president is allies with a wizard. A wizard is helping the humans. I’m still trying to get my head around the last thing I expected to find when I reached New Washington (thanks for the heads up, Bil!), as we stroll through what used to be Washington D.C. Evidence of the carnage wrought by the witches during Salem’s Revenge is everywhere. Caved-in roofs on brownstone buildings, torn up sidewalks, bloody smears on the streets. I don’t know why, but it’s not what I expected. Since Bil Nez has told us about New America, I’d had this picture of a city untouched by the witches. A surviving city. But that’s all it is. Surviving doesn’t mean pristine buildings and well-maintained roads. Not anymore. Our standard of living has gone from being unable to live without smart phones and laptops and digital video recorders, to hoping we can fill our bellies and not get turned into hamsters by some witch with a cruel sense of humor.

  The apartment walk-ups still standing on the left barely look livable with their missing front doors and shattered windows, and yet I’m aware of the dozens of sets of eyes watching us as we pass. One woman sits on the front steps, muttering under her breath and cradling a rifle in one arm and a baby in the other. Although she looks in our direction, her gaze almost seems to pass through us, as if we’re as intangible as ghosts.

  Through the gaps in the buildings to the right, I dimly recognize that there’s a large open expanse. A highway maybe? It’s strange to think that less than a year ago the residents of these homes might’ve complained about the constant roar and commotion caused by commuter traffic; now, the silence seems much worse somehow. Are all the commuters dead? Will they ever drive to work again? And if so, will they have a greater appreciation for the mundane routine they once loathed?

  I don’t notice the wizard’s presence beside me until he speaks. “The Potomac River,” he says.

  I startle, my eyes flickering to his, which stand almost a foot higher than mine. I flinch and my hand instinctively goes for my sword. My scabbard is empty, my sword confiscated at the gate. If the wizard chooses to attack me, will my ability be enough to Resist his powers? I don’t know, as I’ve never really tested them for an extended period of time without relief.

  I say nothing, just walk straight ahead, following the president and her entourage.

  “So I see you’ve met at least a few of my kind,” Charles Gordon says with a chuckle.

  I’m surprised by the brevity of his words. Most wizards are dark, terrifying creatures, but this man seems as charismatic now as he did on the red carpet, on Ellen, and on the big screen. I catch his eyes, which twinkle blue and then green and then purple in the dark. I look away sharply.

  Perhaps celebrity is a more powerful force than magic, because I feel drawn to him, magnetized. At ease.

  “Most of the wizards I’ve met tried to kill me, not make conversation,” I say.

  “Most?”

  “Okay, all. Except for you.”

  “And yet…you’re still alive,” he says. “A significant feat.” He strokes his beard while I try to match his incredibly long strides.

  “You know what I am,” I say. I don’t mean it as a question.

  He answers anyway. “Yes. You and your friend, Bil Nez, are important to this fight.”

  I fight the urge to look at him, not wanting to show that his words have affected me. It’s because they sound so similar to what the Reaper, my once mentor, said not so long ago.

  “I’m just one guy,” I say.

  “Hmm,” the wizard says, as if my statement wasn’t a fact. “And yet, far more stable than the other Resistors.”

  Compared to Bil Nez, I guess I’m the poster boy for sanity. I wonder how much he knows about Bil, but I can’t ask without bringing my own knowledge into the conversation.

  So instead I ask about the other Resistor. “Why did the other Resistor switch sides and join the magic-born?” I ask.

  “Time will tell which side she is on,” the wizard offers.

  This coming from the wizard who’s supposedly helping the humans. “And which side are you on?” I ask, finally meeting his eyes once more.

  This time they’re as black as the night sky, dark marbles that seem to devour the light around them. “On the president’s, of course,” he says, before striding away.

  A stiff breeze hits me and I shiver. I glance down at Hex, whose eyes are changing colors and sparkling, exactly like Charles Gordon’s.

  And, also like the wizard’s, Hex’s eyes go black.

  I hope no one else notices.

  ~~~

  The White House looks like Roman ruins. For one, it’s no longer white, more like gray, with random circles of black spotting its walls, as if the historic building’s been hit by firecrackers let loose by mischievous deviants. Only two of the six iconic pillars are still standing, the others broken in chunks that litter the lawn and steps. I can almost imagine a future where young magic-born go on field trips to the White House. “And this is where we conquered the humans,” their teachers will say. “Come on now, let’s take a picture.”

  “The witches sent Slammers to assassinate President Bartlet,” President Washington says, turning back to speak to me for the first time since our journey began. “His skull was found crushed and his spine snapped like a twig.”

  “TMI,” I say, trying to vanquish the image from my mind.

  “Knowledge is power,” the president says.

  “Original,” I say. I’m not sure why I’m being so snarky, except that I feel unsettled. It might be a defense mechanism. Or maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with Laney.

  “You’re not intimidated by my political standing,” the president says.

  It doesn’t sound like a question so I don’t respond.

  “Good,” she says. “There’s no room for intimidation in this world. You either stand and fight, or cower and die.”

  “You’d suck at motivational speaking,” I say, which draws a surprising laugh.

  “I would,” she says, turning away to move along a path cut through the rubble. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, I can’t help but feel a swell of excitement in my chest as we pass through the doors. To the White House.

  I’m in the White House.

  Weird.

  My first thought is: I can’t wait to tell Laney. And that’s when I know it’s officially started. The moving on. I’m sorry, Beth, I whisper in my mind. I’m so sorry. It’s supposed to be her that I want to share my experiences with, who I think about when something incredible happens. But all that feels like a lifetime ago. We’re a lifetime away from football practice and school newspaper articles and Xave’s boyfriend dramas. I’m changed and Beth is dead. And Laney is alive.

 
My eyes are flooded before I know it and I have to blink furiously to get control.

  I look around me at the ovular space into which we’ve entered. Busts of former presidents lay sideways on the floor, missing noses and ears. No one’s bothered to pick them up, to restore them to their stands. Such symbols have no place now.

  The space is well-lighted, and not by candlelight or lanterns like I expected. Light bulbs! “You have electricity,” I blurt out.

  “Rationed,” the president says, moving through the space. “We have a sufficient store of batteries to keep the generators going for several more months.”

  “Why not just have the witches create light?” I say, unable to hide the contempt in my tone.

  “The people are scared enough of our witch allies without them flaunting their power,” the president says, taking my question more seriously than I expected. Before disappearing into the next room, she adds, “The sooner you cast off your prejudices against the magic-born, the better.”

  I feel the familiar burn of my blood boiling. I’m not prejudiced, not anymore. Laney’s sister is a witch. I’m not prejudiced against her, am I? No. Of course not. Just the other witches. The ones that murder humans like we’re nothing more than pesky flies to be swatted.

  Then I realize: it’s not the heat of anger I feel, but the flush of embarrassment. Could the president be right? Even after being saved by Trish multiple times, after learning my mentor and best friend are both warlocks, does my anger and hatred for the magic-born trump the logical reality that there could be some good witches?

  I stomp after her, trying not to think about it. The president and her entourage, including Charles Gordon, are already most of the way up the steps to the first floor. For the first time I notice the way President Washington seems to keep her distance from the wizard, always maintaining a slight buffer between them. Despite what she says, she’s still not comfortable having them around.