Boil (Salem's Revenge Book 2)

by David Estes

  Even Hex is halfway up, following the procession. I’m thankful he’s not flying his way to the top, like he’d normally do. Perhaps he innately understands the need to hide his abilities. I take the steps two at a time, trying to stay close, glancing back once to find Bil Nez, who hasn’t spoken a word to me since we arrived, slinking away.

  On the next level, we enter a room with red walls and red furniture. Some of the red color looks darker, like someone splashed paint around. I try not to think what that might mean, or why the president would choose to bring me to a room decorated with the color of blood.

  She waves a hand at a red couch, but I remain standing. “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Suit yourself,” she says, sitting delicately on the ornate couch, which has the same spots of darker red. “Leave us,” she says to the soldiers.

  One of them says, “Madam President?”

  “My advisers and I will be meeting privately with Mr. Carter,” she says. “Thank you.” Despite the politeness of her words, the command in her tone is obvious. The soldiers file out without another word.

  I feel awkward standing when she’s sitting, which makes me rock from foot to foot. Even Charles takes a seat in a red lions-feet chair that’s about half as big as it needs to be for a man his size. Under his cloak, his knees stick up like mountain peaks.

  “Come in,” the president commands, and a door opens off to the side.

  The entire doorway fills as a redwood-sized man stoops to enter. I fall back a step, immediately on the defensive. He’s a Slammer, with fists like basketballs and a face only a mother could love. And she’d have to be a pretty compassionate mother at that. The floor shakes as he steps inside, having to remain stooped to avoid hitting his head on the high ceiling. I glance at the exit door, which is only a few feet away, and then back at the Slammer, whose arms are so long he could probably lunge and grab me before I could escape.

  “You have nothing to fear from Samsa,” the president says, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice. “I, too, was uneasy in his presence at first, but you learn to accept him as he is. Especially when he’s saved numerous human lives while within our borders.” Her words paint a different picture to her expression, which is pale white and full of fear.

  Yes, but how many of those humans has he later eaten? I want to ask. I shake off the image of him gnawing on a shin bone while he roasts a human corpse on a spit. Be open-minded, I remind myself.

  “You watch wrestling?” Samsa asks, skipping words as if English is his second language. I think I detect a slight Russian accent.

  “Um...” Guys in tights rolling around and getting all sweaty while trying to beat the living snot out of each other? “Not really.”

  “Samsa was a professional wrestler,” the president explains, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “They called him The Monster. He was a large man even at normal size, but of course, as you can see, using his magic makes him significantly larger.”

  “Riiiight,” I say. What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?

  Even as I’m pondering the fact that I’m in the White House with the president, a warlock, and a wizard, I notice another presence in the room. The…creature is nestled between the gigantic Slammer’s legs, peeking out with huge eyes through a mane of shaggy, brown hair. Stooped over, the hunch in his back protrudes noticeably higher than the crown of his head. His skin—on his face, neck and hands—is a strange color of brown and sort of clumpy, almost like…mud. The rest of his skin is covered by a brown frock, cinched at the waist with a thick leather belt.

  “Don’t mind Grogg,” the president says. “He’s not an official adviser, but he’s useful in carrying out simple tasks.”

  “What…is he?” I ask, which I only realize sounds incredibly rude after the question has already left my mouth.

  “Well, technically he’s mud,” she says. “Or at least fashioned from it. There are a couple of witches in our midst who do wonderful work with mud. They’re working on creating some large clay soldiers to protect our northern borders. The only challenge is that they have to be awake and aware in order to control their creations. We could use a dozen more of their kind, but unfortunately most of the witches with their skillset are decidedly anti-human.”

  She says it like it’s the same thing as being anti-guns or anti-abortion, not being against an entire species. “Hi, Grogg,” I say, trying to get a better look at his face.

  Like a frightened child, the mud troll (I don’t know how else to categorize him) shrinks back behind Samsa’s pillar-like leg. Only a single eye peeks out. Hex barks and runs up, sniffing around the Slammer’s leg and trying to inspect Grogg with all the curiosity of a puppy out for a stroll. I sort of hope he decides to pee on the warlock’s leg, which isn’t my finest moment.

  “They can be quite skittish with strangers,” the president explains. “Although they’re controlled by their creators, they seem to have their own personality.”

  “Interesting,” I say. Freaky, I think. Hex runs between the warlock’s legs and Grogg skitters around the other side, always keeping the thick trunk of flesh and bone and muscle between Hex and him. Or her. Or it. I’m not sure if gender applies to mud-creatures. Hex goes the other way, but Grogg is too quick, scurrying back around.

  I can see the excitement and temptation building on Hex’s face. No, I think. Don’t do it.

  He does it. Hex clones himself, becoming two dogs and racing in opposite directions. Trapped, the mud creature backs against the wall, its gloppy arms out in front as if to protect itself. Just as the two German shepherds leap at Grogg, however, he melts away, becoming a pile of mud and hair and cloth. Freakishly, his two eyes continue to stare out, unblinking. Hex1 and Hex2 sniff at the mud, look at each other, and then smash their heads together, becoming one dog once more.

  “There’s more to your dog than meets the eye,” the president observes. She doesn’t sound surprised.

  “He’s a regular Transformer,” I say.

  “But we’re not here to talk about magical creations,” the president says, as if my dog has provided her with the perfect transition. “We’re here to talk about you.”

  I stay silent as Hex sits like a sphinx at my feet, staring at the pile of mud, which is already starting to reform into Grogg.

  “I saw how you reacted when I mentioned our magic-born allies. I need to know that you can control yourself. I can’t have you starting a civil war.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting. I didn’t expect any of them to side with us.” Even the Necros, who claim to desire a peaceful resolution, refuse to actively seek peace with New America.

  “I wanted you to meet some of them,” the president says. “To see that they’re not the enemy. There are good witches and bad witches, even as there are good humans and bad humans.” It’s a pretty black and white way of thinking, but I understand why she explains it that way. Nowadays people will be looking for simple answers to complex questions, and President Washington seems to have it all figured out, despite the clear signs that she’s as scared of the magic-borns as most people.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ve met them.” A movie star and a pro wrestler. She seems to trust them implicitly, even leaving herself unprotected while in their presence. In fact, I feel more like they are protecting her from me. “What next?”

  “Now you prove your worth,” she says. “Grogg will take you to meet your team of witch hunters.”

  I shrug and, without any other choice, follow the troll-creature, who scampers out the door far quicker than I expected. I walk slightly to the side to avoid stepping in the trail of mud it leaves behind, while Hex runs ahead, nipping at its heels.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Laney

  I’m starting to feel bad about referring to him as Lieutenant Douchebag in my head.

  Hemsworth has been really nice to me as we drive through what used to be the thriving metropolis of Washington D.C. New Washington is
anything but thriving; according to the lieutenant, people only really come out when rations are being distributed or on certain days when they hold huge flea markets, where the people can trade scavenged items.

  It feels good to be in the Jeep, with the breeze blowing my hair around my face. Only the city guards can use the vehicles, and sparingly. There’s not much fuel left and it will soon go bad anyway. But still. Riding in a car suddenly seems like the biggest luxury on the planet and I’m going to enjoy it.

  Like a dog, I stick my head out the window, relishing the wind on my face. When I pull back inside, Hemsworth is grinning. “See? Not all’s bad about New Washington.”

  “I never said it was,” I say. “In fact, I’m starting to like this place.”

  “You might not be saying that after your first witch attack.”

  Back to a reality that even a bumpy ride in a jeep can’t erase. “They attack regularly?”

  “All the time,” Hemsworth says. “Although not as much since the president hired the witch hunters to patrol the broader area. They’ve taken out huge pockets of the magic-born, which has decreased the number of attacks on our borders. But they still happen.”

  “It’s not my first rodeo,” I say.

  “I could tell from the way you didn’t back down. From me or the president.”

  “Yet you think I’m just a child.”

  Hemsworth sighs, and his age begins to show through the spidery lines around his eyes. “You remind me of my daughter,” he says.

  Not what I expected him to say. We hit a bump and I clutch the roof handle to avoid cracking my head. “How old is she?” I ask.

  “She is…was…fifteen.”

  Oh. Was. Crap. “I’m…sorry.” And I am. Despite the fact that Lieutenant Dou—Hemsworth—was a real jerk to me when I first met him, I get what it feels like to lose someone. It sucks. And a daughter? I can’t even imagine.

  He looks away, and I suspect he’s trying to hide whatever emotion he’s feeling. But when he turns back, it’s not sadness on his face. It’s anger. His entire face is sheathed in it, from his dark, narrow eyes to his clenched jaw and gritted teeth. He’s wearing his anger like armor, and he immediately reminds me of Rhett. I know that look.

  “You want revenge,” I say. “That’s why you’re not cowering in some house or hanging from a noose.”

  “Damn right. You want to know how I got this scar?”

  I’ve been wanting to ask. I nod.

  “Trying to save my daughter,” he says. “Like you, she was a tough kid—young woman. She wasn’t scared of anything, not even the magic-born. Sometimes I wish she would’ve been more scared, but then she wouldn’t be herself. Mia.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” I say.

  “Thanks. My wife picked it out.” He doesn’t say whether she’s still alive and I don’t ask. “I was on duty at the northern border. It was a dead day, no pun intended.” He doesn’t laugh, not even at his own joke, so neither do I. He grips the edge of his seat, but the ride has become remarkably smooth; we’re on a wide, flat road. “And then Mia was there, having trekked the few miles all alone, to see me. No one cared enough to stop her. And she probably couldn’t have been stopped anyway. When Mia got something in her head, she almost always did it.”

  “I can understand that,” I say.

  “I bet you can. Well, I freaked. The northern border was—and still is—the most dangerous posting.”

  “And that’s where we’re headed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fan-freaking-tastic,” I say.

  Hemsworth offers a wry smile. “Anyway, I grabbed Mia’s arm and marched her toward one of the Jeeps. Of course, that’s when the attack came.”

  What is he implying? “It’s just a coincidence. Bad luck,” I say.

  “Maybe,” Hemsworth says. “Or fate. Or the universe ganging up on a man who made too many mistakes in this life, who worked too hard and drank too much and spent too much time away from his family. Who was a pretty bad father and a pretty bad husband and a pretty bad person.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I say. “We all lost friends and loved ones. No one’s out to get you—especially not the universe. And it’s not your fault Mia showed up that day at that time. Bad stuff happens. Especially nowadays.”

  Although his face is grim, he nods. “I figured all that out, eventually. I grieved for a long time, considered killing myself. Barely ate. Barely slept. And then I came to the same conclusion. I might have been a crappy father, but I didn’t kill my daughter. They did.”

  “The witches?”

  “Hell yeah. I tried to save her. I should’ve died too”—finally a shred of sadness bubbles up and he blinks quickly to fight it off—“but I didn’t. All I got was this scar.” Using his finger, he traces the ragged line from his eye to his chin.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, even though I know it’s a meaningless thing to say.

  “That’s why I called you a child,” he says. “Because even though you’re not, and you’ve grown up in a hurry, you had your childhood swept out from under your feet. You should be studying and hanging out at the mall and learning to drive, but instead you’re toting a Glock and threatening soldiers and presidents.”

  I can’t help but to laugh at that. “Speaking of which…”

  “Oh. Yeah. You’ll need this back.” Hemsworth hands me my gun grip-first.

  “Look, I’m sorry about all that. I don’t really trust strangers much. But President Washington seems okay. Like she’s trying to do the right thing.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “She’s done a lot to protect those that are left. And she made a hard decision to trust some of the magic-born. That’s paid off in dozens of battles where they’ve fought alongside us.”

  “Weird,” I say. “I mean, I think there could be good witches…” I swallow, trying not to get distracted by thinking about Trish too much.

  “But?”

  “But I just didn’t think there would be that many. And even if there were good ones, I didn’t think they’d go so far as to protect any of us humans.”

  “I know,” he says. “It’s been a huge change in thinking for a lot of us. We still struggle with it. Every time I see that giant Slammer walking next to President Washington, I have to remind myself not to attack him.”

  “Slammer?” I say, remembering my last fight against the magic-born.

  “Yeah, you ever dealt with them?”

  “One too many times,” I say.

  He nods firmly, as if he knows exactly what I mean. “I never thought one of the Slammers would be on our side,” he says. “But Samsa has had dozens of opportunities to sabotage us, to kill the president, but all he’s done is fight for us. If he had been there that day…” He touches his scar again, leaving the roar of the Jeep’s engine to finish his statement for him.

  Maybe his daughter would still be alive.

  Hemsworth trusts their witch allies. And, strangely, despite the fact that I don’t even know them, so do I. Maybe it’s because of Trish, or maybe it’s because I need to trust something or I’ll go crazy, or maybe I’m just tired of fighting each and every person I come in contact with.

  ~~~

  The northern border is quiet. But not empty. There are dozens of guards stationed along the fence-line, smoking cigarettes and pacing. And there are dozens more asleep, in bunk houses that look like they were erected in a hurry.

  And there are magic-born.

  I spot the first one when there’s a glimpse of movement on the top corner of my vision. Craning my neck, I look up at the night sky, spotting the dark form silhouetted against the moon and stars, moving along the border. Flying. A Destroyer, the type of magic-born that can turn people to stone. I can’t tell whether it’s a witch or a warlock, and it doesn’t really matter, but the thought that he/she could turn us all to stone in about ten seconds flat turns my stomach to stone.

  “Hungry?” Hemsworth asks, noticing where I’m looking.

/>   “Not anymore,” I say.

  “It’ll take some getting used to,” he says. “But once you’ve had your life saved a few times by the magic-born, you’ll start feeling better about having them around.”

  My legs feel wobbly as a sudden thought hits me:

  I wish Trish were here.

  There’s a small cook fire going, manned by a chubby woman wearing an apron, her gray hair pulled up into a tight bun. She’s preparing food, but there’s no one to serve it to.

  Hemsworth says, “Gertie. Meet Laney. She’s just joined us. A real firecracker, this one. You’ll like her.”

  The woman switches her spatula to her left hand and extends her right. She’s got a firm grip, which I gladly return. “Welcome to the frying pan of America,” she says.

  She doesn’t question the presence of a sixteen-year-old girl at the border, which makes me immediately like her. “I’ve just come from the fire, so this is like a vacation,” I say.

  That makes her laugh, which makes me like her even more. “What can I getcha? We’ve got squirrel burgers, squirrel sausages, squirrel mince, and baked beans. I’ve even got some bread. A real feast.”

  Despite the witch I saw flying overhead and the thought of eating squirrels—who are really, really cute—my stomach growls. “A sample platter,” I say.

  “Ahh, a girl after my own stomach,” she says, dishing up a plate. “Variety is the prize in the cereal box of life.”

  I take the plate and sit in the grass, eating with my hands, swallowing down the food without chewing or thinking about it too much. It tastes at least three times better than I thought it would. I finish before she’s done preparing a plate for Hemsworth.

  I raise an eyebrow when I see his plate as he slides down next to me. A heaping pile of baked beans. “What—are you a vegetarian?” I joke.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “I was kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Huh.” I wouldn’t have pegged him for a vegetarian. But then again, I wouldn’t have pegged my sister for a witch.