by David Estes
“What?” I say, not too nicely.
“Get back here soon,” she says. “You’ve been chosen for today’s mission.”
“Chosen by whom?” I ask.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“What’s the mission?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Clearly she’s not going to tell me anything more, and it’s so not worth the effort trying to find out. So instead I say, “When I find Hex, I’ll let him know.”
“No pets,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest as if daring me to contradict her.
Fat chance, I think. “He’s not a pet,” I say. “Trust me, I don’t own him and he doesn’t obey me. He can take care of himself.”
“No,” she says.
It’s not worth arguing about. Hex will do what he wants when the time comes. “Whatever,” I say. “Is that it?”
She nods and I barrel past her, in search of my old friend.
The spire of the Washington Monument rises high into the orange sky. Sure enough, as I approach the historical site, I can make out a white van parked at the base of the obelisk. A sheet of dark purple solar panels is fixed to the roof of the vehicle, Huckle’s source of power.
My heart leaps when I hear Hex’s muffled barks. “Tillman!” I shout, jogging up.
The rear doors part in the middle and open, and Hex bounds out, followed closely behind by the tall, gangly form of my friend, Tillman Huckle. “Password?” he says.
“No,” I say. “No password.”
He smiles broadly and we embrace, patting each other’s backs. Pulling away, he runs a hand through his hair, which only serves to twist it into a hive of tangles. His glasses are surprisingly undamaged—almost new looking—without even a single piece of duct tape holding them together. Using his other hand, he adjusts them higher up on his nose.
“New glasses?” I ask.
“Nope. One of the witches fixed my old ones.” I frown. Since when has Tillman hung out with witches? The answer is easy: Since President Washington became allies with them. Before I can announce my unease with Tillman accepting favors from the magic-born, he says, “The password has changed anyway. So you would’ve just gotten it wrong.”
“To what?” I say.
“Can’t tell you until you learn the secret handshake,” he says.
“So teach me,” I say, playing along.
“Not until you choose a four-digit PIN number.”
“Just chose it,” I say.
“What is it?”
“Can’t tell you. Don’t want my identity getting stolen.”
“Touche`,” he says, laughing.
And then he walks away as if I’m not even there, his long, loping strides carrying him back to the van, where he climbs inside. Knowing I’ll be waiting all day if I want an invitation, I follow him, entering the van just behind Hex.
No. Way.
The van is huge inside. Not like, “Wow, this is way bigger than I expected”—more like “Did I just accidentally walk into a Costco?” The warehouse is lined with never ending shelves full of weapons, from strange-looking guns to long scythe-like blades to small baubles that I suspect explode in some gruesome but awe-inspiring fashion.
There is some serious magic at work here.
Huckle settles into a large, plush sofa that, like everything else in here, shouldn’t be able to fit in the back of his van. An enormous flat screen TV is hovering in the air, some kind of game paused. Hex resumes his barking as Huckle unpauses it; his character—a plump mouse—runs erratically away from several excited-looking cats. The mouse barely slips into a tiny hole in the wall before the cats’ paws close on its head.
Hence Hex’s barking. Ever since we met the shapeshifting witch-cat, Flora, he’s hated cats.
“Don’t worry, boy,” Tillman says, playing his game with one hand while stroking my dog with the other. “We’ll beat those nasty cats in the end.”
“Sooo,” I say, knowing it’s futile to try to have a normal conversation with Tillman while he’s playing a video game—which is pretty much all the time—but unable to hold back my curiosity any longer. “Who tricked out your van for you?”
“A witch,” he says, finessing the buttons on his controller to make the mouse slide a mousetrap toward the cats’ groping paws. One of them grabs it and yowls when the metal trap clamps down on its paw. Huckle and Hex both laugh wildly.
“I guessed that much. Which witch?” I ask.
“It was a group effort. They’re really nice. Well, some of them are. Samsa’s a bit intimidating and the Pyros just stare at me when they pass by, as if they’d like nothing more than to torch my van. But the rest of them seem okay enough.”
The world surely must be rotating in the opposite direction. Tillman Huckle, who sells weapons to people like me who hunt witches, is friends with witches? Insane.
“I didn’t even realize any of them had this kind of power,” I say.
Huckle shrugs. “They seemed tired after it, said they needed to rest. They also said they wouldn’t have done it without orders from the president.”
“She ordered this? Why?”
“Duh. Because I supply her witch hunters with magical weapons.”
Huckle jams a button and his mouse gobbles up a piece of cheese, instantly doubling in size. Gaining confidence, he bites another of the cat’s paws and it withdraws its claws, yowling like a banshee.
“Stupid cat,” he says. Hex barks his agreement.
“So you’re okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Clearly he’s okay.
“Yup. Where’s your sword?”
Every time I underestimate him, he surprises me. Then again, he’s always had a knack for anything to do with weapons. “They confiscated it and forgot to give it back.”
“You’re going to need a weapon,” he says.
“I don’t have much to trade,” I say.
“Ramen noodles?”
“Nope.”
“A hammer and chisel?”
A strange request, even for him. “No,” I say.
“Aluminum foil, preferably shaped like a hat?”
“Huckle, no,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder to try to get his attention.
He pauses the game and looks at me. “It’s good to see you,” he says.
“You, too,” I say.
“Where’s that girl and her sister?” Tillman asks.
“Laney’s here,” I say. “Helping to guard the border. Her sister is missing.”
“Oh,” he says. “I’d like to see her.”
Really? Tillman never got along that well with Laney. “Okay. I’m sure she’d, uh, like that. And she loves the Glock you gave her.”
“Cool,” he says. “Now about your weapon. I could open up a line of credit. It’s a trusted-friends-only thing I’ve started doing. You’re the only one on the list so far.”
“Wow. Thanks, Huckle. I’m…I’m honored. Really.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll put you down for a case of Ramen noodles in exchange for whatever weapon you want.”
My friend never really knew how to drive a hard bargain, at least not with me. “Deal,” I say. “Any suggestions?”
“You like swords, right?”
“I guess.”
His eyes light up as he pushes to his feet, the couch creaking beneath him. “I’ve got the perfect one for you. Check this out.”
He lopes over to a wall of long blades resting on a rack and grabs one that’s bright white with a black handle. It’s so white it doesn’t even look metallic.
“Cool,” I say. “Magged up?”
“Of course,” he says, grinning. “Not only will this bad boy curse the crap out of whomever you slice with it, but it’s got a special feature, too.” Carrying the sword like a hammer, he moves into the center of the room where he’s got more space. “Watch.”
Somewhat awkwardly, he whirls in a circle, sweeping the white blade in a wide arc, as if defending h
imself against enemies that are trying to surround him. Despite the poorness of his form, and the fact that he leaves himself open to attacks from down low, the sword seems to react to his movements, splitting into three wickedly sharp blades, which seem to fight independently from whatever Huckle is doing.
Tillman stops spinning, his portion of the sword coming to rest, while the two phantom swords take another hack or two before sliding back into the white blade. Huckle grins.
I grin back, pushing my glasses higher on my nose. “Incredible,” I say. “And the two ghost swords…they’re just distractions, or they’re real?”
“Real,” Huckle says. “They’ll draw blood, just like your own sword. They’re not fighting on their own, like it seems. They’re merely mimicking your previous movements.”
“Awesome,” I say. Even after all the remarkable and innovative weapons he’s sold me, he always manages to take it to another level. “I’ll take it.”
He hands me the sword and I back up, getting used to the weight, which is somewhat heavier than the sword I stole from Mr. Jackson all those months ago. I guess it makes sense considering there are three swords in one. After taking a few swipes and watching as the ghost swords appear, imitating my attacks, I slide the sword into the scabbard at my side.
“I’ll scavenge some noodles the next time I go out,” I say. Which I hope is today. Already I’m feeling somewhat trapped inside New Washington. I’m not used to having a fence penning me in, almost like Huckle’s mouse caught in its hole.
“No hurry,” he says. “The witches are taking care of me here.”
“About that,” I say, trying to think of the best way to open up the discussion.
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure you should be making friends with their kind?”
Huckle gives me the sharpest glance I’ve ever seen him give, and then turns away, slumping back onto the couch. He stares at the frozen screen, but doesn’t unpause the game. His eyes close, and I’m beginning to think he might’ve fallen asleep when he says, “Laney’s sister is a witch, right? And you’d consider her a friend.” I start to respond that it’s different, but Tillman continues. “The witch hunters aren’t that nice to me. They just want what I’ve got. They smashed my glasses. They called me names. A few of the witches stuck up for me, repaired my glasses, did this”—he waves an arm around the warehouse—“to my van. So don’t tell me who to be friends with.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just worry. I don’t have many friends either, and you’re the best of them.”
His eyes open but he doesn’t look at me. “Be safe, Rhett,” he says, and then goes back to his game.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Laney
“I want to see Rhett,” I say to Hemsworth in the morning. I’m not worried about him exactly. He can handle himself. It’s more that I want to talk to him about the magic-born. About what the Pyro told me about my parents. I’ve become used to confiding in him.
“Not possible,” Hemsworth says.
“Don’t go all daddy-protecting-his-kid on me again,” I say.
“I’m not. I swear. Rhett is going on his first mission.”
My breath catches in my throat. First mission? I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. I thought we’d have some time to get settled, to learn the ropes of New Washington, to see each other. What if he gets killed out there?
“Okay. I guess I’ll see him later then,” I say, hiding the fear I’m feeling in the center of my gut.
“Coffee?” Gertie says, approaching me with two steaming mugs and a thick-lipped smile.
“Seriously?” I say.
“Seriously.” She hands one to me and the other to Hemsworth. “Welcome to the high life. Sleeping on the ground and drinking coffee. That’s about all we do around here.”
“And fighting witches,” I say.
“That’s the best part,” Hemsworth says, but it doesn’t sound like he means it. Almost more like he wants to mean it.
“Can’t wait,” I say, although I don’t mean it either. All I really want is to find Trish and get her inside the fence. If she doesn’t want to be a normal little girl, she could at least help us hold off the magic-born with her screams. I screw up my face as I realize that was exactly what Rhett had suggested not that long ago. At the time, I’d hated him for it—but now I know he was right. If we’re to survive, we have to take every advantage we’ve got.
I sip on the bitter coffee—the only option I was given is black—and relish the clarity it gives me. I feel more awake, more alive, than I have in days. Before I finish the first mug, I realize it’s not just the coffee making me feel this way. It’s being here, amongst other people, doing something. Not waiting around to die. Being a part of something that might actually mean something one day. Or maybe that already does mean something.
My thoughts are cut off when I see a leather-garbed Destroyer soaring overhead, approaching. He lands feet-first a few yards away, and strides up to Hemsworth. He’s much younger than I expected him to be. Perhaps slightly older than Rhett. “Lieutenant,” he says.
“Anything to report, Nash?” His words sound as if he’s talking to any one of his soldiers. Not a deadly warlock.
“Yes. There’s a small party of women and children making their way toward us. They hid when I passed overhead and I pretended not to see them. They seem scared. Weak. There was blood on some of their clothes.”
“And the men?”
“There were no men,” Nash says.
“We have to help them,” I blurt out.
Nash’s eyes flick to mine, then back to Hemsworth. “Sir?” he says.
“Keep watching them. Look for any signs of a trap. There’s a good chance there are magic-born using them as bait.”
I start to object, but Nash says, “Yessir,” and takes to the air, flashing over the fence.
I glare at Hemsworth. “They could die out there and you’re worried about a trap? They’re just women and children.” I realize too late how funny that must sound coming from me. I’m sort of a woman and a child, stuck between two worlds like we all are these days.
“It’s happened before,” Hemsworth says, his gaze travelling down to my hips. Oh. My hands are on them—my hips—as if I’m scolding my little sister or Rhett. I suppose I shouldn’t be talking to the lieutenant—now my commanding officer—this way.
“Sorry,” I say, apologizing quickly and crossing my arms across my chest, which I suppose isn’t much better. “What do you mean it’s happened before?”
“The magic-born using humans as bait,” he explains. “They drive them like cattle, trying to get us to lower our defenses. It’s usually just the women and children and old men. They kill the young men. Women, too, if they fight back.” His eyes seem to pierce me to the soul. He’s insinuating I’d be one of the ones they’d kill. A fighter. Like his daughter.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“You’ve seen so many atrocities, so much violence,” he says. “But you haven’t seen it all. None of us have. That’s why we always have to be on our guard.”
Gertie shows up with our breakfast, leaving me to chew on Hemsworth’s words. I never thought anyone would imply that I’m too trusting, but that’s just what he did. I vow to show him I’m not some naïve child, but a skeptical adult.
The bedraggled humans arrive almost an hour later, just when Hemsworth and I were about to take a walk down the fence-line, checking in with the various scouts on duty, magic-born and human alike.
Their clothes are tattered and dirty and, as Nash had told us, bloodstained. But all the weariness and fatigue seems to fall away from them when they see us through the fence. They start to run, but Hemsworth shouts, “Stop!” in a voice full of command, simultaneously sharp as a knife and heavy as a sledgehammer. The years seem to fall away from him as he becomes the commanding officer that he is.
The humans stop, their expressions ranging from shock to resignation an
d everything in between.
“The fence is electrified,” he says. “You’ll die if you touch it.”
One woman drops to her knees, her knotted hair falling in tangles around her face. “Please,” she says. “We’ve come so far.”
My heart goes out to her. Surviving this long is a small miracle. To see safety and protection just steps away and not be able to make it across the line must be like a punch in the gut.
“What happened to your men?” Hemsworth asks, his tone devoid of compassion. I want to be angry at him, but I can’t. Not so long ago I was as compassionless to Rhett when he stumbled upon me and my sister. Hemsworth’s duty isn’t to these people—it’s to the thousands he’s sworn to protect in New Washington.
“Dead,” the woman says. A tear snakes from her eye to her chin. “They’d prepared an escape route for us. For the weak. They died protecting us. They all died protecting us.”
Hemsworth strokes his chin, as if struggling with the decision. “But you survived?” he asks. “And you’re not under duress from any magic-born?”
The woman’s head cocks to the side as if she can’t even imagine such a thing. “No. Of course not. All we want is to rest.”
If there’s a lie, it’s undetectable, and apparently Hemsworth agrees. “Okay. I’m sorry for your troubles and for the questions. Do you have any that require immediate medical attention? We can bring a few directly over the fence here, but anyone capable of walking will need to go around to the main gate.” He gestures toward the west, where we’d entered New Washington and met the president.
“Yes. Some of the children are in a bad way,” the woman says. “Please help them.”
She ushers a few of the women forward, each paired up and hauling makeshift stretchers with children lying on them. One young boy has a thick bandage knotted around his forehead. A little girl’s cheeks are flush with fever.
“Please do not be alarmed,” Hemsworth says. “Some of the magic-born are helping us. They will not hurt you. Let them carry your injured over the fence.”
