Boil (Salem's Revenge Book 2)

by David Estes

  I will be when the time comes, Trish says.

  “And the plan is unchanged?”

  The red witch is smart not to trust her. She doesn’t trust the red witch either. The Claires will provide the distraction for the Changelings to breach the defenses, Trish says.

  “Good. You will then wait on the outside while we complete the mission.” It’s not a question, so Trish doesn’t respond.

  And yet the Changeling doesn’t leave. Yes? Trish says.

  “I can’t promise your sister’s survival,” she says. “If she fights for the president, we might have no choice but to neutralize her. We will spare as many humans as possible, but killing the president is the priority.”

  Trish doesn’t answer. She’s been over this a million times in her head. She knows her sister is only one of many sisters she’s had over many lifetimes. She knows she is but one soul amongst thousands that need to be saved. She knows she needs to keep her distance from Laney, if only to avoid the temptation to put her first.

  And yet she also knows she can’t.

  We will help you kill the president, Trish says.

  The red-haired witch’s gaze lingers on her a moment longer than necessary before she spins away, her long, red dress turning black as she strides toward the fence.

  At that exact moment, as Trish knew it would, the sun winks a golden ray over the horizon, signaling the start of a new day.

  A day that could end all days.

  ~~~

  Laney

  “Well, that was stupid,” I say, cradling Rhett’s head in my arms. He’s still in agony, clutching at his skull like he’s got the mother of all migraines.

  “I thought I could—”

  “You couldn’t,” I say.

  “No kidding,” Rhett says, grimacing as he’s hit by another lance of pain.

  I’m so tired my eyes are burning, but I’m afraid to close them for fear of what my glutton-for-punishment friend might do while I’m sleeping.

  “We should get some rest,” Rhett says.

  “Nuh-uh,” I say. “You sleep. I’ll warn any Resistors that happen to pass by that it’s a bad idea to touch the magical bars.”

  “Very funny,” Rhett says, glancing at his watch. I look, too. Ugh. 5:45am. The two or so hours of nightmare-filled sleep weren’t nearly enough.

  “Do you think President Witchy-McWitch will let us sleep in and then bring us pancakes in bed?” I say.

  “I’m not sure you’ll want food if Grogg’s the one making it,” Rhett says. “Unless you like banana pancakes with a side of mud-cream.”

  “Yum. I’ll take a whole stack.”

  The silence creeps along the walls and corners until it settles like a blanket over our cell. Rhett’s breaths grow deep, as do mine. But neither of us sleeps. We’re far too exhausted for that.

  A noise catches my ear. Rhett hears it, too, because he looks at me. Breakfast? his expression seems to say, making my stomach growl.

  There’s a toe-tap and a squishy, gurgling sound. Then there are more of the same sounds, repeated again and again, forming a strange sort of rhythm that would only need a drumbeat to get me to start bobbing my head.

  The sounds get louder, tapping and squishing and gurgling.

  I smell the little bugger before I see him, a not unpleasant odor of wet earth wafting to my nose. Grogg squish-gurgles into view, one of his legs dragging a trail of mud behind him. “Speak of the devil,” I say. Maybe we’ll be getting mud-cakes after all.

  But he’s not carrying anything, and it’s a good thing, because he suddenly melts into a puddle of mud and slimes his way between the bars and into the cell. Instinctively, I close my mouth, as if he might try to choke me in mud.

  As he speaks, I try to avoid getting hit by the phlegm-like globules of filth that spit from his mouth. “Have to go,” he gurgles.

  “Go where?” Rhett asks, rising to his feet. He’s at least twice as tall as Grogg. I stand up, too, and even I tower over the mud-creature.

  “To fight,” Grogg says. “Only you have a chance to kill her.”

  “Kill who?” Rhett says at the exact moment I say, “The president.”

  Rhett looks at me, fear in his wide eyes. “You know I can’t,” he says. “I need her to lift my father’s curse.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Then we’ll take her alive.” Turning back to our little mud-friend, I say, “Get us out of here.”

  “I cannot,” he says, which makes me want to wring his muddy little neck. What good are his suggestions to go and fight and kill if he can’t get us out of this cell? I’m about to say as much, but then he turns back and says, “But he can help.”

  Bil Nez steps into the red glow of the bars.

  “You always have to make an entrance,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, Rhett,” he says, not looking at me.

  Rhett goes around the mud-dude and to the bars. I follow him, with Grogg between us as if he’s our unfortunate mud-child. “Are you okay?” Rhett asks Bil.

  “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember what I did. We were fighting the Necros. People were dying.”

  “You ran off,” Rhett says. “Into the woods. You had that look in your eyes.”

  “You mean the I’m-crazy look?” Bil says. “Great. I guess I have to start the clock over on my sanity.”

  “Whatever you did, you’re back now,” Rhett says.

  “Damn right,” Bil says, reaching for the bars. “Let me get you out of here.”

  “No!” Rhett and I cry at the exact same time. Bil retracts his hand sharply.

  “What?” he says. “It’s made of magic and I’m a Resistor. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m surprised you’re still in here.”

  “What’s with you Resistors thinking you’re invincible?” I say, flicking a glare between the two guys. “Rhett already tried that and Charles Gordon’s magic almost fried his brain.”

  “Maybe I’m stronger than Rhett,” Bil says.

  “Go for it,” Rhett says, a hint of irritation in his tone.

  “No,” I say, reaching out a single finger close to the bars, thinking. In a move that could’ve landed me a starring role as the alien in E.T., my finger glows red, revealing my bones. “What if you do it together? That wizard may be stronger than one of you, but maybe not both.”

  “He’s not stronger than me,” Rhett mutters, but he holds out a hand anyway, willing to put my suggestion to the test. “On three?”

  “Yeah,” Bil says, hovering a hand in front of the same bar.

  “One,” Rhett says. “Two…Three!”

  Simultaneously they grab the bar, their hands nearly touching, right on top of each other. Rhett clenches his jaw and grits his teeth and growls, while Bil lets out a scream of agony. I hold my breath as the bar begins to glow brighter amidst their shouts. The bar goes from red to orange to yellow, and then bright-white, forcing me to use my hands to shield my eyes as I back away.

  The cell erupts in a blast of white light, as if heaven has collided into the sun. Then, as quickly as it brightened, the room darkens to black, which is almost worse. I wave my hand a few times across my face, but all I see are white spots, twinkling like stars.

  “Rhett?” I say. “Bil?”

  “Grogg?” Grogg gurgles, his voice far too close for my liking.

  “Ow,” Rhett says, nearby.

  “Damn,” Bil says, also nearby. “My head feels like I had an unfortunate meeting with a porcupine.”

  “That’s nothing,” Rhett says. “Mine still feels like it’s clamped in a vice.”

  “You guys ready to go?” I say cheerily. “Or do you want to keep arguing over who’s more of a baby?”

  “Are you sure it worked?” Rhett asks.

  “Worked,” Grogg confirms, so close to my ear that I lean away from his voice, trying not to puke.

  “They separated us from Hex, so we don’t have a source of light, except for my watch,” Rhett says, illuminating the blue face that now reads 6:00am.


  I’m about to ask whether Grogg has any brilliant ideas, when there’s a huge clap of thunder that shakes the walls.

  “A storm,” Rhett says.

  “There were no clouds when I arrived,” Bil says.

  “No storm,” Grogg agrees.

  There’s another heavy boom and the entire ground seems to shake. “Then what?” I ask. “An earthquake?”

  “No,” Grogg grunts, his muddy face eerily sheened with blue as he leans close to Rhett’s watch face. “The attack has begun.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Trish

  Her children are perfection. Some of their bodies are younger, some older, but all are gliding gracefully toward New Washington. She admires their stoic expressions and the absence of fear in their eyes.

  Remember. Don’t hurt them. Disable but not kill, she says where only they can hear. The Changelings, barely noticeable as flashes of shadow in the trees to her left, are oblivious to her commands.

  Yes, Mother, her Children say, almost a chant. We will do as you say.

  The lost memory creeps closer, poking around the edges of her mind. She pretends not to notice it, hoping that will draw it into the light, but it scampers away again. Instinctively, she lets out a deep sigh and then sucks air into her lungs, although she needs no breath.

  What is it, Mother? one of her Children says, perceiving her inner turmoil. It’s the slender, willowy girl with the white-blond hair whose current body is at least a decade her senior in human years. And yet she remembers that the girl is thousands of years younger than her.

  She finds herself wanting to open up to this girl, to share her innermost secrets, to reveal her doubts and weaknesses. She opens her mouth to speak, almost tasting the bitterness of the words on the tip of her tongue. But of course the words can’t come out so easily the human way. Nor should they.

  Nothing, she speaks in her daughter’s head. Be brave.

  I will, Mother. Anything for you.

  With blades of early morning sun slicing the forest to shreds, Trish realizes the power she wields. Not just what she can do, but what she can make her Children do. But should she? That’s the real question, isn’t it? To her surprise, the calm inside her burns into frustration, as if all her lifetimes of experience as a Claire suddenly decide to wage war on her annoying human emotions.

  She swallows the heat down and resumes her graceful glide toward whatever fate awaits.

  Through layers and layers of foliage, she can already see the fence rising stalwart in defense of New Washington and the humans and…

  …her sister.

  She stops abruptly. Her Children do, too, without being told, the picture of unquestioned obedience.

  Despite her assurances to the red Changeling, she knows what she must do. Her heart fills with warmth and sadness and…a memory:

  President Washington, still in her own lifetime but in a different lifetime for Trish, stalking toward her. A ball of electricity crackles in one hand and a ball of fire in the other. One of her Children is chained to the wall, held by magical bonds. Across from the girl is a young boy. Jasper, she remembers, her earthly brother in her previous lifetime.

  President Washington is a witch. How could she forget? How could she be so human sometimes?

  And President Washington says, “Choose.”

  The memory is like shards of glass in her chest, slashing her heart to ribbons. She loved Jasper. And, of course, she loves her Children. Always and forever. “Both,” she says, opening her mouth to scream, to end the mad woman standing before her.

  “Wrong answer,” the witch says, both weapons shooting from her hands simultaneously. Her own weapon, her scream, gets caught in her throat as she watches in horror as her Child burns with magic fire and Jasper’s tiny body shakes, blue bolts of electricity running through his limbs and chest.

  The memory fades and Trish finds herself gasping for breath, on the ground, shaking and writhing as if simultaneously burning and being electrocuted. As if the memory is trying to rip her apart from the inside out.

  Her Children surround her, patting her back, rubbing her arms, speaking soothing words. You’re alright, Mother. We are here. We will protect you as you protect us. Mother. Mother. Mother. The wind-like whispers fade and so do her tremors, like leaves lost to a stiff autumn breeze.

  She stands, preferring to keep her feet on the ground this time. She places one hand on a tree and the other on the shoulder of her willowy Child, whose eyes never leave hers. I’m fine, she says.

  You’re not fine. Tell us, her Child says.

  Thank you, she says, releasing both the girl and the tree at the same time. Her legs feel strong again. No, even stronger than before. Because she finally knows exactly what she has to do.

  They move forward and the shouts from behind the fence rise like morning mist. Like a chorus of mourning, she and her Children scream as one, interrupted only by the hail of gunshots that pelt her ears. The bullets shatter in midair, falling harmlessly to the earth. Destroyers and Pyros and Volts attack from above and the side and straight ahead, but the Claires’ screams are an impenetrable barrier. The spells are deflected back and into the witches and warlocks, who fall beneath their own power. Trish smiles in satisfaction at the precise nature of her Children’s power as none of the humans fall; however, they do turn with wide eyes and open mouths, retreating away from the fence, even as it begins to uproot itself with an eardrum-piercing scream that rises from her own throat.

  The fence rips from the ground, bending in multiple places as if it’s made from straw and not metal, rattling to the ground in a mangled heap of barbed wire and twisted links. The humans are already in their vehicles, fleeing the scene with an unexpected lack of courage, leaving cook fires burning to ash and dirty dishes soaking in brown water. Discarded weapons are scattered underfoot, crisscrossed by clotheslines flapping with drying camouflage fatigues.

  In the distance, she sees more witches, but they also speed away, as if trying to put as much space between themselves and the Claires as possible. Are President Washington’s troops really so uncourageous?

  No, she realizes. This is part of their defense.

  She senses the missiles the moment before they’re fired from somewhere nearby, streaking across the sky like a child’s toy rockets. She’s also aware of the murmurs of the Changelings, who have huddled in behind her Children. There’s real fear in their eyes, which are usually full of steel and arrogance. Even the Changeling leader looks scared, although the nod she offers to Trish shows her trust in the Claires.

  The first missile crashes down a mere hundred feet away, erupting in a booming ball of fire that shakes the earth beneath their feet. Smoke and debris shoot skyward, pluming up like a giant mutant mushroom. A cloud of dust pushes outward in a concentric circle, running along the ground like an unstoppable desert sandstorm, racing toward Trish and her Children as if borne on thousands of invisible feet.

  Some of the Changelings cry out, even start to run, but Trish and her Children don’t move, silent and unafraid.

  Just before the cloud reaches them, Trish raises a small hand, which looks orange and yellow in the new-day sunlight. Stop it, she commands, and her Children follow her example, raising their own hands, which are all shapes and sizes and colors. The storm of smoke and ash and shrapnel reaches them, a deadly manmade force, whipping the air into a frenzy.

  But it never touches them. Instead, it seems to move all around them, blocking out the sky and the trees and each other, swirling amongst each of them like a supernatural dance partner. Like a ghost, it cannot touch them, only observe and pass on by, moving into the forest where trees fall and bushes are uprooted and birds stop singing and push themselves heavenward.

  Trish feels the smallest portion of energy leave her, but the blow was balanced across all of her Children, minimalizing the impact on any one of them.

  There are a number of screams, but not from her Children, who are silent, their mouths closed. The cries are
from those Changelings who fled outside of the circle of protection created by Trish and her Children, their screams cut off as they perish in the aftermath of the explosion.

  Get control, Trish says to the red witch, who only grits her teeth in response.

  And then: Forward, she says, speaking to the entire group, which begins to move as one across the field, even as missiles rain down upon them. Trish screams, exploding one rocket in midair, the force buckling her legs and bowing her head, but not stopping her. Never stopping her.

  Her Children scream, too, not powerful enough to explode the missiles, but able to deflect them off course, sending them careening away from New Washington, where their thunderous explosions sound muffled and distant.

  The witch alliance moves ever forward, protected by the Claires, gaining confidence with each step, until they reach a second fence and the first of the standing structures.

  “Thank you,” the red witch says, striding forward, her swagger regained. “Your part is done. Now let my witches do their part.”

  Children, Trish says, allowing her voice to be heard by all. We return to the forest to wait.

  The red Changeling smiles, her womanly curves and features morphing into that of a tiny child. The remaining Changelings undergo similar changes. Small and thin now, the Changelings easily slip through the bars of the gate. On the other side, they transform again, this time into horrifying creatures with scaly skin, spiked heads, inch-long claws. Together, they stalk into the city.

  Noticing her Children haven’t moved, she says, Go.

  You are not coming, her white-blonde, blue-eyed child says. Trish notices it isn’t a question, but answers anyway.

  No, she says. The next part is mine alone.

  You have no need for redemption, the Child says, her white dress sparkling like dewdrops as the sun creeps higher.

  Redemption? Trish thinks to herself. Is that what this is? And why would this girl, her Child, think that? The girl’s eyes are suddenly in her memory, bright and blue and sparkling amidst the orange/red flames licking her human skin. I’m sorry, her Child’s lips mouth just before she dies.