Boil (Salem's Revenge Book 2)

by David Estes

  It was her, Trish realizes. The Child she failed to save in her last life. Born again earlier than Trish by nine or ten years. The Child is standing here again, forgiving her for her past failings, urging her to stay with them.

  The desire to fade away into the woods, to dance and eat and laugh with her Children, to be happy, burns within her chest, but she douses it with a thin laugh. This isn’t about redemption, she says to her Children. This is about family.

  She floats over the gate, leaving them with a final command.

  This is my fate and mine alone. Do not follow.

  ~~~

  Rhett

  Grogg speaks almost nonstop in that disgusting mouth-full-of-food voice. “Must kill the president. Must not save her. Must not let her live. Must soak her clothes in blood. Must stop her heart.”

  “Must squish her toes and bludgeon her brain and sever her arteries,” Laney says. “We get the picture.”

  “Good good good,” Grogg says. “Follow us and you’ll find her toes and brain and arteries. Follow us and this will be over soon.”

  “We’re following,” I say, holding my wrist up and forward, trying to cast as much blue light from my watch as possible. Mud from Grogg’s footsteps squishes under my shoes.

  “My sister might be out there somewhere,” Laney says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “No, I mean, she might be fighting, attacking.”

  “I know,” I say again. “We’re not going to hurt her.”

  “But what if—”

  “She’s not going to hurt us either,” I say. I squeeze Laney’s hand, hoping I’m right.

  The walls stop shaking as the last of the missiles explode.

  “Do you think—” Laney starts to say.

  “She can stop missiles,” I say. “Remember before with Huckle?”

  Her shadow nods on the wall. “Yeah. You’re right. Trish is fine. Missiles can’t stop her. Nothing can.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Bil Nez says unhelpfully.

  “Shut it, Bil,” I say. Laney’s already wired enough as it is, the last thing I need is Bil setting her off again.

  I drop my wrist as I realize the abject darkness has faded to a murky gray. My eyes adjusting quickly, I can now make out the three-foot-tall Grogg sloughing along in front of us. He’s still muttering, but he’s lowered his voice enough so that I can’t make out any of it, for which I’m thankful. I know he’s being controlled by the witch who created him, but he still seems to have a mind of his own sometimes, which seems impossible given he’s made of mud.

  We reach a set of stairs, ascending toward the glowing outline of a horizontal door, the same door we entered through.

  Grogg reaches the top and pushes the door open. The light is blinding as it pours through the opening. I blink and rub at my eyes, opening them a fraction at a time, until I can see again. Bil has already pushed past us, his eyes having not been stuck in the dark for nearly as long as ours. “Oh no,” he says, seeing something we can’t. “Maybe we should just stay down in the cell,” he adds.

  I clamber out onto the lawn, pulling Laney behind me. When I see what Bil is looking at, my breath hitches, sticking in my lungs like it’s made of glue. Hundreds of witches and warlocks, far more than President Washington had inferred were her allies, are lined up in rows on the White House lawn. I spot members from all different gangs—Volts, Pyros, Brewers, Casters, Destroyers, Sirens, Shifters, Slammers, Conjurers, and, of course, one General, in the form of President Washington, standing on the steps above them all, her hands raised above her head like some kind of a prophet. She’s flanked by the wizard, Charles Gordon, who looks exactly like he always did in his movies, and Samsa, the giant. It’s the most diverse gathering of the magic-born that I’ve ever witnessed.

  Thankfully, the masses of magic-born are facing away from us, and the president and her two protectors are focused intently on their army.

  Huddled around the edges of the group is what’s left of the U.S. military. They’re whispering amongst themselves, pointing at the witches, gripping their guns with white knuckles. Even after defending the borders alongside them, the humans are still not comfortable in the presence of so many magic-born. Noticeably absent are the witch hunters.

  “We knew this day would come!” President Washington shouts. Although she casts her gaze across the humans and magic-born alike, I get the sense that she’s speaking only to the witches and warlocks. “But we will not falter, will not fall to our enemies. We will fight to the bitter end and we will destroy our foes. And then, finally, the world will be ours again!” A cheer rises up from the magic-born, accompanied by a smattering of uncertain applause and hollers from the humans. Even though they don’t know the truth about their leader, the humans seem to realize there’s something off about her speech and the fact that she’s delivering it amongst so many magic-born.

  Because she means to rule them, too.

  “It’s time to cast off those who we’ve used for our purposes, the last defenders of humanity. It’s time to be free of their unwanted presence. They’re a cancer that needs to be cut from the face of the world. With them gone, enslaving the rest of the humans will be child’s play.” A scattering of murmurs roll through the U.S. military as realization sets in. She’s talking about them. Guns go up, pointed at the witches and warlocks, who just laugh at them.

  My mind is racing ahead of me, already calculating the approaching death toll. No matter what I do and how hard I fight, there’s no way I can save even a tenth of them. And none of us have weapons, except for Bil, whose crossbow is already drawn.

  Movement to the left, well away from the crowd, catches my attention. When I turn, my breath catches in the back of my throat, choking me. I swallow heavily, trying to understand what I’m seeing.

  The dirty old beggar, coatless now, is running toward me. Martin Carter. My father. Well, he’s trying to run toward me, but it’s like he’s on a treadmill, his feet moving but his body remaining in one place. His face, as it has always been since I met him, is contorted in pain, as if every step is the equivalent of being stabbed.

  Despite the pain and the fact that—due to President Washington’s curse—every moment in my presence quickens his death, he’s trying to get to me. To help us. To protect us. To save us. Like a real father.

  And yet, the very earth seems to betray his motives, stopping him at first and then pushing him backwards, his eyes widening in shock. It’s as if the curse has strengthened in the presence of its creator, forcing father and son apart, denying us what might be our final moment together.

  In seconds, he’s gone, removed by a curse far stronger than I could’ve ever imagined.

  “Rhett, what do we do?” Laney hisses, trying to get my attention. Evidently she didn’t see my father, her gaze locked on the crowded scene in front of the White House.

  And for once, I don’t have the slightest idea. This is normally where my feet start moving, almost of their own accord, carrying me off to do something stupid, to try to save someone I can’t possibly save. But this time it seems, even my heroic but fool-brained feet know that our efforts would be futile. If I kill the president she won’t be able to remove my father’s curse. Can I make such a sacrifice for the greater good? Is it even my decision to make? And even if the curse never existed, she’s powerful—perhaps too powerful. I know what Mr. Jackson would say: Cut your losses and live to fight another day. It’s advice I’ve always struggled to listen to, but which seems like the only choice in this situation. If we die here, today, with the rest of the humans, who will save the few that are left? If we run, however, maybe there will still be a chance to win this war. Maybe there will still be hope.

  But at what expense? a voice says, appearing in my head as clearly as the waters of a mountain spring. Laney’s head jerks toward me sharply, her eyes widening. And I know.

  I know.

  She heard the voice, too.

  And the voice is Trish’
s.

  ~~~

  Laney

  I tear my eyes from Rhett and whirl around, scanning the crowd. Is my sister among them?

  No, she can’t be. She’s not some Changeling hiding amongst her enemies. She might be with the Changelings, but she’s not of them. Is she?

  The crowd is frothing like waves churning against the shore, their cries melding into a dull roar. Jeers and taunts stream from the magic-born toward the human soldiers, who inch backwards, their guns trained on the witches. “No one has to die,” one of them says. I recognize the voice. Hemsworth. He’s one of the few soldiers not pointing his gun at the magic-born. Instead, he has it aimed skyward, his arms out in surrender. “Let us go and we won’t fire a single shot.” When I hear the president’s response I realize he was talking to her.

  “No.”

  A roar goes up and the crack of a gunshot rings out.

  From there everything pretty much goes in the crapper.

  There’s gunfire and the crackle and whir of spells being cast, filling the air with sparks, flashes of bright color, fire, and the tangy scent of gunpowder. Bodies fall and blood spurts and men and women and witches and warlocks cry out in pain and anger and determination.

  And I’m frozen—weaponless and helpless. Not my finest moment.

  One of the warlocks—a stunningly handsome Siren—notices us and strides forward, a blood-streaked blade clutched in one fisted hand. The sudden pull feels like a harness around my waist, tugging me toward him. Into his arms, onto his blade—it matters not. Only that I get to him. He represents everything I want: safety and warmth and love and sleep and peace. This Siren is the epitome of peace on earth.

  Rhett slams me to the ground, crushing the air from my lungs, and I hate him I hate him I hate him.

  I wheeze and scratch and claw and struggle to breathe, my heart beating like a hammer on a fiery anvil in my chest. And beyond Rhett I see Bil Nez raise his crossbow and take aim at the Siren and NO! I try to scream but I still can’t breathe, can’t do anything but draw blood from Rhett’s back with my nails and watch as Bil shoots his weapon.

  When the bolt hits the warlock in the chest it feels as if my breast has been pierced, too. My breath comes back in a horrific groan-shriek that cuts through the roar of battle.

  And then I’m me again. “What—what happened?” I whisper. Everything’s a blur. There was fighting and dying…but why? I can see the crimson lines soaking through Rhett’s shirt, just beneath my fingers, which are rigid and hooked, like claws. Did I—did I do that?

  Rhett rolls off of me and helps me to my feet. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he says, keeping his body between me and the battle. Humans are dropping left and right, some of their bodies mangled beyond recognition. Occasionally a witch drops when their magical defenses break down and a stray bullet gets through and pierces their flesh.

  “We have to help them,” I say.

  “Laney, we can’t,” Rhett says. It’s something I’ve never heard him say. Normally I’m the one trying to talk him out of risking his life for strangers. But they’re not strangers; at least, not all of them. Hemsworth was good to me, treated me like his own daughter. Cared what happened to me. And now…

  I see him, his face moist with sweat and dappled with blood, amidst a final group of living humans. They’re not giving up, forming a wall of flesh and blood, forcing the magic-born to go through them if they want to get to the non-military humans in the rest of New Washington.

  A laser of blue light streaks across the sky, bursting into a cloud of blackness over Hemsworth’s head. “No!” I scream, charging toward my friend. Or at least I try to. My legs are churning, my eyes focused on getting to the lieutenant, but I’m not moving. Rhett has me around the waist, his grip like iron, holding me back. “Let me go!” I scream.

  Hemsworth tries to run, but the black cloud follows him, spitting jagged swords of lightning that tear into his flesh, stopping him dead in his tracks, his body convulsing violently. “Please,” I whisper, the fight going out of me as his body slumps to the ground, white foam dribbling from his lifeless lips.

  Rhett continues to hold me as my body turns to rubber. “We couldn’t save him,” he says. “We have to go.”

  Yes, you must go to safety, Trish says in my head. Death has arrived.

  “She’s my sister,” I say weakly, trying to make Rhett understand.

  “She doesn’t need you anymore,” he says.

  I nod, tears dripping from my chin, and allow Rhett to pull me away from the waning battle, toward the south. Bil Nez covers us the whole way, and then follows closely after.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Trish

  She watches her sister go just moments before the Changelings arrive. Their scaly skin reflects the light like mirrors, temporarily blinding the magic-born standing between them and the president.

  And when they attack, it’s like a tornado carrying harbingers of death, a flurry of claws and fangs and barbed tails that sever limbs and impale flesh.

  Trish rises above it all, watching and conserving her strength, one eye on the fight and one on her sister, Rhett and Bil Nez, who are heading toward the southern edge of the White House lawn. Good, she murmurs. Fly away little bird. She smiles because this time is different. This time she’s done it. Saved her Children. Saved her earthly sister. Lived up to her abilities as a Clairvoyant and changed the future.

  Raising a hand, she deflects an errant spell headed in her direction, sending it into a passing Destroyer, who simply vanishes into thin air, only his dark cloak remaining, fluttering like a wounded bird to the ground.

  One of the Changelings is hit by a white ball of magic and flies back fifty feet, landing in a heap just below Trish. The black reptilian eyes stare at her for a second, before morphing into the green eyes of a young Changeling girl, whose lips open and close, as if trying to speak. Her last words unuttered, she dies, her pale white skin deepening to purple bruises in a dozen places.

  Although she has no admiration for the Changelings, Trish feels the swell of sadness for this life cut short. Unlike her Children, this girl will get no second chance at life, no reincarnation.

  Across the savage battle, she notices the president watching her intently. President Washington smiles and makes a motion for Trish to come over. Is this her destiny? Can she do what she failed to in her last life? She knows she has to try.

  Just as she’s about to make her move, she senses movement on the edge of her vision.

  No. Go back, she commands.

  But this isn’t one of her Children, who will honor her every wish. This is an independent woman. This is her protector and her family. This is her sister.

  Laney strides confidently across the lawn, Glock in hand.

  ~~~

  Rhett

  Sometimes reasoning with Laney is like trying to get a stubborn mule to move.

  In other words, impossible.

  “I’m going back,” she says. “And you can’t stop me.”

  “Your sister can take of herself,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, “but family doesn’t abandon each other.”

  “You mean like she did to you?” I say, resorting to the only verbal option I have left: a cheap shot.

  Laney’s glare is full of daggers. “She came back and you know it.”

  “You’ve got no weapon,” I say, trying to step in front of her.

  Like a football player dodging a defender, she jukes to the side and out of reach. “I’ve got two fists,” she says.

  She’s not making any sense. Two fists against magic are like slingshots against a rocket launcher.

  “You’ve got more than that,” a voice says from behind us. I was so engaged in my argument with Laney that I didn’t see him approaching. Laney and I both turn to find Tillman Huckle standing awkwardly before us, carrying a large duffel bag. He’s flanked by Hex, who grins as if we’re all just out here to spend a nice day chasing sticks on the White House lawn.<
br />
  “You shouldn’t be here,” I say to Huckle. Hex cocks his head as if to say And you should?

  “Normally as soon as the spells start flying I’d be taking my solar-powered van and making tracks,” Huckle says. “But first I wanted to make sure you were outfitted for battle.” He dumps out the duffel on the lawn. I cringe as the metal weapons clank against each other, hoping nothing accidentally explodes, killing us all in a spectacular example of why magical weapons should require a permit and safety training.

  “I appreciate what you’re doing,” I say, grabbing my new sword. I’m not sure where he got it from, but I don’t ask. “But we’re getting out of here.”

  “No we’re not,” Laney says, snatching her magged-up Glock. “Thanks, gotta run!” Before I can react, she’s past me and streaking back toward the White House, Hex nipping at her heels.

  ~~~

  Laney

  Rhett is shouting my name and I sense him chasing after me, but it’s like I have wings under my feet, propelling me faster than I’ve ever run.

  I hear Trish commanding me to stop in my head, but I won’t be deterred. I won’t run away while she faces the gravest danger on the planet. As long as we have the same blood flowing through our veins, I’ll stand beside her. I’ll die if I have to.

  I feel a force pushing against my chest, powerful but gentle, stopping me. Rhett pulls up beside me, breathing heavily. “Had a change of heart?” he says.

  “No,” I say, looking up a Trish, who’s hovering above us. “She’s stopping me.”

  Rhett tries to move forward, but finds himself as stuck as me. “Both of us,” he says. “I could Resist her, but I’m afraid it might take some of her energy.”

  Hex passes us and looks back as if to say Well? Apparently Trish’s magic, as powerful as it is, can’t touch him.

  “Trish. I have to do this. I have to fight. For you. For everyone.”

  She looks down at me with those deeply intelligent eyes of hers, which burn with intensity. No, she says. Stay safe.