by David Estes
“I’m safe with you,” I say, pleading, trying to make her understand.
Her face falls, as if she’s embarrassed, an expression I don’t think I’ve ever seen cross her face. Maybe not, she says.
Is she saying she could hurt me? Or that she can’t protect me anymore? I don’t want to ask, but even before I have the chance there’s a blur of movement shooting across the sky, nearly invisible. “Trish, look out!” I shout, but it’s too late.
The spell hits her in the back, twisting her tiny, angel-like body around. Her eyes roll back in her head and she falls. Rhett and I both take off, trying to get under her, but Hex is already there, a giant bubble growing from his mouth. Trish hits the top of the bubble but it doesn’t pop; instead, it brings her inside, where she bounces around harmlessly before coming to a stop.
“I distracted her—this is my fault—is she okay?” The words rush out all at once, aimed at no one in particular. I try to reach her through the bubble, but the barrier won’t allow me through.
“I’m okay,” Trish says through the bubble, a rare occasion where she uses her lips to communicate. She looks frail, the opposite of the strong, powerful witch that she is. My heart sinks. “You must go somewhere safe.”
“No,” I say. Trish tries to protest, but she doesn’t seem to have the energy. Whatever spell she was hit with did a real number on her. But she seems to be safe in Hex’s bubble, and there’s only one way to protect her permanently. “We end this now. Hex, take care of my sister while Rhett and I take out that presidential bitch.” Hex barks his understanding and stands in front of the bubble protectively.
“Don’t forget about me,” Bil Nez says, now at Rhett’s side. “I’m with you.”
I’m surprised, but not about to deny Bil’s offered help just because he may freak out and become some crazy, unpredictable killing machine at any second. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Rhett opens his mouth to speak, but I shush him. “We’re doing this, Rhett. No more protests, no more excuses.”
“I was just going to say to be careful,” he says.
“I always am,” I say. For what could be the last time, we charge into a battle meant for witches.
~~~
Rhett
Thank God for Tillman Huckle. In my mind, I keep repeating that like a prayer as my sword splits into three, taking out triple the number of foes with each strike. A trio of spellcasters surrounds me, chanting a deep-throated and solemn curse that never reaches me. It can’t reach me because I’m so locked in mentally that my ability to Resist magic is like an impenetrable steel fortress. The curses, which physically appear as streaks of green, fall harmlessly to the grass. I swing my sword and the three spellcasters lose three heads. They bounce and skitter like dropped basketballs, eventually coming to rest with wide, unseeing eyes.
Gross.
I don’t have time to even think about throwing up, because the next witch is upon me, a disfigured creature with rough, gray-green skin, like a crocodile, and seven-inch claws like a wolverine. The monster’s eyes are fully black, like dark windows into a shrouded soul. Raising my sword hand, I deflect the claws to the side and plant my feet, preparing to go on the offensive.
I stop my swing mid-stroke, because my attacker is changing, her visage flickering between the croco-wolverine and a red-lipped, red-haired woman. A woman I know all too well. “You,” I say.
“You,” she echoes, her voice a gravelly mixture of growl and speech. “Fight well.” Her body once more solidifying into the deadly reptile thing, she turns away and launches herself at an enormous Slammer, who begins spouting blood from the ten slash wounds now intersecting his chest.
I spin around and relocate my friends. Bil Nez is trying to keep his distance from the witches, using his crossbow to methodically cut them down one at a time. He seems to be doing okay, considering we’re the only humans caught in the middle of a millennium-old battle between warring magic-born factions. Laney, on the other hand, is in the thick of things, her Glock booming again and again, Tillman’s patented purple cloud of destruction following her around like a tracker beacon. She’s fighting her way toward the front of the fray, toward where President Washington stands watching the scene, occasionally targeting the Changelings with spells of her own. Charles Gordon’s eyes are closed and he’s muttering under his breath, presumably spells of protection for the witches fighting under Washington’s command. Samsa is absently slapping his fist into his palm, as if just waiting for the opportunity to crush some Changeling skulls.
If Laney reaches the president before I do…there’s no way she can win against those three, even if she had twenty of Huckle’s magical weapons. Without a Resistor—Bil Nez or me—she doesn’t stand a chance. Bil’s too far away and seems happy to keep his distance. Which leaves me.
I’m about to make my move when a heavy gong sounds. It’s almost funny to watch as everyone’s head turns toward the sound. Toward where dozens of raised corpses are flooding the White House lawn, running the way no zombie should ever be able to run. The Necros have arrived.
The magic-born allied with President Washington and the Changelings forget their hatred of each other momentarily, standing shoulder to shoulder as the Reanimates charge toward them. When the running dead reach them, it’s like a car crash, bodies and weapons flying all over the place while magical curses are uttered with reckless abandon.
The dead have no regard for their own re-lives. Their orders are simple—killkillkill!—and they mindlessly carry them out, swinging spiked clubs and crowbars and rusty daggers at their foes. A Pyro tries to defend itself by throwing a fireball, but it’s too slow, the Reanimate bludgeoning him to death with a club, which catches on fire, racing up the handle and over the living corpse’s body. Still he fights, swinging his flaming club at anyone near him, setting witches and Reanimates alight. Eventually, however, the flames overcome whatever magical strength is in his decaying flesh and bone and muscle, and he folds like a crappy hand of poker, burning to ash on the ground.
Even as I watch with morbid fascination, I wonder who infused life into this particular corpse. Was it Xave? Is he here? Or was it his father, the Reaper?
I’m snapped out of my revelry when a Reanimate—a woman with pale, freckled skin on one half of her, and black, charred, burnt flesh on the other—comes at me with a knife, already slick with blood. I raise my sword to block her strike, but it never comes. It’s as if I’m not even there; she runs past me and leaps at a warlock, cutting deep into his back.
What the hell? What just happened? I don’t have time to consider my questions, because I spot Laney again. She’s still fighting hard, but moving swiftly through the magic-born, who seem more concerned with the Reanimates tearing through their ranks.
Spinning my sword over my head like a helicopter, I hack my way through the opposing witches, doing my best to avoid the crocodile-like Changelings and Reanimates who, at least for the moment, seem to be loosely on my side. I’m aware of the blood and gore flying around me, but I don’t stop, because Laney is almost to the White House steps.
With a final flurry of slashes, I break through just ahead of her.
But not ahead of the red witch, who transforms back into her “normal” beautiful self, her dress black this time, swishing around her feet as she climbs the stairs.
Samsa swings at her, but she ducks and swipes a hand forward. Her manicured nails vanish as a single sword-like claw extends, puncturing the Slammer’s gut like a piece of meat on a skewer. With a shriek, the red witch twists the sword like she’s turning a screw. Samsa gasps, his sharp intake of breath audible despite the dull roar of the background noise.
And just like that, with a single blow, the giant dies, blood pouring from his stomach the moment the red witch withdraws her claw-sword.
President Washington smiles and claps. Slowly. Tauntingly. “Impressive,” she says. “I had high hopes for Samsa. Oh well, I will have to find another brainless fool to replace
him. Are you looking for a job?”
“My only job is to kill you,” the red witch says. For the first time, I almost like her.
The president sighs. “Very well. We’ll do this your way, although I suspect you’ll be less than happy with the results.”
In a split-second, the red Changeling growls and transforms into the monster I met in the middle of the battle. She leaps at the president, her claws firing out, her teeth bared and dripping with blood. It’s over, I think, the moment before the red witch’s body is flung back, her form once again flickering between the creature and her normal self, until she crumples against one of the heavy white pillars, where she comes to rest, unmoving, red hair spilling across her expressionless face.
That’s when I realize: The wizard isn’t casting protective spells over the witches fighting for President Washington; he’s casting protective spells around President Washington, making her untouchable.
Except, of course, for me. (I hope.)
Without thinking, I sprint up the steps, taking them three at a time with my long strides. The president doesn’t move to defend herself, overly confident in the abilities of her pet wizard.
The force of the invisible barrier pushing against me is like going toe to toe with a freight train, my body instantly feeling bruised and battered. But still I stagger forward, shoving back both mentally and physically against the very magic I was born to Resist. The president’s confident expression turns to wide-eyed surprise as I roar, throwing the barrier back toward her like a shockwave, knocking Charles Gordon aside even as I sweep her feet out from under her. I pounce like a cat on a mouse, bringing the tip of my sword to rest in the natural depression in her neck.
“Call them off,” I growl.
Her surprise morphs back into arrogance, her lips forming a sneer. “No,” she says.
“I’ll do it,” I say. I’ve killed so many magic-born already, what’s one more? Especially one like her who’s made it her goal to enslave the human race and rule the world. A quick movement of my right arm and it’ll all be over.
“No you won’t,” she says. My sword digging into her skin, drawing a trickle of blood, she tucks her knees beneath her and pushes up, all the way to standing. I should kill her, but I don’t. I don’t. She’s called my bluff and I know it. “Only I can save your father and remove his curse,” she says. “I’m willing to help you if you help me.”
“What do you want?” I ask. Am I really considering helping her? I don’t even really know my father, but that’s not his fault. It’s hers. She cursed him so he could never be close to me, never hold me as a baby, never hug me. Even coming to watch one of my football games would’ve been too near, his life draining away from him, causing him excruciating pain. And yet now she’s the only one who can save him.
She smiles a wicked smile and pushes the bloodstained tip of my blade away from her neck. She dabs at the wound with a finger and then licks the blood. “Help me destroy those who oppose me. The Necros, the Changelings, and the Claires. Only then will I remove your father’s curse.”
My heart, which has been jackhammering in my chest for what feels like hours, skips a beat. Xave is a Necro. Mr. Jackson, too. The red witch is a Changeling. And Trish is a Claire. Four people who have helped me in one way or another. Four people whose lives have changed mine for the better in many ways. If I stack their lives up against my father’s, which way will the scale fall? Does it even matter? Does saving one life matter if you have to condemn another? This was never a choice. Never an option.
“Never!” I shout, pushing her back with all of my strength, not killing her but sending her skidding across the White House entrance.
Regaining her feet, she says, “You fool!” and points a hand at my chest. I brace myself, ready to mentally combat whatever spell she’s about to cast. As if sensing my determination, she laughs. “Something you still don’t know about Generals is that we acquire the magical strength of any witches we kill,” she says. “And I have killed many.”
The spell comes in the form of a flying, see-through snake, which moves as gracefully as the wind. Gritting my teeth, I manage to stop it mere inches from my face, my power stronger than however many witches President Washington has killed. Sweat dribbles down my forehead and into my eyes, burning them. But still I fight on, even as I hear Laney shout, “Hold on, Rhett! I’m coming!”
Fatigue sets in, helped along by a healthy dose of fear as the snake’s tongue flicks in and out, its hiss as real as a slap in the face. My Resistance falters, just for a second, but it’s enough for the president. With a gleeful shriek, she punches the air, the snake’s head swiftly lashing out, just as I feel myself being tackled from behind by Laney, who falls atop me.
My cheek is on fire, like it’s been lacerated. I must’ve scraped it on the ground when Laney decided to play linebacker. No. That’s not it, because my entire body is burning. The image of the snake flashes before my eyes, and no matter how much I blink it remains, its beady eyes and fangs taunting me. I—I—
I can’t move.
The realization hits me as Laney tugs me to a kneeling position, her hands molding me like clay. Every movement is because of her. I can’t feel…anything. Not even the beating of my own heart, or my inhalations and exhalations. Nothing.
I try to speak but my lips won’t move. Have I been petrified? I remember the young girl I once saw petrified by a Destroyer—it was during one of Mr. Jackson’s “field trips.” We didn’t even try to help her, and the Destroyers made her body crumble like ancient, weathered stone. Is that what the president is going to do to me? Am I moments away from crumbling?
“What have you done to him?” Laney demands, her teeth clamped together. I can still see her. I can still see everything, but like the unoiled Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, I can’t move a single joint or muscle. I can’t even blink.
“Ah, young love,” President Washington says. “So demanding, so fresh, so frail. I could kill him with nothing more than a thought, you know.”
Laney raises her arm and points the Glock at the president. “You’ll die well before you finish that thought,” she says.
The president chuckles to herself. “Sometimes I wish you were the Resistor. You’re tougher than your friend. I could use an ally like you.”
“Go to hell,” Laney says, verbalizing exactly what I was thinking.
“We’re already here,” the president says. “But no, I won’t kill Rhett. I need him alive. I need him to fight for me. A few simple spells will ensure his allegiance to me for as long as I need him.”
No. I can’t fight on her side. I can’t. I’d rather die.
As if providing a soundtrack for my dark thoughts, the screams and shouts and sounds of death and battle seem to rise up just then. I wonder who’s winning the fight, but I can’t turn my head to look.
“Like I said, you’ll die before you can cast your spell,” Laney says.
“Such spunk wasted,” the president says. “I need Rhett Carter, but alas, I have no need for you. Except as bait, that is.”
Two things happen at that exact moment: Laney fires her Glock and the president’s eyes flick past her. There’s a flash of bright purple light, blinding my unblinking eyes, and then all goes dark.
I can hear Laney screaming and the president laughing and people dying, but I can’t see a damn thing. The darkness begins to fade just as the ground starts shaking, rumbling. It’s weird because I can’t feel it, but I can see it, the jumbled images bouncing around like they’re being shaken by an overactive child.
Charles Gordon is there, and the president, too. I realize what happened. The president looked at the wizard, who was back on his feet. He must’ve fired a spell to protect his master from Laney’s magical bullets. And now…
The White House is shaking, crumbling, the pillars being torn in half, ripped apart like an old coat. A chasm opens up, the earth splitting and pulling apart. I’m right next to the edge, but I still can’t move. Can’t scra
mble away. Can only watch and hope and pray that gravity doesn’t decide to suck me in. And Laney: She’s struggling with two magic-born, who have managed to grab hold of her arms, holding them tightly behind her. They’re shoving her toward the chasm, which is now spouting fire and smoke like a volcano.
The gap in the earth continues to widen, pulling chunks of the White House into the infinitely deep hole, and eventually, with the sound of a hundred bombs going off, the entire presidential residence collapses in a maelstrom of dust and debris.
The White House is gone. I almost wish someone had pointed me in the other direction so I didn’t have to see it. And now I’m about to witness something else I’d rather not see. Laney’s death.
Laney! I try to shout, but nothing comes out. And yet she looks at me, right at me, as if sensing my attempt at communication. Straining my mind, I try to thrust off the spell, but it’s too strong. Whatever ability I have to Resist magic, it’s not enough. I’m not nearly strong enough.
As I’m forced to stare on in horror, Laney offers a final halfhearted smile just before she’s shoved into the chasm.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Laney
Dying isn’t nearly as epic an experience as everyone makes it out to be in the movies.
As I flail helplessly, my arms and legs wind-milling futilely, I wonder when my life will flash before my eyes. You know, the cool collage of everything I’m leaving behind, everything I’ve done, all the minute details of my life I didn’t even realize were trapped in my memory? Nuh-uh. I don’t get any of that.
Instead, smoke sears my eyes and chokes my lungs. Fire burns my skin. Blackness folds itself in on all sides.
And then I’m free of it, rising above it, as if I’m spreading invisible wings and flying away, off to some other life. But gosh I’ll miss them. Rhett and Trish and even Huckle and Bil Nez. Hex. Tears blur my vision. Wait. I’ve stopped rising. Did someone make a mistake and give me dysfunctional wings? That would be just my luck. An angel with broken wings.
