by David Estes
“Thanks,” she says to Bil. Turning to me, she says, “We’ve got you covered. End this.”
Slightly in shock, I hesitate, even as Laney and Bil rush forward, simultaneously firing their weapons into the oncoming magic-born, who lead with a flurry of spells. Bil’s Resistance and Laney’s magical bullets seem to block the spells, cutting through the enemy like a knife through water.
As they collide, Laney’s like a hurricane, tearing through the witches and warlocks, a guttural cry coming from somewhere deep within her. I know I have to trust her and Bil. I have my own part to play.
Sensing her behind me, I turn to face the president.
She’s blood-speckled and narrow-eyed and stalking toward me. Gone is her smile. Gone is her arrogance. All that remains is her evil. She stops just before me, seeming to gaze over my shoulder at the carnage beyond. “You’re coming with me,” she says.
I shake my head. “I’m done listening to you,” I say.
She cocks her head, surprised. “You will listen to me or I’ll kill your girlfriend.”
“You already did that,” I say, fighting off a swell of emotion as Beth’s face fills my memory.
She arches her eyebrows, surprised again. “Who told you?”
“Does it matter?”
“I won’t remove the curse from your father,” she says.
“You wouldn’t anyway,” I say. “Even if I help you get everything you want, you still won’t help my father. You hate him. You hate me. This has always been personal for you, hasn’t it?”
Her expression twists into one that’s bug-eyed and red-faced and not in the least presidential. “You don’t understand anything. This is a game of power. He tried to take away everything from me, tried to turn the Council against me, tried to steal votes, tried to make me look weak and foolish. He was relentless in his efforts to sabotage my plans, to undermine my authority. He would’ve ruined me if I didn’t do something to stop him.”
Enough. I’ve had enough. This pathetic excuse for a woman has caused too much heartache in my life. “I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper under my breath, gripping my sword and my nerve together in a tight spiral.
“What? What did you say?”
I’m done with words. I step forward, my sword arcing for her neck. She raises a hand, which is suddenly encased in a blue sphere, blocking my attack. My arm vibrates at the impact, sending a bolt of pain down my arm. But I’m only getting started, swinging again and again, pushing her back as sparks fly from her blue hand.
At the same time, she mutters spells and curses, flinging them at me with her other hand. I raise a mental shield and throw each attack back. She manages to dodge them, but barely. And then one hits her in the face and she’s thrown back, landing hard and skidding on her back. I push forward, jamming my forearm into her throat, my blade just above it.
She tries to speak, but the words come out garbled. “Your father’s curse,” she says.
I want to believe that this woman could be forced to do what I need her to do, that, with the right amount of pressure or torture or whatever, she’d lift my father’s curse. But I now know she never will and that it’s been a lie from the start.
“This is for my mom and Beth and my foster family. And for Hex, too,” I say, drawing my sword across her throat. I pull away quickly as her mouth fills with blood, pouring from her lips and flowing down to meet the line of blood on her neck.
I turn away from what I’ve done, staggering under the weight of it.
Laney and Bil are still fighting, but there’s only a warlock for her and a witch for him. All the rest on both sides are dead, their carcasses basking in the sun. The witch joins them when Bil stabs her in the eye with one of his crossbow bolts. The warlock follows shortly after when Laney shoves the muzzle under his chin and pulls the trigger.
She turns rapidly, her eyes flickering around her, searching for her next victim. Her Glock points at everything and nothing. Finding no one, her eyes meet mine, a shadow falling over them. Her arm falls and she crumples to the ground, like a small broken thing and not the powerful warrior I just witnessed. “She’s dead,” she says, and I know she doesn’t mean President Washington.
“Yes,” I say, meaning both Trish and the president.
Somehow my legs carry me forward, but then they give out and I fold beside her, every bit as broken. “She’s always been there,” Laney says, her eyes wet. “I’m not ready for life after.”
I reach for her and she reaches for me, and though neither of us has any strength left, we offer strength to each other, clinging together in a shattered embrace.
“She’s a Claire,” I say. “She’ll come back eventually.”
“I know,” she says. “But she won’t be my sister again. Someone else’s sister, but not mine.”
I shake my head, press my cheek to hers. “No,” I say. “You’re wrong. She’ll always be your sister.”
“I’m sorry about Hex,” she says suddenly, as if just remembering.
Emotion brims in my eyes, blurring my vision. “Me, too,” I say. “He was the best.”
As she buries her face against my chest and cries and cries and cries, I hold her the way I will forever, my own tears rolling fast and hot down my cheeks.
For the second time today, a wet tongue laps at my face. But this one isn’t rough like Flora’s and is much more slobbery.
“Hex!” I cry, my eyes flashing open and my arm pulling Hex into the midst of our embrace. His tongue continues to move like an overworked licking machine, dancing between my face and Laney’s.
And though I didn’t think we’d ever be able to again, we laugh and laugh and laugh, tears streaming down our faces as quickly as Hex can lap them up.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Laney
The Necros come to collect the dead, and I give Rhett a break from my tears, both the happy and sad. For a long time, I stare at the enormous, unmoving form of the Slammer, Samsa, whose strength apparently only held out long enough to force my sister’s sacrifice. I should feel some satisfaction at his death, but all I feel is emptiness. Numbness. When I stand up, I notice that the blood is gone from my clothes, which are completely white, as if someone’s bleached them for me.
“Her blood was always the purest of all,” I murmur as Hex scampers off to once more become Bil Nez’s shadow.
Rhett nods thoughtfully, but looks distracted by Xavier’s dark form, which is hunched over a dead Changeling. “I’ll let you two catch up,” I say, starting to move away. Rhett grabs my arm. “I’m okay,” I say. “I don’t need to be coddled.” He doesn’t seem to believe me, but he grudgingly releases my arm and walks over to his old friend.
Somewhat numb, I stare at the bodies scattered across the White House lawn. Well, I guess it’s just a lawn now that the White House has been sucked into the magical void of damnation. The same chasm I would’ve died in if not for Trish’s miraculous final act.
I take a deep breath, trying not to fall into an entirely different chasm.
I spot movement on what’s left of the steps, which sends a deranged burst of excitement through my chest. Maybe one of the president’s magic-born survived! I’m almost itching to use my Glock again. A sick thought, but sometimes having something to do is the only way not to be sad.
As it turns out, it is a witch, just not one I’m allowed to kill. At least I don’t think so—I’ll have to check with Rhett.
The red Changeling, who I haven’t seen since she informed me of where Trish had gone, drags herself to a sitting position against one of the two remaining pillars, which are no longer holding anything up. Although she’s looking in my direction, it’s almost like she sees right through me, to the remnants of the battlefield.
I’ve never seen her look so unbeautiful. Her kohl-lined eyes are smeared. Her long, red hair is tangled and knotted, hanging limply around her face, which is a mixture of sweat and ash and blood. Her once-perfect dress is in tatters. I know that she could snap her finge
rs and she’d be celebrity-worthy once more, but she doesn’t. In any other situation I might’ve relished seeing her like this, gotten a good laugh out of it, but I can’t take any amusement from her despair.
Her lips open as if she wants to say something, but then they close. She reaches both hands toward the sky, which is far too blue and sunny and beautiful for any of our moods. Is she praying? I wonder. Do witches pray? Do they believe in God, or is there some other power they worship, the Great and Mighty Bestower of Magical Powers?
When she lowers her gaze, her eyes finally settle on mine. This time she speaks. “I have nothing,” she says.
Her words are so different to any others I’ve heard her utter. There’s no hidden agenda, no sarcasm, no arrogance. It’s like everything that made her her has been stripped away. Does that mean this broken person is the real her? Or are we all really layers and layers of complexity, of which some are only revealed during the most extreme circumstances?
“You have your life,” I say.
“That is nothing now that they’re gone,” she says. “They’re all dead because I brought them here. Because I wanted the Changelings to rise above the muck and be the heroes.”
“You can’t make yourself a hero,” I say. “You have to be born one. And sometimes the least likely heroes are the ones this world needs the most.”
Although I expect her to argue, she doesn’t; instead, she nods, almost to herself, as if really thinking about my words. Understanding them.
As I wonder whether I’ve misjudged her from the beginning, whether she was really just another lost soul searching for redemption, she reaches for something lying near her on the ground. Something glinting in the sunlight. In a split-second of clarity, I realize what she’s about to do.
“No!” I shout, but her hand’s already moving, her mind made up.
She jams the blade deep into her gut, clutching it with two hands as her mouth bursts open in a rush of breath.
I scream and Rhett’s by my side in an instant, Xave, too. But there’s nothing any of us can do, although we try our best, using torn-off strips of my clean clothes to try to stop the bleeding, even as her life flows out of her through the self-inflicted wound. When the blood keeps soaking through and it’s apparent she’s moments away from death, Xave says, “You two should leave. Only I can be here now.”
Rhett nods and takes my hand and we start to walk away, neither of us wanting to see Xave work his gruesome magic. Sunlight hits my face from the opposite side, unexpectedly. It’s already shining on one side, from the east, but now my cheek is being warmed from the west. Which doesn’t make sense because it’s still too early for the sun to have moved that far.
Rhett notices it, too, and we both look up at the same time. Angels—missing only their haloes and wings—descend on magical sunbeams, their pearlescent gowns flowing about their feet. Not angels, I realize—Claires. My sister’s people. No, her Children, I remember. It’s what she told me just before she left me. They need me. Although I don’t understand how a child could have children, somehow I know it’s true.
They land softly on bare feet, their brown and black and white skin covered save for their arms and faces. The right words stick in my throat, but I force them out. “I’m sorry,” I say. “She’s gone. Your—your Mother is gone.”
We know, they say, dozens of voices speaking as one, as if from heaven. We saw her go. She spoke with us, for a while. We come not for her, but for the red one.
I follow their gazes to the red Changeling, who lies dead. Xavier has already begun preparing her body for Reanimation, flicking some kind of potion on her face. He can’t bring her back the way she was. But he can use what’s left of her to add to the Necro army. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “She’s gone, too.”
No, they say. Almost, but not yet.
One of them, a willowy beauty, glides forward. Xave moves away, watching from nearby. The girl’s finger is a glowing orb, and it reminds me of the finger of light that brought Rhett and I back together. My sister’s magic. The girl touches her finger to the red Changeling’s lips, which start to glow softly. Soon her entire body is pulsing with white light.
Stir her not, for she needs to sleep, the girl says in our heads.
Yeah, an eternal sleep, I think.
No, the girl says, looking right at me. Did she just read my mind? She lives. Sometimes those who don’t want life are the ones who deserve it the most.
A week ago I would’ve told you the red witch deserved to die a horrible death. But now…I’m not so sure. She might not be the kind of hero she wanted to be, but she did sacrifice everything to try to stop President Washington. That counts in my book.
While the Claires continue to tend to the Changeling leader and the Necros continue to tend to the dead, I move away from the middle of the battleground, drawn to the eastern edge of the lawn. Where the human soldiers were. And where the human soldiers died.
Claires flit amongst me, so graceful, the polar opposite of my jerky strides. They check each body for signs of life, before moving on to the next one. One or two of the bodies capture their attention and they go to work, but most are mutilated beyond recognition. The witch’s spells did their evil job.
Then I see him, and I realize why my feet brought me over here. My eyes immediately pool with tears, but I blink them away. At this time more than any, I have to be the girl he thought I was, hard as iron and scared of nothing—even death.
Hemsworth has a hole in his chest, like he’s been hit with a cannonball. The gore is turning black as it dries. Biting my lip, I use several of the soldiers’ packs to cover the wound. His face, remarkably, is unmarred, almost as if he’s merely sleeping.
“You know, once I realized you weren’t such a jerk I kinda liked you,” I say, kneeling down beside him. “I know we barely knew each other a couple of days, but it felt like more, you know what I mean?”
A finger of warmth starts in my toes and moves upwards, all the way to my chest. And though he can’t speak for himself anymore, I know it’s a sign. He did feel the same way. My next words are harder to get out.
“I feel like…you could’ve been a sort of”—I turn my head to the side and will the tears away, swallowing heavily—“father to me. Like we both lost people we love, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have new people we love.”
With the back of my hand, I angrily wipe the hot tears off my cheeks.
~~~
Rhett
I follow Xave around like he used to do to me before and after football practice. I shake my head when I realize that was only months—and not years—ago. Although I feel like I should still be angry with him, about so many things, I can’t find it in me.
“How do you do it?” I ask him.
He glances at me, and then goes back to sprinkling a potion on one of the corpses. “Don’t give me a hard time. I’m not in the mood.”
He misunderstood me. “I’m not,” I say. “I don’t mean the dead-raising. Laney told me you said it’s just a part of you, that you can’t not do it. I might never fully understand that, but I’m willing to try.”
His eyes meet mine again, but this time there’s no frustration in them. “Thanks,” he says. “So what did you mean? How do I do what?”
“Two things,” I say. “First, how do you Reanimate so quickly? Your father explained that it takes months to Reanimate corpses, especially older ones.”
“And second?” he asks.
“Second, how did you make it so the corpses didn’t attack any humans this time? My experience has been that they attack anything that moves. We might’ve lost the battle if not for their help. As much as they freak me out, I’m almost sad that they all had to re-die during the battle.”
He looks like he wants to smile, but can’t quite make his mouth obey. A new voice comes in from the side. “Because he’s better than me. Better than any of us.”
The Reaper approaches, his dark hood thrown back from his dark-skinned face, and
again I can’t help thinking of him as Mr. Jackson, the man who trained me to hunt witches. He extends a hand, watching me intently with deep brown eyes.
I stare at his offered hand for a long second before taking it. Back in the Necro dungeons I would’ve sooner spit in the Reaper’s hand than shake it. How quickly things have changed.
“Xavier has perfected our craft in a way no one else could,” the Reaper says. A hint of a smile plays on Xave’s lips as he pretends to prepare another body for Reanimation.
“He can raise the dead faster,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And make them more controlled.”
“Yes.”
I nod, the events at the plane crash site and on the White House lawn making more sense. But there’s still something that doesn’t make sense. “You thought the Changelings were the greatest enemy to peace,” I say.
The Reaper just looks at me because I haven’t asked a question. Xave stops his work to watch his father’s reaction. “And you hadn’t told Xave that New America was being led by a witch. Not just any witch, the Head of the Witch Council.”
Suddenly he can’t seem to meet my eyes, his gaze wandering off toward the sunrise. “I was wrong about the Changelings, but can you really blame me? They weren’t doing much to instill our trust in them. I had allies on the Council, but she was never one of them; her motives were a mystery to me.”
“Okay. Let’s say I believe you,” I say. “I mean, let’s say, hypothetically speaking of course, that you’re slightly better than a lying scumbag.” The Reaper flinches, but I don’t feel bad and don’t stop. Can’t stop. “Why didn’t you tell Xave, your own son, what was happening in New America?”
The Reaper, who suddenly looks less like a powerful Necromancer and more like an ordinary old man named Mr. Jackson, sighs deeply. “He had a lot on his mind already without being burdened with the knowledge that New America was being controlled by four of the most powerful members of the Council, including the leader.”
“Four?” I say, started by the unexpected detail. “Which four?”
