by David Estes
Her joke is so bad it’s laugh-worthy. “You’re not normal,” I say.
“Like you are?”
“As normal as they come,” I say. “Can we talk about your sister?”
“No,” she says.
“We need to understand why she writes in the air.”
“Drop it,” she says, all humor erased from her tone.
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll talk later.”
She doesn’t say anything, just kicks another stone. Even Hex ignores it this time, more interested in a ratty, bloodstained leather jacket crumpled next to a dinged-up Harley Davidson motorcycle. Whoever owns the jacket and the bike is nowhere to be seen. Hex sniffs curiously at one of the cuffs. Freak, I think.
When we’re past the motorcycle, Laney says, “Do you think you’re going to go to Hell for killing witches?”
“Oh, so now you want to talk?” I say.
“How many witches have you killed, Witch Hunter? Break it down by witches, warls, and wizards.”
“I don’t keep count,” I say, which is a lie. Nine, fourteen, four.
“What about boners?” she says.
I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “What about them?”
“Have you kept count of how many of them you’ve killed?”
“I’ve never seen them until yesterday,” I admit.
“So I’m up two on you then,” she says proudly.
“I guess so. Do you think you’re going to Hell for killing boners?” I ask.
“Only if they kill my sister,” she says matter-of-factly. “Failing her is the only sin left.”
Although it’s a bleak outlook, I envy her in some ways. At least she has something that matters.
~~~
Four hours of walking and the sign tells us we’ve still got another thirteen miles to Washington, Pennsylvania.
“Trish’s legs are tired,” Laney says.
“I didn’t hear her complain,” I say.
“Very funny.”
“Are you sure it’s not your legs that are tired?” I ask.
Laney pulls up short. “Yeah, my legs are tired, Trish’s are tired, your damn dog’s are tired. And even if you’re too stubborn and proud to admit it, your legs are tired, too.”
I gawk at her, not for the first or last time. “I’m not too stubborn,” I say. “My legs are tired.” They’re not really—a ten mile walk isn’t anything new for me.
Laney breathes deeply and I can tell she’s taken aback by my agreement. I can almost see the anger melting off her face, like a pile of snow in direct sunlight. I don’t think she’s too used to talking to people after endless months spent with only her mute sister and the dead diners in her restaurant hideaway.
“Okay,” she says. “So we stop.”
“We take a break,” I agree. I motion to the sign. “Just a mile to the next exit. We should get off the main road.”
She chews on her lip, as if trying to decide whether letting me dictate our next move is a show of weakness. Finally, she grabs Trish’s hand and says, “Fine. Next exit, we rest.”
She takes off at a brisk pace, half-dragging her younger sister after her. So much for tired legs.
“Hey, Laney! Wait up,” I say. Jogging, I pull astride of her. Hex takes my increase in speed to be a sign that we’re going for a run, and he charges ahead of us, his tail wagging excitedly. He looks back when I slow to match Laney’s speed.
“What now?” she says. There’s frustration in her voice.
“I’m—I just wanted to say I’m sorry you had to leave your safe place,” I say.
She stares straight ahead, blows a bit of gold hair off her forehead. “It wasn’t your fault. The witches might not have known we were there, but they were still killing us. Day by day, bit by bit. A slow and agonizing death of seclusion. The truth is, I’m glad to be out of that restaurant. Having those dead people down below always creeped me out.”
“That didn’t mean you had to re-kill them all,” I say, smirking. “Maybe they were just coming up to borrow a cup of sugar.”
“I didn’t have the heart to tell them I was all out,” she says, returning my smile. For a second I see a crack in the wall she’s built around herself.
“Why were you in that restaurant anyway?” I ask.
The crack disappears. Oops. My question is met with a frown a mile deep. “After my parents…” I see her knuckles whiten as she squeezes Trish’s hand tighter. “The restaurant was a special place for us, as a family,” she says. “We used to go there every Friday night, as a treat for a hard week of work and school. We celebrated birthdays and good grades there. The chef, Marco, knew us by name and treated us like family. I couldn’t let Trish stay in the house with…them, so I took her to the only other place that felt comfortable.” Images of Laney blasting Marco the Skeleton’s skull off his shoulders cycle through my mind. A family friend. She made it look like nothing.
“The restaurant. But the skeletons…” I try to imagine what it would have been like for her. Her parents dead, her sister hers to protect, entering the restaurant and finding…what?
“They weren’t skeletons,” she says flatly. “They were corpses with gaping holes in them, their”—she glances at Trish and lowers her voice to a whisper—“insides hanging out. Marco was the worst, his brain on the outside of his skull, like something out of a zombie movie. It didn’t even look real. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t. Something was happening to their flesh, like it was wax dripping off of them.”
“That’s dark magic,” I say. “The darkest. Cutters we call them. They cast powerful spells on their victims. Something inside them cuts its way out, through bone and flesh. Then the skin and everything else just melts away.”
“Yummy,” Laney says. “Thanks for the lesson.”
I raise an eyebrow. After months of “witch education” with Mr. Jackson, I’ve become so accustomed to talking about this stuff that I’m not sure I’ll ever be as sensitive about it as I should be.
“If I ever see a Cutter I might do some cutting of my own,” Laney says.
“Not likely,” I say. “The Cutters were so powerful and dangerous that they were one of the first witch gangs to be exterminated by the others.” Mr. Jackson’s words flow from my lips so easily. Too easily.
“Exterminated?”
“Yeah. Half a dozen other gangs became temporary allies to wipe the Cutters out before they grew too strong.”
Laney shakes her head. “I’ve seen bad B-grade movies that had more believable plots. You know, the ones with giant worms that terrorize small hick towns?”
I chuckle. I know exactly the kind of movies she means. “I’m sorry about Marco,” I say. “I should’ve been the one to do it. Had I known…”
“No,” Laney says, her eyes following Hex as he runs from side to side, sniffing small flowers that have sprung up between cracks in the highway. I expect her to say something sentimental. As usual, I’m wrong. “It was better that I do it. Otherwise we would have been tied in kills rather than me up two.”
I look away so she doesn’t see my smile.
The exit veers off to the right. Neither of us speaks as we follow the road, which winds in a full circle and under the highway bridge. It’s probably late afternoon by now, the bridge casting a long, murky shadow. The air feels five degrees cooler in the shade.
“We’ll stay here for the night,” Laney says. Not a question, not a suggestion. She’s not used to collaborating.
“I really think we should push on to Washington. We can make it before midnight.” I pour some water into a depression in the ground for Hex.
“No,” Laney says.
“It’s not safe out on the road. Trust me, I know.”
“Just because I decided to go on a little road trip doesn’t mean I fully trust you. We just met.”
“I’m not one of the bad guys,” I say. “I hunt witches, not humans.”
“Most of the witch hunters I’ve seen lately are the
bad ones,” Laney insists.
“You think I’m like The End?” I ask evenly.
Laney shrugs, as if it’s every bit as plausible as skeletons coming to life and trying to kill us.
“Well I’m not. I didn’t have to take you with me,” I say.
“You need us,” she says. “You never would’ve survived the skeletons without me.”
“I killed my fair share, too,” I say, surprised to actually find myself gloating about killing.
“Oh, so it’s a pissing contest now, is it?” Laney says incredulously. “Well, I might not have the goods”—she gestures lewdly downwards—“but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang with you.”
“What does that even mean?” I say, shaking my head and feeling a strange amusement come over me. What are we even talking about?
Laney’s eyes widen and for a second I think she might hit me, but then a sharp laugh escapes her lips. “I have no idea,” she says. “It sounded better in my head.”
“I hate when that happens,” I say. “We’ll stay here for the night,” I add, giving in because I’m suddenly feeling happy and generous. Almost giddy. Weirdest. Fight. Ever.
Laney sits down next to Trish, who’s stroking Hex as he laps at the water. I flop down nearby.
“Do I smell?” Laney asks, raising her arm to sniff her pit. “I think I forgot to put on deodorant today.”
“No,” I say, straight-faced, even though I could probably smell her from two miles away. “Do I?”
“Like stink,” she says.
Before I can rise to the bait and sniff my own armpits, Hex stiffens, arches his back, snaps his head upwards. Trish’s finger jabs at the air, scrawling an invisible message.
My eyes meet Laney’s and I can see the fear there. No matter how much she denies it, chalking Trish’s eccentricities up to gibberish and the result of her trauma, she knows there’s more to her air drawing. “When she starts drawing it usually means something bad is going to happen,” Laney admits, unblinking.
“What is she writing?” I ask, realizing my hands are clasped too tightly in my lap.
Laney squints, tries to make out the letters. “H-E-M-S-A-V-E-T,” she says. Trish stops, looks at her sister expectantly. “Hemsavet,” Laney says. “I don’t understand, Sis.”
“No,” I say. “The ‘S’ is first. ‘Save them.’”
“Save who?” Laney asks her sister.
Trish looks past me, down the road leading away from the bridge.
Just then, we hear a gunshot.
It’s followed by a scream.
“What the hell was that?” Laney says.
“A scream,” I say. “And a gunshot.”
“Thanks, that helps,” Laney says, rolling her eyes.
Trish is frantically drawing in the air again, but Laney’s not even looking. She’s staring in the direction of the scream. I slide over to read the disappearing words. “Save them. Save them. Save them. She’s just repeating the same message.”
“We need to save ourselves,” Laney says. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s continue on to Washington.”
“But your sister thinks…”
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying!” Laney shouts.
Trish stops drawing and puts a tiny hand on her sister’s arm. Laney grimaces as if hurt by the touch. “No,” she says. “No. We’re not going toward that scream.” When Trish and I both look at her, she repeats, “No.”
Another scream shatters the temporary silence. I flinch, my nerves stretched as tightly as a leather canvas, on the verge of breaking, but unable to.
For some reason, the memory from my third field trip with Mr. Jackson pops into my head. When the Hallucinators killed the boy and his mom.
I blink and Laney’s staring at me, but not at my eyes. Lower. I follow her gaze to my stomach, where I’ve lifted my shirt to reveal a long jagged scar, a white line against my dark skin. My fingers are running along its raised edges.
“Where’d you get that?” she asks.
I ignore her question, say, “I have to try to save them. Whoever they are.”
“Fine,” Laney says. “But if you’re not back in an hour, we’re leaving without you.”
“Do what you have to do,” I say, already turning away. “Hex, stay here with them,” I command.
I’m already a half mile down the road when I realize Hex is just behind me, his head lowered to the ground as if I won’t be able to see him if he can’t see me. I smile because, of course, he wouldn’t listen to me. And the truth is, I’m glad.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The screams are coming from the white-siding house, taking shape as I get closer.
“No! Leave them alone! Do whatever you want with me, but let them go!” a woman’s voice pleads frantically.
“Where’s the fun in that?” a sharper woman’s voice says, amusement in her tone.
The wail of a child pierces the silence in between the mother’s shouts.
Hex looks up at me. Is he frowning? If he is, he’s only mirroring my expression.
I have a pretty good guess as to what is traumatizing the people inside the house. Witches. Likely having a bit of fun before finishing the job. A chance for me to stop them?
I leap over a chain link fence and dart to the side of the house, keeping low.
“Please! Please…” The mother’s voice is losing strength, her children’s sobs reduced to muted whimpers. I have to hurry or there’ll be no one left to save.
There’s an open window on my left. Hex paws at my leg, his expression intense, as if to say, Let’s do this.
A new voice carries through the window, a deep grumble. A warl. “Slow down! We need the blood while they’re still alive!”
“Maybe I’ll just take yours instead,” the witch fires back.
“I’d like to see you try!”
“Children, behave or I’ll kill you both.” A third voice, like thunder. Another warl, his tone commanding attention and obedience. By the sound of it, the leader of the gang that’s terrorizing the people inside.
“Buzzkill,” the witch mutters, but she doesn’t argue further.
I pop up and sneak a glance through a thin white curtain that’s blowing in the breeze. When I duck back, the image remains in my head. A woman on the floor, cheeks streaked and glistening with tears, held down by a gargantuan warl, skin like night. Two children, strung up, held over some sort of a basin. A witch and another warl standing near them, fiddling with some sort of contraption attached to their skin. Red tubes running from them to the basin. And I know:
The tubes are only red because they’re filled with the children’s blood.
A flood of anger and fear gushes through my veins. I can’t bear to see another child die. But Mr. Jackson’s words after the incident with the Hallucinators freezes me in place:
Do you see why you can’t save them all? Do you see? If you die, then they all die. If you live, then maybe some will live. You have to choose your battles wisely, when victory is guaranteed.
Would Mr. Jackson advise me to attack two warls and a witch to save a mother and her two children? I know the answer is no, that he’d liken this to the Asian woman and her son. Do I care what Mr. Jackson would think? It’s not his battle anymore.
My decision. And I say these people need my help.
I raise a finger in the air, then a second, glancing back to make sure Hex is paying attention, that he’s ready to spring into action when I raise my third finger.
A shadow looms, its dark fingers clamping over my mouth…
A pungent, chemically smell fills my nostrils and the world begins to blur, to spin like an amusement park ride. And all I see before everything goes dark are pink lips outlined in black, shoved out between coils of ebony fabric.
The world fades to nothing.
~~~
Beth nestles into my side, clutching at me like I’m a warm blanket.
She tilts her head and her lips part, ever so slightly. I dip my ch
in and close my eyes.
Her mouth is soft and moist, and moves against mine. Our teeth clack off each other once, awkwardly, but we don’t stop, not until we’re out of breath and laughing, and when my eyes flutter open I see the truth…
I gasp, horror filling my chest, twisting my grin into a tortured grimace of revulsion, as bile rises in my throat…
Beth’s lips are covered in blood, smeared in a horrifying clown’s smile. I reach up to touch my own lips and the tips of my fingers come away crimson. As she leans forward for another bloody kiss, I scream—
A hand blankets my mouth, cutting off my scream. “Shut it,” a voice says. “You’ll wake the children.” Her laugh is gleeful and slightly deranged.
As my eyes snap open I want to claw at the hand, rip it away, but my arms won’t move, like they’re frozen. A face appears over me, attached to the muffling hand by a thin, bony arm and pointy shoulder. A witch, with the yellow eyes of a cat, shining in the relative darkness. A thin layer of black fur coats her skin, and the beginnings of white whiskers are poking from just under her smallish round nose.
It was a dream. Just a dream. In reality, my first kiss with Beth was perfect, so perfect, not some terror-filled nightmare.
Blink, blink. Blink, blink. The nightmare hovers just behind my eyes.
“Are we ready to behave?” she asks, her head rotating to the side in question.
I narrow my eyes, but manage a nod.
When she lifts her hand from my mouth, I say, “What are you?” Mr. Jackson’s lessons about the various witch gangs flash through my head like a series of study cards.
“Not a very good witch hunter if you can’t even identify your prey, are yow?” she says, running a pink tongue over her white teeth. “Which makes me wonder…”
“Where are the children?” I say evenly, once more tightening my arms against my bonds. Sharp cords bite into my skin and I realize I’m tied to a table.
Next to me, there’s a muffled whine. I crane my neck to find Hex in a chicken cage, his mouth muzzled. He looks at me with big, apologetic eyes.
