by David Estes
Chapter Forty-Seven
There’s no need to break a window; every house on the mountain is wide open. We pick one that has a long driveway and is partially obscured by trees and its neighboring houses. The moment Bil curls up on a dusty old couch, Laney and I agree to take turns keeping watch.
I’m thankful when Laney volunteers for first watch, because my eyelids are heavier than a concrete block tied to a corpse’s feet.
She wakes me up four minutes later. Except it’s really four hours later.
“You look like hell,” Laney says. I want to say So do you, but exhaustion doesn’t seem to touch her appearance.
“Anything?” I say.
“Nope. Looney Tunes has been sleeping like a baby. In this screwed up world, I guess the crazy ones are able to get a good night’s rest, while the rest of us toss and turn.”
“Was I…”
“Tossing and turning? Yep. I’m glad I wasn’t sleeping next to you or I’d look like Rocky after his last boxing match. You were mumbling in your sleep, too.”
I’m tempted to ask what I was saying, but the smirk on her lips tells me the embarrassment wouldn’t be worth the knowledge. As Laney steals a pillow from under Bil and stretches out on the floor, I try to remember what I might have been dreaming about, but there’s nothing but a big blank hole in my memory.
I don’t feel rested. My eyes sting. My shoulder is a tight ball of pain. Avenging my friends is just a river crossing away—well, two river crossings, technically—and yet getting there feels impossible. Not with thousands of witches standing in the way.
Did I think this was going to be easy? If I ever did, because of some stupid form of teenage male belief in invincibility, or because I almost defeated Mr. Jackson on that life-changing day, I don’t anymore. If nothing else, the miles and battles have taught me that nothing in life comes easy anymore. Maybe they never did.
Because of how late it was when we finally settled down for the night, the light of dawn is already finding its way through the windows. Bored, I climb the stairs to the second floor and peer out the window to see if I can see the city. I can just make out the dark cloud that shrouded the city last night. If I could get a little higher…
The pull-down ladder to the attic creaks with each step. The area is no more than a storage crawl space with more head room in the middle where the roof comes to a point. I push forward on elbows and knees, coughing when I suck in a mouthful of kicked up dust. A dirty circular window provides a northern view, like an all-seeing eye. I clean the window with the back of my shirtsleeve.
The devastated city appears, the scene so different than it looked last night.
In daylight, Pittsburgh is so shrouded in rising mist it’s as if an artist has painted the city on a landscape, just smudges and nondescript brush strokes. An abstract creation. And to the west…
Something catches my eye, barely. A darting shape, quick and lithe and gone.
Did I imagine it?
There it is again: a dark swirl of fur flashes past a tree and forms a there-and-then-gone arc as it deftly leaps over a wooden fence and into the backyard.
The black blur takes shape as it stops suddenly, sniffing the air.
No.
It can’t be.
Flora the panther Shifter looks up at me with bright yellow eyes.
She smiles a knife-sharp smile.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The attic steps don’t creak on the way down, because my feet don’t touch them. THUD! I land heavily on the floorboards, but I’m already moving forward to the stairs, taking them two at a time, my hand brushing the rail to steady myself.
Hex is barking his head off.
I swing around the bottom of the banister and into the den and I—
Freeze.
Numb horror washes over me.
Flora’s got Laney, her claws out and a hairsbreadth away from her neck, from slashing her open, from releasing her life to the open air. Laney’s jaw is tight and her eyes narrow with defiance. If she’s scared, I can’t tell.
Trish is standing nearby, watching, her mouth closed for the moment. Can she scream fast enough to kill Flora before the witch slices her claws across her sister’s neck? Probably not. It’s too risky. I only hope that the nine-year-old witch is thinking the same way.
Hex stops barking when he sees me. It seems even his magic is helpless with Laney in such a precarious position.
And Bil…a shock runs through me when I realize Bil’s nowhere to be seen.
“Hell-ow, Rhett Carter,” Flora says. Hearing a full-fledged panther speak raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Let her go,” I say, because that’s what I’m supposed to say, right? I draw my sword.
The panther laughs, a yowling cackle that’s more scary than funny. Perhaps having a magic dog is better than a magic cat. “Yow’re making this harder than it has to be.”
“Don’t do what she says, Carter,” Laney says, making eye contact.
“Where’s the rest of your gang?” I ask, trying to keep her talking. Maybe she’ll let her guard down and Trish, Hex or I can make a move. “They didn’t escape the Siren?”
She laughs again. I really wish she’d stop doing that. “They were weak. I was always the leader of that gang. They just never knew it.”
My head’s heating up and starting to feel like it might explode. I’m not sure if it’s ninety percent anger and ten percent fear, or the opposite, but it’s making it harder to stand still and keep talking. “They treated you like a child,” I point out.
“And they’re all dead nowww,” she says. “The Siren and that smelly old warlock kept us busy until yow could escape.” So Martin is a warlock. I knew it! But why was he trying to save us? “But after they retreated, I killed the other Shifters anywayyy.”
Thud thud…thud thud… My heart hammers in my chest as I realize the extent of the potential violence trapped inside the dark fur of the natural hunter standing before me. Laney could be dead in less than a second. I’m helpless. I try to gulp down a swallow, but the dry saliva sticks in my throat. “You killed your gang?”
“Yow look surprised, witch hunter. I was only using them. They failed, so I decided to go solo.” Her yellow eyes shine as a burst of dawn streams through the window. “And now it’s time to claim my prize. Yow.”
“What does the Reaper want with me?” I ask.
“Don’t knowww, don’t care,” she says, her tail twitching behind her. “But they’ve promised me great power and all the children’s blood I could possibly ever need to work my magic. So do me a favor and drop yowr sword and allow my…associates…to bind yow.”
I feel a presence behind me. Two warlocks close in on either side, bright white ropes in their hands.
“If I go without a struggle, you’ll let her go?” I say.
“No,” Flora says. “But I won’t kill her. Take the deal or she dies nowww.”
I’m about to add Trish and Hex to the no-kill deal, when Hex slowly pads toward Trish, away from Flora. “Tell yowr dog to stop,” Flora hisses.
“Hex,” I say, but it’s no surprise when he ignores me. Trish extends a hand, which Hex nuzzles into, and then, they vanish.
“No!” Flora growls. “Bring them back!”
I’m thinking Holy crap, Hex, you’re the best, most awesome dog in the whole world, but I manage to keep a straight face. “I wish I could,” I say. “Do we have a deal or not?”
Although her bared teeth say otherwise, she says, “Yes,” and though there’s a good chance she’s lying, I have no choice but to hope she’s not.
My sword clatters to the ground, where one of the warlocks collects it while the other one roughly binds my hands together, shooting needles of pain through my arrow wound. Taking deep breaths, I try not to show my discomfort. The rope is pulsing against my skin, clearly charged with some form of magic. I hold my breath and stare at Flora’s claws, long spikes jutting out into the background of Laney’s white neck. “We had a de
al,” I say.
“Yow’re just lucky the Reaper wants her alive, too,” she says. “Because our deal was meaningless.”
She drops her claws and I exhale.
~~~
Wind whips through us as we march across the Fort Pitt Bridge, the morning mist leaving the air wet and cold. Laney’s blond locks lash at her face, but she remains stoic. Her never-say-die demeanor gives me strength.
“Whatever this is,” she says. “We’ll escape.”
“Shut it or I’ll kill yow anyway and face the consequences,” Flora says, rubbing up against Laney’s hip. “I expect lapping up yowr blood would be worth any loss of reward from the Necros.”
“Leave her alone,” I say, “or you’ll have to drag my dead body from the river.” I take a step toward the edge of the bridge, where the railing appears to be a pathetically low barrier next to my wide receiver height.
“Yow wouldn’t,” Flora says, calling my bluff. She’s right, of course.
I sigh. “Let’s just get on with it.”
“They might not let me kill yow,” Flora says, batting my face with the tip of her tail. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t let me do other things.”
Although revulsion tears me apart from the inside, I hide it, striding down the bridge faster than before. Being thrown in front of the Necros would almost seem like a relief after dealing with the psychopathic Shifter.
On the other side of the bridge, the city is a warzone. Glass and stone and steel beams lean against the surviving buildings. Entire streets are blocked off by the rubble, where crushed cars poke out like metal tongues.
We skirt the southwestern edge of the city, into a corner of brown grass that juts out into the intersecting rivers. Point State Park a sign reads. Bound and marching along the river, I wonder about Trish and Hex. Where they are, whether they’re safe. I don’t know if Hex can read minds—I wouldn’t be surprised if he could—but I push my thoughts toward him. Stay with Trish. Don’t try anything heroic. Stay away. Knowing him, he’ll do the opposite.
I also wonder where Bil ran off to. Did he know the Shifter was coming? Was he the one who alerted her to our presence? I wouldn’t put it past him. If so, our capture is my fault. I never should’ve let him inside our circle.
Water laps at the shore. A family of ducks quack along the edge. One of the warlocks raises a finger and the ducks go crazy all of a sudden, pecking at each other, flapping their wings, stomping their webbed feet. I watch in captive horror as blood and feathers fly until they’re all dead. All except one, which, seeming to realize what it’s done, flies high in the air, and then dives downward, hurling itself onto the rocks with a sickening Crunch-thwap!, its body going still.
Flora and the warlocks laugh. “I like yow guys,” she says. “Hallucinators are so useful sometimes.”
Hallucinators, I think, as Laney says, “Freaking sickos.”
“I’ll give you sick,” the duck-abusing warlock says, raising a finger in Laney’s direction.
Instinctively, I step forward, between him and her.
My mouth is full of sand and I can’t breathe and I can’t think and my head’s spinning and I’m drowning in dirt and grit and…
“No!” I growl, realizing I’m on my knees and sucking in deep breaths, my fingers halfway in my mouth, digging at something that’s not there.
Laney’s crouched beside me, her hands tied behind her back, her face flush with concern. “Are you okay? You were gagging.”
“Fine,” I gasp.
“What the—” the warlock says, his finger still pointing in my direction.
“He broke yowr spell?” Flora says, her yellow eyes flashing with surprise.
“Uh, no, I must’ve lost concentration, severed the link.”
But even as I remove my fingers from my mouth and take another deep swallow of air, I can feel him probing in my mind, trying to twist things, break things, create things…that aren’t really there. The taste of sand, gritty and earthy, is still in my mouth. But he can’t reproduce the fullness of the illusion. Somehow I’m stopping him, willing his magic away, fighting back.
But how?
I can’t answer my own question.
“Interesting,” Flora says. “The Reaper will want to hear about this. After all, he’s the one who put up the reward for the both of yow.”
~~~
Twice Laney tries to whisper something to me, but both times it earns her a hard slap in the back of the head from one of the warlocks.
So we walk in silence, crossing another bridge to a large sheet of pavement. A parking lot, of all things. But it’s what’s next to the endless, sectioned parking lot that matters. Heinz Field, once home of the Pittsburgh Steelers, the city’s professional football team, now lair to one of the most powerful and notorious witch gangs on the face of the planet, rises up in a demonstration of the engineering power of humankind. The new home of the Necros. And their leader, the Reaper.
And surrounding the field, spread out in an arcing circle of bodies, are witches and warlocks, their arms raised to the sky in unison. Immediately, I know what they are.
“Wardens,” I whisper.
“Yow’re as smart as yow look,” Flora says. “Nothing’s getting through the protection spells that are maintained by the Wardens.” As we walk between two of the witches, who more or less ignore us, the panther adds ironically, “Yow’ve just entered the safest place in the world, although it’ll probably kill yow.”
Once more, Laney tries to speak. “That’s fascinating, Cat-Woman. Almost as fascinating as the name Reaper, which sounds like the stupid made-up title of some video game boss,” she says. The warlock tries to whack her but she’s ready and dodges out of the way. “So melodramatic and predictable. These Necromancers have no imagination.” The warlock swipes again and connects with Laney’s ear. She grimaces but doesn’t stop talking. “I’ll bet he’s shorter than me. A miserable, shriveled up old ma—”
“Silence, human!” Flora hisses. She pounces on Laney, her teeth bared, her claws out.
I kick one of the warlocks and run toward the Shifter, but the other warlock tackles me and holds me down. I struggle futilely against him, but without my arms to help, I’m no better than a crushed worm squirming under a boot.
“One more outburst from yow and I’ll slash yowr throat and drink yowr blood,” Flora says, releasing Laney.
She muscles to her feet and mutters, “Always with the blood-drinking thing. Can’t you come up with a better threat?” The big black cat gives her an evil look and she shuts up.
“Hurry up,” Flora says. “It’s time for me to claim my prize.”
We enter the concrete-and-metal structure through an entrance marked “Players Only.” The hallway is long and blazing with torchlight. The air has a metallic taste to it; flecks and smears of dried blood coat the walls and floor in a way that almost makes it look like chipped red paint.
“Nice place,” I say dryly.
“Yow’d better learn to keep yowr thoughts to yowrself before yow face the Reaper,” Flora warns. “Surely a warlock like him will have more use for yow dead than alive.”
“If that was the case, he’d be dead already,” Laney shoots back, making me smile. And for once, she doesn’t earn a smack from her guard. Perhaps because she’s right.
There are a number of unlit spaces shooting off to the right and left of the hallway, swarming with shadows, and I’m glad when we skirt past them without stopping. In the distance, there’s a wide swathe of white light, like a hole in the flickering orange torchlight. The entrance to the field, I realize, where the players would normally storm onto the gridiron, zinging with energy, the crowd cheering, music playing, adrenaline pumping. Something I’d done many times before, albeit in front of a much smaller crowd than would assemble to watch the Steelers.
Our entrance is much more muted, although just as dramatic. We walk into the open to an eerie tide of whispering voices, like static coming through a surround-sound sp
eaker system.
“My God…” Laney murmurs as we both take it all in, scanning the bleachers. Black-cloaked figures line the arena, their thick hoods casting deep shadows over their faces. Destroyers circle overhead, like bats, some of them dragging witch-carrying chariots. Bil Nez wasn’t lying. There are thousands of witches in Pittsburgh.
A hush falls across the stadium like a wave, as one hood after another becomes aware of our presence, turning toward us, countless eyes pointing in our direction.
This is supposed to be my grand moment, when I face those who destroyed my life. Who took the only people I cared about from this world.
We’re screwed, is the only thought that pops into my head.
A sharp instrument prods me in the back, and I realize one of the warlocks, the mighty duck-slayer, is urging me forward with my own sword. As we move further onto the field, I manage to tear my gaze away from the sea of Necros and flying witches.
A weird sort of thrill-fear buzzes in my head. For, placed across the field in perfect rows, almost like a giant checkerboard, are hundreds—no, thousands—of iron cauldrons, smoke curling from them in finger-like tendrils. The cauldrons are all different sizes, some exceptionally large, like vats, and others so small Hex wouldn’t even fit in them.
Either the Necros are attempting to get in the Guinness Book of World Records for the largest simultaneous witch’s brew, or they’re in the process of performing some very dark magic. And the Necros only deal in one kind of magic: the dead-raising kind.
As if on cue, one of the smaller cauldrons shoots a plume of fire into the air and starts shaking. A green-slime-covered hand shoots straight up, fingers spread, ooze dripping like mucous membrane down the arm. My stomach curls and bile rises in my throat as another hand appears, and then a foot, all working in a bizarre jerky dance to clamber over the lip of the pot.
The…thing—which is the only name I can come up with for it—rolls out and onto the field, moaning from a lipless mouth, its skin the color of human flesh.
Laney makes a vomit noise. “What is that thing?” she says.
