Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  Hex licks my hand and begins to glow a deep blue, barely illuminating the space. “I know, boy,” I say. “I wish they were here, too.” He licks my hand again as I take in the room. Hardwood floors, a bricked fireplace, a sofa in front of a wide TV stand with no TV on it. Either there are some really dumb human scavengers sitting in front of a blank TV getting no signal, or the witches have figured out how to use their powers to watch old episodes of Seinfeld. Or Tillman Huckle is using it to play video games.

  Connected to the living area is an open kitchen. The cabinets are flung open, as well as the refrigerator, which is dark inside. Every last shelf is empty.

  Security first, I think, easily returning to my old habits. Check the house. With Hex lighting the way, I walk a circle around the bottom floor, checking potential hiding spots in closets and behind doors for squatters. Lightning occasionally provides an extra burst of illumination through the windows, which are surprisingly still intact.

  Next we make our way upstairs to the second floor, more than half the steps creaking heavily under my weight. If there’s anyone here, they’ll definitely know I’m coming. Each of the beds in the five bedrooms has been stripped bare of sheets and blankets. Even still, it will feel good to crash on one of the mattresses. Hex looks under beds and in corners while I open closets and wardrobes.

  We check the master bath last. The door is closed, which is strange, considering how everything else is pretty much wide open.

  The smell hits me well before I open the door, the stink wafting beneath it.

  I don’t want to look, but the pungent odor only means it’s an even better hiding spot if someone is here. Easing open the door, I use my thumb and forefinger to pinch my nostrils shut while my right hand drifts to the hilt of my sword.

  Hex shines his light across the space.

  I gag once, twice, but then gain control, looking away from the bathtub. Taking two quick steps forward, I pull the shower curtain across the rod, feeling like a coroner placing a blanket over a corpse. But hiding the image in the tub doesn’t erase it from my mind. Instead, the image seems to sharpen further, the details becoming clearer, as if my mind is only now catching up to my eyes.

  A woman, fully clothed, the exposed flesh of her arms yellow and mottled and falling off her bones, half-submerged in a tub full of water. Her eyes white and blank and wide open, locked in an eternal stare. Her long, partially dried dark hair fanned out around her. A red hairdryer floating beside her, the long black cord still visible, protruding from beneath the curtain, hooked up to some sort of battery-powered generator.

  Bile pushes into my throat but I swallow it down, trying to erase an image that’s impossible to erase.

  Although I’m by no means an expert, I’ve seen a fair number of corpses since the witch apocalypse fell on the world like an executioner’s scythe. And this one is reasonably fresh, no more than a few weeks old. And obviously, her death was self-inflicted by electrocution. She couldn’t take it anymore; not the fear or the loneliness or something else even more powerful.

  This is normally where the bitter acid of anger would roil in my gut, tightening my muscles and urging me toward revenge, but instead I feel only sad. For where hope is gone, life is empty and meaningless.

  That’s when I remember something I’d forgotten. This fight isn’t about killing witches; it’s about giving hope back to the world. It’s not about my own personal vendettas; it’s about saving what little humanity is left before we’re all extinct. And like I told Laney, I’m one of only three Resistors who have a chance to make a difference. At the time I told her I should use my abilities for revenge, but that’s not right. I have a responsibility to defend the world, or what’s left of it. And if that’s what New America’s doing, then that’s where I need to be. President Washington may have thought I was just another threat to her cause, but I’ll prove to her that I’m not—that we’re on the same side. Maybe we’ll make a great team. Maybe having her to guide me will make anything possible.

  I take a step onto the tile floor.

  “Ouch! Dammit!”

  I feel the bite of something sharp in my heel. Hex pushes between my legs to cast a blue glow across the floor. Silvery shards of glass blanket the surface. Hobbling on one foot, I glance to the right, where a large mirror sits above the sink. The mirror is shattered, but still relatively intact, only about a tenth of the glass having fallen to the floor. A message, still decipherable despite the cracks and missing glass, is written in red lipstick.

  Goodbye world, it reads.

  Behind the message is the face of a stranger, dark-skinned and heavy-browed, wearing a frown so deep it could go all the way to the center of the earth.

  The stranger is me.

  I barely recognize my own face, the new man I’ve become, a million miles and experiences away from the distraught teenager hiding under one of Mr. Jackson’s blankets on his couch. Stronger and more resilient, but darker, too. A killer, not by choice, but by necessity.

  Right?

  The stranger looks away and so do I.

  ~~~

  The morning presents itself with a slash of light in my eyes. I groan and shield my face. Under the shade provided by my cupped hand, I slowly open my eyes.

  Two dark eyes stare at me from two inches away, above a grinning mouth.

  “Morning, Hex,” I say.

  My dog responds by drooling on the mattress.

  “Someday we might be living in a real house together and there’s no way you’ll be sleeping on the bed with me, you know that?” I say.

  Hex licks his chops as if to say, Yeah, right.

  I sigh because I know he’s right. From the number of times Hex has saved my life he’s earned a lifetime spot on the bed. Perhaps I’ll be the one sleeping on the floor or in a doggie bed.

  As if reading my mind, Hex aims a tongue swipe at my lips, but I’m too quick, pulling back and tumbling out of bed. Hex stands tall on the bed, looking down on me. He barks. That’s more like it, he seems to say.

  My eyes pass over the room. Floral wallpaper. A ceiling fan. A nightstand, empty save for a single wooden frame, surrounding a photo of a seemingly happy family. A guy wearing a huge smile, a checkered shirt, and overalls, balding on top. A young girl with pigtails dangling across each shoulder, her smile made perfect by the two missing teeth in front. A woman, her smile more subdued, almost sly, like she’s tricked the world into giving her the perfect life. She’s wearing red lipstick.

  The lipstick is the same deep shade of red as the one used to write the suicide message on the bathroom mirror.

  Hex barks again and I couldn’t agree more: Time to go.

  I scramble to my feet and grab my pack, determined to beat him at something, but before I can reach the stairs he’s already past me, bounding to the bottom, skidding on the wooden floorboards. He waits at the door patiently, looking back at me expectantly and wagging his tail as if to say, What took you so long?

  “Hungry?” I ask. More wagging. “We’ll eat outside today. We can’t let an awesome porch like this go to waste.”

  I start to open the door and Hex squeezes out before I can get it fully open. I laugh, but when I see the vastness of the fields surrounding the house I go quiet. It’s an awfully big world and if I’m going to try to find New Washington I’d best get going soon.

  I have to try.

  Although the storm has passed on, a portion of it remains in my second set of clothes, which are still saturated. Unless I want to be forced to wear my yellow duck shirt every day, I’ll have to wait a bit longer to let them dry.

  When I drop my pack to hang the clothes on the porch railing in the sun, Hex unzips the backpack. I’m not joking. He actually unzips it. I’m not sure how, as I only hear it, but when I look back he’s got his snout in the bag. A moment later he emerges with a pack of beef jerky we scavenged from a gas station convenience store; three days ago Hex found it hidden under a rack of old risqué magazines that had toppled over. I’ve
never met a dog that liked beef jerky as much as Hex.

  “Breakfast is served,” I say wryly, watching as he manages to tear it open with his teeth, gobbling up half the bag before I finish with the wet laundry.

  Sitting next to him on a classic rocking chair, I feel around for my own breakfast, playing a game Laney invented called Mystery Breakfast. Rather than choosing your breakfast, you must eat whatever you happen to grab first. Something hard bangs off my knuckles and I snatch it.

  Huh?

  It’s definitely not a can. In fact, it feels like a…

  I pull the object out, still not convinced my sense of touch knows what the hell it’s talking about. I suck in a breath when I see I was exactly right.

  The object is a recording device.

  I let out my held breath and take a deep gulp, because it’s not just any recording device.

  It’s the same one that the beggar warlock had on the night after the Necros were attacked by New America. The same device that told me he was my father.

  Chapter Six

  Laney

  There’s a bright red light and the bullet stops in midair, hovering for a moment before slowly moving back toward me. When the cursed metal projectile reaches me, it stops, defying gravity as it floats.

  I reach out a hand and grab it. Ouch! I drop the metal slug, which is too hot to hold, either from being fired or the effect of the Siren’s magic or a combination of both. Once more, I aim the gun at the witch, who doesn’t move, but this time I don’t fire.

  “Where’s my sister?” I say. I feel a tremble in my hands but I stiffen my grip on the Glock to try to hide it.

  “She’s safe,” the Siren says.

  No. “Where. The. Hell. Is. She?”

  “Laney,” the Siren coos. I grit my teeth at the sound of my name on her model-perfect lips. “You can’t help her with what she has to do. You don’t even know what she is.”

  What does she have to do? What is she?

  “I already know she’s a witch,” I say. Or does she mean more specifically? “She’s a Claire. She’s powerful. More powerful than you.”

  The Siren laughs. “You know nothing of power, human. Power is the President of New America moving her chess pieces around the board. Power is the Reaper raising the dead. Power is me stopping your magical bullets with little more than a thought.”

  I clench my jaw and tighten my muscles until they start to ache. “I’d like to see you stop my bullets when I shove my gun up your a—”

  “Silence!” she says. “I’ve had more than enough of your insults and empty threats.”

  “Empty?” I say. Any fear I have left is burned away by my rising anger, and in a heartbeat I understand Rhett’s desire for revenge. I stride toward the witch, aiming the gun at her head, which is smiling a perfect smile, but then, at the last second I dip my aim lower, to her legs, and squeeze the trigger.

  The effect is instantaneous. Like before there’s a blinding flash of red light, but this time I can feel the force of it, pushing me back, shoving me hard, throwing me across the small cabin. But at the same time there’s a glittering burst of purple and the Siren shrieks in pain as her legs buckle beneath her.

  I land on my butt and skid a few feet before colliding with the wall and stopping, even as the Siren screams, “You little bitch!”

  “Better than being a witch,” I say, growling through the pain lancing from my tailbone up my spine.

  The Siren is squirming in pain, her perfect long legs mangled and bent. I stand and cross the room once more, watching in awe as her legs morph to those of a child’s, to a man’s, to something reptilian and scaly, and then back to being long and smooth. I press the gun to her head.

  “Time to talk,” I say.

  ~~~

  The spray of magical bullets punctured her in at least six places. “How are you not dead?” I ask, picturing the dozens of witches I previously shot with the magged-up Glock, back at Heinz Field. Each one vanished in a purple haze.

  “Ignorant fool,” she spits.

  “The fool is the one with bullet holes in her legs,” I say, not missing a beat. Grabbing her hair, I press the Glock sharply into her temple. “Now answer my freaking questions or you’ll be a dead fool.”

  “I’m not dead because I’m not some pathetic subclass witch. I’m a Changeling. Ever heard of them?”

  “Yes,” I say. But I thought she was a… “But aren’t you a Siren?” I remember Rhett talking about how he was constantly fighting her allure, a physical pull toward her. I’d experienced the Call of a Siren once before, and it wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

  “Only when I want to be,” she says.

  I blink as a light bulb blazes in my brain. It all makes sense now. How this witch was able to do so many different things, become so many different types of witches, with varying powers. Rhett had told me how she shot lightning bolts at him the first time he ran into her. Another time it was spell casting.

  “You’re an actress,” I say.

  “A Changeling,” she says, clutching her leg, which is now bleeding profusely from the bullet holes. “I’m not dead because the spell I cast on your bullet removed its curse just before it split apart and entered my skin. But thanks for trying to kill me.”

  “I was only taking the initiative before you did the same to me,” I say.

  “I wasn’t going to kill you, stupid girl.”

  “So you claim,” I say, pressing the gun even harder into her skull. “Where’s my sister?”

  “With her kind,” she says.

  “The Claires?” I say, remembering Trish’s words from earlier. Where I go…you cannot. Be brave.

  It hits me like a punch in the face. She left me. But wait…

  “The Claires are all dead,” I say. “Trish is the only one left.”

  The Changeling laughs and grimaces at the same time. “The Claires don’t die the way the rest of us do,” she says. “Death is but a temporary state of being for their kind. And with your sister’s powers starting to come alive…”

  “What?” I say.

  “They have a Mother again.”

  What? “That makes no sense. Trish is only a kid. She’s—”

  My gun hammers against the floor as the Siren—Changeling—whatever—disappears.

  “No!” I scream, rising to my feet and whirling around, expecting her to attack from behind.

  She’s hurt. I hurt her. She won’t be coming back anytime soon.

  “Dammit!” I roar. “No no no no no!” Rage pulses through my blood, molten and burning, turning every heartbeat to thunder, every thought to chaos.

  I aim the Glock at the wall and pull the trigger.

  Boom!

  There’s a poof of purple mist and a series of holes appear in the wall, just as the first rays of morning sunlight spray through the cabin window.

  The magical gun has no kick and the simple act of shooting it feels so good, like a release. I aim at another wall and…

  Boom!

  Although I know I’m acting crazy and that the poor cabin walls and roof deserve better, I can’t stop. I fire shot after shot, until I can’t see, until the purple fog hangs low and thick, tingling my skin.

  As the purple haze begins to clear I see the result of my handiwork. There are bullet holes everywhere, but the weird thing is that there’s stuff growing out of the holes.

  There’s a purple rose with red thorns, and a purple vine, twisting and gnarled, and a strange bulbous cactus—purple, of course. Purple honey oozes from several of the holes. A mix of aromatic aromas pervades even the musty odor of the long-deserted cabin.

  Yet another surprise from our favorite magical weapons dealer, Tillman Huckle, his obsession with the color purple going way overboard this time.

  A chuckle escapes my lips but I choke on it, the sob arising before I can cut it off.

  She’s gone. Trish is gone.

  My back to the wall, I slide to the floor, the Glock dropping from my fin
gers, which suddenly don’t have the strength to grip it.

  All alone.

  And when the fury is gone, what’s left? Despair and loneliness and unshed tears. Another sob slips out, but no tears accompany it, for which I’m glad.

  That’s when I hear it: a crunch. Loud and distinct, like a boot stepping on dry underbrush.

  My heart seems to stop as I freeze, my ears focused on the morning sounds. Wait, what morning sounds? I don’t hear anything—not even birdsong.

  CRUNCH!

  The noise is louder, closer. A big animal, maybe? A bear? Do they even have bears where I am? Where am I anyway? Is this still Pennsylvania or somewhere else? Maryland? I was trying to head north but maybe I messed up and went south, getting turned around in the woods.

  A slamming sound shakes the floorboards and cabin walls, forcing me to hold back a raw scream rising in my throat. What is that?

  Then I realize how stupid I’ve been. The blasts from my gun, my own personal Glock symphony, would’ve been heard for miles. I might as well have shot off fireworks that exploded to reveal a fiery message high in the sky: I’M HERE! COME GET ME!

  The magic-born have found me.

  And I’m all alone.

  I grab my instrument of choice.

  Chapter Seven

  Trish

  Her sister is a rock that cannot be crushed. That knowledge is the only thing that allows Trish to leave her, like a ghost in the night. That and the red-haired Changeling who said she’d explain everything to Laney, in a way she herself cannot. Trish’s voice is growing stronger by the day, but still, she cannot seem to find the right words.

  When Trish felt the power coursing through her that night, she was changed forever. When her parents fell to the floor, the life gone from their bodies, it was as if she awakened from a heavy sleep. She didn’t grieve for them, for she knew what was in their dark minds—what they were going to do to her sister.