Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  I know exactly who he means—the last warlock we saw Xave with. “Felix,” I say.

  Hearing his boyfriend’s name makes his brown eyes flash open, swimming with emotion. “He was weak from maintaining his Wards for so long, protecting the stadium from the missiles.” He takes a deep swallow, but his eyes never leave mine. “But before the bulk of the rockets hit, he found the last of his strength, somewhere deep inside him. He told me he”—he chokes, coughs, continues—“loved me.”

  God. “Then what?” Do I really care? I’m surprised to find myself feeling sorry for him.

  “His last Ward surrounded me, like a fortress of glass, except it was created from magic. His magic. And then everything was fire and smoke and debris and I couldn’t see him—couldn’t find his eyes. He was gone. I could only hope that he died without pain, before the bombs hit. He saved my life.”

  His eyes are red, his face sheened with a blanket of tears.

  And despite how much I’ve hated Xave from the moment I met him and realized what he was, despite how much I wanted Rhett to see that his best friend was gone forever, I wrap my arm around his hunched shoulders and pull him into my neck as he sobs into my skin.

  At the same time I have the urge to strangle him.

  ~~~

  “My turn,” the Reaper says much later on, when the sun is well past its peak and the trees are casting late-afternoon shadows across our makeshift camp.

  After Xave apologized for soaking my shirt with his tears, I lay down for some much needed sleep after my harrowing night. I didn’t even worry about whether the Necros would do anything; if they wanted to kill me, they’d have done it already. And anyway, I have nothing left to lose.

  Even still, I couldn’t sleep for an hour. The pain of Xave’s story had left me shattered, which I hated. He didn’t deserve my compassion, not after everything he put Rhett through. And yet, it felt so wrong to say.

  Eventually, however, I slept, my dreams filled with images of Trish, sometimes alone in the forest, sometimes screaming at the sky, sometimes transforming into the red-haired Changeling.

  Now I’m sitting across from the Reaper and Xave. Father and son. Xave’s face is dry again, his eyes clear.

  “Where’s your sister?” the Reaper asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  The Reaper stares at me for a few seconds before blinking, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. “Look at me that way again and I’ll fill you with cursed steel,” I say.

  His eyebrows go up, practically all the way to the treetops. “I’ve forgotten how…abrasive you can be,” he says. Is that a grin that Xave just flashed me? If so, it’s gone even quicker than it appeared.

  “Look, douchebag, I’m not going to lie to you—if I don’t want to tell you something, I’ll say I don’t want to tell you. But when it comes to my sister, I don’t have the slightest freaking clue where the hell she is. What I do know is that the red Siren showed up in this cabin, only she’s not a Siren at all, she’s a Changeling, and my sister was gone and the freaking Siren/Changeling/Witch—whatever she is—said Trish left to meet up with her kind.” I realize I’ve been rambling and haven’t taken a breath for a while, so I stop and fill my lungs. The Reaper’s mouth is open slightly, as if he wants to say something. “Any questions?” I say. “Because if not I’m going to go find my sister.”

  “Wait,” the Reaper says, just as I stand up. “Sit.”

  I don’t like being told what to do, so I stay standing. “What now?” I say.

  He scratches his chin, as if trying to figure out where to start. Just to piss him off, I put my hands on my hips and tap one toe impatiently. “I don’t have all day,” I say.

  “You’re saying the Siren is a Changeling?” the Reaper says.

  “Did I not speak English?” I say.

  He nods, murmurs under his breath. “That explains a lot.”

  “It did for me, too,” I admit.

  “I’ve been such a fool,” he says.

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Let the fox right into the henhouse…”

  “You said some…things about the Changelings,” I say. “Before. When you were keeping us prisoner.”

  “For your own protection,” he says.

  “So you say.”

  “So I say,” he says. He raises a hand to cut off my retort, which is hot and bitter on the tip of my tongue. “I don’t want to fight,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. Okay. He’s right. Arguing won’t solve anything at this point. If he has information, I need to get it out of him. “About the Changelings…” I say.

  Xave chimes in. “We don’t know much about what they’ve been up to, only the rumors.”

  “And what are the rumors?” I ask, finally sitting down, on my own terms.

  “The other witch gangs say the Changelings are ruthless,” the Reaper says.

  “Ruthless like raising an army of the dead or ruthless like putting out a blanket order for corpses?” I say.

  The Reaper sighs, massages his chest. The truth hurts sometimes. “We made mistakes. I made mistakes. I shouldn’t have trusted the other witch gangs to gather only already dead corpses.”

  “They murdered for you.”

  “I know. I should’ve expected it, but we were desperate.”

  “Desperate for…corpses,” I say, not hiding my disgust.

  “I’m not asking you to understand,” he says. “Only to listen. The Necros are weak in all other forms of magic, but for some reason we have a talent for Reanimation.” He makes it sound like he works for Pixar, but I grit my teeth and manage to stay silent. “Our only defense against the other witch gangs is in the strength of our Reanimates.”

  “Yeah. Dead people. I got it,” I say sarcastically.

  The Reaper looks at the sky, as if praying for patience. I’m about to tell him that he’s the last person God would listen to, but Xave speaks first. “The Changelings are rumored to be leading all other witch gangs in the number of humans killed,” he says.

  “What is it—a competition?” I say.

  “Yes,” the Reaper says. “Not to us, of course, but to many of the other witch gangs it is just that. A competition. But not just humans. Each other, too. There are stories of the Changelings slaughtering entire witch gangs on their own. They’re able to infiltrate pockets of human survivors and witch gangs alike, by impersonating people. It’s an extremely deadly skill to have.”

  “I don’t get what that has to do with my sister,” I say, ignoring the fact that the Reaper is still trying to separate the Necromancers from all the other witch gangs. As if.

  “I don’t trust the red Changeling,” the Reaper says.

  “Why?” I ask, curious.

  “There’s much you don’t know about witch history,” he says.

  I know next to nothing, so I say, “So educate me.”

  “I was on the Witch Council. Rhett’s father, too. There were ten others, the most powerful witches and warlocks in each magical specialty. When it came to the topic of Salem’s Revenge, the Council was split right down the middle. I was a quiet dissenter. Rhett’s father was not. That’s what got him in trouble.”

  “Martin Carter,” I say, trying to picture the raggedy old beggar as a powerful warlock, standing up for the rights of humankind.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  The Reaper strokes his chin, his eyes distant, as if reliving a vivid memory. “Secretly, the head of the Council had Rhett’s mother killed. It was as much to entice Martin to anger as to remove her from the picture. It worked. Martin flew into a rage, came to the next Council meeting looking for vengeance.”

  Vengeance. The word makes my blood run cold. It’s what Rhett is now seeking, on behalf of Beth. Will it leave Rhett in a similar state to his father? “I’ve seen him,” I say. “He can’t speak. He has no tongue.”

  A flash of pain seems to slide across his expression, touching every part of his fa
ce before disappearing. “They cut it out with a knife made from cursed steel. It will never grow back and he can’t use his own magic to regain the power of speech.”

  Ugh. I don’t want to hear any more, so I stay silent.

  But the Reaper isn’t done. “I knew exactly who my allies on the Council were,” he continues. “But that was many years ago and alliances change quickly in our world. The biggest enigma, however, was the Changeling on the Council.”

  His revelation sucks me back into the conversation. “The red witch,” I say.

  “Yes, although I’ve only just realized she’s the same witch. Her powers of deception are…advanced.”

  “So you don’t know if she’s friend or foe?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Sometimes the line between the two is blurry as it is, and she’s been particularly vigilant in hiding her hand.”

  I picture the red witch in the cabin, gloating about my sister. I remember the anger, curling through me. I remember the satisfaction I felt pulling the trigger.

  “I don’t trust the red Changeling,” the Reaper repeats.

  “Neither do I,” I say, before I can stop myself. If the Reaper realizes I just agreed with him on something for the first time, he doesn’t show it in his expression.

  “She told you your sister left to be with her people, the Claires,” he says evenly.

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “What if she was really kidnapped?” the Reaper says.

  I’m not stupid. I had thought of that. “She can protect herself,” I say. “She would’ve done her all-powerful Clairvoyant thing and screamed her head off, killing whoever was trying to abduct her.”

  The Reaper frowns. “She’s that powerful?”

  Maybe I’ve said too much. I close my lips.

  “Okay, we can come back to that later,” he says. No we won’t, I think. “So if the Changeling didn’t kidnap your sister to try to use her powers, then it means the Changelings must have formed an alliance with the Claires.”

  A logical statement, one I hadn’t thought of. I don’t say a word, mulling over what a Changeling/Claire alliance might mean.

  “It makes no sense,” the Reaper says. “We had an agreement.”

  “An agreement with whom?” I ask.

  “The Claires,” the Reaper says. “Unknown to the Witch Council, the Claires and the Necros have been allies for a long time. Together we tried to stop Salem’s Revenge. Obviously we failed.”

  “But you told us that the Claires were nearly extinct. That my sister was in danger because she might be the last one.”

  “I lied,” the Reaper says.

  “Shocking,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Which means you could be lying now. About everything.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’d prefer to verify that with a polygraph,” I say. “Only I left my portable lie detector at home. Or I could torture you until the truth comes out. Your choice.”

  “Look, Laney, I’m sorry I lied to you. I was willing to do anything to find your sister. My main contact within the Claires said she was important to them and that the other witch gangs would be trying to find her. I told her I’d find your sister first.”

  “So the Claires really are still around?” I ask.

  He nods. “Very much so.”

  “But now they might’ve turned bad and allied with the Changelings, who are, by the way, the most ruthless human killers around?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” he says. This just keeps getting better and better.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry about my sister,” I say. “She’s not evil. She won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Laney, I know she’s just a kid, but once she becomes one of the Claires, they might change her. They have their ways.”

  It’s all too much. Too complicated. Too many players. Too many lies. Too much death and hate and violence. But amidst the swirling inferno of magic-born politics, there is one truth that will never change: I won’t give up on my sister. “Will you help me find her?” I ask. It’s a risk I have to take, even if it means I might have to find a way for both Trish and I to escape from the Necros later.

  “Of course,” the Reaper says. “In fact, one of the main reasons we happened to be in this area when we stumbled on your battle with the Slammers was that we got a tip that the Changelings were nearby.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’ll warm up my Glock.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Trish

  The sight of her children all around her fills her with joy so deep and endless it’s like the water of the ocean. Each of them are so much like her, and yet so different at the same time. Black, brown, pale, tanned, freckled, unblemished. Big eyes, small eyes, blue eyes, gray eyes, brown eyes. Older, younger. But all her children. She doesn’t fully understand how, only that it is true.

  They speak to her with closed lips.

  Mother, they say. Welcome.

  Eat. Drink. We have gathered a feast for your return.

  Thank you, my children, she says, the words coming to her mind without thought.

  A low table appears where there wasn’t one before. The oaken slab is laden with goblets of brightly colored liquids and dishes of shiny red and yellow apples, crimson cherries, and green pistachios.

  The earth provides, the willowy blond-haired woman says. No, not just a woman, she remembers. Her child. One of many.

  Eat, another child says, a tiny sprite of a girl with sparkling emerald eyes and a boyish haircut.

  Yes, eat, Mother, the other children echo, ushering her to the table, lowering her onto a tasseled pillow. They sit around her, laughing, happy.

  She feels…complete. As if an enormous hole in her heart has been filled. And yet…something is missing. No, someone.

  Laney, she tells them. My sister.

  She cannot come, they say. We live near humans but not with them.

  Their words hurt her deeply because she knows they’re true.

  The first apple is perfect. The right mix of crunchy and sweet. Juicy and bitter. The second is even better. She has a pile of cherry pits in front of her in seconds. She doesn’t need any of it—that much she knows—but she can’t stop, not until the food is gone.

  Was it delicious, Mother? her children ask, as one.

  She sees that they have not eaten. That she has eaten it all.

  I—I’m sorry, she says.

  For what, Mother? the sprite-child says, munching on an apple.

  Trish blinks and the table is full again, this time with green grapes and raspberries. The children eat as she looks on in awe. The earth provides, she says, echoing her child’s words from earlier, finally understanding.

  She realizes it’s coursing through her, the…

  (energy?)

  (life force?)

  (souls?)

  She can see it through her skin, glowing blue and pulsing with silver edges and lines. We are ready, her most beautiful child says. Trish sees that the energy is in her child, too. In all of them.

  Yes. We are ready, she echoes.

  Suddenly, she’s aware of a presence approaching. Not one of them. Not one of her children. She turns and sees her. The red-haired Changeling. Her skin is pale and her eyes as green as the grapes. Her red dress shimmers with each step, swishing around her feet. She’s not alone. Many more cluster behind her, in their natural, unchanged state. But she’s the leader.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” the Changeling leader asks.

  Trish feels so strong, so full of life. In control. Awake. First I want news of my sister, she says in the Changeling’s head.

  “She’s alive and”—she motions to her leg, which is heavily bandaged; Trish only just now notices she’s walking with a limp—“as feisty as ever.”

  Trish stifles a giggle, because feisty is the perfect word for Laney. Sorry, she says. And thank you for talking to her.

  “She doesn’t understand,” the Changeling says.

  Sh
e will, Trish says. All will be revealed in time. The words spill from her mind although she’s not sure she herself understands what will be revealed. What she’s been brought here to do.

  “Her strength is growing,” the Changeling says. Whose strength? Trish wonders. The answer feels so close, as if it’s just on the edge of her vision, but she can’t seem to see it, no matter how quickly she turns her head.

  “We have no choice but to end her,” the Changeling says.

  End? Trish says.

  “Kill.”

  Murmurs ripple through her children’s minds. We do not kill, Trish says, remembering when she did before she knew. What she did to her parents. She had to do it to save her sister, she reminds herself.

  “But we do,” the Changeling says, gesturing to her people. “We only need your help to get through their defenses, and then we’ll do the rest.”

  Who is it? Who must die? Trish blurts out, before she can stop herself.

  The Changeling looks at her strangely.

  Her willowy child says, She has only just fully awakened. Only just eaten the fruit and gathered the earth to her. She will be ready soon.

  “I hope so,” the Changeling says. “Because President Washington must die.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rhett

  “How did you find me?” I ask as we pass a highway rest stop. Cars are scattered throughout the parking lot, some positioned next to fuel pumps. If I don’t look too closely, I can pretend they’re just normal travelers refueling and eating at Subway or Burger King. If I don’t look too closely, I can’t tell that several of the cars are flipped over, their windshields shattered. And if I don’t look too closely, maybe there won’t be corpses scattered all over the asphalt. Evidently the Necros and their scavengers didn’t make it this far south collecting bodies.

  But I do look closely and I almost wish the Necros had been through here.

  Beside me, Bil Nez laughs.

  Not at my question, at the carnage.

  “Human ants,” he says.

  Oh no, I think. We’re heading for loonytown. From my recent experiences with the Native American witch hunter, I’ve found him to act like two different people—one relatively normal and the other unpredictable and somewhat crazy. Okay, a lot crazy. His issues seem to stem from an awful experience he had with a Siren, where he was forced to kill her, her witch friends, and their human playthings. Before he realized she was a Siren, he’d loved her—or at least thought he had.