Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  “You can tell her when you meet her,” Hemsworth says.

  “Still, it seems like an awful lot of effort for just one guy,” I say. “I’m just a teenager.”

  “A teenager who’s one of only three known Resistors,” Hemsworth says. “We can’t let you fall into the wrong hands.”

  Things go quiet for a while after that, the quiet thump of three dozen sets of feet rattling the waning daylight. I stare straight ahead, wondering whether this has all been a huge mistake. The president could decide I’m still a threat. Could order me killed. In this new world, there are no trials, no need for evidence. Instinct and fear rule our decisions these days.

  The world darkens around us and still we march on, the soldiers using flashlights to light the way. Something spindly and full of holes looms before us, like a giant thicket. A thicket that seems to extend indefinitely on each side and a hundred feet over our heads.

  “Is that...?” I murmur

  “The fence,” Bil says. “It goes around all of New Washington in a five mile radius. Well, almost all the way around. They’re still working to fill the last of the gaps.”

  A fence? Really? That’s how they expect to keep the witches out?

  As if sensing my doubts, Bil says, “It’s electrified and full of barbed wire, but most of us understand that it’s more a symbolic barrier than a real one. It’s the witch hunters, the army, and the missile threat that’s keeping the witches out.”

  Makes sense. The witches I’ve seen could bust through a pathetic metal fence like it’s a wall made of toothpicks. And this isn’t even a good fence. As we get closer, I see that it’s been cobbled together from sections of fence scavenged from various sources. Most of it looks like the stuff that surrounds playgrounds, basketball courts, tennis courts—that sort of thing—but other parts are different, perhaps from batting cages and prisons. The sections are bound together haphazardly by metal wires and thick ropes. It’s the Frankenstein of fences.

  And yet, as we pass through a gate that a couple of soldiers open for us, I feel safer. It’s a mental thing. When you’re trying to comfort and control thousands of people, a fence makes sense, no matter how ineffective.

  We make our way across a flat wasteland that I’m pretty sure used to be office buildings and apartments which are now burned to the ground. Piles of debris—burnt wood and scorched bricks and black pipes and severed wires—is all that’s left of the structures that used to stand here. “Did the witches destroy all this?” I ask.

  “No,” Hemsworth says. “We did.”

  “What?” Laney says sharply. “Why would you destroy the city?”

  “We needed a buffer zone,” he says. “If any of the magic-born get through the outer defenses, we’ll still have time to take them out before they make it to the civilians. So we burned a ring around the city, making it easier to perform recon. If we have to use our big guns, at least the collateral damage will be minimal.”

  I don’t point out that it’s because they’ve already done enough collateral damage themselves. I don’t point it out because his logic kind of makes sense.

  “This was all President Washington’s idea,” Bil says.

  An hour of following a meandering path through the rubble and we reach the next checkpoint, a large iron gate between a gap in a fifteen-foot-high stone wall. It’s illuminated by a yellow spotlight high atop a pole. I wait for the gate to open, but it doesn’t.

  Hemsworth turns to look at us. “Your weapons,” he says.

  The side of my lip curls up. Nuh-uh. “Not a chance,” I say.

  “Only if you want to lose a hand,” Laney adds.

  “Until the president clears you to carry your weapons inside the city, we’ll have to requisition them,” Hemsworth says. “It’s either that, or we can march you right back outside the gate and you’re on your own.”

  I look at Laney. She looks at me. I glance at Hex, giving her a sign. They can take our weapons, but we’ve still got Hex. Our secret weapon.

  Laney seems to understand because she says, “We won’t be able to find Trish without their help,” as if that’s her reason for giving in to their demands.

  “True,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt as I hand over my magged-up sword and other weapons. Laney does the same. I hope it’s not the last time we see them.

  Bil Nez gets to keep his crossbow and rifle.

  “What about him?” Laney asks. “If anyone’s dangerous, it’s him.”

  Hemsworth raises an eyebrow. “The president trusts him,” he says. “And I thought you didn’t have a problem with him.”

  Laney doesn’t respond, even when Bil winks at her.

  The door opens with a monstrous groan.

  The first face I see inside is a familiar one. A stern expression seen during many a debate, light pink lips drawn into a political smile, striking, bright-blue eyes. A tight, gray bun resting atop her head, making her appear a few years older than her years.

  “Welcome to New Washington, Rhett Carter,” President Washington says.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Laney

  Rhett tries to grab me but he’s too slow. I squirm away and stalk toward President Washington.

  “Laney,” Rhett says from behind me.

  I ignore him. “You tried to kill my friend,” I say to the president.

  There’s the hint of a smile on the president’s lips, which really pisses me off. I’m ten feet away, then five, then standing face to face with the woman who ordered my friend’s execution.

  Strong arms grab me at the elbow, holding me back, despite the fact that I had no intention of hitting this woman. More strong arms grab me from the other side, clamping down on my shoulder like a vice.

  She takes a step forward, so we’re practically nose to nose, her blue eyes glittering under the glow of the security light over the gate.

  “Why?” I say.

  “Should we take her to lockup?” It’s Lieutenant Douchebag—I mean, Hemsworth—just over my right shoulder.

  But my eyes never leave President Washington’s.

  “No,” she says, unblinking. “You’ve got fight left in you. That’s good. It’s okay to be angry, even at me. You’re going to need that anger and we’re going to need your fight. I hope you’ll accept my sincerest apologies for targeting your friend. From where I was sitting, it really seemed as if he was on the verge of joining the Necros. The result would’ve been disastrous, so I made a decision. Apparently I was wrong. You can thank Bil Nez for making a better decision and bringing Mr. Carter here. The three of you will be major assets in winning this war.”

  She could’ve slapped me and I wouldn’t be any more shocked. Did the president just apologize to me? And admit she was wrong and that Bil Nez—Bil freaking Nez—made a better decision than her.

  “I—I—yes,” I stammer, trying to get my mind around what just happened. “I accept your apology. Thank you. If you’re not going to kill us, then I’m here to help. But only if you help us.” If nothing else, I appreciate the woman’s honesty, something I didn’t think politicians were capable of. Politicians don’t admit when they’re wrong, not if they want to keep their careers. But I guess there won’t be any new elections anytime soon, so she doesn’t have to worry about that.

  Her eyebrows go up. Have I been too bold? “Go on,” she says. Before I can speak, she flicks her eyes to either side of me. “Release her.” The rough hands withdraw from my elbows and I shake out my arms, which feel slightly bruised.

  I fire a victorious look over my right shoulder at Lieutenant Douchebag, who responds with a frown. “Thanks,” I say. “We came here because we need your help. My little sister is missing.”

  The president’s lips form a tight line. “I’m sorry, young lady, but there aren’t many real missing people these days. If you can’t find her, she’s probably gone.” And by gone she means dead. But she doesn’t know what Trish is. And I can’t tell her. Can I?

  Then I realize who’s with us. W
ho knows the truth and might not be so tight-lipped. My fists clench at my sides as I dare Bil Nez to open his mouth and tell the president that my sister’s a witch.

  “We think the witches took her,” Rhett blurts out, pushing around Hemsworth to stand by my side. Is he trying to take control of the situation before Bil can?

  “Ah,” President Washington says, “the infamous Rhett Carter. The Resistor. I was wondering when you’d stop letting your friend do all the talking for you.”

  “Well, I, uh—you see, she’s very, uh—what I mean to say is—”

  “He never could get me to stop talking,” I say, winking at him.

  “Yeah. What she said,” Rhett says.

  “So you’ve moved on from Beth?” the president says, her eyes boring into Rhett.

  Rhett looks crestfallen. I take a deep breath. Then another. Although I want to, I can’t go nose-to-nose with the president again. She already gave me one pass. She won’t surprise me with another. “With all due respect, ma’am,” I say evenly. “There’s no such thing as getting over the loss of someone you love.”

  Rhett’s eyes dart to mine, then back to the president.

  “No,” she says. “I suppose there’s not. And that’s a good thing for us, isn’t it? That’s why you severed ties with the Necros. Because of what they did to Beth.”

  Rhett turns, looking behind him, and I follow his gaze. Bil Nez stands awkwardly, rocking from foot to foot. He refuses to meet Rhett’s eyes.

  I suddenly get it. How the president seems to know so much about Rhett and Beth and his relationship with the Necros. Like she was there.

  Bil. Freaking. Nez.

  “You were spying on me?” Rhett says.

  “Information gathering,” Bil says to his feet.

  “I defended you,” Rhett says.

  “I did the same for you,” Bil says.

  “By spying. By telling the president all about me.”

  “Did you have something to hide?” the president says, but Rhett, to his credit, ignores her, his attention firmly on Bil.

  “The information you gave her made her want to kill me,” Rhett says.

  “But I didn’t,” Bil says, his eyes still downcast. His voice is coming out as barely a whisper. He’s ashamed.

  “Young man,” the president says more loudly, her voice commanding enough attention to draw Rhett and I back around. “He was merely giving me the facts. Not once did I ask for his opinion. In fact, he tried to offer it, but I didn’t want my judgment to be clouded by anything. And yet, he offered it anyway. He said he didn’t think you’d join the Necros. He said you’d more likely kill them than join them. But I couldn’t take the chance. We only know of three Resistors and our enemies already have one of them. I couldn’t risk them getting another.”

  A shiver runs through me, because that doesn’t make sense. I glance at Rhett and I can see he’s confused, too.

  “Why would you care about the witches getting Resistors?” he asks. “I can’t hurt you any more than any other human. I’m only a threat to the witches.”

  Only one response would make any sense at all. But that can’t possibly be the answer. It’s as impossible as monkeys flying out of my butt. And yet, that’s exactly the answer President Washington gives.

  “Some of the witches are helping us fight back,” she says.

  I clench my buttocks, waiting for the monkeys.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rhett

  I want to hit her, to hit her guards, to hit someone. Anyone. Before I can even really think about what the president just said, what it means for the world, for humanity, the anger is ripping through me, tensing my muscles, urging them to action.

  But that kind of mindless action is the antithesis of who I am, who I used to be. I’ve changed a lot, but not to the point where I’ll take a swing at a woman. And not just any woman—the President of New America. If I ever reach that point, I’ll ask Laney to put me in a strait jacket.

  Hemsworth must’ve seen my muscles tighten and has both my arms in a full nelson. I can’t really blame him. He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know that I wouldn’t have done anything to the president.

  Hex is growling at the soldier’s feet, ripping at his pants with his teeth. Acting like a normal dog trying to protect its owner. “I’ll break both your arms if I have to,” Hemsworth hisses in my ear. “You might be able to resist magic, but you can’t stop your bones from breaking. Call your dog off. Now.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “Down, Hex.” I don’t expect him to listen, but he does, releasing Hemsworth’s pants. He’s still acting. My body slumps and I close my eyes, not wanting to see Laney or the president.

  “I understand that you’re shocked and angry,” the president says. I open my eyes to meet her gaze. She doesn’t look angry at all. Composed. Even keel. The face of a leader. “I wasn’t so receptive to the idea either—at least not at first.” She flinches slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if she’s still not fully on board with working with the witches.

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I keep silent.

  “You believe there are good witches?” Laney says. I immediately realize the importance of the question to her. Trish is still out there.

  “In a word—yes,” President Washington says. “Witches have been misunderstood from the beginning. Fear led to rash decisions, rash decisions led to animosity. Animosity led to war, as it does.”

  “So the humans are to blame?” I say, finding my voice. The anger is gone, allowing my brain to function again. Even still, I’m aware of the edge to my question.

  “In part,” the president says. “After all, they started killing witches without cause. Salem’s Return was a travesty. I lobbied against it, the president, too, but popular opinion won the day. I don’t blame the witches for fighting back.”

  “How can you say that?” I ask. Millions dead. Millions. Maybe even billions, if the witch apocalypse spread across the whole of the world. The number still doesn’t seem real, even after everything I’ve seen. How can millions of souls just disappear in seemingly the blink of an eye?

  The president’s eyes meet mine, and her expression is the picture of patience. “You didn’t let me finish,” she says. “Although I think the witches defending themselves is justified, the extent and methods used are not. The utter annihilation many of the gangs strive for is sickening. They’re seeking the extinction of the human race, ushering in a new age, where the magic-born rule the earth. We can’t let that happen.”

  “And witches are helping you,” Laney says, as if to confirm the very words that pushed me into a rage.

  “Yes,” the president says. “Some of them came to us not long after Salem’s Revenge. We were all scared, fighting for our lives, desperately taking any measures we could to protect the pocket of resistance we’d created. They surrendered; they let us take them into custody. They suffered abuse at the hands of some of the soldiers before I could put a stop to that. They didn’t fight back, not one bit.

  “I didn’t trust them, not after all that had happened. I couldn’t trust them. I thought they were on a mission to gain our trust, to act as a Trojan Horse. If we let our guard down, they’d rip us apart from the inside.”

  “But you don’t believe that anymore?” Laney asks. Again, I can practically see images of Trish behind her eyes.

  “There was an attack on New America. There were lots of attacks in the early days, until we’d established ourselves as a threat and built up our defenses. But this particular one came after we’d taken these witches captive. A large mixed gang of Pyros, Volts, and Destroyers came at us from two sides. There was no fence then, no buffer. Our armed forces fought with everything they had, but they were pushed back. Panic swept through the survivors, who took to the streets, fleeing before the onslaught.

  “I realized at that moment that we were done for. It didn’t matter whether the witches who had surrendered were the enemy. We had to trust someone. I had to trust someone
. I had to take a risk. So I released them.”

  “They fought against the invaders,” Laney says, a hint of excitement in her voice.

  “More than that,” President Washington says. “They saved us. Without them, there would be no New America, no real resistance. Yeah, there would still be pockets of humans hiding from the magic-born, but they’d eventually be snuffed out as easily as melting candles. I would be dead.” There’s the heavy beat of finality in her words.

  “How do you know which magic-born to trust?” Laney asks. “Are certain gangs okay?”

  “No,” the president says, answering the second question first. “It’s more complicated than that. We’ve had witches and warlocks from almost all the gangs come to support us.”

  “And wizards?” I ask, remembering the last wizard we fought. He definitely didn’t seem interested in sitting around the campfire and singing Kumbaya with a bunch of humans.

  “One,” she says.

  I take a deep breath. I can deal with one. Any more might be a struggle.

  “Madam President,” Hemsworth says, cutting into our conversation. “These two are dangerous. Surely we can’t let them roam free.”

  “True,” the president says. I hold my breath, waiting to hear our fate. “I think this one…” she says, gesturing to Laney.

  “Laney, ma’am,” Laney says.

  “Laney would be perfectly suited to join the city guard,” the president says.

  “Ma’am I don’t think—” Laney starts to say.

  “Madam President, she’s just a child,” Hemsworth says, cutting her off.

  “Give me my Glock and we’ll see who’s a child,” Laney growls.

  President Washington almost seems to enjoy the exchange, her lips curling. “There are no children these days,” she says. “And anyone capable of helping must help. Plus, you can personally keep an eye on her, Lieutenant Hemsworth. Please show her to the guards’ quarters.”

  “What about my sister?” Laney says. “I’m not lifting a finger unless you’ll help me find her.”