by David Estes
“She ordered this? Why?”
“Duh. Because I supply her witch hunters with magical weapons.”
Huckle jams a button and his mouse gobbles up a piece of cheese, instantly doubling in size. Gaining confidence, he bites another of the cat’s paws and it withdraws its claws, yowling like a banshee.
“Stupid cat,” he says. Hex barks his agreement.
“So you’re okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Clearly he’s okay.
“Yup. Where’s your sword?”
Every time I underestimate him, he surprises me. Then again, he’s always had a knack for anything to do with weapons. “They confiscated it and forgot to give it back.”
“You’re going to need a weapon,” he says.
“I don’t have much to trade,” I say.
“Ramen noodles?”
“Nope.”
“A hammer and chisel?”
A strange request, even for him. “No,” I say.
“Aluminum foil, preferably shaped like a hat?”
“Huckle, no,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder to try to get his attention.
He pauses the game and looks at me. “It’s good to see you,” he says.
“You, too,” I say.
“Where’s that girl and her sister?” Tillman asks.
“Laney’s here,” I say. “Helping to guard the border. Her sister is missing.”
“Oh,” he says. “I’d like to see her.”
Really? Tillman never got along that well with Laney. “Okay. I’m sure she’d, uh, like that. And she loves the Glock you gave her.”
“Cool,” he says. “Now about your weapon. I could open up a line of credit. It’s a trusted-friends-only thing I’ve started doing. You’re the only one on the list so far.”
“Wow. Thanks, Huckle. I’m…I’m honored. Really.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll put you down for a case of Ramen noodles in exchange for whatever weapon you want.”
My friend never really knew how to drive a hard bargain, at least not with me. “Deal,” I say. “Any suggestions?”
“You like swords, right?”
“I guess.”
His eyes light up as he pushes to his feet, the couch creaking beneath him. “I’ve got the perfect one for you. Check this out.”
He lopes over to a wall of long blades resting on a rack and grabs one that’s bright white with a black handle. It’s so white it doesn’t even look metallic.
“Cool,” I say. “Magged up?”
“Of course,” he says, grinning. “Not only will this bad boy curse the crap out of whomever you slice with it, but it’s got a special feature, too.” Carrying the sword like a hammer, he moves into the center of the room where he’s got more space. “Watch.”
Somewhat awkwardly, he whirls in a circle, sweeping the white blade in a wide arc, as if defending himself against enemies that are trying to surround him. Despite the poorness of his form, and the fact that he leaves himself open to attacks from down low, the sword seems to react to his movements, splitting into three wickedly sharp blades, which seem to fight independently from whatever Huckle is doing.
Tillman stops spinning, his portion of the sword coming to rest, while the two phantom swords take another hack or two before sliding back into the white blade. Huckle grins.
I grin back, pushing my glasses higher on my nose. “Incredible,” I say. “And the two ghost swords…they’re just distractions, or they’re real?”
“Real,” Huckle says. “They’ll draw blood, just like your own sword. They’re not fighting on their own, like it seems. They’re merely mimicking your previous movements.”
“Awesome,” I say. Even after all the remarkable and innovative weapons he’s sold me, he always manages to take it to another level. “I’ll take it.”
He hands me the sword and I back up, getting used to the weight, which is somewhat heavier than the sword I stole from Mr. Jackson all those months ago. I guess it makes sense considering there are three swords in one. After taking a few swipes and watching as the ghost swords appear, imitating my attacks, I slide the sword into the scabbard at my side.
“I’ll scavenge some noodles the next time I go out,” I say. Which I hope is today. Already I’m feeling somewhat trapped inside New Washington. I’m not used to having a fence penning me in, almost like Huckle’s mouse caught in its hole.
“No hurry,” he says. “The witches are taking care of me here.”
“About that,” I say, trying to think of the best way to open up the discussion.
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure you should be making friends with their kind?”
Huckle gives me the sharpest glance I’ve ever seen him give, and then turns away, slumping back onto the couch. He stares at the frozen screen, but doesn’t unpause the game. His eyes close, and I’m beginning to think he might’ve fallen asleep when he says, “Laney’s sister is a witch, right? And you’d consider her a friend.” I start to respond that it’s different, but Tillman continues. “The witch hunters aren’t that nice to me. They just want what I’ve got. They smashed my glasses. They called me names. A few of the witches stuck up for me, repaired my glasses, did this”—he waves an arm around the warehouse—“to my van. So don’t tell me who to be friends with.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just worry. I don’t have many friends either, and you’re the best of them.”
His eyes open but he doesn’t look at me. “Be safe, Rhett,” he says, and then goes back to his game.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Laney
“I want to see Rhett,” I say to Hemsworth in the morning. I’m not worried about him exactly. He can handle himself. It’s more that I want to talk to him about the magic-born. About what the Pyro told me about my parents. I’ve become used to confiding in him.
“Not possible,” Hemsworth says.
“Don’t go all daddy-protecting-his-kid on me again,” I say.
“I’m not. I swear. Rhett is going on his first mission.”
My breath catches in my throat. First mission? I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. I thought we’d have some time to get settled, to learn the ropes of New Washington, to see each other. What if he gets killed out there?
“Okay. I guess I’ll see him later then,” I say, hiding the fear I’m feeling in the center of my gut.
“Coffee?” Gertie says, approaching me with two steaming mugs and a thick-lipped smile.
“Seriously?” I say.
“Seriously.” She hands one to me and the other to Hemsworth. “Welcome to the high life. Sleeping on the ground and drinking coffee. That’s about all we do around here.”
“And fighting witches,” I say.
“That’s the best part,” Hemsworth says, but it doesn’t sound like he means it. Almost more like he wants to mean it.
“Can’t wait,” I say, although I don’t mean it either. All I really want is to find Trish and get her inside the fence. If she doesn’t want to be a normal little girl, she could at least help us hold off the magic-born with her screams. I screw up my face as I realize that was exactly what Rhett had suggested not that long ago. At the time, I’d hated him for it—but now I know he was right. If we’re to survive, we have to take every advantage we’ve got.
I sip on the bitter coffee—the only option I was given is black—and relish the clarity it gives me. I feel more awake, more alive, than I have in days. Before I finish the first mug, I realize it’s not just the coffee making me feel this way. It’s being here, amongst other people, doing something. Not waiting around to die. Being a part of something that might actually mean something one day. Or maybe that already does mean something.
My thoughts are cut off when I see a leather-garbed Destroyer soaring overhead, approaching. He lands feet-first a few yards away, and strides up to Hemsworth. He’s much younger than I expected him to be. Perhaps slightly older than Rhett. “Lieutenant,” he says.
&nb
sp; “Anything to report, Nash?” His words sound as if he’s talking to any one of his soldiers. Not a deadly warlock.
“Yes. There’s a small party of women and children making their way toward us. They hid when I passed overhead and I pretended not to see them. They seem scared. Weak. There was blood on some of their clothes.”
“And the men?”
“There were no men,” Nash says.
“We have to help them,” I blurt out.
Nash’s eyes flick to mine, then back to Hemsworth. “Sir?” he says.
“Keep watching them. Look for any signs of a trap. There’s a good chance there are magic-born using them as bait.”
I start to object, but Nash says, “Yessir,” and takes to the air, flashing over the fence.
I glare at Hemsworth. “They could die out there and you’re worried about a trap? They’re just women and children.” I realize too late how funny that must sound coming from me. I’m sort of a woman and a child, stuck between two worlds like we all are these days.
“It’s happened before,” Hemsworth says, his gaze travelling down to my hips. Oh. My hands are on them—my hips—as if I’m scolding my little sister or Rhett. I suppose I shouldn’t be talking to the lieutenant—now my commanding officer—this way.
“Sorry,” I say, apologizing quickly and crossing my arms across my chest, which I suppose isn’t much better. “What do you mean it’s happened before?”
“The magic-born using humans as bait,” he explains. “They drive them like cattle, trying to get us to lower our defenses. It’s usually just the women and children and old men. They kill the young men. Women, too, if they fight back.” His eyes seem to pierce me to the soul. He’s insinuating I’d be one of the ones they’d kill. A fighter. Like his daughter.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know.”
“You’ve seen so many atrocities, so much violence,” he says. “But you haven’t seen it all. None of us have. That’s why we always have to be on our guard.”
Gertie shows up with our breakfast, leaving me to chew on Hemsworth’s words. I never thought anyone would imply that I’m too trusting, but that’s just what he did. I vow to show him I’m not some naïve child, but a skeptical adult.
The bedraggled humans arrive almost an hour later, just when Hemsworth and I were about to take a walk down the fence-line, checking in with the various scouts on duty, magic-born and human alike.
Their clothes are tattered and dirty and, as Nash had told us, bloodstained. But all the weariness and fatigue seems to fall away from them when they see us through the fence. They start to run, but Hemsworth shouts, “Stop!” in a voice full of command, simultaneously sharp as a knife and heavy as a sledgehammer. The years seem to fall away from him as he becomes the commanding officer that he is.
The humans stop, their expressions ranging from shock to resignation and everything in between.
“The fence is electrified,” he says. “You’ll die if you touch it.”
One woman drops to her knees, her knotted hair falling in tangles around her face. “Please,” she says. “We’ve come so far.”
My heart goes out to her. Surviving this long is a small miracle. To see safety and protection just steps away and not be able to make it across the line must be like a punch in the gut.
“What happened to your men?” Hemsworth asks, his tone devoid of compassion. I want to be angry at him, but I can’t. Not so long ago I was as compassionless to Rhett when he stumbled upon me and my sister. Hemsworth’s duty isn’t to these people—it’s to the thousands he’s sworn to protect in New Washington.
“Dead,” the woman says. A tear snakes from her eye to her chin. “They’d prepared an escape route for us. For the weak. They died protecting us. They all died protecting us.”
Hemsworth strokes his chin, as if struggling with the decision. “But you survived?” he asks. “And you’re not under duress from any magic-born?”
The woman’s head cocks to the side as if she can’t even imagine such a thing. “No. Of course not. All we want is to rest.”
If there’s a lie, it’s undetectable, and apparently Hemsworth agrees. “Okay. I’m sorry for your troubles and for the questions. Do you have any that require immediate medical attention? We can bring a few directly over the fence here, but anyone capable of walking will need to go around to the main gate.” He gestures toward the west, where we’d entered New Washington and met the president.
“Yes. Some of the children are in a bad way,” the woman says. “Please help them.”
She ushers a few of the women forward, each paired up and hauling makeshift stretchers with children lying on them. One young boy has a thick bandage knotted around his forehead. A little girl’s cheeks are flush with fever.
“Please do not be alarmed,” Hemsworth says. “Some of the magic-born are helping us. They will not hurt you. Let them carry your injured over the fence.”
The woman’s face changes in an instant, from relief to fear, as Nash and another Destroyer swoop in and land near the children. “No!” she screams, regaining her feet and scrambling in front of the stretchers. “Do not touch them. Stay back.”
The Destroyers retreat a step and look to Hemsworth, as if waiting for his next order.
“Ma’am,” Hemsworth says. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you have to trust me when I say that these magic-born will not harm you or your children. They’re helping to protect us. They are good. You have to trust me.”
The woman doesn’t seem to hear him, she’s so focused on the Destroyers, her mouth a slash of determination. She looks as if she’s willing to die to protect them. I’d probably look the same if Destroyers were trying to grab my sister. “This was a mistake,” she says. “We should never have come to this place.”
I notice Nash is still looking at Hemsworth. The lieutenant gives an almost imperceptible nod, and Nash explodes into action. He’s got the woman pinned in an instant, not hurting her, but holding her down. The other Destroyer wrangles one of the stretchers away from two women and carries the young boy with the bandaged head over the fence. He places him gently on the ground, not three feet from where we’re standing. “Medic!” Hemsworth shouts and a man and a woman come rushing up carrying a bag full of supplies. They immediately go to work on the boy, checking his vitals and gingerly removing the bandage to reveal a long, bloody gash on his forehead. From the appearance of the skin around the wound—red and swollen—it looks to be infected.
But Hemsworth isn’t watching what the medics are doing. He’s walking toward the fence, to where the woman is screaming her head off, still held down by Nash. “Release her,” he says, and Nash levitates off of her chest and up above the fence, hovering, waiting for his next command. “See?” he says to the woman. Her face is a mask of horror, but as she pushes to her feet and approaches the fence, it changes to surprise, and then relief, her lips quivering.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Now, please let the magic-born carry the rest of the injured children over. So we can help them.”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes. Of course.”
“The rest of you can walk around,” Hemsworth instructs “Follow Briggs.” A thirty-something redheaded soldier waves an arm to get their attention and begins walking in the direction they’re meant to follow.
Some of the women start to follow her, but their leader just watches as the Destroyers fly two more children over the fence. She’s finally smiling.
One of the wounded children is the girl with the fever. The other is—
My heart stops. The girl’s face is half-cloaked by a sheet pulled up over her chin, but the rest of her features are hers. I take a heavy step forward, barely breathing, not blinking. The girl’s eyes open and there’s no denying those piercing blue eyes, almost identical to the ones I see every time I look in the mirror.
“Trish!” I shout, running to my sister, feeling a thrill in my chest and moisture in my eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rhett
None of the other witch hunters talk to me as we make our way toward the gate, although I do hear a few of them whisper, “Resistor,” to each other. Even amongst my own kind, I’m a freak.
Then Bil strides up and for the first time in a while it’s really good to see him. At least we can be freaks together.
“Guess we’re on the same side,” he says.
“Guess so,” I say. “At least now that the president doesn’t want you to kill me.”
“She never officially retracted that order,” he says with a grin.
I manage a smile back.
We walk in silence for a minute. “Have you had any problems lately?” I ask, speaking in code.
Bil understands immediately. “No,” he says. “I think maybe I’m okay now.”
“Good,” I say, genuinely happy. It would be good to be able to trust someone again. Well, someone besides Laney. “Do you know anything about this mission?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “They don’t usually tell us much until just before we leave the gates. The president is paranoid about spies and traitors.” I can’t blame her for that.
We reach the gate and Floss turns to address us. I’m still surprised that she picked me for the mission, especially after how rude she was to me the night before. But then again, it seems like she’s rude to everyone.
Hex brushes against my legs, tagging along despite Floss’s specific orders that he remain back in New Washington. He’s turned himself invisible, so she’ll be none the wiser.
“Today’s mission is crucial,” Floss says, tapping the handle of one of her knives, which is strapped to her belt. “The Destroyers have located a pocket of magic-born.”
“The Destroyers?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “They’re our scouts. You got a problem with that?”
I don’t respond. I shouldn’t be surprised—I’ve already seen a Slammer, a wizard, and a mud-creature working with New America, so why not Destroyers, too? Because they’re insanely evil, I think to myself. But maybe not all of them, I remind myself.
