Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  “Good,” she says. There’s the roar of an engine and we all look back to see a Jeep speeding toward us. There’s no mistaking the passenger in the back.

  President Washington. Does she always come out to wave goodbye to departing witch hunters? I would guess no. Which means this mission must be especially important.

  The vehicle eases to a stop, but the driver leaves the engine idling as the president opens the door and steps out. Wearing a neatly pressed pantsuit, she looks as composed and collected as ever. Maybe because she’s safely behind the fence’s protection while we’re about to leave.

  “Mr. Carter,” she says, addressing me directly while ignoring the others. “May I have a word?”

  It’s not really a question, so I shrug and follow her away from the other witch hunters. “I have a question for you, and I need you to answer honestly,” she says.

  A weird way to start a conversation, but okay. “I will,” I say.

  “I need to be sure where your allegiances lie. I’m going out on a major limb with you. You can’t blame me for being afraid it might break.”

  I want to tell her to just ask her question, but instead I say, “I don’t. Blame you.”

  She nods, as if satisfied, and says, “If you come face to face with your ex-best friend, Xavier Jackson, the second in command of the Necros, what will you do?”

  I have to admit, the question catches me completely off guard. Even though it shouldn’t. After all, it was my friendship with Xavier that caused the president to put a bounty on my head in the first place.

  A friendship I’ve called into question from the moment I found out Xave was a warlock.

  This shouldn’t be a hard question to answer. I’ve cursed Xave’s name so many times that if I was a warlock he’d surely be dead or a cripple. There are times that I’ve wished him dead, too. And yet, in my heart I don’t know what I want. Don’t know what I believe. Could Xave be turned back to the right side? Could I undo all the brainwashing that Mr. Jackson, his father, has inflicted on his mind? Because despite what Laney told me about her recent conversations with the Necros, I know they’re not to be trusted.

  “Mr. Carter?” the president says impatiently. “This shouldn’t be a difficult question.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “I’ll kill him.”

  And it’s not a lie and it is a lie and it’s something well in-between because even I don’t know the real answer. Thankfully, however, it seems to satisfy her.

  “Good,” she says, striding away and climbing into the Jeep, slamming the door behind her. Just before the vehicle pulls away, she shouts out, “Because today you’ll be fighting the Necros.”

  ~~~

  We have our orders. First, surround the band of Necros that our scouts have located.

  And second, kill them all.

  This is all in spite of what President Washington said yesterday about the Necros being neutralized and the Changelings being our number one enemy. Apparently not today.

  I try not to think about the off-chance that Xave will be one of them. I try not to think of my best friend’s face as he described how he tried to perfect the reanimated corpse that was Beth.

  The ragtag group of witch hunters led by Floss is spread out across the road, as if some invisible force is preventing us from getting too close to each other.

  “Hey,” Bil says, coming up beside me. Hex trots behind him, no longer invisible; he’s been following Bil around since we left the protection of New Washington. Something has changed in Bil Nez. Something that Hex’s instincts have recognized. Have Bil’s demons finally left him? Will he once more become the confident and capable witch hunter he once was?

  Time will tell.

  “Hey,” I say, offering him a false smile. There’s nothing to smile about today. Laney could die guarding the border. We could die fighting my oldest friend. Hex is enthralled with Bil Nez. And Tillman Huckle is besties with a bunch of witches.

  “I’m still episode-free,” he says, tossing a stick for Hex to chase. Instead of chasing it, Hex somehow stops it in midair, snaps it in half, and sets each piece on fire. Game over. A few of the witch hunters glance our way, astonishment on their faces. Hex sticks his tongue out and grins like a proud lion.

  “That’s good, Bil,” I say.

  He sighs. “I wanted to apologize,” he says.

  “For what?” I ask. He’s already apologized for everything there is to apologize for.

  Bil grabs my shoulder and stops me. “New America took me in,” he says. “For once I wasn’t alone. I was with other people, people who were fighting back. I was just talking, telling my story. I didn’t realize the president was interrogating me. I didn’t realize she’d use that information against you.”

  “I know,” I say. “I believe you. I forgive you. Stop apologizing. But from here on out…”

  “Bros before hos,” he says.

  I almost laugh for two reasons. One, because that’s classic Bil Nez; and two, because he just indirectly called the president a ho. “I was going to say that we’ve got to cover each other’s backs.”

  Bil grins devilishly. “So I guess that means Laney is still a notch above me,” he says.

  I punch him in the shoulder and resume walking. “Try ten notches,” I say. “And anyway, she’s not a ho.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. We’ve got each other’s backs. Maybe you could let Laney know that, too, I’m still slightly afraid she might stab me in my sleep.”

  Finally I allow myself a much-needed moment of brevity, laughing so loud a few of the other witch hunters look over at us. “Sorry, you’ll have to make your own deal with her. She doesn’t listen to anyone, including me.”

  Bil groans. It’ll take more than a half-assed apology and a week without a psychotic break before Laney warms up to him.

  I notice that Floss slows and cuts a diagonal path until our route intersects with hers. “Something you’d like to share with the group?” she asks.

  “Yeah, we were just discussing how boring this is,” I say. “We thought there’d be witches on this witch hunting expedition.”

  Floss glares at me. Note to self: She hates sarcasm. That could be a problem. “Oh really? I thought you might be discussing how to get out of fighting your old friends.”

  “Friends?” I say. “The Necros imprisoned me and brought my girlfriend back from the dead. If that makes them my friends, then Bil and I must be soul mates.”

  Bil gives me a look that says I’ve gone too far. I tend to agree, although my mouth seems impossible to control ever since the president told me who we’d be fighting.

  “You sure you won’t freeze up in the midst of battle? We’re a team and our lives depend on each other. If I can’t trust you, then you’ll sit this one out.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Her brows lower further, darkening her eyes, but then she veers away from us, an errant ray of sunlight sparking off of the gold rings running up the sides of her ears. Conversation over. I guess that means I’m in. At least until I do something stupid.

  We march on in silence, giving me time to study my companions. As I noticed the night before, they come in all shapes and sizes, races and genders, ages and forms. But there’s a similarity that runs through each of the witch hunters, like a vein of iron ore in an otherwise metal-less boulder.

  They look ready to kill.

  Even the thin pixie of a girl with bird-like arms and legs has something about her. Something lethal. I can see it in the laser-focus in her eyes and the shimmering edge of the short sword hanging from her belt, a weapon that is most likely a Huckle-special.

  And the old man trudging along beside me with a slight limp, using a cane as a third leg? I overheard him telling a tale of the fifty-sixth witch he killed. Fifty-six! I shouldn’t be surprised though. Anyone—especially witch hunters who make a habit of purposely putting themselves in the line of danger—who has survived this long is sure to be tough, smart, or an impressive combination of b
oth. The only other option is luck, which I think we all must have to some degree.

  As another hour stomps by, however, I wonder if this mission will ever happen. A bubble forms in my chest—is that hope? Am I hoping the Necros have vanished, slipped out of our reach? Have I really cast off the cloak of revenge that I’ve worn for so long?

  Something has changed in me, and I can’t tell whether it’s a good thing. Ever since Laney left in the middle of the night and I realized that I had someone else left to care about, my priorities have felt different. For the first time since I left Mr. Jackson’s house, I don’t have the burning desire to hunt down the next witch. I don’t feel angry anymore, not really. All I want is to get back to Laney, to trade sarcastic quips, to sit and laugh and eat beef jerky. With a start I realize that she’d given me exactly that option not that long ago. And I’d passed on it, too focused on revenge to really consider the possibility.

  The truth is I’m tired of being angry. So tired. I feel my breath leave my lungs in a heavy rush, as if my body agrees with my mind.

  It’s right then that one of the scouts that Floss sent out ahead of us returns, excitement in his eyes. “Less than a half mile ahead,” he says, pointing in the direction of the road we’ve been following.

  “How many?” Floss asks.

  “At least a hundred,” he says.

  I scan the witch hunters around me, as if expecting to find that we’ve multiplied along the way. Nope. Still just twenty-nine of us. Not even a third of our enemy’s number. I expect her to call off the mission.

  She stops us and I find myself holding my breath. “They’re just Necros,” she says. “And they’re weak from Pittsburgh. Now we finish them.”

  I let out a ragged breath and my feet start moving, almost of their own accord. Apparently the plan we discussed before we left New Washington hasn’t changed. Surround them. Kill them all.

  With each step, my heart seems to hammer louder and louder, faster and faster. I take deep breaths, trying to calm it. Fighting witches is nothing new to me, so why am I so nervous? A few months ago I would’ve given my left ear for a showdown with the Necros. Has that much changed? They’re still enemies of the humans, regardless of what the Reaper and Xave tried to convince me and Laney of. They’re still magic-born and trying to raise an army of the dead. They still must be stopped and brought to justice.

  The wreckage begins with the tiniest sliver of sheared metal. It’s painted red. Actual paint, not blood. At least that’s what I tell myself. Ahead is a random trail of debris. Huge tires lying on their sides, the rubber melted in strange formations, like abstract art. Hunks of metal, ripped apart at the riveted seams, create a patchwork skeleton of what used to be. Trees litter the road, sheared in half as if Paul Bunyan decided to use them as toothpicks. Their surviving brothers and sisters, the other trees, seem to sway in the wind mournfully, their arms waving hypnotically, as if paying homage to their fallen comrades.

  I wonder what happened to this airplane during Salem’s Revenge. Were one of the passengers magic-born, or did the witches save themselves the cost of a ticket and simply blast the plane out of the sky? Did every red-eye flight that was in the air during that time crash, or were some able to make emergency landings, giving their passengers a chance to flee to safety?

  Shouts arise in the distance, where the majority of the airplane’s cabin rests on its belly, somewhat intact. We’ve been spotted.

  Black-cloaked Necros swarm from the wreckage. So many more than us.

  We start to run.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Laney

  My sister is no longer my sister. The girl with Trish’s face morphs in an instant, becoming the hardened face of Hemsworth, his arms and legs growing long and sturdy, extending past the edges of the short stretcher. I shrink back as he says, “Tell the president your sister is coming for her.”

  The not-really-Hemsworth Changeling lashes out at me, swinging a heavy fist, which crashes into my chin, rocking me back. I wobble on my feet, seeing stars, wondering why the sky seems to be swirling like a hurricane above my head.

  I collapse, reaching out, trying to grab the winking lights that dance before my vision. They’re pretty, and I wonder whether they’re magic or real. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because Hemsworth is standing over me now. He points his finger at me. “You chose the wrong side,” he says.

  And then there’s a loud noise and Hemsworth is spitting red juice from his mouth and it’s raining down on me, hot on my cheeks, like acid rain cascading through the stars that continue to twinkle from the heavens. He falls next to me with a thud that I understand—because I’m tired too. So tired that my arms drop to my sides and my eyes close and all I want to do is…

  “Laney!” a voice barks in my ear.

  My eyes flutter open and Hemsworth is standing over me again. Except he looks slightly different this time, not so angry, not so malicious. Worried maybe? Scared? “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’ll let you know after my nap,” I say, unable to hold my eyelids open one second longer. The lights turn to fuzz and the fuzz turns to black.

  ~~~

  The white sheet is making me hot, so I push it away.

  Someone says, “She’s awake.”

  I open my eyes and everything is fuzzy, like someone’s messing with the antenna of the world, distorting it. My eyes stinging, I blink to try to moisten them. With each blink, my vision seems to sharpen and clarify, until I can see the world as it really is.

  A room full of beds. People in the beds, some of them groaning, some of them sleeping. Or at least I hope they’re sleeping. Something smells. Not good, not bad, something in between. Or maybe both, the good and the bad combining to form a new, neutral smell.

  I’m in a bed. Why? Just for a nap? I could’ve done that on a bed of nails, I was so tired. The hard, rocky ground would’ve felt like a plush pillow-top mattress.

  Lieutenant Hemsworth stands over me for the third time today. Will he ask me funny questions or point his finger at me or punch me? “You okay?” he asks.

  Funny questions, it is. “Yeah.” Why wouldn’t I be?

  Wait.

  He nods. Manages a tight smile, but his eyes are frowning.

  Wait.

  I remember. The bedraggled group of women and children. Hemsworth agreeing to help them. My sister’s face on the injured human girl. Hemsworth yelling, “Trap!” Everything changing.

  “Changelings,” I murmur.

  “Yes,” he confirms. “Powerful ones, too. I’m normally better at identifying them, but these ones were top notch. They were humans in every way—in need of help.”

  “They tricked us.” They tricked me, I realize. I was the one thinking Hemsworth was being a big jerk not helping them right away. “Stupid,” I mutter.

  “Yes, we were,” he says, and I don’t correct him. I meant me. Only me.

  “You saved me,” I realize. “That Changeling was going to kill me.”

  “Yes,” he says, but there’s no pride in his tone.

  “Thank you.”

  He reaches down and pries my fingers from the edge of the sheet, which apparently I’m gripping like a lifeline. His hand is warm as he holds mine. I close my eyes, trying to make sense of what happened. Clearly we survived the attack, but how? There were many of them and some had already breached the fence.

  When I open my eyes, I ask, “What happened?”

  “Never mind that now,” Hemsworth says.

  I let go of his hand. “Don’t start that again,” I say. He cocks his head to the side, shocked. “Treating me like some child who needs to be protected. You saved my life and I’m thankful for that, but I’m not your daughter. Looking after me won’t bring her back.”

  His face turns red as if I’ve slapped him. I wish the words back, feeling bad right away. “Sorry,” he says. And then, “I know. I know.”

  “Look,” I say, grabbing his hand just as he starts to back away, lifting my head fr
om the pillow. “We both just want to do what we can to protect New Washington. But you can’t put my life above any of the others just because I remind you of your daughter. I’m no more important than anyone else.” He starts to say something, but I rush on. “And you can’t baby me. I need to know what’s happening. That Changeling transformed to look like my sister.”

  The tightness in his lips releases and he steps back to the bed. “I figured that when you cried out and ran to her. That wasn’t the only Changeling that looked like her, though.”

  “What?”

  “They all did,” he says. “They all transformed into your sister and retreated into the woods.”

  I slump my head back onto the pillow, puzzling over this new information. “They fought first, right? Then retreated?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really. Just the one I killed and a few others who we’d brought over the fence. The rest of them just morphed into the little girl you recognized, your sister, and took off.”

  “Trish,” I say.

  “What?”

  “My sister’s name is Trish.”

  “She said something,” I say. “Well, not her. The witch who was impersonating her and then you.”

  “What did she say?” Hemsworth asks.

  Tell the president your sister is coming for her. I stay silent, letting the words fade into my memory.

  Hemsworth is unfazed. “Well, regardless of what she said, apparently she’s made a major impression on the magic-born.”

  “That’s not surprising,” I say, although I mean it in a very different way than he probably takes it. “Why would they retreat?” I ask. “They’d completely surprised us. It’s possible they all might’ve gotten inside before we realized it.”

  He shrugs. “Why do witches switch sides faster than politicians break promises?”

  I have a feeling that the comparison references the current president in some way, but I don’t ask about that. I’m too busy wondering how my sister is wrapped up in this whole mess.