Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  “Answer my questions and you can have one of my fingers,” Rhett says.

  I stare at Rhett wondering whether the Shifter is right about him lacking sufficient mental competence. He can’t be serious, can he?

  “Two fingers,” Flora says, her yellow eyes shining even with the red glow of the bars behind her. “And a toe. My choice which ones.”

  “Deal,” Rhett says.

  “No deal,” I say. “No fingers, no toes, and you answer our questions anyway.”

  “Deal,” Flora says, but she’s looking at Rhett, not me. She backs up through the bars while I glare at Rhett, who winks at me.

  Flora sits with all four legs tucked beneath her, like a sphinx. “Washington tried to kill yow earlier, dummyyy.”

  My heart stops and I can tell Rhett’s does, too, because his body stiffens beside me. He inhales sharply through his nose before I can take my next breath. “When?” Rhett asks, the question echoing through the cell.

  “During Salem’s Revenge. Three others she killed before she tried to kill yow. The Reaper saved yow. That’s why I decided to side with him, thinking he was more powerful than herrr. But he doesn’t play fair, doesn’t pay for my servicesss. Want to kill him.”

  Three others she killed.

  Three others.

  I don’t need to take off my shoes to count the members of Rhett’s previous foster family, who he’s told me little about. Three: His foster father, mother, and sister.

  Rhett slides to the floor before I realize he’s falling. His hand is on his forehead, his eyes closed. “I should’ve known,” he says. “So obvious. So freakin’ obvious.”

  “The Reaper—Mr. Jackson—saved you for a reason,” I say, trying to haul him out of the quicksand of despair that seems to be pulling him under. He shakes his head, his eyes still closed.

  “President Washington was just the VP back then,” Flora says, unprompted. “And before that, she was a Senator. But everyone knew she’d never have a chance at the presidency. Salem’s Revenge was her idea.”

  I forget Rhett for a moment as my head jerks toward to the panther. “She planned it?”

  “She was the Head of the Witch Council,” Flora says. “Don’t yow know anything? She convinced enough of the members to vote with her—or find a way to kill them if they wouldn’t.”

  “You were there?” Rhett asks, his eyes flashing open.

  “Yesss. I voted for Salem’s Revenge. I’m not stupid, like yowr father.”

  I sense the anger bubbling up just before it overflows, and I manage to get in front of Rhett as he leaps to his feet. I push back on his chest, knowing full well that he could throw me out of the way if he had a mind to. But he doesn’t. He tries to look past me, but I grab his chin and force him to look me in the eyes. “She can’t hurt you now,” I whisper.

  “Good,” Flora says behind me. “Yowr blood will be hot when I bite off yowr fingers.”

  I whirl around. “You haven’t earned your prize yet,” I say. “Why is President Washington using witch hunters to kill her own kind, the other magic-born?”

  Flora hisses, as if she’s not completely on board with the president’s use of witch hunters. “Anyone who won’t ally themselves with her must die.”

  “But why won’t the other witches follow her?” I ask, sensing something important is just out of reach. Some motive. Something unexpected.

  “Some want peace,” Flora says. The Reaper, Xave, and my sister spring to mind, and I hope that’s who she means.

  “And the others?” I ask.

  “They want all humans dead.” No, Trish. Not you. Why have you chosen the Changelings over me?

  I flinch, not because of the terrible nature of her statement, but because that means… “The president doesn’t want all humans dead?”

  “No, dum-dum. She wants to rule them and the magic-born. Make the humans their slaves.”

  I look at Rhett to find his eyes open once more, no longer full of despair but of intelligence. He’s thinking through things, analyzing whether she’s telling us the truth. He nods. She has no reason to lie.

  “And it’s the Changelings that want to exterminate the humans?” Rhett asks, fully back in the game. I hold my breath.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Flora says.

  “That’s what the rumors say,” I point out.

  “The rumors were started by the president,” Flora says.

  Rhett and I share another look. God, she’s even more evil than we could ever imagine. “She started the rumors so the witch hunters would do everything in their power to kill off the Changelings,” Rhett says. “Making it easier for her to take over.”

  “No one knows what the Changelings want,” Flora says. “They’re very secretive. Now give me my prize!” She springs back through the bars, jolting to a stop when they once more squeeze against her hind legs. Clawing at the air, she tries to grab Rhett, who merely shrugs.

  “I like my fingers,” he says. “I think I’ll keep them for now.”

  “Yow promised!” Flora screams, her knife-like claws slashing the air between us to ribbons. “We had a deal.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rhett says.

  Flora makes a noise like a tiger fighting a wildcat, hisses something that sounds like, “I’ll have yow,” and then bounds away, the tip of her black tail the last part of her to vanish from view.

  I shudder involuntarily and Rhett draws me to him. “She freaks me out,” I say.

  “And it’s not your toes she wants to eat,” Rhett says, his tone light.

  “A cat-witch with a foot fetish,” I say. “Add that to the list of Things-People-Never-Knew-Existed.”

  “Yeah, right next to mud-trolls,” Rhett says, his thumb absently tracing circles on my shoulder.

  “What do you suppose the Changelings want?” I ask.

  Rhett sees right through my question to what I’m really asking. “I’m sure Trish wouldn’t help anyone who’s trying to hurt humans,” he says.

  It doesn’t comfort me, not with my jaw still aching from when the Changeling-who-looked-like-Trish punched me. “I just…” I start. “I just need to find her, to talk to her, to make sure she’s okay.”

  “She’s okay,” Rhett says. “She always was. You don’t need to protect her anymore.”

  His words ring true, but I hate them anyway. She’s my little sister. I’ve always protected her—not the other way around. How can I just stop? “She’s running with some bad characters. That red Siren, Changeling, whatever she is. She could be lying to Trish, tricking her into helping them do something they shouldn’t.”

  Rhett sighs. “I don’t know what to think about the red Changeling, but all I know is that she’s the one who told us the truth back in Pittsburgh.”

  “She taunted you by transforming into Beth,” I point out.

  Another big sigh, the muscles in Rhett’s chest rising and falling against my side. “I’m not saying she’s all that good, just that she didn’t lie to us. She told us that Bil Nez was on a mission to kill us, and he was. She was trying to warn us.”

  “And now she’s kidnapped my sister and is making her do God knows what,” I say. “I don’t trust her.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Rhett says. “I’m asking you to trust Trish.”

  Trust a little girl who’s only just realizing the power she has inside of her? “I’ll try,” I promise.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Rhett

  Although for Laney’s sake, I try not to show it, I’m shaken by all that we’ve learned today. That the President of New America is a witch. That she wants to kill enough of the magic-born and humans so that she can rule us all. That she killed my foster family. That even if she deserves to die, I can’t let that happen because she’s the only one who can remove my father’s curse.

  Too much. It’s all too much.

  But I put on a brave face, stick out my jaw, and say, “We’ll win this fight,” because that’s what I’m
supposed to say.

  Laney, being Laney, sees right through it. “Don’t lie to me,” she says.

  “I—I wasn’t.”

  “You were. You don’t have to pretend to be some tough-as-nails witch hunter anymore. You can just be you. Rhett Carter.”

  I stare into the blue skies in her eyes. “I don’t know who that is anymore,” I admit.

  “And you think I know who Laney Grant is?” she says. “At school I was some outspoken freak who everyone avoided making eye contact with. I was the girl who bullied the bullies and punched anyone who so much as glanced at my sister the wrong way. I played guitar with greasy-haired outcasts and showed up at football games just to heckle the cheerleaders. And now my friend is a witch hunter and my sister a witch? If you know who the hell I am, please let me know.”

  I start smiling halfway through her monologue and am full out laughing by the end. “I think I’d have liked you back then, too,” I say.

  “But I wouldn’t have liked you,” she says. “I’d have thought you were some meathead football player. Not a big ol’ teddy bear who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She squeezes me around the waist but I pull away to look at her.

  “I could swat a fly,” I say defensively.

  “You could, but you wouldn’t,” she says. “You only fight when you think it’s the right thing.”

  I know she’s right. Even now, after all the killing, all the fighting, all the bloodshed and death and pain, I’m still that guy who would rather take a punch than throw one. Would rather open a window to let a fly out then swat it dead. And yet… “I’ve done terrible things.”

  “Terrible, maybe,” Laney says, “but necessary. Right. I didn’t at first, but now I trust your judgment above all others.”

  My head is swimming with emotion, my vision fogging. Laney’s stamp of trust is something I know she doesn’t offer easily. “Thank you,” I say.

  “Whatever comes next,” she says, yawning, “I’m glad I’ll be doing it with you.”

  Her trust seems to awaken my mind, sending it whirling with ideas. One of which seems so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it until now. “I can Resist magic,” I say, thinking aloud.

  “Hmm…” Laney is fading fast. “Glad you finally figured that out.”

  “The bars are magic. So maybe...”

  I pry myself loose from Laney and she groans. “Come back pillow,” she murmurs as I crawl over to the glowing red bars. I glance back to find Laney curled up on her floor, her head resting on her arm. Her eyes are closed. Turning my attention back to the bars, I consider my approach. I could pretend I’m Superman and just wrench them apart, creating a human-sized gap for us to step through. Or I could charge at them, lowering my shoulder and hoping to smash right through. I think back to all the times I managed to Resist the power of magic. It was never physical, not really. It was my mind that had to do most of the work.

  Cautiously, I raise a hand toward one of the bars, my body tensing, expecting to be shocked into oblivion. Or worse.

  I grab the bar and hang on for dear life.

  Nothing happens. No shock, no burn, no prick. The red glows through my fingers, showing my bones like an x-ray image. The magged-up bar is warm, but not hot. I squeeze it and nothing happens. I pull at it but it doesn’t budge. Concentrating hard, I picture the red glow dying out and the bars melting away.

  “Ahhh!” I scream, daggers shooting through my skull, slicing my brain to ribbons, sending images of blank-eyed fish heads and severed human limbs flashing before me. Falling backwards, I let go, landing right in Laney’s arms. Evidently my cry snapped her away from sleep and she was quick enough to lunge forward and save me from a nasty bump on the head.

  And the last image I see is Charles Gordon’s face, his mouth open and laughing.

  Whatever spell was cast on the bars, it was the wizard who cast it. And apparently his powers trump my ability to Resist.

  ~~~

  Trish

  As easily as a human could feel the rumble of an approaching train beneath their feet, Trish can sense the coming dawn. It’s as if the earth and the planets and the sun are a part of her, entwined with her soul. She can feel the sun’s warmth within her, radiating outward, even though it’s still minutes away from rising over the horizon.

  She can also feel the energy pulsing through those around her. Not only the Changelings, but her Children, too, who seem anxious (and maybe excited?) to play their part in the battle to come.

  Trish forces herself to concentrate, not on the magic-born around her, but on the trees and the birds and the wind. She speaks to the natural world with the voice of a trusted friend.

  Of course, the Changeling leader interrupts her. “Ready?” she says, pushing her red hair off of her pale white face.

  I will be when the time comes, Trish says.

  “And the plan is unchanged?”

  The red witch is smart not to trust her. She doesn’t trust the red witch either. The Claires will provide the distraction for the Changelings to breach the defenses, Trish says.

  “Good. You will then wait on the outside while we complete the mission.” It’s not a question, so Trish doesn’t respond.

  And yet the Changeling doesn’t leave. Yes? Trish says.

  “I can’t promise your sister’s survival,” she says. “If she fights for the president, we might have no choice but to neutralize her. We will spare as many humans as possible, but killing the president is the priority.”

  Trish doesn’t answer. She’s been over this a million times in her head. She knows her sister is only one of many sisters she’s had over many lifetimes. She knows she is but one soul amongst thousands that need to be saved. She knows she needs to keep her distance from Laney, if only to avoid the temptation to put her first.

  And yet she also knows she can’t.

  We will help you kill the president, Trish says.

  The red-haired witch’s gaze lingers on her a moment longer than necessary before she spins away, her long, red dress turning black as she strides toward the fence.

  At that exact moment, as Trish knew it would, the sun winks a golden ray over the horizon, signaling the start of a new day.

  A day that could end all days.

  ~~~

  Laney

  “Well, that was stupid,” I say, cradling Rhett’s head in my arms. He’s still in agony, clutching at his skull like he’s got the mother of all migraines.

  “I thought I could—”

  “You couldn’t,” I say.

  “No kidding,” Rhett says, grimacing as he’s hit by another lance of pain.

  I’m so tired my eyes are burning, but I’m afraid to close them for fear of what my glutton-for-punishment friend might do while I’m sleeping.

  “We should get some rest,” Rhett says.

  “Nuh-uh,” I say. “You sleep. I’ll warn any Resistors that happen to pass by that it’s a bad idea to touch the magical bars.”

  “Very funny,” Rhett says, glancing at his watch. I look, too. Ugh. 5:45am. The two or so hours of nightmare-filled sleep weren’t nearly enough.

  “Do you think President Witchy-McWitch will let us sleep in and then bring us pancakes in bed?” I say.

  “I’m not sure you’ll want food if Grogg’s the one making it,” Rhett says. “Unless you like banana pancakes with a side of mud-cream.”

  “Yum. I’ll take a whole stack.”

  The silence creeps along the walls and corners until it settles like a blanket over our cell. Rhett’s breaths grow deep, as do mine. But neither of us sleeps. We’re far too exhausted for that.

  A noise catches my ear. Rhett hears it, too, because he looks at me. Breakfast? his expression seems to say, making my stomach growl.

  There’s a toe-tap and a squishy, gurgling sound. Then there are more of the same sounds, repeated again and again, forming a strange sort of rhythm that would only need a drumbeat to get me to start bobbing my head.

  The sounds get louder, tappin
g and squishing and gurgling.

  I smell the little bugger before I see him, a not unpleasant odor of wet earth wafting to my nose. Grogg squish-gurgles into view, one of his legs dragging a trail of mud behind him. “Speak of the devil,” I say. Maybe we’ll be getting mud-cakes after all.

  But he’s not carrying anything, and it’s a good thing, because he suddenly melts into a puddle of mud and slimes his way between the bars and into the cell. Instinctively, I close my mouth, as if he might try to choke me in mud.

  As he speaks, I try to avoid getting hit by the phlegm-like globules of filth that spit from his mouth. “Have to go,” he gurgles.

  “Go where?” Rhett asks, rising to his feet. He’s at least twice as tall as Grogg. I stand up, too, and even I tower over the mud-creature.

  “To fight,” Grogg says. “Only you have a chance to kill her.”

  “Kill who?” Rhett says at the exact moment I say, “The president.”

  Rhett looks at me, fear in his wide eyes. “You know I can’t,” he says. “I need her to lift my father’s curse.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Then we’ll take her alive.” Turning back to our little mud-friend, I say, “Get us out of here.”

  “I cannot,” he says, which makes me want to wring his muddy little neck. What good are his suggestions to go and fight and kill if he can’t get us out of this cell? I’m about to say as much, but then he turns back and says, “But he can help.”

  Bil Nez steps into the red glow of the bars.

  “You always have to make an entrance,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, Rhett,” he says, not looking at me.

  Rhett goes around the mud-dude and to the bars. I follow him, with Grogg between us as if he’s our unfortunate mud-child. “Are you okay?” Rhett asks Bil.

  “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember what I did. We were fighting the Necros. People were dying.”

  “You ran off,” Rhett says. “Into the woods. You had that look in your eyes.”

  “You mean the I’m-crazy look?” Bil says. “Great. I guess I have to start the clock over on my sanity.”