by David Estes
“Whatever you did, you’re back now,” Rhett says.
“Damn right,” Bil says, reaching for the bars. “Let me get you out of here.”
“No!” Rhett and I cry at the exact same time. Bil retracts his hand sharply.
“What?” he says. “It’s made of magic and I’m a Resistor. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m surprised you’re still in here.”
“What’s with you Resistors thinking you’re invincible?” I say, flicking a glare between the two guys. “Rhett already tried that and Charles Gordon’s magic almost fried his brain.”
“Maybe I’m stronger than Rhett,” Bil says.
“Go for it,” Rhett says, a hint of irritation in his tone.
“No,” I say, reaching out a single finger close to the bars, thinking. In a move that could’ve landed me a starring role as the alien in E.T., my finger glows red, revealing my bones. “What if you do it together? That wizard may be stronger than one of you, but maybe not both.”
“He’s not stronger than me,” Rhett mutters, but he holds out a hand anyway, willing to put my suggestion to the test. “On three?”
“Yeah,” Bil says, hovering a hand in front of the same bar.
“One,” Rhett says. “Two…Three!”
Simultaneously they grab the bar, their hands nearly touching, right on top of each other. Rhett clenches his jaw and grits his teeth and growls, while Bil lets out a scream of agony. I hold my breath as the bar begins to glow brighter amidst their shouts. The bar goes from red to orange to yellow, and then bright-white, forcing me to use my hands to shield my eyes as I back away.
The cell erupts in a blast of white light, as if heaven has collided into the sun. Then, as quickly as it brightened, the room darkens to black, which is almost worse. I wave my hand a few times across my face, but all I see are white spots, twinkling like stars.
“Rhett?” I say. “Bil?”
“Grogg?” Grogg gurgles, his voice far too close for my liking.
“Ow,” Rhett says, nearby.
“Damn,” Bil says, also nearby. “My head feels like I had an unfortunate meeting with a porcupine.”
“That’s nothing,” Rhett says. “Mine still feels like it’s clamped in a vice.”
“You guys ready to go?” I say cheerily. “Or do you want to keep arguing over who’s more of a baby?”
“Are you sure it worked?” Rhett asks.
“Worked,” Grogg confirms, so close to my ear that I lean away from his voice, trying not to puke.
“They separated us from Hex, so we don’t have a source of light, except for my watch,” Rhett says, illuminating the blue face that now reads 6:00am.
I’m about to ask whether Grogg has any brilliant ideas, when there’s a huge clap of thunder that shakes the walls.
“A storm,” Rhett says.
“There were no clouds when I arrived,” Bil says.
“No storm,” Grogg agrees.
There’s another heavy boom and the entire ground seems to shake. “Then what?” I ask. “An earthquake?”
“No,” Grogg grunts, his muddy face eerily sheened with blue as he leans close to Rhett’s watch face. “The attack has begun.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Trish
Her children are perfection. Some of their bodies are younger, some older, but all are gliding gracefully toward New Washington. She admires their stoic expressions and the absence of fear in their eyes.
Remember. Don’t hurt them. Disable but not kill, she says where only they can hear. The Changelings, barely noticeable as flashes of shadow in the trees to her left, are oblivious to her commands.
Yes, Mother, her Children say, almost a chant. We will do as you say.
The lost memory creeps closer, poking around the edges of her mind. She pretends not to notice it, hoping that will draw it into the light, but it scampers away again. Instinctively, she lets out a deep sigh and then sucks air into her lungs, although she needs no breath.
What is it, Mother? one of her Children says, perceiving her inner turmoil. It’s the slender, willowy girl with the white-blond hair whose current body is at least a decade her senior in human years. And yet she remembers that the girl is thousands of years younger than her.
She finds herself wanting to open up to this girl, to share her innermost secrets, to reveal her doubts and weaknesses. She opens her mouth to speak, almost tasting the bitterness of the words on the tip of her tongue. But of course the words can’t come out so easily the human way. Nor should they.
Nothing, she speaks in her daughter’s head. Be brave.
I will, Mother. Anything for you.
With blades of early morning sun slicing the forest to shreds, Trish realizes the power she wields. Not just what she can do, but what she can make her Children do. But should she? That’s the real question, isn’t it? To her surprise, the calm inside her burns into frustration, as if all her lifetimes of experience as a Claire suddenly decide to wage war on her annoying human emotions.
She swallows the heat down and resumes her graceful glide toward whatever fate awaits.
Through layers and layers of foliage, she can already see the fence rising stalwart in defense of New Washington and the humans and…
…her sister.
She stops abruptly. Her Children do, too, without being told, the picture of unquestioned obedience.
Despite her assurances to the red Changeling, she knows what she must do. Her heart fills with warmth and sadness and…a memory:
President Washington, still in her own lifetime but in a different lifetime for Trish, stalking toward her. A ball of electricity crackles in one hand and a ball of fire in the other. One of her Children is chained to the wall, held by magical bonds. Across from the girl is a young boy. Jasper, she remembers, her earthly brother in her previous lifetime.
President Washington is a witch. How could she forget? How could she be so human sometimes?
And President Washington says, “Choose.”
The memory is like shards of glass in her chest, slashing her heart to ribbons. She loved Jasper. And, of course, she loves her Children. Always and forever. “Both,” she says, opening her mouth to scream, to end the mad woman standing before her.
“Wrong answer,” the witch says, both weapons shooting from her hands simultaneously. Her own weapon, her scream, gets caught in her throat as she watches in horror as her Child burns with magic fire and Jasper’s tiny body shakes, blue bolts of electricity running through his limbs and chest.
The memory fades and Trish finds herself gasping for breath, on the ground, shaking and writhing as if simultaneously burning and being electrocuted. As if the memory is trying to rip her apart from the inside out.
Her Children surround her, patting her back, rubbing her arms, speaking soothing words. You’re alright, Mother. We are here. We will protect you as you protect us. Mother. Mother. Mother. The wind-like whispers fade and so do her tremors, like leaves lost to a stiff autumn breeze.
She stands, preferring to keep her feet on the ground this time. She places one hand on a tree and the other on the shoulder of her willowy Child, whose eyes never leave hers. I’m fine, she says.
You’re not fine. Tell us, her Child says.
Thank you, she says, releasing both the girl and the tree at the same time. Her legs feel strong again. No, even stronger than before. Because she finally knows exactly what she has to do.
They move forward and the shouts from behind the fence rise like morning mist. Like a chorus of mourning, she and her Children scream as one, interrupted only by the hail of gunshots that pelt her ears. The bullets shatter in midair, falling harmlessly to the earth. Destroyers and Pyros and Volts attack from above and the side and straight ahead, but the Claires’ screams are an impenetrable barrier. The spells are deflected back and into the witches and warlocks, who fall beneath their own power. Trish smiles in satisfaction at the precise nature of her Children’s power as none of the humans fall; however, they
do turn with wide eyes and open mouths, retreating away from the fence, even as it begins to uproot itself with an eardrum-piercing scream that rises from her own throat.
The fence rips from the ground, bending in multiple places as if it’s made from straw and not metal, rattling to the ground in a mangled heap of barbed wire and twisted links. The humans are already in their vehicles, fleeing the scene with an unexpected lack of courage, leaving cook fires burning to ash and dirty dishes soaking in brown water. Discarded weapons are scattered underfoot, crisscrossed by clotheslines flapping with drying camouflage fatigues.
In the distance, she sees more witches, but they also speed away, as if trying to put as much space between themselves and the Claires as possible. Are President Washington’s troops really so uncourageous?
No, she realizes. This is part of their defense.
She senses the missiles the moment before they’re fired from somewhere nearby, streaking across the sky like a child’s toy rockets. She’s also aware of the murmurs of the Changelings, who have huddled in behind her Children. There’s real fear in their eyes, which are usually full of steel and arrogance. Even the Changeling leader looks scared, although the nod she offers to Trish shows her trust in the Claires.
The first missile crashes down a mere hundred feet away, erupting in a booming ball of fire that shakes the earth beneath their feet. Smoke and debris shoot skyward, pluming up like a giant mutant mushroom. A cloud of dust pushes outward in a concentric circle, running along the ground like an unstoppable desert sandstorm, racing toward Trish and her Children as if borne on thousands of invisible feet.
Some of the Changelings cry out, even start to run, but Trish and her Children don’t move, silent and unafraid.
Just before the cloud reaches them, Trish raises a small hand, which looks orange and yellow in the new-day sunlight. Stop it, she commands, and her Children follow her example, raising their own hands, which are all shapes and sizes and colors. The storm of smoke and ash and shrapnel reaches them, a deadly manmade force, whipping the air into a frenzy.
But it never touches them. Instead, it seems to move all around them, blocking out the sky and the trees and each other, swirling amongst each of them like a supernatural dance partner. Like a ghost, it cannot touch them, only observe and pass on by, moving into the forest where trees fall and bushes are uprooted and birds stop singing and push themselves heavenward.
Trish feels the smallest portion of energy leave her, but the blow was balanced across all of her Children, minimalizing the impact on any one of them.
There are a number of screams, but not from her Children, who are silent, their mouths closed. The cries are from those Changelings who fled outside of the circle of protection created by Trish and her Children, their screams cut off as they perish in the aftermath of the explosion.
Get control, Trish says to the red witch, who only grits her teeth in response.
And then: Forward, she says, speaking to the entire group, which begins to move as one across the field, even as missiles rain down upon them. Trish screams, exploding one rocket in midair, the force buckling her legs and bowing her head, but not stopping her. Never stopping her.
Her Children scream, too, not powerful enough to explode the missiles, but able to deflect them off course, sending them careening away from New Washington, where their thunderous explosions sound muffled and distant.
The witch alliance moves ever forward, protected by the Claires, gaining confidence with each step, until they reach a second fence and the first of the standing structures.
“Thank you,” the red witch says, striding forward, her swagger regained. “Your part is done. Now let my witches do their part.”
Children, Trish says, allowing her voice to be heard by all. We return to the forest to wait.
The red Changeling smiles, her womanly curves and features morphing into that of a tiny child. The remaining Changelings undergo similar changes. Small and thin now, the Changelings easily slip through the bars of the gate. On the other side, they transform again, this time into horrifying creatures with scaly skin, spiked heads, inch-long claws. Together, they stalk into the city.
Noticing her Children haven’t moved, she says, Go.
You are not coming, her white-blonde, blue-eyed child says. Trish notices it isn’t a question, but answers anyway.
No, she says. The next part is mine alone.
You have no need for redemption, the Child says, her white dress sparkling like dewdrops as the sun creeps higher.
Redemption? Trish thinks to herself. Is that what this is? And why would this girl, her Child, think that? The girl’s eyes are suddenly in her memory, bright and blue and sparkling amidst the orange/red flames licking her human skin. I’m sorry, her Child’s lips mouth just before she dies.
It was her, Trish realizes. The Child she failed to save in her last life. Born again earlier than Trish by nine or ten years. The Child is standing here again, forgiving her for her past failings, urging her to stay with them.
The desire to fade away into the woods, to dance and eat and laugh with her Children, to be happy, burns within her chest, but she douses it with a thin laugh. This isn’t about redemption, she says to her Children. This is about family.
She floats over the gate, leaving them with a final command.
This is my fate and mine alone. Do not follow.
~~~
Rhett
Grogg speaks almost nonstop in that disgusting mouth-full-of-food voice. “Must kill the president. Must not save her. Must not let her live. Must soak her clothes in blood. Must stop her heart.”
“Must squish her toes and bludgeon her brain and sever her arteries,” Laney says. “We get the picture.”
“Good good good,” Grogg says. “Follow us and you’ll find her toes and brain and arteries. Follow us and this will be over soon.”
“We’re following,” I say, holding my wrist up and forward, trying to cast as much blue light from my watch as possible. Mud from Grogg’s footsteps squishes under my shoes.
“My sister might be out there somewhere,” Laney says.
“I know,” I say.
“No, I mean, she might be fighting, attacking.”
“I know,” I say again. “We’re not going to hurt her.”
“But what if—”
“She’s not going to hurt us either,” I say. I squeeze Laney’s hand, hoping I’m right.
The walls stop shaking as the last of the missiles explode.
“Do you think—” Laney starts to say.
“She can stop missiles,” I say. “Remember before with Huckle?”
Her shadow nods on the wall. “Yeah. You’re right. Trish is fine. Missiles can’t stop her. Nothing can.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Bil Nez says unhelpfully.
“Shut it, Bil,” I say. Laney’s already wired enough as it is, the last thing I need is Bil setting her off again.
I drop my wrist as I realize the abject darkness has faded to a murky gray. My eyes adjusting quickly, I can now make out the three-foot-tall Grogg sloughing along in front of us. He’s still muttering, but he’s lowered his voice enough so that I can’t make out any of it, for which I’m thankful. I know he’s being controlled by the witch who created him, but he still seems to have a mind of his own sometimes, which seems impossible given he’s made of mud.
We reach a set of stairs, ascending toward the glowing outline of a horizontal door, the same door we entered through.
Grogg reaches the top and pushes the door open. The light is blinding as it pours through the opening. I blink and rub at my eyes, opening them a fraction at a time, until I can see again. Bil has already pushed past us, his eyes having not been stuck in the dark for nearly as long as ours. “Oh no,” he says, seeing something we can’t. “Maybe we should just stay down in the cell,” he adds.
I clamber out onto the lawn, pulling Laney behind me. When I see what Bil is looking at, my breath hitches, s
ticking in my lungs like it’s made of glue. Hundreds of witches and warlocks, far more than President Washington had inferred were her allies, are lined up in rows on the White House lawn. I spot members from all different gangs—Volts, Pyros, Brewers, Casters, Destroyers, Sirens, Shifters, Slammers, Conjurers, and, of course, one General, in the form of President Washington, standing on the steps above them all, her hands raised above her head like some kind of a prophet. She’s flanked by the wizard, Charles Gordon, who looks exactly like he always did in his movies, and Samsa, the giant. It’s the most diverse gathering of the magic-born that I’ve ever witnessed.
Thankfully, the masses of magic-born are facing away from us, and the president and her two protectors are focused intently on their army.
Huddled around the edges of the group is what’s left of the U.S. military. They’re whispering amongst themselves, pointing at the witches, gripping their guns with white knuckles. Even after defending the borders alongside them, the humans are still not comfortable in the presence of so many magic-born. Noticeably absent are the witch hunters.
“We knew this day would come!” President Washington shouts. Although she casts her gaze across the humans and magic-born alike, I get the sense that she’s speaking only to the witches and warlocks. “But we will not falter, will not fall to our enemies. We will fight to the bitter end and we will destroy our foes. And then, finally, the world will be ours again!” A cheer rises up from the magic-born, accompanied by a smattering of uncertain applause and hollers from the humans. Even though they don’t know the truth about their leader, the humans seem to realize there’s something off about her speech and the fact that she’s delivering it amongst so many magic-born.
Because she means to rule them, too.
“It’s time to cast off those who we’ve used for our purposes, the last defenders of humanity. It’s time to be free of their unwanted presence. They’re a cancer that needs to be cut from the face of the world. With them gone, enslaving the rest of the humans will be child’s play.” A scattering of murmurs roll through the U.S. military as realization sets in. She’s talking about them. Guns go up, pointed at the witches and warlocks, who just laugh at them.
