by David Estes
“How poetic,” I say. “What about the Claires?”
The Reaper turns toward me. “They still die,” he says. “And they have no control over when they’ll be reborn. No, not even the Claires are immortal, not in the way you think of the word.”
“But that doesn’t mean we should all die today,” Rhett points out.
“Staying in this death trap is a mistake,” the Reaper says. “All I ask is that you think about it.”
Apparently having said all he wants to on the subject, Mr. Jackson turns on his heel and goes back to the fence, peering into the growing darkness of the woods.
“Maybe he’s right,” I say.
“Maybe he wants more raw materials for his magic,” Rhett says bitterly. “A bunch of human corpses would only strengthen his own personal army.”
“Rhett,” I say, conveying as much as I can with my tone alone.
He sighs. “I know I’m being unfair. It’s just…sending these people into battle doesn’t seem fair either.”
“And letting the battle come to them is better?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. At least they’d have more time to prepare for it.”
He turns to face the fence, and then heads for a section a stone’s throw away from where Mr. Jackson is stationed. I watch him for a moment, following only once he’s settled in, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. I flop down beside him, letting the silence mend and weave the air between us, healing any wounds our previous conversation has reopened.
Craning my head back, I search the sky for stars, but find only a blanket of bruised gray cloud cover. “We are so small,” I murmur, feeling the size of the universe surrounding us.
“Speak for yourself,” Rhett says. “I was one of the tallest guys on my football team.”
I smirk at him. “With feet the size of snowshoes,” I add.
He extends his legs, and I do the same, our feet sidling up next to each other. I wiggle my toes in my boots and he says, “Next to mine, it looks like you have elf feet.”
“Hey, don’t judge, have you seen the elves in The Lord of the Rings? They’re warriors.”
He laughs and ropes an arm around my shoulders. I lean into him, relishing the solidity being close to him always brings.
“Do you two need a chaperone?” Mr. Jackson hollers from down the fence line.
I’m starting to regret teaching him the art of humor.
We ignore him and watch for movement in the dark. Leaves rustle and crickets chirp. An owl hoots. Other than that, the night is silent.
The cool air seems to clear my mind. Our discussion about Martin Carter’s curse replays in a loop. There has to be something we can do. Tara seems to think so, even if she’s not particularly forthcoming with information. Maybe Rhett’s father knows something, too, despite him saying the opposite. Maybe there’s another way, but he doesn’t want to distract his son with it. He told Rhett to forget about him. But I know Rhett better than that. He won’t forget. He’ll never forget. In the dark of the night he’ll agonize over the decision he made to kill President Washington, who he believed was the only one who could fix his father.
I have to talk to Grogg, have to find out where Rhett’s father is.
Although Rhett can’t go near his dad because of the curse, I can.
I’m wrenched from my thoughts when a twig snaps, sounding like a firecracker in the silence. Rhett’s on his feet in an instant, pulling me up after him while simultaneously drawing his sword.
I slide my Glock from its holster, grasping it firmly with both hands in front of me, the barrel poking through a hole in the fence.
Leaves rustle unnaturally, not from the wind.
The clear shuffle of footsteps moves closer.
A tall form steps from the woods. I can just make out long hair hanging beyond each of her shoulders. A girl?
The maybe-girl stops when she sees the fence rising before her.
Behind her, green eyes gleam in the dark and a panther growls.
Chapter Five
Rhett
Everything happens so fast.
The Reaper speaks a sharp command in a strange guttural language; forms rise from the ground beyond the fence, hidden Reanimates planted for just such an occasion; Laney pulls her Glock’s trigger and there’s a deafening boom beside my ear; and Flora the panther’s hissing cat-like voice shouts something unintelligible.
A blue arc of light appears before the girl who stepped from the woods, lighting her face, which is dark-skinned with big brown eyes and thick dark lips framed by long coarse hair. She’s a sturdy girl of above-average height with broad shoulders and wide hips.
It’s not magic she’s using to create the shield of light.
Laney’s magical bullets deflect off the shield, sending purple sparks crackling to the earth. The bullets streak back like lasers and into the Reanimates, which stops their forward progress, their bodies jerking wildly as the projectiles enter their undead skin, piercing their skulls. They die again, crashing to the ground in a series of sickening thuds.
“What the…” Laney says.
“She’s a Resistor,” I breathe, in awe of what I’ve just witnessed.
“Oh crap,” Laney says.
The girl’s magic-Resistant shield vanishes, leaving us blinking away spots of light dancing across our vision, and hiding her under a shroud of darkness. She speaks. “Surrender within three days and our master will consider taking your people into her fold.”
As if to punctuate the offer, Flora growls.
Too stunned to react, I can only stare as the Resistor girl steps back into the woods and disappears.
~~~
The commotion has drawn a crowd. Humans and magic-born from further down the perimeter have come with questions. Who was shooting and why? Are we under attack? Half the humans look ready to fight, while the other half are edging away from the fence, eyeing the presumed safety of the buildings rising in the distance.
I’m about to explain everything, when Mr. Jackson steps forward and says, “False alarm. There was an animal out there, but it was just an animal, not a Shifter. We overreacted. Go back to your posts.”
There are a few sighs of relief and a handful of anxious chuckles amongst the humans. Everyone’s nerves are frayed. Weapons that were drawn are replaced, and everyone leaves except one.
“Bil freaking Nez,” Laney says. “Didn’t you hear the King of the Undead? He said scram.”
Bil offers a sideways smile as he approaches. “You know, I get the feeling that if you and my witch hunting friend over here ever have kids, they’ll be the ones that push my kids over and steal their lunch money.”
That makes me smile. Because he’s probably right.
“What’s up, Bil?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, from front to back, letting his fingers settle on the top of the crossbow slung across his back. “Oh, I don’t know, nothing much, except the fact that you three are hiding something.”
“Who, us?” Laney says, feigning shock and outrage at the very notion. “What gave you that idea?”
“I’m not stupid,” Bil says.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Laney says.
“There are corpses on the other side of the fence.”
“Umm,” Laney says, doing her best to surreptitiously gesture in Mr. Jackson’s direction. “Ever heard of the Necros?” she whispers, pretending to be all secretive about it.
“These corpses have been killed twice,” Bil says.
“Damn, boy, you’ve got some seriously good night vision to be able to tell details like that,” Laney says.
“My father was the Chief of my tribe,” Bil says. “Practicing night vision was something we learned very young.”
“Sorry, Soaring Eagle, didn’t mean to offend.”
I interject, knowing that if I don’t they’ll be trading barbs all night. “Something happened,” I say, “but Mr. Jackson apparently wants to keep it a secret.”
The Reaper, having remained silent during our exchange so far, steps forward. “We can’t incite panic,” he says. “Not until we’ve made some decisions.”
“The Shifters have given us three days to surrender. They’ve got the third Resistor with them,” I say.
“Whoa-ho,” Bil says. “Come again?”
“You heard him,” Laney says.
“I don’t care if they’ve got the Queen of England on their side, we can’t be seriously considering surrendering,” Bil says.
“We’re not,” Mr. Jackson says. “But the girl changes things. We won’t be able to—”
“Wait. What girl?” Bil says.
“The Resistor,” I say.
“She’s a girl?”
“Yeah, so?” Laney says, her hands sliding to her hips. “Why couldn’t the third Resistor be a girl?”
Bil takes a step back. “I don’t know, I just assumed because Rhett and I are males…”
“Well she’s not. She’s a female,” I say.
“Is she hot?” Bil asks.
I roll my eyes. “She looked strong.”
“Like she could beat your pansy ass,” Laney adds in Bil’s direction.
Bil grins, ignoring the insult. “Because if she’s a looker, I’d be happy to woo her for you. You know, get her to come over to our side.”
Laney practically chokes on her laugh. “Woo her? You couldn’t woo a cocker spaniel. Just the thought of you ‘wooing’ anyone makes me want to woo my pants.”
Bil glares at Laney. “It was just an option. You don’t have to be so crass about it.”
“Thanks, Bil,” I say. “But I don’t think this girl will be easily turned. She called Flora her master and she deflected Laney’s magic bullets back at Mr. Jackson’s Reanimates. She’s good. Very good.” Better than me? I wonder. It’s a possibility I have to consider and prepare for.
“So what do we do?” Bil asks.
Mr. Jackson clears his throat. “As I was saying before being interrupted, it changes everything. Our magical weapons won’t work against her, nor our spells. She’ll neutralize the magic-born, and she’ll have magic-born allies of her own.”
“What?” I say. “What allies?”
“Do you remember the battle with President Washington?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve blocked it out, like I did with half my childhood.”
“Sarcasm,” Mr. Jackson says. “What I meant was, do you remember how easy that battle was?”
“Easy?” I say, incredulous, my eyebrows pushing for the stars. “That was easy?”
“Yes,” the Reaper says. “Well, easier than it should’ve been. Flora had already persuaded hundreds, maybe even thousands, of magic-born to join her, leaving President Washington with but a portion of the army she thought she had under her control.”
My mind is racing. I knew Flora had pulled my strings like a street show marionette’s, but I didn’t realize how powerful she’d already become when she used me to kill President Washington. An angrier thought hits me. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” I demand. “Didn’t you think we needed to know?” I realize I’ve taken a step forward, but Mr. Jackson holds his ground.
“I’m telling you now,” he says. My anger leeches away. Although I’m rarely happy with the timeliness in which the Necro leader provides me with information, he’s not going to change anytime soon, and he’s certainly not the enemy. And anyway, that’s not the real issue at hand.
“How did she convince them to switch sides?” I ask.
Mr. Jackson’s eyes seem to dance with the light of revelation. “According to the Claires, she made them believe President Washington was doomed to fail because of her arrogance, which isn’t much of a stretch considering her reputation.”
“The Claires knew too?” How many more were in on the truth, but didn’t tell me?
“We’re not up against an army—we’re facing a swarm,” I say.
Mr. Jackson nods seriously. “They will come, all of them, with the sole intention of wiping us from the face of the earth. When Flora proved she was right after President Washington was destroyed, she became almost a god to the other magic-born. They’ll fight for her—of that, there is no doubt. And now that we know she has a Resistor…”
“But we have two Resistors,” Bil says. “Surely two are better than one.”
“True,” Mr. Jackson says. “But keep in mind that your ability to Resist won’t be particularly useful against the Shifters. Their magic transforms them into animal form, but they don’t use magic when they attack. You won’t be able to stop their claws or fangs. Plus, they’ll be using their magic to create an army made from any raw materials they can get their hands on. Once their creations are finished, they also won’t use magic to hurt us. They’ll be the least magical magic army, if that makes sense.”
“I’m not worried about an army of Groggs,” Laney says, shifting from leg to leg, as if eager to fight. “That little guy is even scared of Hex.”
“They won’t be like Grogg,” Mr. Jackson says. “He’s just an example of what they can do. Their army will be strong, don’t underestimate them.” Don’t underestimate them. It’s one of his favorite catchphrases, first delivered to me way back when I was still coming to terms with the fact that witches and warlocks were more than just characters in the books I liked to read. Back when I thought Mr. Jackson was a human.
As we soak in his words, there’s a bark, and I see a flash of fur as Hex bounds into view. A lone form jogs after him, looking more and more familiar the closer he gets.
“Xavier?” I say.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, offering a half-smile. “I looked for you in your tent, and Hex led me here.”
“Smart dog,” I say, giving Hex a scratch behind the ear. Turning my focus back to Xave, I say, “What is it?”
“Floss’s scouts spotted a large group of Shifters to the northeast. They’ve been moving through the less inhabited areas, searching for human survivors. They’re killing the adults and harvesting the blood of the children. Apparently some of the Shifters haven’t been able to transform yet.”
A knot forms in my stomach as I remember the first time I came face to face with Flora and some of the other Shifters. They’d already drained the blood from the children’s bodies. But it’s what she did to their corpses afterwards that makes me nauseous now. “We have to stop them,” I say. Their strategy is becoming all too clear: kill off our scouts, sending a message of fear with one of them; give us two days of respite to think about things and come to the conclusion that we’re screwed; and then offer a final chance to surrender. Unfortunately for them, I don’t know the meaning of the word.
“I agree,” Mr. Jackson says. “We can’t let their progress go unchecked. I’ll rally some of the Necros and we’ll leave at first light.”
“I’m in,” I say. “Bil?”
“Yep,” he says. “I don’t mind fighting baby killers.”
“I’ve got some new Reanimates I’ve been dying to try out,” Xave says.
“Uh, good. Thanks, Xave,” I say, trying not to think about it too much.
Laney says, “I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone. You know, to make sure the humans and the magic-born don’t kill each other.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded, wondering if I heard her wrong. Laney, miss the action? Never. “Okay,” I say, rallying. “Good. Good plan.” At least she’ll be safer than us.
With the plan for tomorrow agreed, Bil and Xave leave to get some shuteye while Mr. Jackson, Laney, and I return to our posts.
We pass the rest of the night in silence, and in the back of my mind something gnaws at me; but it seems like the harder I try to figure out what it is, the smaller and more elusive it gets, slipping away into the coming dawn like a ghost that only haunts in the night.
~~~
Laney has gone to get a bit of sleep before her morning shift at the perimeter. I still can’t believe she’s not coming on the mission today. Relief floa
ts airily through me, lightening the tension I constantly feel in my chest these days.
Just as the early light of dawn creases the horizon, Xave appears again, running toward me. His strides are frantic, and he stumbles once, righting himself and hustling onward. He’s not just coming to collect me for the mission. Something’s wrong. I start toward him.
“What is it?” I say, when we meet in the middle. He nearly crashes into me and I grab him firmly and hold him up. His body sags as he struggles to catch his breath.
I let him breathe for a few moments, but then grab the sides of his head and ask again, “Xave—what happened?”
“They killed him,” he breathes.
Killed. It’s a word that was once used tragically on the news. That, once upon a time, was used to describe the terrible and unexpected car accident that claimed the lives of my first foster family. In the months that have passed since Salem’s Revenge, it’s become just another word, and I don’t even flinch.
“Who killed who?” I ask.
“A Necro,” he says.
“A Necro murdered someone?” I ask, a throb of anger bursting through my capillaries.
Xave freezes, his eyes meeting mine, narrowing. They don’t contain anger, but sadness. What is he sad about? Did he know the victim?
“No,” he says. “A woman murdered a Necro.” He glances away and I realize why he looks so sad. Because I jumped to conclusions. Because I immediately assumed a magic-born was to blame. Despite all my fruitless cries to the contrary, I’m just as shallow as the rest of the humans, still unable to see past the magical lines that have been drawn between our kinds.
But my soul-searching can wait. Xave’s disappointment at my reaction can wait.
“What happened afterwards?” I ask.
“Nothing yet,” he says.
“Show me.”
He keeps his distance from me the whole way back to camp. Like we’re not friends. Like we barely know each other. I can hardly blame him.
