by David Estes
When we arrive, there’s a commotion near the central cook fire. Raised voices, angry and tumultuous. We walk up to a mob-like scene, humans standing shoulder to shoulder holding torches up high. They have weapons. Not human weapons—magical ones. Tillman Huckle specials. Guns and swords and knives and ropes.
As I push my way toward the front, I hear insults growled at me from all sides. “Witch lover” is the most popular.
At the head of the mob is a man and a woman, standing face to face with the Reaper. He’s staring them down, his lip curled in a threatening snarl. He’s holding something in his powerful arms: A body, limp and lifeless. Small compared to the Reaper’s formidable size. The dead Necro, still wearing his dark hooded cloak. In the growing light, I can see the shimmer of moisture on the cloth, seeping through and beginning to drip into a puddle between the Reaper’s feet.
The humans are pointing weapons at Mr. Jackson; the man aims a gun point blank at his head, while the woman stabs a short blade in front of her. It’s slick with smeared blood.
My blood goes cold when I recognize them both.
They were the first ones to walk away during my speech the night before, when I proposed changing the name of our city to Alliance. The man with the thick beard. The woman with the dangerous eyes. I knew they hated the magic-born, but murderers? I wouldn’t have thought it in a million years.
“Hey!” I shout, to get their attention and to make sure they don’t stab or shoot me when I slip between them.
The woman whirls around, her knife pointed at me. “Back off, witch lover,” she says. “This is none of your business.”
I take a slow step forward, then another, closing the gap between us by half. “What are you going to do, stab me?” I say. “I’m human. Doesn’t that make me one of your own?” Although I’m being sarcastic, I’m hoping playing to her beliefs will help diffuse the situation.
“You ain’t no human,” she says, her words as tight as her jaw. “You can do things no human should be able to do. You’re a freak, just like the rest of them.” She spits in the direction of the Necros, who are clustered together behind Mr. Jackson.
That scares me, just a little. Until now, the humans seemed to trust me more than the magic-born. Now it seems they’ve lumped me in with them, something I can’t afford if I’m going to keep the peace. It’s been only a matter of days and already our little alliance is at its breaking point. Something has to be done. Something drastic.
I draw my sword, which glitters orange as it slides into the first rays of sun. The woman’s eyes widen and I see an instant of fear in them before they narrow again, determined not to back down. I stride forward, whipping my blade in a silent arc. The woman raises her knife and I let my sword crash into it, the sound of metal on metal ringing out above the collectively surprised gasp that issues from the human mob behind me.
My taut muscles and experienced bones absorb the impact, while the woman cries out in pain, dropping her weapon, the blow seeming to shiver through her entire body. In the same motion I shove her to the ground and chop with my left fist like a tomahawk, bringing the full force of my knuckles down on the forearm of the bearded man, who’s already swinging his weapon toward me, getting off a single magical shot.
My mind is already prepared to deflect the magged up bullet, and so I don’t even have to think about it. A white translucent shield appears and stops the bullet in the air, leaving it hovering two inches from my forehead.
Before me, the man screams, his fingers opening to release the gun, which thuds to the dry earth. He clutches his forearm, screaming, “I think you broke my arm, you bastard!”
Mr. Jackson’s expression is one of surprise, but then he offers a nearly imperceptible nod of approval. It’s a nod I don’t get any thrill from, nor one that I need. In fact, I feel nothing except sadness at what these people made me do.
Enough. I’ve had “Enough!” I bellow, kicking the guy in the chest with a heavy boot. The collision rocks him back and he slams to the ground, still clutching his battered arm. I sheath my sword and bend down to confiscate the magical weapons.
A hush falls over the gathered crowd when I turn toward them. “You’re all acting like savages,” I say. “You’d be dead if not for the Necros, don’t you see that?”
A young man with flawless teeth and clear, blue eyes steps forward. “This isn’t living,” he says. “We wouldn’t be in this position at all, if not for the magic-born.”
Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t change the fact that it wasn’t all the magic-born that brought about the witch apocalypse, and we can’t punish them all for the sins of the others. I look him in the eyes but his stare doesn’t falter. “War’s coming in less than three days,” I say. “The Shifters are coming to exterminate us. We can’t be distracted by our hate for each other. We can’t be killing each other. Our very survival will depend on the alliance we formed.”
“You mean the alliance you formed,” he says. For the first time I notice his clothing, which stands out because of how clean everything is. No one cares about washing clothes these days. They even appear to have been ironed, wrinkle-free. Strange. “Now let us tend to their injuries.” He motions to the man and woman.
“No,” I say. “They’re criminals. They’ll be tried for murder the first chance we get.”
“You don’t want to do this,” the guy says.
“No,” I say, “I don’t. But it’s something I have to do.” I spin in a circle, pointing my finger at the humans and Necros alike. “We won’t tolerate murder. Equal treatment for both humans and magic-born.” My eyes stop on the Reaper. “Any Necro who tries to retaliate will be punished accordingly.”
For the first time I get a murmur of approval from the human side, but I take no comfort from it.
Chapter Six
Laney
I feel bad about lying to Rhett. But at the same time, I know that if he knew what I was planning, he’d try to stop me. For his sake, I have to do this. I have to find his father and figure out if there’s another way to get rid of his curse.
When we part ways, it’s still dark. Soon Rhett’s replacement will relieve him at the perimeter and he’ll go with Xave, Mr. Jackson, Bil Nez, and the other witch hunters on a potentially deadly mission. But I can’t think about that. Rhett’s survived so much already; I have to hope he’ll make it through this, too.
Hope is a weed these days, growing quickly and where you least want it, ripped up by a lonely gardener who doesn’t recognize it as a beautiful flower.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. Find Grogg. That’s the first step. Only he’ll be able to tell me where Martin Carter is. First I go to the street where Rhett told me he ran into the mud troll. He wasn’t too specific on the details, and I wasn’t about to ask, so I start at one end and head toward the other end, taking my time, scanning the road and sidewalks for any clues, my task becoming easier as the soft yellow light of dawn creeps over the horizon.
At first, all I find is evidence of the numerous magic-born who previously occupied the city under the watchful eye of President Washington. To my left there are flowers, which wouldn’t be weird except for the fact that they’re not planted in the ground. They’re floating at waist level and glowing slightly, unnaturally bright. To my right is an old fountain that shouldn’t work anymore, but which is spouting colored water in a dozen different directions, moving at impossible angles with the streams bouncing off of each other like ping-pong balls. One of the buildings has a brick wall with hundreds of monarch butterflies pinned to it. Curious, I run my fingers across the wall, and as I touch the delicate velvety wings of each butterfly, it reanimates and flutters away, until the air above me is full of them. I stand in awe with my arms out. Strange that those beings who used their magic for so much evil could also create so much beauty. Considering the magical energy required to perform spells, the magic-born must’ve been pretty bored to have spent their time on such trivial details. I guess waiting around
to massacre a bunch of humans would get pretty boring.
As I continue down the road, I step into giant footprints in the asphalt, cracks spider-webbing out on all sides. Slammer footprints. I cringe. During my travels, I’ve become intimately acquainted with the giant witches and warlocks who left these tracks.
A third of the way down, there’s a tiny muddy footprint leading out of an alley. My heart leaps in excitement. If Grogg wasn’t made of mud, this quest might’ve been impossible. As it is, finding him should be as easy as following a trail of breadcrumbs. I’m hoping there’s not a hungry witch with a taste for human flesh at the end.
The footprints start in a relatively straight line, but then become erratic, moving in circles and zigzags. I laugh as I picture Hex chasing Grogg. Hex’s muddy paw prints are scattered throughout the scene. Past the evidence of Rhett’s meeting with Grogg, the footprints return to a directional path, showing short steps along the sidewalk, as if getting hit by cars is something we still need to be worried about.
I follow the tracks past office buildings and walk-up apartments, once resided in by lobbyists, politicians, journalists, lawyers and other professionals with an interest in the activities of the federal government. Windows are broken. Trash is strewn on the streets. Kids sit on steps and low walls, watching me, eyeing the gun at my hip.
“Have you seen a little boy covered in mud?” I ask one of them, a freckle-faced pre-teen with sad, blue eyes. He stops bouncing a ratty old tennis ball, pinching it between two fingers.
He shakes his head. Resumes the bouncing. The other kids look away, as if their parents—assuming they still have parents—have taught them not to talk to strangers. I think about what Xave said last night, about how the Shifters are seeking out children for their blood. We can’t let that happen. We can’t. Maybe Martin Carter will be able to help us, if we can only get rid of his damn curse.
The footprints turn, and I immediately realize where they’re headed.
Toward the markets.
They call it The Exchange, and it’s where the surviving humans go to trade goods and services with each other. Rhett and I visited it once before, and we were both impressed by what we saw. There was hope there, and more than just a wildflower in a bed of roses.
Why would Grogg go there?
The Exchange is already full of activity: Traders setting up tents; men and women pulling children’s wagons or pushing shopping carts and wheelbarrows, bringing their goods to market; children running and laughing, playing tag. The scene is similar to the one I witnessed a few days ago. It’s almost as if the world is no different than it ever was, and this is just another flea market, not the only market.
Two blocks from The Exchange, Grogg’s footprints angle sharply off the sidewalk into an alleyway, eventually settling behind a Dumpster that’s filled to overflowing, spilling garbage all around it.
The mud thickens, as if Grogg shed his outer layer while hiding in this exact spot.
But Grogg is nowhere to be found. The footprints just end.
I move further down the alley, just in case the mud-creature acquired the ability to jump long distances, but there’s no sign of him. I retrace my steps to the street, wondering if the little bugger might’ve doubled back, walking backwards over his own prints in an attempt to throw off potential pursuers. Nope. Nothing. Nowhere along the path is there any evidence that he snuck in another direction.
Which leaves the Dumpster.
Finally, I tear my gaze from the ground, looking for mud on the edge of the metal waste receptacle, praying I don’t have to go diving through the muck to find the weasel.
I see it, but not on the Dumpster. On the building’s brick wall. A footprint. Higher up, diagonally to the right, there’s another footprint. The pattern continues as high as I can see, a zigzag series of footprints that look exactly the same as the ones I’ve been following on the sidewalk. Except they’re vertical, not horizontal.
Freaking Grogg pulled a Spiderman right up the side of this wall.
Maybe he’s more than just a freaky little punk after all.
“Dammit,” I mutter, my calves already screaming at the thought of climbing to the roof.
Having no other choice, I do it. I enter the building and I ascend eight flights, kicking the metal fire door open at the top in frustration. “Where are you, you dirty monkey?” I shout, my toe throbbing.
A trail of prints cut the roof in half, from one end to the other.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan.
The prints go right over the edge. I know I’m right even before I peek down the side of the building, feeling slightly lightheaded from the height. Sure enough, Grogg’s trail goes straight down the wall.
My gaze traces them to the ground, across another alley, and then up the next building, which is shorter, and across its roof. Apparently gravity doesn’t bother creatures made from mud. Either that or he has calves, quads, and buns of steel.
Once more appreciating the hold that gravity has on me, I fly back down the stairs to street level, continuing toward The Exchange. Grogg’s prints pop from an alley and march right through the market. Partway along, a woman with a broom steps from a tented booth with a broom. She begins furiously sweeping at the dried mud, whisking it away.
“Wait!” I shout, running now.
The woman turns, raising the broom like a baseball bat, as if ready to smack my head into left field. I stop because I know this woman.
“Gertie?” I say. She’s the camp cook. Lieutenant Hemsworth—a lump forms in my throat when I remember my friend—introduced me to her when we first arrived in town.
“Laney?” Gertie says, sounding equally surprised. As usual her gray hair is pulled into a tight bun. She’s wearing a floral frock that covers her impressive girth like a carnival tent. A white grease-stained apron hangs from her shoulders, tied snugly around her waist. “Why are you attacking me?”
“I’m not,” I say, panting slightly. “Just. Can you stop cleaning that mud?”
She looks at me, then at the broom, which she lowers, then back at me, her brow furrowing. “Girl, are you feeling all right? Have you had breakfast?”
Leave it to Gertie to think a squirrel pie is the solution to everything. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’m feeling fine. I’m just looking for someone.”
Her frown deepens. “Let me guess, he’s three feet tall and leaves a mess everywhere he goes.”
“How did you—”
“I’ve been cleaning up after him every morning,” Gertie says. “For some reason he likes taking a midnight stroll through The Exchange. I tried to catch him once, but he’s a quick little thing.”
Color me shocked. The whole town must know about Grogg by now—Gertie’s not exactly known for being tight-lipped. “Do you know where he goes?” I ask.
“Sure. I followed him all the way to the White House. He was perched atop the only pillar still standing. I threatened him, muttering all manner of vile curses, things that would turn any Christian woman’s ears red. And you know what?”
I shake my head, trying not to laugh.
“He threw a mud ball at my head. Since then, I swear he takes heavier footsteps so he’ll leave even more mud.”
Grogg has a sense of humor. Who’d have guessed it?
“Thanks, Gertie,” I say. “I’ve gotta run.”
As I race through the market, she hollers after me. “If you find that troll, tell him he’ll rue the day he insulted the likes of Gertie McGruger!”
As I chuckle at Gertie’s threat, traders stare at me when I pass their stalls, but I mostly ignore them until I come across one that stops me dead in my tracks. A candy stand, promising “Delicious Homemade Delights.” Brightly colored hard candy fills glass jars while lumpy chocolates and caramels rest on trays. There’s a crowd of kids in front of the stand, laughing and screaming and carrying on. The man behind the makeshift wooden counter is wearing a brown bowler hat with tight mesh netting hanging down around h
is face and neck. His arms and hands are likewise protected, covered by his long-sleeved flannel t-shirt and thick, black gardener’s gloves.
But that’s not the thing that makes me stop.
It’s the bees. They surround his stand in a swarm, landing on him and his candy, crawling all over everything, their ceaseless buzzing filling the air. After the man quickly brushes the bees off of each piece of candy, his customers grab them, screaming and running away. The man swats at the bees endlessly, trying to keep the winged stinging machines away from his treasures, but they’re unbeatable, infinite. They remind me of the magic-born who’ve decided to exterminate humankind. Each time you swat one, another one buzzes in to take their place.
A swell of hopelessness rolls through me and I have to force myself to look away, to continue on, to remember that as long as we’re fighting there’s still a chance for victory. I hope I’m not being foolishly optimistic.
~~~
Just as Gertie promised, Grogg is perched atop the pillar like a gargoyle. The rest of the White House is in shambles, most of it having tumbled into the chasm opened up by the now-dead wizard, Charles Gordon. What’s left of the building looks like a demolition site: piles of rubble, splintered wood, sheared copper pipes, and a lone pillar, once white, now seared with streaks of black and speckled with blood. And, of course, muddy footprints.
Nearby, the Claires are sitting in a circle on the lawn. Tara watches me with interest but doesn’t approach. I avoid her gaze, turning my attention to the sky. “Grogg,” I say.
“Leave us,” the creature says.
“Is your master available for a chat?”
“Master is busy,” Grogg croaks.
“Is he saying that or are you?” I sidestep a clump of mud that falls from above. “That’s not very nice.”
“Accident,” Grogg says. “Can’t stop the shedding.”
I raise an eyebrow. Maybe he didn’t throw a mud ball at Gertie after all. “Is that normal?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Grogg knows nothing but what Master tells us.”
