by David Estes
“Does he have anything to say to me—to Laney?”
Grogg shifts slightly and liquid mud slides down the pillar, like a molten chocolate cake erupting. “Keep Rhett away, Master says. Keep Rhett focused. Rhett gives hope. And Rhett takes it away.”
I consider what to say next. “Rhett is fine,” I say. “But he can’t stop thinking about the curse. If I can help take care of that, he’ll be able to focus better.”
Grogg coughs and mud droplets rain all around me. I keep my mouth closed, grimacing as the wet filth sprinkles my cheeks. “Dying,” Grogg says.
“What?” I exclaim. “How can you die? You’re made of mud.”
“Tied to Master,” Grogg says. “We’re all dying. That’s why Rhett must forget us. Rhett must move forward and leave us behind.”
Crapballs. Rhett’s father has already spent too much time near Rhett. I was there for some of the meetings. He saved us more than once, but it cost him dearly. I saw the agony on his face, like his very life force was being sucked from his body. The curse. President Washington’s legacy, continuing to torment us from the grave.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But Rhett should know. He needs to know.”
Grogg’s voice changes, becoming less guttural and more normal, like a man speaking, deep and firm and tender. “He never knew me. He doesn’t need to know me now. I have to slip away into the night. It’s the right thing for everyone.”
I’m actually speaking to Rhett’s father, a man who hasn’t spoken in years, his tongue cut out by the Head of the Witch Council just before she cursed him. And his voice sounds just like Rhett.
Something burns in the back of my throat. Pull yourself together, Laney! I think harshly. Only you can do this.
“I want to see you,” I say, trying to sound confident. “No, I will see you.”
Grogg shakes his head, flinging mud. “Please,” Martin Carter says through the troll’s mouth. “Don’t make this any harder.”
My knuckles tighten in determination. “Harder? What’s harder for Rhett than you dying before he’s even had a chance to get to know you? What’s harder for Rhett than feeling like it’s his fault that you’re dead? What’s harder than thinking you’re an orphan all your life only to find out your father’s alive but you can’t go anywhere near him? Explain it to me, because I’m not understanding.” My teeth are clenched together, my angry words growling between them.
Grogg sighs, and it sounds so human. It’s disconcerting but intriguing at the same time. Magic has given Martin Carter his voice back, if only for a short time.
“You care about my son,” Grogg says.
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer, just wait.
“You can give him what I cannot. If I meet with you, you must agree to tell him word-for-word everything I tell you, and nothing more.”
“I can’t promise that,” I say.
Another tired sigh. He sounds exhausted, like every breath is a struggle. He doesn’t have much time left. “I can see what he sees in you,” Grogg says. “You’re strong. Like Rhett’s mother was.”
“We’re both strong,” I say. “Where can I find you?”
“Grogg will lead you,” he says, and the mud-creature slides down the pillar.
Chapter Seven
Rhett
In some ways, it feels good to be doing something. Even if that something is going on a deadly mission to hunt shape-shifting witches after having stayed up all night watching out for said deadly shape-shifting witches. I need to hit something, to feel the adrenaline rush of battle, if only to clear my mind from what happened earlier between the humans and the magic-born. The murdered Necro, who was apparently stabbed in the back because he made some ill-advised threat against the man and woman’s future unborn children.
I personally oversaw them being locked up in one of the police stations within our boundaries, all the while doing my best to not react to the obscenities they hurled at me; the neatly dressed guy with the big mouth insisted on tagging along to ensure “no human rights were violated.” He promised he would be representing the pair at trial, as their lawyer. I promised him I didn’t give a crap what he did. For all I know, we’ll all be dead before there’s ever a trial, and anyway, those two might be safer behind bars than free on the outside.
For this mission, Bil Nez is a no-show. Shocker. He’s probably gone off the reservation again, no pun intended. I don’t even smile at my own internal joke, because the truth is, he’s one of the few friends I have and the thought that something could happen to him when he’s having one of his episodes scares the crap out of me.
Hex is also a no-show. Also not that shocking. Although I consider him my dog—I did save him from a witch using him as a guinea pig for her spells—I’m not his master. He’ll do as he pleases and pop in and out of my life according to his own wishes. In fact, if history is any measure, he’ll probably show up at the penultimate point of the battle and save the day in usual Hex-dramatic style. I hope he does.
The other witch hunters are cleaning their weapons, packing their gear, buying last minute magical explosives from Tillman Huckle, who’s driven his van/warehouse right onto the White House lawn, where Xave said we would meet. The witch hunters come in all shapes and sizes, ages and genders. They’re scarred, they’re tattooed, they’re pierced, and they’re hungry for battle. But not a single one of them looks scared. A brief burst of pride fills my chest. At various times in the past, I’ve loathed being known as a witch hunter, being grouped together with people I’ve had little in common with. But today, at this moment, I’m honored to call them my friends.
A week ago, when the battle ended, the witch hunters took a chance on trusting me, going against their every instinct to spare the lives of Mr. Jackson and Xave and the other Necros. And now they’re going to fight alongside them. It almost seems inconceivable.
Of course, that’s when Mr. Jackson shows up, his black boots crunching across the grass.
“Hey Creeper,” one of the witch hunters calls out. The other hunters call him Snake, because he’s always spewing venom in the form of trash talk.
“It’s Reaper,” one of the other Necros says, his words seeming to float out from the shadowy abyss of his hood-shrouded face. “I suggest you get it right next time.”
Snake, who does seem to slither when he walks, his feet barely leaving the ground with each step, moves toward Mr. Jackson, who ignores him.
“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Snake says, pausing for a second. And then: “Creeper.”
Mr. Jackson stops, turns to face the witch hunter. His voice comes out low and threatening, like dark clouds gathering before a storm. “I didn’t ask for what I am, just as you didn’t ask for a brain the size of a small stone. We are who we are, and if you can’t respect that, I will make your every waking hour a living nightmare. I will destroy your mind and claim your soul. You will wish for death and abhor life.” The Reaper takes a step forward, close enough that Snake will feel his breath as he says, “Are we clear?”
Snake’s chin juts out a little, but even from a distance I can see the way his bottom lip quivers. “For now,” he says, turning on his heel. Under his breath he mutters, “Creeper,” but Mr. Jackson doesn’t react, except to raise a hand to stop three Necros from launching themselves at the witch hunter.
His gaze turns to me, and I can see a slight smile there. I shake my head. A week ago he promised he would help keep the peace between the Necros and the witch hunters. Technically, he’s doing just that, although he has a funny way of going about it. Claim your soul? Seriously? What does that even mean?
I turn away and scan the White House lawn, trying to clear my head.
The Claires, who, with their sparkling white gowns, bare feet, and flower-braided hair, look like a mix between heavenly messengers and hippie goddesses, watch us with interest. I notice a lone dark figure crossing the lawn to meet the witches. Xave. He approaches one of them. She’s slender and moves in a way that should on
ly be possible for the wind. Tara.
She listens, looks past him at me, and then listens some more. Then Xave seems to listen, and though her lips don’t move I know she’s speaking in his head. When he turns away, his eyes meet mine, warm and brown and alert, and I can almost believe he’s watching from the stands at football practice, and that any minute he’ll do something loud and clever to embarrass me in the way that only Xavier was capable of.
And for a moment nobody had to die.
And for a moment I’ve never killed anyone.
The moment passes and Xave becomes a warlock again, wearing a dark cloak that a year ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead in, even on Halloween. And I become…whoever it is I’ve become. A stranger even to myself.
“What did you ask her?” I say when Xave approaches.
“To join us,” he says.
“She declined?”
“Politely and in riddles,” he says.
“Sounds about right.”
“She said her pathway is an endless stairway that repeats itself with each spiral.”
“Isn’t everyone’s?” I say, and I can’t keep a straight face, my smile coming as naturally as it does with Laney and Huckle. As naturally as it used to come with Xave and Beth.
Xave returns my grin and when he throws his hood back his expression is the face of innocence, like it always was. Yeah, the curves of his cheeks have slimmed and hardened, his hair’s been cut shorter, his eyes have gained edges that scare me a little…but he’s still my friend. Salem’s Revenge has made us all do things we’d never have done…before…but it didn’t make us completely different people. Any changes to humanity were destined to occur one way or another, regardless of what happened. That’s something I’m slowly coming to terms with.
“I want to show you something later,” Xave says. “You and Laney. When we get back.”
I cock an eyebrow. Although Xave and I have been mostly friendly and cordial over the last week, it’s not like we hang out. We’re just not there yet. “Um. Okay,” I say. “What is it?”
“I want to show you what I do.”
Oh.
“Can I take a rain check?
Xave’s face falls. “That’s okay, I don’t want to force you—”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just, things are sort of okay between us and I don’t want to screw it all up.”
“I understand,” Xave says.
“Thank you.”
And though our words are pleasant enough, I can feel the cracks between us reopen, as if we’d only filled them with dust and not cement, blown away by the slightest breeze.
Xave leaves my side to join his father, who’s apparently decided to change his name from the Reaper to the Soul Stealer. That’s one happy family.
Floss, the leader of the witch hunters, gestures me over, her usual scowl plastered across her face. Reluctantly, I head in her direction. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. And yet, that’s usually why she wants to talk to me.
“Why didn’t you rally the witch hunters last night?” she says sharply, the silver stud in her tongue dancing in her mouth.
I ignore the accusatory nature of her tone. “You needed to be well-rested for today,” I say. It’s not exactly the truth, but the last thing I wanted was a bunch of angry, sleep-deprived witch hunters stirring up trouble on the perimeter.
“We could’ve gone after them,” she says, jabbing her head at me with each word. It’s like she’s trying to poke me in the eye with the white, spiky stripe that runs down the center of her boy-short haircut. I fight the urge to step back.
“That’s exactly what we didn’t need to do,” I say.
“The third Resistor and Flora? If we’d taken them out the rest of the Shifters would’ve fallen as easily as dominos and we wouldn’t be preparing for today’s mission. And who knows, if we’d had a common enemy last night, maybe no one would’ve gotten killed.”
Great, now she’s blaming me for the murder. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open them. I’m exhausted. The last thing I need is to fight a bunch of battles before we leave to fight the real battle. I start over. “Look, Floss, they were gone as quickly as they appeared. Into the forest. We wouldn’t have had the first clue which direction they’d taken. You’d have had to spread your hunters too thinly, and Flora surely would’ve had Shifter backup. They’d have picked us off one at a time. When we hit them, it needs to be on our terms. And for your information, those two humans were going to kill one of the magic-born eventually, no matter how many enemies we have left to fight.”
She frowns, but doesn’t snap back. Instead, she seems to think about it, really considering what I’m saying. “That makes sense,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “Next time, wake me up and tell me what happened. Then we can talk about it. People may look to you for guidance, but you’re not the only one with a say. We need to be able to trust each other.”
I feel bad right away. She’s right. She trusted me a week ago. I need to start trusting her today. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m fumbling through this like everyone else. Next time I’ll talk to you. You, me, the Reaper, and someone from the Claires. We’ll decide together.”
She looks away, playing with her tongue-stud, clicking it across her upper teeth. I follow her gaze to where it zeroes in on the Necros, and then moves off to find the Claires. “I don’t know if I can do that,” she says, shaking her head.
My frustration boils over, exhaustion seeming to have singed my nerves like a flame passing beneath a thread. “You agreed to this when you decided not to fight them a week ago!” I hiss. “We don’t have time to dwell on petty differences. We’re all on the same side.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s not me.” It’s my turn to frown, letting her words sink in. It dawns on me. Oh.
“You’re afraid the other hunters won’t trust you anymore,” I say.
Her eyes snap to mine. “Or respect me. Or listen to me. My past history with them was the only thing that stayed their hands a week ago. But it’s not over—not by a long shot. If they choose another leader things could go very badly very quickly.”
“Is it that bad?” I say. I’ve stayed away from the witch hunters, letting them do their thing. Letting Floss keep them on our side. Which was stupid, I only now realize. You can’t expect people to listen to you when you don’t even understand them or give them the time of day.
“Snake is not an isolated case,” she says. “About half of them are willing to take my lead, but the other half are big fat question marks. If we push them too far, they might rebel.”
I huff out a sigh and rub my burning eyes. With the regular humans on the verge of rebellion, we can’t afford to lose our strained alliance with the witch hunters, too. This was never going to be easy. What I want is a warm bed and a hot shower. Instead I have to deal with the twenty-first century’s latest version of racism. There’s simply too much distrust between the humans and magic-born. I drop my voice to a whisper. “We have to agree on things if this alliance is going to work,” I say.
“You mean, like changing the name of New Washington to Alliance?” she says. Although it sounds like an accusation, there’s humor in her voice.
Oops. “Sorry,” I say. “I guess I got a little carried away.” I don’t say it was Huckle’s idea. That’ll only cast even more doubt on my ability to make good decisions.
“I know you’re right,” Floss says, giving me a pass on my past mistakes. “I just don’t know if my hunters are ready to see me laughing and shaking hands with the magic-born.”
She’s got a point, even if I wish she didn’t. I mean, not that long ago I didn’t feel all that different to her hunters. If anything, I hated the magic-born even more than them. Hell, Laney ditched me at one point because I was so blinded by my need for revenge that I wouldn’t listen to anything anyone else said.
“What if I’m the go-between,” I say. “I meet with the humans, we discuss things, make decisions,
and then I take those to the magic-born for agreement. And vice versa. Like a secret council.”
Floss chews on that for a minute. “It might work. Can’t hurt to try.”
“Good,” I say. “Anything else?”
“No,” she says. She turns away and shouts, “Round ’em up, ladies! Let’s go find us some Shifters to kill!”
And the bloodthirsty roar that goes up is enough to solidify my decision to keep the witch hunters on our side at all costs.
~~~
If it wasn’t so indicative of the strength of the invisible wall between us, the scene would almost be comedic.
Witch hunters on one side, cracking jokes and firing glares across to the other side of the road, Floss silently moving amongst them; Necros on the other, the Reaper at the front with Xave by his side, leading grotesque Reanimates who seem to require constant reminders not to attack the witch hunters.
And me, stuck in the middle, walking in the empty gulf between them, feeling more and more like I don’t belong on either side. A real outcast. However, if I’m being honest with myself, I’d feel more comfortable with the wise-cracking witch hunters than the silent, gloomy Necros. Other than Mr. Jackson and Xave, none of the Necros have ever tried speaking to me. Apparently raising the dead requires intense nonverbal concentration or something.
And though I keep moving them forward, my legs are like iron cauldrons.
After fifteen minutes of traipsing down the traffic-less road toward the area on the map where our scouts spotted the Shifters, Mr. Jackson falls in next to me.
“What’s up?” I say slowly, expecting yet another verbal battle.
He surprises me when he says, “We’ve got company.”
When I raise my eyebrows he motions off the road, to the right, past where the Reanimates are strung out in a line, moving in that herky-jerky fashion that instantly gives away their undeadness.
I see it. A flash of red amongst the trees. Snow-white skin set against a black backdrop, like the moon in the night sky. The red Changeling. Angelique.
