by David Estes
“He deserves to know,” I say, looking up when there’s a thump on the roof.
Martin glances at the ceiling, but then immediately goes back to his paper. Not until he defeats Flora. He can’t know. He’s had enough heartache for a lifetime.
“We all have,” I say. “But that doesn’t change the fact that your son wants to get to know you and can’t. All I want is the truth.”
Martin sighs loudly, his stump of a tongue wriggling in his mouth. I look away. He stares at the page for a long time, as if he can avoid this discussion simply by not writing anything more.
Maybe he can. I could talk a blue streak and he could just stare at that page, withering away before my very eyes. I’d be powerless and he’d get his wish.
Then he moves his hand. I read every word as he writes it.
President Washington lied, he writes. Tara’s right. There’s another way to lift the curse, but I’m not willing to take it.
“That’s not fair,” I say. “To Rhett or to you.” Or to me, I think.
I know, but you have to trust me. It’s for the best.
I’m shaking my head before he finishes the last word. If he wasn’t so frail-looking I’d grab him by the shoulders and haul him to his feet and rattle some sense into him. I stand still for a minute, taking deep breaths, trying to get control of my emotions. When I finally speak, I’m surprised at how low and steady my voice is. “Whatever the other way is, we’ll figure it out together. We’re not just going to let you die.”
He turns his head and smiles, and I hate how condescending it feels, even though I know it’s not. Even though I know it’s because he likes me, despite my hotheadedness and barely concealed frustration.
I realize he’s writing again. Do you love Rhett?
“What kind of question is that?” I ask, laughing.
He offers a half smile. An important one, he writes.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say.
He nods in understanding. Forget about the curse, he writes. I’m about to object, but he’s still writing. There’s something else Rhett needs to know. Something more important.
Grudgingly, I nod. “I’ll listen, but you’re not getting out of telling me more about the curse,” I say.
He chuckles and motions back to the page:
I’ve been doing research. Genealogy you could say. I discovered something. I raise my eyebrows at that, but stay silent, watching as each word unfurls from the tip of the pen. I figured out how Resistors are created.
“What?” I say. “Rhett’s your son, he wasn’t ‘created’.”
Martin shakes his head. Not what I mean. I mean that Resistors only come from certain kinds of parents.
I raise a hand, massaging my forehead. “Rhett came from you and your wife, both magic-born. Bil Nez came from some American Indian dude and…” I squint, trying to remember if Bil ever mentioned his mother. Not that I can remember. Then again, it’s not like I ever asked. “Sorry,” I say, dropping my hand. “I’m not making the connection.” There’s an even louder thump from above, followed by a hardy crash somewhere on the side of the house, but I’m too focused on Mr. Carter’s hand to give Grogg’s antics a second thought.
All three known Resistors have two magic-born parents, one of which is a General, he writes.
My heart stops when I see the last word. No, that can’t be right. It fits Rhett perfectly, but not Bil Nez. “But that would mean Bil’s father was magic-born,” I say.
Footsteps sound on the hardwood floor and I instinctively dive for my Glock. When I raise it toward the sound, dark, pin-prick eyes are staring down the barrel.
“My father was a Dreamweaver,” Bil Nez says.
I lower my gun and place it back on the table. “You followed me?” I accuse.
“I wanted to know where you were sneaking off to,” he says.
“What’s a Dreamweaver?” I ask.
“He could control our dreams, make them fluffy and warm and restful when we were well-behaved.”
“You should’ve told us,” I say.
It’s as if I haven’t spoken. “And when we were bad, he gave us terrible nightmares. I still remember them. I’d wake up screaming and clutching my blankets and clawing at the wall. The monsters chased me for days until I’d learned my lesson.”
“That’s horrible,” I say, finally relenting.
“Yes,” he agrees.
“And your mother was a General?” I ask.
“I never met my mother,” he says. “My father used to tell me stories about her, but I don’t know if they were true. He said he won her over using magic, by making her dream of him. When she realized what he’d done, she left him. But not until after she’d delivered me. She left me too.” He’s trying to scrape a hole in the wood with his foot.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I say.
“You never asked.”
He’s more than right. I haven’t ever really been kind to Bil. He hasn’t really ever deserved it, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have tried. “I’m sorry,” I say again.
“It’s okay,” he says, shrugging as if it’s nothing. He turns to Rhett’s father. “What do you know about my mother?”
Martin tears off a clean page and writes something. Holds it up. Who she was.
“Tell me,” Bil says. “Please. Tell me. I have to know.”
I know I should stop Martin from writing the name, but it’s like I’m frozen to the floor, my mind swirling with disbelief and shock. Because I only know of one General besides Martin Carter. And she’s dead.
When my eyes meet Martin’s, he’s watching me. Not writing, just watching me.
Bil follows his gaze to me, sees that I know. That I’ve figured it out. He hasn’t yet because he didn’t see what Rhett’s father wrote before, about one of his parents being a General.
My mouth feels full of sand and my throat closed off. I can’t be the one to hurt Bil yet again. Although we don’t particularly get along, I don’t wish any more misery on him.
“Please,” Bil pleads, and I don’t have to look at Martin to know he’s nodding me forward.
“Your mother was President Washington,” I say.
Chapter Ten
Rhett
There are screams coming from the house, penetrating the boarded windows with the ease of a knife slicing through butter. Although there’s an occasional deep-throated shout, most of the yells sound like those of children.
Anger burns in my chest, my sword hot in my tight grip.
Floss and her witch hunters are on one flank, weapons drawn. I’ve joined the Necros and their Reanimates on the opposite side, something I’ll probably never hear the end of from the hunters.
Mr. Jackson, Xave and I are watching Floss closely, waiting for her signal. She’s taking too freaking long, and each time I hear another scream, I want to rush from hiding and charge the house. I’ll kill every last Shifter myself if I have to.
But I wait, because she’s led missions like this many times, and I’ve only ever been a solo act. Even when I was travelling with Laney, Bil Nez, and Hex, I never consulted with them before attempting bold and daring rescues, most of which ended in tragedy. I have to trust Floss, so she can trust me.
I glance behind me to see if Mr. Jackson and Xave are as anxious as I am, but they’re gone. All the Necros are gone, as if the earth has opened its maw and swallowed them whole. Despite my desire not to think it, my very first thought is: traitors. They’ve abandoned us just before a fight in which we’ll likely need as many bodies on our side as possible.
As I ponder why the Reaper would forge an alliance with New America only to smash it to bits before the first major battle, there’s a rustling behind me. I whirl around, my sword slashing through empty air. I freeze, my blade gleaming like a cylinder of captured light. Cold metal presses against my head.
“It’s a good day to die, don’t you think?” Graves says, his dark, tattooed face like that of a monster smiling at its prey.
“It’s Tuesday,” I say. “Better for ordering pizza on the internet or going to the movies.”
Graves’s smile disappears. “Thanks for reminding me why I always hated you,” he says.
“I thought it was because you were jealous of my charmingly good looks,” I say, trying to keep him trading insults so he might forget to pull the trigger. I glance over at where Floss and her witch hunters were hiding, and my stomach drops an inch. Other members of the witch hunting gang known as The End, of which Graves is the illustrious pea-brained leader, have surrounded the humans, commandeering their weapons. I recognize the usual fools: The Mad Sheriff, with his cowboy hat, leather boots, and hog-tying coil of rope; The Silent Assassin, her dark, narrowed eyes sharper and more intense than the dual short blades she wields. Noticeably missing is Eddie X, recently deceased when he was coerced by a Hallucinator into taking a swan dive off a second story roof into an unforgiving pool of concrete.
“Yeah,” Graves says. “It’s time you finally met—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. The End,” I say. “I see your material hasn’t changed since we last met.” It’s then that I realize I must have a death wish. Insulting Graves is like playing catch with a stick of dynamite. And yet I can’t seem to stop, as if I’m addicted to the thrill.
To my surprise, the anger washes right off of Graves’s face and he laughs. “Thanks for making me enjoy this moment even more,” he says.
I don’t like the sound of that. And I really don’t like the way the knuckle on his trigger finger turns white. Although I know it’s pointless, my muscles tense and I ready myself to take a last-hope swing at his head.
But I don’t because there’s a long, high scream at that exact moment.
Graves’s head jerks up and he stares at the house. “Yeah, you moron,” I say. “While you’re ambushing us there are magic-born in there torturing children. You want that on your conscious?”
I wait for him to pull his gun away, to cast aside our differences so we can hunt some witches, but instead he presses the steel harder into my skull.
“You know what, Carter?” he says. “I’ve realized over time that you and your damned dog are worse than the magic-born. And when you’re all dead, I’ll still be around.”
Now that is just one big steaming pile of OH CRAP. He’s finally done it.
“Feeling smart now, my friend?” he asks, and I assume he’s being sarcastic with the ‘my friend’ part. I don’t see us man-hugging and sitting down for a cup of coffee anytime soon. Or ever.
“I guess you finally took the hit to the head that killed your last two brain cells,” I say. “Only someone really stupid would join a bunch of kid killers.”
“Big talk from someone who’s about to di—”
He doesn’t finish his statement because a shadow falls from above, dropping to the ground from the roof, landing gracefully with one hand planted firmly for balance.
The Reanimate snarls at Graves and launches itself at his head.
I duck hard as his gun explodes, the shot pounding my ears with greater intensity than if I was standing directly next to a throbbing speaker at a rock concert. Using the balls of my feet as a springboard, I throw myself hard to the right and away from the whirlwind that is the Reanimate’s thrashing claws, which gouge at Graves’s eyes, as if trying to rip them from their sockets.
He fires shot after shot, a few of them connecting with the Reanimate’s arms and legs and torso, but none hitting its only vital part—its head.
I whip my own head around when there are shouts across the yard. The target house, as well as the neighboring houses, are full of Reanimates and dark-hooded Necros, scurrying over the roofs like nightmarish creatures, dropping to the ground to battle with the rogue witch hunters.
Not traitors, after all. I don’t have time for guilt, as Graves finally manages to sling the Reanimate off of him, bringing his weapon up as the once-dead person lands in a crouch, teeth bared, hissing, and then springing back at him.
He fires and the Reanimate’s head snaps back, a puff of black mist spraying into the air. It collapses in a heap, dead once more.
And Graves is moaning in agony, his left eye dangling precariously from its socket, sprinkling blood in a crimson waterfall. “Gah!” he screams, dropping his gun and raising his hand to his face, cradling the marble-like orb, trying to shove it back into place.
I raise my sword, months of experience guiding my muscles, bones, and tendons. There’s no slow motion feel to it, no blip in time where my mind seems to clear, where I can sense each drop of sweat dripping from my brow, noticing details like small blades of grass or the fluttering wings of a butterfly.
If there’s any pause at all, it’s because of me. Because he’s human. I’ve never killed a human before, even someone as sadistic and evil as Graves, who clearly deserves death. His moaning seems to pour into my mind through my ears, speeding up my heartbeat and sending my thoughts into overdrive.
He’s helpless, a turkey on a platter just waiting to be carved.
Which makes me hesitate.
I wait too long.
There’s an earth-shattering roar and a monstrous male lion bursts from the front door of the house. Graves drops to his knees and I turn away from him to face the Shifter. No, Shifters, because behind the lion there are more of them. Three, four, five. Two males and three females, an even gender split across the half dozen. They’re bigger than normal lions, at least twice the usual size, with fangs like saber-tooth tigers and claws that would rival those of Wolverine.
The members of The End let out a roar of approval as the lions pounce on the Reanimates, ripping off their heads with quick jerks of their jaws or slashes of their claws. The Reanimates fight like cornered beasts, leaping at the Shifters in waves, climbing them like insects, biting their flesh with needle-like teeth.
One of the lionesses crushes a Reanimate under her full weight and its head pops like a squashed grape. She turns toward me and seems to grin like a jackal. “Rhett Carter,” she hisses, just before pouncing.
I swing my sword in a desperate arc, simultaneously falling back, trying to put as much distance between me and the beast as I can. The magic inside the sword, as guaranteed by Tillman Huckle, splits the blade into three razor-sharp edges, each penetrating the lion’s thick flesh in short succession, hacking a bloody line along her throat.
The lion roars, clutching at her neck, which is welling with blood, pouring over her sleek fur just before her half-decapitated head lolls to the side, leading her monstrous form all the way to the ground, where she crashes with the echo of thunder.
Blood pools around the carcass and I turn away.
Although bodies—Necros, Reanimates, and witch hunters—scatter the lawn, there are also four other dead lions.
The last remaining lion has the attention of those witch hunters still alive, as well as the Necros and their Reanimates. They’ve backed him toward the open door to the house, where he sits on his haunches, bleeding from a dozen wounds. “Help me!” he roars, and I glance around to see who he’s speaking to. At first I think it might be the surviving members of The End, who have formed a protective circle around their injured leader, helping Graves to his feet and hobbling him away from the battle.
I throw myself toward them, leading a gang of witch hunters. The Mad Sherriff manages to kill two of us before being cut down. The Silent Assassin adds three to her tally before being shot in the face. The others fall like dominos, some pleading for their lives but receiving no mercy. Graves is mine, his face a mess, one hand cupping his sagging eye while the other reaches out in a futile attempt to stop me. I’m tempted to turn his own catch-phrase back on him, but I don’t want to be like him, even in the name of dry humor and sarcasm. I plunge my sword into his gut, twisting it to inflict the maximum amount of internal damage. Life bubbles from his lips and he falls. The End will plague this earth no more.
There’s no time for back-slapping and high fives because I w
as wrong about the lion requesting help from the rogue witch hunters.
No, the beast was calling to something else. Or, more appropriately, something other. The realization comes as swiftly as a major league pitcher’s fastball smacking the catcher’s glove. I don’t see anything to support my knowledge right away; rather, I feel it in my bones, a cold so deep and penetrating it makes me shiver from head to toe, my spine quivering like a guitar’s strings.
The others seem to feel it, too—I can see it on their faces, which turn pale, surely a reflection of my own expression.
The house begins to shake, its boarded-up windows rattling with the fervor of a mosh pit in the middle of a rave. A crack forms in the outer brick wall, then another, then dozens more, as if the structure is determined to tear itself apart. A window shatters, shards of glass sprinkling through gaps in the boards like water through a sieve.
My blood turns to ice. Tumultuous images blur through my mind, blinding me:
I’m swinging a hatchet, hacking the head off a snake, turning to smile right at myself, my lips smeared with blood as wide and thick as a clown’s mouth.
I’m holding a pair of scissors, snapping them together with a fierce clicking sound. I wink and jam them into my own throat.
I’m cradling a baby beside a steaming bathtub. I hum a brief lullaby before pushing the child’s head beneath the water, holding it there.
I want to scream and throw up and run and run and run from the images that are so real so real so re—
“Poltergeists!” Mr. Jackson shouts, breaking me from the trance, tearing the visions from my mind.
The hours spent learning about the magic-born from Mr. Jackson immediately provide me with the information I need. Mediums. A witch gang I learned about but have never come in contact with. Unlike the Necros, Mediums can’t raise the physical bodies of the dead, but they can summon their spirits, as well as invade the minds of the living with all the cruelty the world has to offer. And that’s a whole lot of cruelty.
The house suddenly stops shaking, and a brief flash of warmth enters my body. They’ve left. The Mediums have retreated, off to haunt someone else.
