Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  I realize I’ve stopped, my fisted hands pressing hard into my hips, as if trying to burrow inside me. Bil stops, too, and his smile is gone, and I know I’ve gone too far.

  Until he hugs me.

  I stand as still as one of the thick trees nearby, feeling his warmth melt into my bones, feeling the sincerity of his arms locked behind me. My body relaxes and I hug him back.

  “You’re so much more than I thought you were,” Bil says, and his words seem to go straight to my heart, to a place I thought was surrounded by brick walls and steel doors, to a place where I can be honest and vulnerable and not always Laney the Warrior. “Thanks for being my friend,” Bil adds, releasing me.

  As he walks away, I remain motionless, stunned, letting the hot tears run down my face. “You okay?” Chloe asks, holding my hand, our roles reversed for the first time since I met her, when she was a scared, scarred, little girl.

  My hand darts up and I wipe away the tears. “I’m fine,” I say, rebuilding the wall and locking the door. Rhett’s going to be shocked when he finds out I no longer want to kill Bil Nez. Well, at least not all the time.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rhett

  I stand with the magic-born, watching Cameron Hardy and the rest of the humans leave through the front gate under the warm gaze of a stunning sunset, which is far too cheery for the circumstances. It’s as if the entire realm of nature bears witness to their departure, waving a final goodbye.

  A few of the humans look back as they pass through the false safety of the perimeter fence, their expressions laced with uncertainty.

  The last ones through are the ragtag group of witch hunters, led by Floss. Her piercings sparkle under the glow of the sunset. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out the way you wanted it to,” she says.

  I take her offered hand and shake it firmly. “Protect them,” I say. “Do everything you can.”

  She laughs because we both know I don’t need to remind her. It’s who she is. She moves on, rallying her hunters and forming them into a haphazard ring around the departing humans, if only to give them the feeling of safety.

  In a show of confidence in his decision, Cameron Hardy holds his daughter’s hand, his wife and him swinging her every couple of steps, like they’re going for an evening stroll through the park. Razor-edged shards of the vision Trish gave me before she died slice through my mind, and I find myself spinning them around, zooming in on each piece, as if I can isolate the exact aspect of the future that I want to see. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or some lingering effect of Clairvoyant magic, but one of the images seems to sharpen and come into focus. Cameron’s daughter screams as a tiger leaps at her father, slamming him to the ground, tearing open his chest with dagger-like claws.

  A hand on my arm opens my eyes, the image still burning in my skull. Xave looks at me with concern. “We’ll save them,” he says.

  “I say good riddance,” Angelique says, strutting toward us. Her kohl-lined eyes look even darker and more dangerous under the shroud of nightfall. Although at first I think it might be a trick of the dark, I notice she’s switched her usual slinky red dress for a long black one, unadorned with diamonds or any other type of jewel. A funeral gown, I realize with a shudder. For us or for her? I wonder.

  “Where will you go?” I ask her.

  She seems taken aback that I’d even care enough to ask. Do I care? I wonder to myself. “In search of my people. There’s always a chance that a Changeling or two are hidden away somewhere, either too scared or too foolish to know what they are and their place in this world.”

  “Why haven’t you gone looking for them yet?” I ask, sincerely curious this time. Why has she lingered with us for so long?

  Her eyes seem to undress me with each word. “It’s been too much fun watching you fail at everything you do,” she says cruelly.

  Once upon a time her words might’ve hurt, but not anymore. And anyway, I’ve seen beyond her ruthless and vindictive exterior to the real person inside, a woman who cares deeply for those she’s loved and lost. “Not everything,” I say. “I hope you find your people.” When I walk away it’s on my terms, and I feel sorry for her when I see the flash of sorrow that paints itself across her face when I glance back. She has no one, both because they were taken from her and because she’s chosen it. I can’t soften what’s left of her heart any more than I can change Cameron Hardy’s mind. That’s not my job. My job is to protect and defend the weak, to strive for peace between two groups of people who don’t seem to want it.

  That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  Xave catches up to me as I stride toward his father. “I wish you’d been like this in high school,” he says.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Confident. A little crazy, like you’re sitting on the edge of peaceful and violent pretty much all the time.”

  I scoff at his words. “That’s not what I’m like.” Is it?

  “If you say so. All I’m saying is it would’ve been nice to see you stick up for yourself a little more when we were growing up. I know I could’ve avoided half a dozen black eyes defending your sorry ass.”

  Although I desperately want to laugh, I can’t, because all I can think of are my high school tormentor’s fear-stricken eyes before he died at the hands of the witch I was unable to save him from. I’d take a hundred insults, a thousand pranks, and a million black eyes if only Todd Logue could be alive again to torment me.

  “Sorry,” Xave says when he sees my face, although he can’t know what he’s apologizing for. I never told him what happened with Todd Logue, how I failed him and myself at the same time. And he certainly doesn’t know how many times I’ve failed since then, while he was learning the dark art of raising the dead.

  I brush his apology aside and tell the past to take a hike. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. To his father, who we’ve just reached, I say, “You’re still with me, right?”

  If he’s surprised at the fact that I’m still speaking to him, he doesn’t show it. “Of course,” he says. “Like I’ve said from the beginning, the Necros will make peace by destroying anyone who stands in the way of it, and that includes the Shifters and their allies.”

  Finally, I smile, because no matter how awful the world is, it’s still possible to find humor during the darkest times. Mr. Jackson’s declaration once made me question his sanity, but now it just makes me laugh. “Okay,” I say, “then that’s what we’ll do.”

  We give the humans a very short head start before following them. Our goal is to stay at their side as long as we have to, secretly watching over them. Behind us, the city is now empty—I can almost feel the loneliness we leave in our wake. Tara and the Claires lead the way, their hands raised over their shimmering bodies, singing a soundless song that fills the minds of anyone near them:

  With arms upraised,

  We touch the sky,

  Toward battle march,

  Where death shall sigh.

  On wanting wings,

  We find escape,

  Past better days,

  To evil’s rape.

  This song does shroud,

  The weary clad,

  We walk unseen,

  We are Myriad.

  When the song ends I’m left gasping for air, my heart beating out of my chest, and when I look around the other magic-born seem equally affected by the melody and message. From the sky descends a glittering mist, as if the stars themselves are falling from the heavenly firmament. When it reaches our army, it feels as if we’ve stepped into a flawless diamond, the air shimmering around us.

  Now we truly walk unseen, Tara speaks in our collective heads, echoing the next to last line in the song, which was really a spell. The humans will be unaware of our presence.

  Shaking my head in awe of the power of the Claires, I spot Tillman Huckle chatting with Mags the Medium—who’s thankfully got hair on her head and thin nails sprouting from her fingertips, rather than the other way around�
��and I angle toward them, frowning. I didn’t expect Huckle to come along. Usually he stays well away from the action. “Huckle? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Hi,” Mags says.

  “Hi yourself.” For some reason, seeing the old witch makes me feel less tense.

  Huckle, well, he chuckles. “I know I’m not a real warrior,” he says, “but this is my fight too.”

  “This isn’t some video game,” I say. “Thousands will die in real life.”

  Instead of responding, Huckle reaches in his pocket and pulls out a metal cylinder. With a quick flick of his thumb, a shaft of white light bursts from the end, extending to more than three feet long. “Holy…” I murmur. “That looks like a freaking—”

  “Light saber,” Huckle says, his eyes alight with fire and pride. “It’s not, of course, not in the sense that it’s some form of advanced human technology. No, this is pure magic, compliments of the Claires.”

  “The Claires?” I say incredulously. I didn’t even know Huckle had ever talked to them. I glance toward the angelic throng at our head to find Tara looking back, smiling. She offers a royal wave and Huckle waves back, his gangly limbs infinitely more awkward.

  I shake my head and laugh, because Tillman Huckle might be the one person in this world who will always find a way to surprise me. “Stay on the edges of the battle,” I instruct. “Go for the easy kills. Hex will be devastated if you don’t make it through.” And so will I, I don’t say, but Huckle seems to get that message too, his chin jutting out, his stare softening.

  “Thanks,” he says, deactivating the magical light sword and roping a bony arm around my shoulder. “I’ll be as careful as I am when I play video games.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” I say, but I know he’s joking. The Huckle I know definitely won’t be planning any real-life suicide missions.

  “Hi,” Mags says again, even more brightly this time.

  “Hi, Mags,” I say.

  “My ghouls are getting antsy,” she says. “Want to see?”

  “No thanks,” I say quickly, and Mags laughs.

  “They seem to have that effect on people,” she admits. “Well, they’ll be ready whenever they’re needed. You know, a lot of my sisters will be fighting with the Shifters, so I’ll be substantially outnumbered.”

  “And yet I suspect you’ll hold your own just fine,” I say. “Hell, I’ve seen what you can do and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  She snickers, blinking rapidly, moistening her aging eyes. “I suspect you’re right,” she says.

  Walking with my two friends, one old and one new, I pass my eyes over the thousands marching with us, mostly magic-born. Noticeably absent from the throng is Angelique, who I spotted watching us as we departed the city, her eyes as dark as coal, her skin as pale as the moonlight. We might not have her support in this cause, but we have so many others, all marching to save the very same humans who cried for their blood for over a decade, who, in the name of unjust laws, killed them without mercy, who called them freaks and much worse, who still hate them, who still want them dead, who would rather see them burn atop a raging pyre than break bread with them. Our alliance: a random collection of witches and warlocks from various witch gangs, from Spellcasters to Sirens and everything in between; a wizard with an enormous white walking stick that is surely more than just another piece of firewood, used to conjure up powerful spells; misunderstood Necromancers, wearing executioner’s hoods, march forth like an advancing shadow, silent spells on their lips, encouraging their undead army forward, some of them straining against chains, seeking the blood of those who would oppose their masters; breathtakingly beautiful Clairvoyants, seeming ever more graceful next to the heavy trod of the Necros, floating like the wind, their shimmering white dresses glittering iridescently, as if echoing the glow of the stars in the mournful sky.

  The two major groups of magic-born who have chosen to stand with us couldn’t be more different. Shadows and the sun. Darkness and light. Masters of the dead and Healers of the living.

  Although I don’t truly belong with either of them, I’m proud to call them my people, my friends. And I’ll live or die by their sides, as they will by mine.

  ~~~

  As he approaches, just a tumbling mass of earth and sticks and rocks, he screams, “RHETTT CARTERRR!”

  My heart clenches in my chest, as if packed tightly with the very same mud that gives Grogg life, taking mine away. Somehow he can see us, despite the Claire’s invisibility charm.

  The fear hits me because he’s alone, his short, stubby legs churning with unexpected swiftness, allowing him to reach me far quicker than should be possible. He’s not even out of breath, although his words seem to stick in his grotesque mouth, his lips flapping like leaves in a stiff unrelenting breeze. He’s a mess, even for him. Protruding from his mud-clumped skin are sticks and rocks and even an arrow, which pokes from both his ears, the sharp tip from one end and wispy feathers from the other. The other unusual thing—again, even for Grogg—is that I can see through him, like he’s a slice of Swiss cheese. Bullet holes, I realize with a start.

  “Grogg, who did th—” I start to say, clamping my mouth shut as soon as I answer my own question in my head. Guilt rumbles through me, as if I’m responsible for the acts of all humans just because I’m one of them.

  “Nasty Two-Leggers,” Grogg says, finally finding his words, which creak out like the old floorboards in a dusty old attic complaining under the trod of an unwanted visitor.

  “Humans did this,” I say without question. Not any humans—Cameron Hardy and his followers—the very same people we’re out to protect. “Grogg, I’m sorry.”

  Grogg seems shocked by my words, grabbing the feathery end of the arrow and snapping it off. He casually crunches it in his mouth, although I’ve never been able to spot any teeth in there. He speaks around the splinters of wood. “No, no, no,” he says. “Two-Legger called Rhett Carter does not apologize. Not you. Not Bil Nez. Not Laney. Apologies are for the bad ones. Not! You!” He practically shrieks the last part, sounding more like an unoiled hinge than a creaky floorboard.

  But I’m not listening to his shrieking monologue, my focus entirely on the names he spouted. “What about Bil Nez and Laney?” I ask, grabbing him by the shoulders, not caring about how my hands instantly sink into gloopy mud up to my wrists.

  “Grogg sees them,” he says. “Grogg sees them in Shifter caves, Grogg—”

  “They’ve been captured?” I interject, pulling my hands away with a sucking sound, my fists automatically tightening, letting clumps of mud fall from my fingers.

  “Grogg is not finished. Four-Legger is my friend. We save Two-Leggers. We go to place that’s Here-but-not-Here.”

  Four-Legger? Hex! “You’ve been with Hex?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Grogg says, waving my question away like it’s the least of his worries, a foregone conclusion. He pulls the sharp end of the arrow from his head, and amazingly it comes out whole, its shaft unbroken from tip to tail. The mud-troll snaps it over his knee and then shoves the two pieces into different bullet holes, which immediately close up around them.

  “Are they safe?” I ask, trying to get him to focus.

  “Safe? Yes,” Grogg says. “But they pursue my old master’s army.”

  His old master. Flora. Pursue? “They’re chasing Flora and her army?” I ask, immediately realizing the more important piece of information hidden in Grogg’s words. “The Shifters are on the move?”

  “Yes,” Grogg says, flicking a stone embedded in his skin. It bounces away.

  They must be getting in position a day early, so they’re ready to attack tomorrow night, on the day that Flora’s countdown expires. But something about it doesn’t feel right, which Grogg confirms without me having to ask.

  “Laney asked Grogg to tell you that they’re coming tonight. Get ready.”

  My heart spins like a tornado, my mind whirling along with it. We expecte
d to have at least a day to get in position around the humans, forming, unbeknownst to them, an invisible circle of protection for their journey, wherever it may lead them. Now we have no time.

  “Did Grogg help?” he asks, his head angled to the side. “Did Grogg catch redemption?”

  An unexpected swell of love for the mud troll pushes its way into my throat. “Yes,” I say huskily. “Grogg has found redemption.”

  And then I race off to sound the alarm.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Laney

  This forest is haunted, literally.

  Like convalescing wisps of smoke, the ghouls pass overhead, their presence exposed by their mournful moans, which seem to rise from their otherworldly maws with unbridled fury. Although Hex doesn’t take us to the other Here—likely for fear that his trio of pathetically weak-stomached humans will once more become ill—he does do something. His collar glows purple and a translucent bubble surrounds us, seeming to protect us while simultaneously making us invisible to the ghosts that stream through the forest above. For once, this isn’t Hex’s gift—it’s Tillman Huckle’s. I can still remember the day he gave us our box of magical goodies before we separated. Hex’s gift was the collar, and this is the second time he’s used it, which also makes twice that it has likely saved my life.

  Hex continues onward, as if activating the collar is just another thing that he does, as if the poltergeists are nothing more than night birds playing in the boughs of the trees. And we follow, because we trust him, a dog, more than we trust ourselves.