by David Estes
“I can stop,” he says. “We can discuss the rest of this another time.”
“No,” I say. “Now. What happened to my father?”
“While I was being a coward, silently grieving the death of my wife and your mother, trying not to draw the attention of our enemies, your father was trying to convince others of the truth. Of the murders. He put a huge target on his back, and the head of the council aimed every weapon she had at it.”
“They killed him,” I say.
Mr. Jackson’s nod is almost imperceptible. “But first they made an example out of him. I had the chance to speak to him while he was still a prisoner, before he disappeared and was proclaimed the victim of a terrible fire at work.”
“What did he say?” I ask, although I already know.
“To protect you,” Mr. Jackson says. “That’s all he ever wanted, was for you to live.”
“And you abandoned us to protect us,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Then why did you take Xavier with you, and not me? Why did you tell him the truth about yourself, about this world, and only give me useless bits and pieces?” I draw my hand away from his, my chest heaving with anger.
“Maybe I did the wrong thing,” he says, which takes the wind right out of my angry sails. I’ve never heard Mr. Jackson admit he might be wrong. He was always so certain, so confident as to his abilities, both mental and physical. Was it all an act? “I was doing my best. Xavier is a warlock. He was needed right away. The other Necros trained him, put him right to work. We needed every body we could get.”
“And me?” I say.
“You were a human, but I loved you anyway, no matter what the others said. I knew you were strong, but I didn’t realize just how strong. I wanted to keep you away from it all. If I had told you the truth about me, you would have freaked out. You would have run away sooner than you did.”
“But you trained me. Why?”
“Just in case,” Mr. Jackson says. “If anything ever happened to me, you’d still have a chance, no matter how small. As it turns out, your chances were probably better without me.”
A fuzzy question flutters around the edges of my brain, slowly taking shape. “But you didn’t try to steer me away from going after the Necros. Why would you make me hate your own gang? You had to know I’d find out eventually.”
“It was my failsafe,” Mr. Jackson says. “If we were ever separated, at least I knew you’d try to find the Necros, which meant you’d try to find me without even knowing it.”
“And you told me exactly how to find you. Just follow the smaller groups of Necros back to the bigger group.” The puzzle is becoming clearer and clearer, but something’s still not making sense. “You said I’m valuable. A Resistor. How could you risk me being taken or killed by one of your enemies?”
I hold my breath as if everything hinges on this one question. “I didn’t know that’s what you were,” he says.
What does that mean? That if he knew what I was that he would have done things differently? “And now you just want me because I can help you? That a lowly human could help your side come out on top?”
“No,” he says, backing away slightly. “I’m just trying to keep my promise. Out there”—he motions beyond the walls of the dungeons—“there are powerful witches trying to find you. They might try to turn you to their side, or they might just find it easier to kill you, to eliminate you from the equation.”
“And why did you split me and Laney up? Put us in different cells?”
“I don’t know her. I don’t trust her. I have to protect you, no matter what.”
“Rhett,” Laney finally says. “You’re not buying this, are you? C’mon, his lies smell like horse manure, even from over here.”
I hate to admit it, but everything he’s saying makes sense. His words are answering so many questions. But still…
“If you want us to believe you, let us out of these cages.”
Mr. Jackson cringes, as if in pain. “It’s not safe yet.”
I roll my eyes. “When will it be safe?”
“When I figure out which Necros I can trust.”
“See?” Laney says, as if she’s just won an argument. “You can’t even control your own kind. This whole world is a screwed up awful place because of the witches, and you want us to believe you, to trust you?”
“All I’m asking is for you to think about what I’ve said. You’ll have more questions later. I’ll answer as many as I can, and hopefully all of them one day.”
I can’t think about it. Not now. And I can’t be thinking about Mr. Jackson as an ally, someone to make choices with, someone on my side. He’s already done too much evil; and even under a flag of peace, evil is still evil, murder is still murder.
I pull to my feet and round on him. “What you’re doing with Xave, leading him on like that—it’s cruel.”
Mr. Jackson’s dark eyebrows lift. I’ve surprised him again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You gave him Felix to make him more pliable, less rebellious through all of this. It’s the same reason you told him I was dead.”
“Is it so wrong to give your friend happiness? That’s all I’ve ever wanted for the both of you.”
“And when this is over? Felix dumps him, is that it? What then?”
“You don’t know everything, Rhett,” he says.
“And whose fault is that?” I say, suddenly wishing we never had any of this conversation. Wishing things could go back to how they were when my parents weren’t magic-born and the Reaper was just another evil warlock.
“I loved your parents,” Mr. Jackson says. “I always will. But I won’t let her death go to waste. Do you want to meet her?”
“What?” I say, not understanding. “Do you have a picture?”
“Better,” he says. “Bring her in.”
Two warlocks step into the light, dragging a cage on wheels. I shrink back when I see the creature inside. A woman, greased dreadlock-like hair hanging in brown vines around her face, which is eyeless and noseless, with just a gaping hole for a mouth, filled with rows of pointy teeth.
“I couldn’t leave her to rot in the ground,” Mr. Jackson says, and what freaks me out the most is that he seems so serious about it, like this…thing actually makes sense to him. The creature’s hands squirm through the bars, her clawed fingers raking at the air, her sexless body writhing with pent up fury and madness.
The bile rises faster than I can choke it down and I throw up all over myself.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Long after the creature who the Reaper claimed was my mother brought back from the dead has been wheeled away, the image of her bony, naked body pollutes my mind, bringing up fresh waves of revulsion.
The smell of vomit on my soiled clothes doesn’t help either.
Laney’s been silent for a long time. She asked if I was okay. I grunted a response, and she didn’t say anything after that.
Honestly, I don’t think either of us are okay.
Eventually, I think we both drift off to sleep.
If my dreams are filled with horrible nightmares, I don’t remember them when I awake. “Laney,” I whisper to the flickering lantern-light, which never seems to go out.
“Yeah.”
“What do we do?” I ask. It’s a weird question considering the circumstances, but Laney doesn’t so much as snicker at it. She understands.
“I don’t care if he’s Xave’s father or your uncle or a god. He’s not telling us everything. We need to ditch his magged-up ass. And then we’ll find New America and find out what’s really going on.”
Instead of responding to her idea, I say, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You mean a prisoner in a cell?” she says seriously.
“No. With me. I couldn’t get through this without you and your snarky comments.”
“Good to know someone appreciat
es me,” she says, but I can feel a sliver of pride in her voice. And then: “Do you think Trish is okay?”
“Hex will protect her. Not that she needs it. She seems more than capable of protecting herself.”
“But they’re hunting her. She’s powerful, and the rest of her kind has been destroyed. Everyone will be after her.”
I didn’t realize Laney believed that part of what Mr. Jackson said. “We’ll find her first,” I say, although I don’t have the slightest idea how we’ll accomplish that.
“A fine pair we are,” Laney says. “My sister’s a witch who killed my witch and warlock parents. And your parents were magic-born, only when they died no one could find your father’s body, and your best friend’s father—who, oh yeah, is also a warlock—brought your mother back from the dead as some creepy monster. Oh, and don’t forget your best friend is a warlock, too, or at least thinks he is.”
“Yeah, we’re pretty messed up. We could start our own support group,” I say.
Laney laughs. “Yeah, yeah! Screwed Up Witch Families Anonymous,” Laney says.
I laugh, too, doing my best to pretend we’re back on the road, far, far away from this place. Reality swoops in almost immediately. “So you believe what Xave and Mr. Jackson are saying?”
Laney sighs, deep and blustery. “I don’t know what to think. But the Reaper seemed pretty sincere the last time.”
I nod silently, thinking.
Laney says, “What I don’t get is why he would show you your mom like that. It was obvious he was getting to you with his softer side.”
I think about it for a minute. A thought springs to mind. “I think he was showing me that he’s done with the lies. That he’s willing to lay everything on the table now. His past, his present, and his plans for the future.”
“We can use that,” Laney says.
“Yes. Yes we can,” I say.
~~~
Three days go by without visitors, and then Xave shows up. His jaw is tense, all hard lines. Unfortunately, he’s the type to hold a grudge. I waste no time on subtleties.
“Xave, I’m sorry,” I say.
His black cloak shivers slightly, as if he’s cold. He hugs himself. “I…I was angry,” he says.
“I know, and I’m really, reall—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. My eyes dart to his face, which is no longer hard and tight. In fact, it’s the opposite—soft and falling. Is that shame? “I was angry because what you said about Felix is probably true.”
I’m stunned, but I don’t say a word for fear of changing the trajectory of the conversation. Laney’s smart enough to withhold the Told you so that’s surely on the tip of her tongue.
“I’ve known for a long time that Felix was probably just helping me get acclimated, trying to ensure I didn’t do anything silly. I considered dumping him, but…”
He trails away and I can see tears glistening in his eyes. “What happened?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says, “and that’s the problem. Felix is as perfect as always. We never fight. There’s never any drama. And you know how much I love drama.”
I manage a smile, which he returns weakly. “You’ve always loved drama,” I say. “Hence your obsession with reality TV.”
“I miss it,” Xave says.
“Reality TV?”
“No…well, yes. That. But not just that. Everything. How things used to be. You know, shopping and studying and movies.”
“You hate studying,” I say.
Xavier looks at me seriously. “You wouldn’t believe how much I miss studying. I’d kill for a good biology exam.”
I laugh for the second time this week, which makes me realize this is the first normal conversation I’ve had with Xavier since I found him. No robotic voice. Just Xave. My best friend.
“How about a French final?” I say.
He screws up his face. “I don’t miss studying that much,” he says.
“Do you have any books? We could start a dungeon study group.”
I thought it was funny, but tears well up in Xavier’s eyes. Uh oh. Normal conversation over. “You know, I really am a warlock,” he says. “A really powerful one. I know, I know, it’s hard to tell just looking at me, but it’s true. I’ve raised people from the dead.”
The image of my mother-monster flashes through my head. “Like my mom?” I say.
All humor is gone from Xavier’s face. “No. Father brought her back years ago. I know it’s hard to see her like that, although I guess you never really saw her before that anyway. I know it seems heartless to bring bodies back like that, but I believe they’re still in there somewhere, the people. We’re trying to use our creations to bring about good, as weird as that sounds. And my work is much more precise than Father’s. I’m an artist. I can reanimate a corpse and make the person look almost exactly like they did before they died. Fewer mutations.”
Is he really comparing creating monsters to art? “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,” Laney says, finally unable to hold her tongue.
I’m glad she says it, because I was about to say the same thing and I don’t want to destroy any bridges Xavier and I have built during this short conversation.
Xave ignores Laney like she’s not even there. “Did you know it takes the same number of weeks to reanimate a body as the number of years old they were when they died?”
The random fact startles me, because I didn’t know that. Mr. Jackson taught me so many things, supposedly everything there was to know about the Necromancers. But not that. I shake my head.
“What about the Boners?” Laney asks. “There seem to be a lot of them.”
Xave wrinkles his nose in confusion.
“The skeleton warriors,” I explain.
“Ah,” he says. “Skeletons can be raised very quickly, almost instantly. In a desperate pinch, a bunch of them can be quite useful. But they’re weak. Or at least they were. And then I created a more powerful version of them.”
“The Super-Boners,” Laney says.
“We fought them,” I add. “On the field.”
“Yes,” Xave says, nodding eagerly. “They take a week to create, but they’re less brittle, wielding nearly the same strength as a fully reanimated corpse. The only caveat is that you have to strip the bodies all the way to the bones in order to perform the magic.”
Who is he? Xavier was the one who used to cover his eyes during the scary parts of horror movies, who’d scream when the killer jumped out wearing a ski mask and carrying a bloody knife. And now he’s talking about stripping flesh off corpses? About new procedures for raising the dead?
Apparently I’m unable to hide my disgust, because Xave says, “You don’t understand anything,” and walks away.
When he’s gone, Laney says, “Freaks. All of them.” Although Xave’s my friend and I should defend him, I don’t, because I’m leaning toward agreeing with her.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Mr. Jackson’s been stopping by more and more. Sometimes staying for an hour, talking and talking and talking, and other times for just a minute, more than enough time to impart some pearl of wisdom.
Slowly, the full picture comes into view, however skewed it might be by the artist painting it:
President Washington and the New American military have built a fortified compound, which is really a refugee camp, housing thousands of human survivors. Attempts to invade the camp by rogue witch gangs have been unsuccessful so far, but it’s only a matter of time before enough gangs unite to attack. The only thing the humans have going for them is that the various witch gangs generally don’t like each other and prefer to operate independently. Mr. Jackson seems to think it’s a wonder they managed to unite long enough for Salem’s Revenge.
Bil Nez and some of the witch hunters, like The End, have been recruited by New America to kill witches. Other witch hunters, like me, operate independently, almost like a calling. While The End has been ordered to kill me on sight, it’s not their
primary objective, which is to locate large groups of witches and call in air strikes. Contrary to what Bil said, it’s The End and not him who are attempting to destroy the Necros. According to Mr. Jackson, they might have succeeded if not for him convincing a sufficient number of Wardens, like Felix, to join the cause and protect Heinz Field. Bil, on the other hand, has only one objective: To kill any human Resistors, like me, who refuse to join New America. I’ve never received a formal offer to join New America, but I guess because I’m best friends with a Necro—or at least I was—I have a major target on my back.
Again, according to Xavier’s very biased father, the Necromancers are stuck in the middle between New America and the “rogue” witch gangs. He’s willing to destroy anyone who gets in the way of his version of “peace,” a world in which both witches and humans can live together in harmony. Although it sounds like a pipedream to me, I’ve listened patiently to his monologues, in hopes of gleaning as much information as possible from him.
Today, I’ve had enough.
“Why did you bring my mother back from the dead?” I say heavily.
“We need all the warriors we can get,” Mr. Jackson says.
“You say you cared about my parents?” I move closer to the bars, sticking my nose through.
Mr. Jackson nods slowly. “I did.”
“Then why would you turn my mother into a monster? She doesn’t even look human anymore.” I grit my teeth and try to fight off the memory of her grotesque, writhing body in the cage.
Mr. Jackson sighs, something he seems to do a lot these days. “It was the best I could do,” he says. Although he pauses, I can tell he’s not finished, his mouth hanging open thoughtfully. “Her soul wasn’t particularly willing.”
Seriously? Is this guy for real? If I wasn’t so flabbergasted I’d probably try to bend the magged-up bars with my bare hands.
“Would yours be?” Laney asks. “Your soul, I mean. Would you want to come back as some monstrosity?”