by David Estes
“Yes,” I say. But I thought she was a… “But aren’t you a Siren?” I remember Rhett talking about how he was constantly fighting her allure, a physical pull toward her. I’d experienced the Call of a Siren once before, and it wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
“Only when I want to be,” she says.
I blink as a light bulb blazes in my brain. It all makes sense now. How this witch was able to do so many different things, become so many different types of witches, with varying powers. Rhett had told me how she shot lightning bolts at him the first time he ran into her. Another time it was spell casting.
“You’re an actress,” I say.
“A Changeling,” she says, clutching her leg, which is now bleeding profusely from the bullet holes. “I’m not dead because the spell I cast on your bullet removed its curse just before it split apart and entered my skin. But thanks for trying to kill me.”
“I was only taking the initiative before you did the same to me,” I say.
“I wasn’t going to kill you, stupid girl.”
“So you claim,” I say, pressing the gun even harder into her skull. “Where’s my sister?”
“With her kind,” she says.
“The Claires?” I say, remembering Trish’s words from earlier. Where I go…you cannot. Be brave.
It hits me like a punch in the face. She left me. But wait…
“The Claires are all dead,” I say. “Trish is the only one left.”
The Changeling laughs and grimaces at the same time. “The Claires don’t die the way the rest of us do,” she says. “Death is but a temporary state of being for their kind. And with your sister’s powers starting to come alive…”
“What?” I say.
“They have a Mother again.”
What? “That makes no sense. Trish is only a kid. She’s—”
My gun hammers against the floor as the Siren—Changeling—whatever—disappears.
“No!” I scream, rising to my feet and whirling around, expecting her to attack from behind.
She’s hurt. I hurt her. She won’t be coming back anytime soon.
“Dammit!” I roar. “No no no no no!” Rage pulses through my blood, molten and burning, turning every heartbeat to thunder, every thought to chaos.
I aim the Glock at the wall and pull the trigger.
Boom!
There’s a poof of purple mist and a series of holes appear in the wall, just as the first rays of morning sunlight spray through the cabin window.
The magical gun has no kick and the simple act of shooting it feels so good, like a release. I aim at another wall and…
Boom!
Although I know I’m acting crazy and that the poor cabin walls and roof deserve better, I can’t stop. I fire shot after shot, until I can’t see, until the purple fog hangs low and thick, tingling my skin.
As the purple haze begins to clear I see the result of my handiwork. There are bullet holes everywhere, but the weird thing is that there’s stuff growing out of the holes.
There’s a purple rose with red thorns, and a purple vine, twisting and gnarled, and a strange bulbous cactus—purple, of course. Purple honey oozes from several of the holes. A mix of aromatic aromas pervades even the musty odor of the long-deserted cabin.
Yet another surprise from our favorite magical weapons dealer, Tillman Huckle, his obsession with the color purple going way overboard this time.
A chuckle escapes my lips but I choke on it, the sob arising before I can cut it off.
She’s gone. Trish is gone.
My back to the wall, I slide to the floor, the Glock dropping from my fingers, which suddenly don’t have the strength to grip it.
All alone.
And when the fury is gone, what’s left? Despair and loneliness and unshed tears. Another sob slips out, but no tears accompany it, for which I’m glad.
That’s when I hear it: a crunch. Loud and distinct, like a boot stepping on dry underbrush.
My heart seems to stop as I freeze, my ears focused on the morning sounds. Wait, what morning sounds? I don’t hear anything—not even birdsong.
CRUNCH!
The noise is louder, closer. A big animal, maybe? A bear? Do they even have bears where I am? Where am I anyway? Is this still Pennsylvania or somewhere else? Maryland? I was trying to head north but maybe I messed up and went south, getting turned around in the woods.
A slamming sound shakes the floorboards and cabin walls, forcing me to hold back a raw scream rising in my throat. What is that?
Then I realize how stupid I’ve been. The blasts from my gun, my own personal Glock symphony, would’ve been heard for miles. I might as well have shot off fireworks that exploded to reveal a fiery message high in the sky: I’M HERE! COME GET ME!
The magic-born have found me.
And I’m all alone.
I grab my instrument of choice.
Chapter Seven
Trish
Her sister is a rock that cannot be crushed. That knowledge is the only thing that allows Trish to leave her, like a ghost in the night. That and the red-haired Changeling who said she’d explain everything to Laney, in a way she herself cannot. Trish’s voice is growing stronger by the day, but still, she cannot seem to find the right words.
When Trish felt the power coursing through her that night, she was changed forever. When her parents fell to the floor, the life gone from their bodies, it was as if she awakened from a heavy sleep. She didn’t grieve for them, for she knew what was in their dark minds—what they were going to do to her sister.
(Burn her! End her! Scream, you human filth, scream!)
The nightmares of what she took from their thoughts still haunt her restless sleep.
No, she wouldn’t cry for them—not a single tear. Their souls would move on, to another place, one she’d…
(seen before?)
Her voice never left her, not due to shock or traumatic stress disorder as her sister assumed. Speaking wasn’t a priority, not when her brain was full of so much noise. Pain and death and passion and torment and desire and always returning to a field, vibrantly green and soft to her bare feet. Surrounded by trees, like an oasis in a desert of sand.
They would always step from the trees, so many, like her. And though it was impossible, she felt two words in each beat of her heart at their sight.
My Children.
Their whispers were unmistakable. Mother. Mother. Mother.
She knows her children are calling her, their whispers growing louder with each passing moment. She has to go to them, to lead them, to show them the way. She doesn’t know how or why—only that she must.
Rain doesn’t touch her. Branches move aside for her. Even the wind seems to part around her, leaving the area beside her still and silent. Some of it she understands, but the rest is lost to her, like a recently forgotten memory. It’s like she’s waking up after a hundred years of sleep.
Trish spots a deer in the woods, alert and frozen, its black eyes watching her unfettered movement through the trees, its majestic antlers branching above the crown of its regal head. She can see its heart, beating firmly and proudly. She can see its soul, pure and white.
The deer is more than a deer. It’s a symbol of salvation.
A symbol she knows she must follow, even as it bounds away.
Every so often the beast stops and looks back at Trish, its chin raised. Rain pelts the buck’s face but it doesn’t blink.
They travel many miles together, the deer always leading. Twice she realizes there are humans nearby, camping in the woods, hiding, but she doesn’t disturb them.
At one point her stomach growls, but she tells it not to, so it stops. When her muscles begin to ache, she stops that, too. When breathing becomes too hard, she simply doesn’t breathe anymore. She allows her heart to keep beating, if only to remind her she’s alive.
Just as dawn breaks over the horizon, its orange glow chasing away the night, the deer leaps from the woods and di
sappears in a white beam of light.
A woman materializes from the early morning fog, crossing a patch of green grass wearing a shimmering white dress. Her blond hair cascades around her shoulders in silky waves. Her blue eyes sparkle like pale diamonds. Her pink lips don’t move as she speaks.
Mother, she says in Trish’s head.
My child, Trish remembers.
Chapter Eight
Rhett
I take a deep breath, turning the recording device over and over in my hands. The play button skims against my fingers with each turn, but I don’t push it.
Do I want to hear his voice again?
All orphans have two major hurdles to get over in their lives. Accepting that their biological parents are gone forever, and making peace with the idea that you’ve been abandoned. For years I denied myself that peace, making up stories of where they might be, off on wonderful adventures until the time when I was old enough for them to return and take me with them. But like all childhood fantasies, age and maturity destroyed them.
My parents would never return to get me, not from where they were. My parents were dead. I made peace with my life.
And now…
My father has suddenly reappeared, the same as Xave’s. Damn deadbeat warlock fathers.
Hex paws at my leg. “I know, boy. I’m a big chicken.” That earns me a smile.
I take another deep breath. Okay. I’m going to do this. I’m going to press play. I am.
My finger hovers over the button as I fight off the urge to chuck the device into the surrounding fields.
Press it, you wimp!
I press it and nothing happens.
Hex chuffs out a laugh. I didn’t press it hard enough.
One more time, I push the button. This time, the speaker crackles as it begins to play.
“My name is Martin Carter, and I’m your father,” the deep voice says. There’s a pause, and I close my eyes, trying to picture the beggar speaking. All I see is his mangled stump of a tongue wriggling in his mouth as he tries to form the words. It’s hard to believe the man in the recorder is the same person. The message continues. “My punishment wasn’t death. My punishment was to be cursed for life. Every second that I am close to you, my son, causes me excruciating pain, and brings me slightly closer to death. My curse is never being able to be with you again.”
I’ve heard all this before, from when Martin Carter played this very recording for me. The message concludes and I open my eyes and stare off into the distance, seeing nothing. I hate everything the message implies, because if it’s true, then my father is a warlock, just like the Reaper said. And if that’s true, then what else that the Reaper said is true? That the corpse-raising Necros are really the good guys, trying to help humans make peace with the witches? Impossible.
The recorder crackles again and I realize I haven’t pressed stop. I’m about to switch if off when the voice returns, even clearer and crisper than before.
“Rhett, I…I’m sorry for everything. This isn’t what I wanted for you. This life is hard…harder than it should be. If you’re getting this message then I’m probably dead and you’re alone. I can only hope that my old friend, Gary Jackson, managed to survive and is watching over you. He needs to keep both you and his own son, Xavier, safe.” Oh God. Mr. Jackson? His old friend? His son, Xavier? It can’t be true. “Jackson brought me this recorder so one day you can hear my voice, one day you can know the truth.
“I can only hope that he and his allies manage to stop Salem’s Revenge from happening. But if the Council hasn’t killed me yet, and the witch apocalypse moves forward, know that with every waking moment I wish I could be with you. Your mother, she…she loved you very much. They”—his voice cracks slightly and I blink away the tears that spring up—“took her from me, from both of us. She wanted a better world for you and they killed her for it. I was so scared of the sadness that I let anger consume me, Rhett. I wanted revenge and now the Council has imprisoned me. They’ve delivered the one curse they knew would hurt the most. It was her idea. The Head of the Council. Only her twisted mind could come up with such a curse.”
There’s a loud crackle and the sounds of footsteps approaching. “Rhett, I—someone’s coming. I love you very much and I’ll try to finish this message later.” There’s more static and a loud clatter as I assume he hides the device somewhere. I can still hear the footsteps growing louder and louder until they stop. Silence falls. I listen intently. Is that it? Is that the end of the recording?
No. I hear it. Someone breathing. “Martin Carter,” a woman’s voice, sharper than a knife, says. “You are free to go. Your curse will follow you for all eternity and to the ends of the earth. It’s been determined by the Council that death would be too kind a punishment for treason. Go and do no harm.”
“Go to hell,” my father says.
The woman laughs. “All you had to do was walk out that door,” she says. “But you had to open your big mouth. We’ll let you go in a few days, after you’ve had some time to heal. We’ll make a big deal out of it, fake an execution, the whole song and dance.”
“Go. To. Hell,” my father repeats.
“Consider those your last words. Hold him still.”
There’s a scuffling sound and although I know what’s coming next, I grip the recorder with both hands, willing the message to stop. Willing my father’s message to me to continue, for him to tell me more about how my mother loved me.
But no force of will can change the past.
His screams rip through the speaker as they cut out his tongue.
~~~
At first I wanted to destroy the recording device, to smash it to tiny bits, beyond recovery. As if that would change the past, remove the curse on my father, give him back his voice, save my mother’s life. So instead I place the recorder out of reach, so I won’t be tempted to destroy my father’s last words to me. His only words to me.
All I want is a do over. Was there ever hope for our family? Did we ever have a chance for a normal life, in a different world free of magic and those that wield it?
I know the only answer is no.
I sit on the porch for hours, long enough for the sun to rise high in the sky and for Hex to get bored with chasing butterflies and flop down in the shade for a nap. My stomach is rumbling and aching and my mouth is dry, but all that just seems so unimportant after what I heard.
I should be looking for Laney. I should want to run away with her and Trish and find a safe place to try to be happy for as long as we survive. But I can’t bring my feet to move, as if they’re made of stone.
I can’t do what my heart wants to do because I have a responsibility to be better. Whatever force or higher power or random genetic mutation gave me the ability to Resist magic also gave me the obligation to protect those who can’t defend themselves.
I finally stand, a lightness coming over me, because I finally know exactly what I have to do.
Taking a step forward, I move into the sunlight, sighing as the warmth hits my skin.
The arrow is past me before I can register the whizzing sound that it makes as it flies through the air. A moment after it embeds itself in the front door, I dive for cover. Someone’s trying to kill me!
Staying low, I see the next arrow coming, but then it stops in midair, spins around, and whizzes back in the direction it came from. Hex barks gleefully, wagging his tail. Good boy, I think.
“Ah!” a voice yells from somewhere in the high-grassed field. “Holy freaking…you almost killed me with that thing!”
And although I wish I don’t, I know that voice.
Bil Nez steps out from the grass, his hands over his head, one of them holding a crossbow.
“’Sup, Rhett?”
Chapter Nine
Laney
Just before the tree crashes through the cabin roof, I sense it coming and dive to the side, rolling hard on my shoulder, barely hanging onto my gun. Chunks of tree bark rain over me, some getting in my m
outh and eyes, and leaves and branches scrape my skin.
The orange morning sky looms over me, far too beautiful for the situation.
I stay low, not moving, hoping the magic-born will move on, assuming they’ve already killed me. At the same time I wonder which gang I’m facing. I’ve never heard of witches throwing tree trunks around like toothpicks.
Everything’s quiet for a few long moments, before there’s an ear-numbing BOOM! and the wall explodes inward, showering me with wood chips as a huge black ball flies overhead, punching through the wall behind me. Not a ball—a cannonball. It’s a straight through-’n-through, like a bullet hitting you in the abdomen and exiting through your lower back. Only it’s not a bullet, it’s a cannonball, and it’s just ripped right through a log cabin.
I know immediately which magic-borns I’m facing, and it does little for my confidence. Slammers. I’ve seen the enormous, giant-like witches and warlocks before, on the streets of Morgantown, West Virginia, outside of the restaurant Trish and I were hiding in. They pound their fists together and cannonballs shoot from their hands, destroying everything in their path without discrimination.
Not the version of witches kids used to dress up as for Halloween.
And I’m in their path.
There’s another boom and the door shatters as if it’s moth-eaten fabric. As another cannonball flies past, the doorknob rolls to my feet. My mind races as I wait for the next blast. If I run I’ll be cut down like a hare facing a shotgun. If I stay I’ll be killed by a cannonball or the resulting shrapnel. I have no choice but to fight.
Before I can lose my nerve, I stand amidst the rubble, shredded wood sticking to my clothes, leaves in my mouth, taking in the scene before me.
My jaw drops open. Three mountains loom over me, their fists the size of basketballs, their muscles bulging from their arms and legs, their heads the size of mini-Coopers. A witch—her enormous breasts bulging against her tank top—and two warlocks with thick beards and shaved heads covered in dark tattoos.