Boil (Salem's Revenge Book 2)

by David Estes

  The woman’s face changes in an instant, from relief to fear, as Nash and another Destroyer swoop in and land near the children. “No!” she screams, regaining her feet and scrambling in front of the stretchers. “Do not touch them. Stay back.”

  The Destroyers retreat a step and look to Hemsworth, as if waiting for his next order.

  “Ma’am,” Hemsworth says. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you have to trust me when I say that these magic-born will not harm you or your children. They’re helping to protect us. They are good. You have to trust me.”

  The woman doesn’t seem to hear him, she’s so focused on the Destroyers, her mouth a slash of determination. She looks as if she’s willing to die to protect them. I’d probably look the same if Destroyers were trying to grab my sister. “This was a mistake,” she says. “We should never have come to this place.”

  I notice Nash is still looking at Hemsworth. The lieutenant gives an almost imperceptible nod, and Nash explodes into action. He’s got the woman pinned in an instant, not hurting her, but holding her down. The other Destroyer wrangles one of the stretchers away from two women and carries the young boy with the bandaged head over the fence. He places him gently on the ground, not three feet from where we’re standing. “Medic!” Hemsworth shouts and a man and a woman come rushing up carrying a bag full of supplies. They immediately go to work on the boy, checking his vitals and gingerly removing the bandage to reveal a long, bloody gash on his forehead. From the appearance of the skin around the wound—red and swollen—it looks to be infected.

  But Hemsworth isn’t watching what the medics are doing. He’s walking toward the fence, to where the woman is screaming her head off, still held down by Nash. “Release her,” he says, and Nash levitates off of her chest and up above the fence, hovering, waiting for his next command. “See?” he says to the woman. Her face is a mask of horror, but as she pushes to her feet and approaches the fence, it changes to surprise, and then relief, her lips quivering.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.”

  “Now, please let the magic-born carry the rest of the injured children over. So we can help them.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes. Of course.”

  “The rest of you can walk around,” Hemsworth instructs “Follow Briggs.” A thirty-something redheaded soldier waves an arm to get their attention and begins walking in the direction they’re meant to follow.

  Some of the women start to follow her, but their leader just watches as the Destroyers fly two more children over the fence. She’s finally smiling.

  One of the wounded children is the girl with the fever. The other is—

  My heart stops. The girl’s face is half-cloaked by a sheet pulled up over her chin, but the rest of her features are hers. I take a heavy step forward, barely breathing, not blinking. The girl’s eyes open and there’s no denying those piercing blue eyes, almost identical to the ones I see every time I look in the mirror.

  “Trish!” I shout, running to my sister, feeling a thrill in my chest and moisture in my eyes.

  And just before I throw myself over her and wrap Trish up in the biggest hug of her life, Hemsworth yells, “Trap!”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rhett

  None of the other witch hunters talk to me as we make our way toward the gate, although I do hear a few of them whisper, “Resistor,” to each other. Even amongst my own kind, I’m a freak.

  Then Bil strides up and for the first time in a while it’s really good to see him. At least we can be freaks together.

  “Guess we’re on the same side,” he says.

  “Guess so,” I say. “At least now that the president doesn’t want you to kill me.”

  “She never officially retracted that order,” he says with a grin.

  I manage a smile back.

  We walk in silence for a minute. “Have you had any problems lately?” I ask, speaking in code.

  Bil understands immediately. “No,” he says. “I think maybe I’m okay now.”

  “Good,” I say, genuinely happy. It would be good to be able to trust someone again. Well, someone besides Laney. “Do you know anything about this mission?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “They don’t usually tell us much until just before we leave the gates. The president is paranoid about spies and traitors.” I can’t blame her for that.

  We reach the gate and Floss turns to address us. I’m still surprised that she picked me for the mission, especially after how rude she was to me the night before. But then again, it seems like she’s rude to everyone.

  Hex brushes against my legs, tagging along despite Floss’s specific orders that he remain back in New Washington. He’s turned himself invisible, so she’ll be none the wiser.

  “Today’s mission is crucial,” Floss says, tapping the handle of one of her knives, which is strapped to her belt. “The Destroyers have located a pocket of magic-born.”

  “The Destroyers?” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “They’re our scouts. You got a problem with that?”

  I don’t respond. I shouldn’t be surprised—I’ve already seen a Slammer, a wizard, and a mud-creature working with New America, so why not Destroyers, too? Because they’re insanely evil, I think to myself. But maybe not all of them, I remind myself.

  “Good,” she says. There’s the roar of an engine and we all look back to see a Jeep speeding toward us. There’s no mistaking the passenger in the back.

  President Washington. Does she always come out to wave goodbye to departing witch hunters? I would guess no. Which means this mission must be especially important.

  The vehicle eases to a stop, but the driver leaves the engine idling as the president opens the door and steps out. Wearing a neatly pressed pantsuit, she looks as composed and collected as ever. Maybe because she’s safely behind the fence’s protection while we’re about to leave.

  “Mr. Carter,” she says, addressing me directly while ignoring the others. “May I have a word?”

  It’s not really a question, so I shrug and follow her away from the other witch hunters. “I have a question for you, and I need you to answer honestly,” she says.

  A weird way to start a conversation, but okay. “I will,” I say.

  “I need to be sure where your allegiances lie. I’m going out on a major limb with you. You can’t blame me for being afraid it might break.”

  I want to tell her to just ask her question, but instead I say, “I don’t. Blame you.”

  She nods, as if satisfied, and says, “If you come face to face with your ex-best friend, Xavier Jackson, the second in command of the Necros, what will you do?”

  I have to admit, the question catches me completely off guard. Even though it shouldn’t. After all, it was my friendship with Xavier that caused the president to put a bounty on my head in the first place.

  A friendship I’ve called into question from the moment I found out Xave was a warlock.

  This shouldn’t be a hard question to answer. I’ve cursed Xave’s name so many times that if I was a warlock he’d surely be dead or a cripple. There are times that I’ve wished him dead, too. And yet, in my heart I don’t know what I want. Don’t know what I believe. Could Xave be turned back to the right side? Could I undo all the brainwashing that Mr. Jackson, his father, has inflicted on his mind? Because despite what Laney told me about her recent conversations with the Necros, I know they’re not to be trusted.

  “Mr. Carter?” the president says impatiently. “This shouldn’t be a difficult question.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “I’ll kill him.”

  And it’s not a lie and it is a lie and it’s something well in-between because even I don’t know the real answer. Thankfully, however, it seems to satisfy her.

  “Good,” she says, striding away and climbing into the Jeep, slamming the door behind her. Just before the vehicle pulls away, she shouts out, “Because today you’ll be fighting the Necros.”

  ~
~~

  We have our orders. First, surround the band of Necros that our scouts have located.

  And second, kill them all.

  This is all in spite of what President Washington said yesterday about the Necros being neutralized and the Changelings being our number one enemy. Apparently not today.

  I try not to think about the off-chance that Xave will be one of them. I try not to think of my best friend’s face as he described how he tried to perfect the reanimated corpse that was Beth.

  The ragtag group of witch hunters led by Floss is spread out across the road, as if some invisible force is preventing us from getting too close to each other.

  “Hey,” Bil says, coming up beside me. Hex trots behind him, no longer invisible; he’s been following Bil around since we left the protection of New Washington. Something has changed in Bil Nez. Something that Hex’s instincts have recognized. Have Bil’s demons finally left him? Will he once more become the confident and capable witch hunter he once was?

  Time will tell.

  “Hey,” I say, offering him a false smile. There’s nothing to smile about today. Laney could die guarding the border. We could die fighting my oldest friend. Hex is enthralled with Bil Nez. And Tillman Huckle is besties with a bunch of witches.

  “I’m still episode-free,” he says, tossing a stick for Hex to chase. Instead of chasing it, Hex somehow stops it in midair, snaps it in half, and sets each piece on fire. Game over. A few of the witch hunters glance our way, astonishment on their faces. Hex sticks his tongue out and grins like a proud lion.

  “That’s good, Bil,” I say.

  He sighs. “I wanted to apologize,” he says.

  “For what?” I ask. He’s already apologized for everything there is to apologize for.

  Bil grabs my shoulder and stops me. “New America took me in,” he says. “For once I wasn’t alone. I was with other people, people who were fighting back. I was just talking, telling my story. I didn’t realize the president was interrogating me. I didn’t realize she’d use that information against you.”

  “I know,” I say. “I believe you. I forgive you. Stop apologizing. But from here on out…”

  “Bros before hos,” he says.

  I almost laugh for two reasons. One, because that’s classic Bil Nez; and two, because he just indirectly called the president a ho. “I was going to say that we’ve got to cover each other’s backs.”

  Bil grins devilishly. “So I guess that means Laney is still a notch above me,” he says.

  I punch him in the shoulder and resume walking. “Try ten notches,” I say. “And anyway, she’s not a ho.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. We’ve got each other’s backs. Maybe you could let Laney know that, too, I’m still slightly afraid she might stab me in my sleep.”

  Finally I allow myself a much-needed moment of brevity, laughing so loud a few of the other witch hunters look over at us. “Sorry, you’ll have to make your own deal with her. She doesn’t listen to anyone, including me.”

  Bil groans. It’ll take more than a half-assed apology and a week without a psychotic break before Laney warms up to him.

  I notice that Floss slows and cuts a diagonal path until our route intersects with hers. “Something you’d like to share with the group?” she asks.

  “Yeah, we were just discussing how boring this is,” I say. “We thought there’d be witches on this witch hunting expedition.”

  Floss glares at me. Note to self: She hates sarcasm. That could be a problem. “Oh really? I thought you might be discussing how to get out of fighting your old friends.”

  “Friends?” I say. “The Necros imprisoned me and brought my girlfriend back from the dead. If that makes them my friends, then Bil and I must be soul mates.”

  Bil gives me a look that says I’ve gone too far. I tend to agree, although my mouth seems impossible to control ever since the president told me who we’d be fighting.

  “You sure you won’t freeze up in the midst of battle? We’re a team and our lives depend on each other. If I can’t trust you, then you’ll sit this one out.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Her brows lower further, darkening her eyes, but then she veers away from us, an errant ray of sunlight sparking off of the gold rings running up the sides of her ears. Conversation over. I guess that means I’m in. At least until I do something stupid.

  We march on in silence, giving me time to study my companions. As I noticed the night before, they come in all shapes and sizes, races and genders, ages and forms. But there’s a similarity that runs through each of the witch hunters, like a vein of iron ore in an otherwise metal-less boulder.

  They look ready to kill.

  Even the thin pixie of a girl with bird-like arms and legs has something about her. Something lethal. I can see it in the laser-focus in her eyes and the shimmering edge of the short sword hanging from her belt, a weapon that is most likely a Huckle-special.

  And the old man trudging along beside me with a slight limp, using a cane as a third leg? I overheard him telling a tale of the fifty-sixth witch he killed. Fifty-six! I shouldn’t be surprised though. Anyone—especially witch hunters who make a habit of purposely putting themselves in the line of danger—who has survived this long is sure to be tough, smart, or an impressive combination of both. The only other option is luck, which I think we all must have to some degree.

  As another hour stomps by, however, I wonder if this mission will ever happen. A bubble forms in my chest—is that hope? Am I hoping the Necros have vanished, slipped out of our reach? Have I really cast off the cloak of revenge that I’ve worn for so long?

  Something has changed in me, and I can’t tell whether it’s a good thing. Ever since Laney left in the middle of the night and I realized that I had someone else left to care about, my priorities have felt different. For the first time since I left Mr. Jackson’s house, I don’t have the burning desire to hunt down the next witch. I don’t feel angry anymore, not really. All I want is to get back to Laney, to trade sarcastic quips, to sit and laugh and eat beef jerky. With a start I realize that she’d given me exactly that option not that long ago. And I’d passed on it, too focused on revenge to really consider the possibility.

  The truth is I’m tired of being angry. So tired. I feel my breath leave my lungs in a heavy rush, as if my body agrees with my mind.

  It’s right then that one of the scouts that Floss sent out ahead of us returns, excitement in his eyes. “Less than a half mile ahead,” he says, pointing in the direction of the road we’ve been following.

  “How many?” Floss asks.

  “At least a hundred,” he says.

  I scan the witch hunters around me, as if expecting to find that we’ve multiplied along the way. Nope. Still just twenty-nine of us. Not even a third of our enemy’s number. I expect her to call off the mission.

  She stops us and I find myself holding my breath. “They’re just Necros,” she says. “And they’re weak from Pittsburgh. Now we finish them.”

  I let out a ragged breath and my feet start moving, almost of their own accord. Apparently the plan we discussed before we left New Washington hasn’t changed. Surround them. Kill them all.

  With each step, my heart seems to hammer louder and louder, faster and faster. I take deep breaths, trying to calm it. Fighting witches is nothing new to me, so why am I so nervous? A few months ago I would’ve given my left ear for a showdown with the Necros. Has that much changed? They’re still enemies of the humans, regardless of what the Reaper and Xave tried to convince me and Laney of. They’re still magic-born and trying to raise an army of the dead. They still must be stopped and brought to justice.

  The wreckage begins with the tiniest sliver of sheared metal. It’s painted red. Actual paint, not blood. At least that’s what I tell myself. Ahead is a random trail of debris. Huge tires lying on their sides, the rubber melted in strange formations, like abstract art. Hunks of metal, ripped apart at the riveted seams, create a patc
hwork skeleton of what used to be. Trees litter the road, sheared in half as if Paul Bunyan decided to use them as toothpicks. Their surviving brothers and sisters, the other trees, seem to sway in the wind mournfully, their arms waving hypnotically, as if paying homage to their fallen comrades.

  I wonder what happened to this airplane during Salem’s Revenge. Were one of the passengers magic-born, or did the witches save themselves the cost of a ticket and simply blast the plane out of the sky? Did every red-eye flight that was in the air during that time crash, or were some able to make emergency landings, giving their passengers a chance to flee to safety?

  Shouts arise in the distance, where the majority of the airplane’s cabin rests on its belly, somewhat intact. We’ve been spotted.

  Black-cloaked Necros swarm from the wreckage. So many more than us.

  We start to run.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Laney

  My sister is no longer my sister. The girl with Trish’s face morphs in an instant, becoming the hardened face of Hemsworth, his arms and legs growing long and sturdy, extending past the edges of the short stretcher. I shrink back as he says, “Tell the president your sister is coming for her.”

  The not-really-Hemsworth Changeling lashes out at me, swinging a heavy fist, which crashes into my chin, rocking me back. I wobble on my feet, seeing stars, wondering why the sky seems to be swirling like a hurricane above my head.

  I collapse, reaching out, trying to grab the winking lights that dance before my vision. They’re pretty, and I wonder whether they’re magic or real. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because Hemsworth is standing over me now. He points his finger at me. “You chose the wrong side,” he says.

  And then there’s a loud noise and Hemsworth is spitting red juice from his mouth and it’s raining down on me, hot on my cheeks, like acid rain cascading through the stars that continue to twinkle from the heavens. He falls next to me with a thud that I understand—because I’m tired too. So tired that my arms drop to my sides and my eyes close and all I want to do is…