by David Estes
“No,” I say. “I won’t be a part of this. I won’t die like this.”
“Rhett,” Laney says urgently. “We’ve got company!”
A Hummer bursts through the wards on the far side of the stadium, showering sparks and glistening with red-hot heat. The doors open and The End spills out, carrying guns and knives and grenades. Gravedigger. The Silent Assassin. Eddie X. The Mad Sheriff.
And then the killing begins.
Two vicious slashes and Silent has beheaded two of the Wardens, their heads rolling across the pavement. The Mad Sheriff is shooting dual pistols in every direction, missing with most shots, but occasionally sending one of the witches sprawling. X is tossing grenades like rotten eggs, blowing up half a dozen Wardens at a time. And Graves is fighting barehanded, twisting necks and breaking bones; and then, he raises a radio to his lips and shouts so loudly we can hear him from two hundred feet away. “Wards are down! Attack! Attack!” As a group, they jump back into the Hummer, slamming the doors and whooping like bandits.
Graves, as if sensing my stare, turns in my direction. He sees me and smiles victoriously.
And then, as quickly as they came, The End roars off, having sufficiently weakened the squad of Wardens. Mr. Jackson was telling the truth. The End are responsible for calling in the air strikes, not Bil Nez. Which means Bil’s mission was…
“Run!” Laney shouts, even as the first missile screams overhead.
“Xave, c’mon!” I urge, tugging at his hand. But he pulls back, rips his fingers free of mine, clinging to Felix, who’s lying on the concrete, convulsing as if he’s having a seizure, white foam bubbling from his mouth.
“Go,” Xave says, tucking an arm behind Felix’s head to stop it from banging on the concrete.
Something licks my hand, and suddenly Hex is there, standing next to Trish, who points toward the river.
Tears in my eyes, I fire a final glance back at Xave, who only watches us as we run away from the rockets streaming toward Heinz Field.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Trish is screaming her head off and I throw my hands over my ears, but the sound is deafening. Missiles are exploding overhead, but there are too many, as numerous as drops of rain in a storm. She can’t destroy them all.
And then we’re running in a bubble, the world around us distant and wobbly, like we’re looking at it through thick Jell-O. Hex’s new collar—one of Huckle’s gifts—has turned fluorescent white and is pulsating with energy. Strangely, as we run, the bubble doesn’t seem to touch us, moving around us like a viscous liquid, but never getting in our way. The explosions are muffled, allowing Trish’s piercing cry free reign to assault our eardrums.
The river’s edge appears before us and we charge for it, even as Trish stops screaming, the echoes of her cry ringing in my ears. There’s a brilliant and fiery flash of light and a booming explosion, and the bubble shudders, shudders, and bursts in a purple shower of mist that evaporates in an instant, even as a rush of wind rages behind and in front and all around us and—
—we dive—
—our bodies picked up by a powerful force in our wake—
—tossing us like a child’s toys into the air, spinning, flipping, heads over heels and then heels over heads, and then—
A surge of icy water surrounds us, slapping and churning against our helpless bodies. Hex’s tail is in my face, and someone’s foot, and a flash of blond hair. The sounds of the battle suddenly seem far behind us, distant, as if muffled by a soundproof barrier.
I spot Trish, who doesn’t seem to know how to tread water, just sinking further and further into the river. Kicking hard, I swim toward her, grabbing her hand, pulling her toward the surface.
We break through, gasping for breath. Laney and Hex are nearby, and start kicking for the opposite shore when they see us. I follow them, pulling Trish along with me, acutely aware of how much heat I feel on the back of my head.
But I don’t look back.
Won’t look back.
We clamber onto the shore, sopping wet, tired and bloody and emotionally drained. At least I am. Laney, too. Trish and Hex seem calmer, more collected.
Trish ushers us up a small rise and away from the river. Just before we disappear past a building, I hazard a glance back at the stadium.
Smoke and fire and rubble and complete destruction meet my gaze.
I say a silent prayer for Xavier and keep walking, until movement catches the edge of my peripheral vision.
I twist my head but only catch the edge of a shadow, darting behind a building and out of sight. Despite the bare glimpse of him, I know exactly who it was, the top of his crossbow silhouetted against the white-painted stone.
Bil Nez.
~~~
We find a house to crawl into. We’re all shivering, but it’s too risky to make a fire. The last thing we want to do is draw The End’s attention to us.
My teeth chattering, I manage to stutter, “I don’t like The End, but hopefully they at least kill off all the Necros. One less witch gang to worry about.” I slam a fist to the hardwood floor.
Hex whines and plops his wet chin on my lap.
Trish stares at me with a dark expression.
Laney remains silent, too, although I can tell she wants to say something.
“If you’ve got something to say, just say it,” I prod. “Nothing ever stopped you before.”
“Rhett, I know you’ve lost a lot and you’re upset, but we’re alive. We’re still alive. Being angry isn’t going to help anything.”
But I am angry. And she doesn’t know a damn thing about what I’ve lost. I slam my fist down again, startling Hex back to his feet. Immediately he starts glowing, warmth spreading from him.
But I’m not interested in warmth or magic or anything, except the fact that—
A choke escapes my lips.
Hold it together. Hold it together.
I can’t see, can’t see anything except blurred shapes and—
Laney’s arms are suddenly around my neck, wet and cold and clutching me to her, holding me tight.
And I squeeze back and cry and cry and cry into her shoulder.
“She’s gone,” I sob.
“Shhh,” Laney says, rubbing my back.
“I loved her.”
“Shh.”
“They’re both gone.”
~~~
Hours later, when the last tears have dripped from my chin, and we’ve all managed to use Hex’s fire-that’s-not-a-fire warmth to dry ourselves, I hear a noise.
The others are asleep, Trish’s little head resting on Hex’s softly glowing stomach, and Laney spooning her from behind.
I pretended to sleep, too, until the others drifted away, but have since proceeded to wear a track in the rug, pacing the room.
But now, a noise stops me.
Just a creak. A door opening, or a floorboard depressed by a footstep. Or nothing at all, just a normal house noise.
creeeeak!
There it is again.
I tiptoe quietly toward the front of the house, gripping my sword. I’m readier than I’ve ever been before, to kill, to defend the ones I care about, to die if necess—
The beggar, Martin, stands before me, just inside the front door. He’s completely dry, but his face and coat are powdered with gray dust, like you’d expect a mine cave-in victim to look when they’re rescued.
“You,” I say. “How…”
His expression is worn and haggard and carrying so much pain, but I can still see the fight in his eyes.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He reaches in his coat pocket and retrieves what appears to be a simple recording device. He holds it for a second in his hand, just looking at it, as if trying to come to a decision. And then he presses the play button.
“My name is Martin Carter,” a voice says through the speaker. “And I’m your father.”
He presses stop and waits, raising a hand to his forehead, ducking his head into his palm.
>
“I—I don’t understand,” I say. “Mr. Jackson said my father’s dead.”
He shakes his head. Points to himself. Presses play on the recorder. The voice resumes. “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.”
No. This can’t be right. He’s—he’s working for someone else, another witch gang. He’s trying to get to me with his lies. I open my mouth to speak, but Martin’s already backing away toward the door.
I try to follow him, but he waves his hand and all goes black.
~~~
I’m warm when I awake. One of my arms is draped over Laney, who’s flush with Trish, who’s nestled up against Hex.
When I move, Laney stirs, opens her eyes, yawning. Her eyes flicker shock for a split-second when she realizes how close I’m sleeping to her. She recovers quickly. “You could’ve at least bought me popcorn and a movie ticket first,” she says.
Instead of smiling, I tell her about the beggar and his message.
“A dream?” she asks.
“Everything feels like a dream,” I say.
“There are a lot of people claiming to be long-lost dads these days,” Laney says. “Maybe you and Xave could go on one of those shows where they do a paternity test to find out who the real father is.” I know she intends it as a joke, but the humor falls flat under the circumstances. “Sorry,” she says.
I wave her off. A sudden jolt of anger hits me, this time directed toward the beggar. “He saved my life two times and then shows up out of nowhere, claims to be my cursed father, and then disappears? What the hell is that? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Maybe he had no choice,” Laney says.
I know what she’s trying to do. Calm me down. Make excuses. But I’ve had enough of being calm and hearing excuses and rationalizing. Beth was innocent. She deserved better than what she got.
“If there are any Necros left, I’ll kill them,” I say.
“Rhett,” Laney says.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Better yet, if there are any witches at all left, I’ll kill them. And if Bil Nez was somehow involved, he’s as good as dead.”
“Although I wouldn’t necessarily object to that last one, this isn’t you,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re like that, all threats and passion. Why can’t I be?”
“I’m not,” she says, taking my hand. Her palm is warm. “Not really. Yeah, I’ll defend my sister and friends to the death but I’m not out to pick a fight.”
“Well I am,” I say, pulling my hand away. “Maybe you should, too. Maybe we all should.” A new surge of fury spirals through me. Not anger at the witches, but anger at being angry. Is this what I’ve become? What the witches have made me become? All hard edges and razor blades?
I take a deep breath and try to explain what I’m feeling. “I used to think the book characters that were only around for a chapter or two were a waste of time. Why create a character just for a few pages, or a chapter? My friends—Xave and Beth—would be a part of my book to my very last breath. And now—now a chapter’s over and I’m afraid to turn the page, because they won’t be a part of my story anymore.”
“But there’s a next chapter,” Laney says. “And I’m a part of it, and Trish and Hex, too.”
In my mind, I imagine a parchment page, brittle and yellowed and torn around the edges. My dark hand reaches for it, lifts it…
But I can’t do it—can’t move on. Not yet. “You once asked me about Beth,” I say.
“Yeah, and you told me all about her. She sounded like an amazing person who I would have liked.” Laney’s words are sincere, but she’s missing the point.
“I told you about her, but I didn’t tell you what she meant to me,” I say, willing myself to continue. The weight on my chest is like an anchor, forcing me to the bottom of the sea.
“It doesn’t matter, Carter, it’s the same thing,” Laney says.
“It’s not,” I say. “And it does matter. The truth is, I was too scared, even if I didn’t realize it. Mr. Jackson taught me that letting fear in would break me, would cause me to fail before I’d even started. So I put it in a safe, buried it, and then threw away the key. But what I didn’t know—what Mr. Jackson didn’t tell me—is that the fear doesn’t go away just because you hide it. It’s still there, just below the surface or around the edges, lying in wait. You can never escape fear and you’re not supposed to, because fear’s a part of you, and fear’s what warns you when something’s not right.”
“Rhett, I get all that, but what does fear have to do with Beth?” Laney’s hand is on mine again, and this time I squeeze back, because I need the comfort of a friend now more than ever.
“I was scared that if I said what was in here”—I motion to my chest—“aloud, that it would jinx things, that Beth would…”
Laney’s shaking her head. “It doesn’t work that way. And it’s not too late to say what you feel.”
Now I’m shaking my head, too, because it is. Far too late. “I can’t bring her back,” I say, tears flooding my vision.
“But you can keep her alive by telling me about how you felt about her,” Laney says.
A sprig of hope sprouts up inside me, but I pull it up by the roots. To hope is to be disappointed. “I can’t,” I lie.
“You can. Tell me. Tell me, Carter. Freaking tell me!” She’s in my face, her fists balled, looking as fierce as I’ve ever seen her.
But I don’t back down; I lean in. “Fine. I’ll tell you. Beth was every breath I took, every beat of my heart. She was the sun rising and setting, the moon and the stars and the planets and the galaxies. My one and done. My strength and my weakness. The beginning of my life; and now, the end of it.”
Laney’s crying, but I don’t care because my chest is like thunder and my blood’s on fire. And—and—
My hands are wet, sprinkled with the clear liquid that’s dripping from my chin.
Because I’m crying, too. Filled with rage and hopelessness and unbearable sadness, my eyes are spilling everything they have left.
Laney’s arms surround me and I fall into her, because I have no strength left to hold myself up. “Carter, please, you can’t think that way. You can’t. I. Won’t. Let. You.”
“It’s over,” I say, hating the certainty in my voice. “My life is over.”
“What if it’s not?” Laney says. “What if there’s someone else out there? What if she’s just waiting to find you? Beth would want that, wouldn’t she?”
I hug Laney tighter, feeling lucky to have a friend as good as her in my shattered life. But it doesn’t change anything. “There’s no one else,” I say.
“You can’t mean that,” Laney says. “If so, there’d be nothing left to live for. No purpose.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say, and she pulls back to look at me, arching her eyebrows, her cheeks split by glistening tear tracks.
“Then what?” she asks. My thoughts slash and burn and tear and maim, as face after face spirals past: the Reaper and the Siren and The End and every other person that’s harmed me in my life. And for once, I know the exact right answer to one of her questions.
“Revenge,” I say.
~~~ * ~~~
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BOIL
Salem’s Revenge- Book Two
David Estes
Prologue
Fourteen years earlier
The Reaper wants to look away, but for his old friend’s sake, he won’t.
Between the glowing, magical bars, Martin Carter tries to speak. It’s painful to watch, the stump of his severed tongue wagging grotesquely in the torchlight. Wet, gagging sounds are all the Reaper, known to humans as Mr. Jackson, can make ou
t.
“Shh,” he says. “There’s nothing more to say, except I’m sorry.”
Martin moves closer, dragging himself across the dusty floor. Is something wrong with his legs, too? the Reaper wonders.
When he reaches the bars, he sticks a hand through and grasps the Reaper’s hand. He’s still trying to speak.
“Shh,” the Reaper says again, attempting to comfort his friend, even as tears betray him, flooding his eyes.
Martin shakes his head vehemently. I won’t be quiet, he seems to convey. He points to the ground, to the dirt. Points two fingers at the warlock’s eyes, then back at his own. Watch me.
Using only the tip of his finger, he draws in the dust. Letters. Words. A message.
Protect him.
He knows exactly who his friend is referring to. “I’m going to get you out. Then you can protect your son yourself,” the Reaper says.
Another frustrated head shake. More writing. Can’t, it says. Cursed.
The words barely written, Martin’s body begins to shake, white foam erupting from his mouth and splattering through the bars.
~~~
It’s only when the Reaper looks into the orphan’s deep, brown eyes and sees the gaze of his old friend that he realizes the best way to protect the boy is to keep him as far away from himself as possible. What he has to do will likely bring destruction to everyone and everything around him, and if he’s to honor Martin’s last wish, giving up the child is the only way.
He’ll stay close, but not too close.
He’ll watch, but not get directly involved.
He’ll protect from afar.
“I’m sorry, Rhett Carter,” he says to the two-year-old child, who ignores him, completely enamored by a picture book containing the adventures of a frog prince and his unlikely true love, a fly with bright green eyes.
Feeling empty inside, the Reaper turns away from the child and begins filling out the online foster care forms.
But not just for young Rhett.