by David Estes
Dozens of Brewers haul strange-looking packs jangling with glass baubles and test tubes.
A trio of model-perfect Sirens—two warlocks and a witch—approach with perfect posture, pretending not to notice anyone around them.
There are also Conjurers and Pyros and Volts and Destroyers and even two Slammers, their monstrous feet thundering with each step. My mouth gapes open, but what causes my jaw to break loose and drop into my lap is the wizard who brings up the rear, at least a head taller than everyone else save for the giant-like Slammers. He carries a long black staff and has his impressive white beard braided into three distinct vines that swing from his chin.
“Well, it seems we have company,” Angelique says. “Just in time to bid the humans a not-so-fond farewell.”
I rub the scruff on my chin, trying to decide whether to greet the newcomers with a smile or a sword. When I spot Xave, he waves and approaches cheerfully. When compared to the somber darkness that seems to surround the other Necros, he shines brighter than the sun.
“What do you think?” he says.
There are so many things I want—I need—to say to him, but I can’t seem to get any of them out, because I’m so confused by the situation. “How?” is the only word I’m able to form.
Xave laughs that contagious laugh of his. “My father,” he explains. “Did you think he was idle while you were dealing with all the crap around camp?”
Well, uh, yes, I sort of did. I certainly felt like everything was falling on my completely inadequate shoulders. I shrug.
“He wasn’t,” Xave says. “Just after we formed the Alliance, he sent out scouts to find other magic-born who might be sympathetic to the human plight.” His eyes darken. “Some of them didn’t return. They were likely killed by those who disagreed with their…politics.”
“And the others?” I ask.
“You’re looking at them,” Xave says, waving a hand at the carnival-like atmosphere behind him. A Conjurer flicks her hand and a red-scaled demon scurries out from behind a barrel, grabbing one of the Siren’s feet with long clawed fingers. At first the Siren squeals in disgust, but then she seems to concentrate, grabbing the demon by the scruff of his neck like a naughty kitten. A minute later the demon is cradled in her arms, looking at her with huge red eyes and cooing like a baby.
“They’re here to help us?” I say in disbelief. My brain seems to be taking forever to catch up to a reality where not everyone wants to kill the humans.
“Of course,” Xave says matter-of-factly. “That’s what my dad and I have been trying to tell you from the start. Not all magic-born wanted Salem’s Revenge. Amongst us there are those who support it, and those who don’t. Our politics and agendas and people are no different than humans. There’s black, white and gray in all parts of life.”
Shaking the cobwebs from my head, I scan the crowd, noticing that thick knots of humans have approached, keeping their distance, looking on with undisguised fear mixed with disgust. Some of the men carry weapons, smacking them into their hands. They look ready to fight. For the most part, the magic-born ignore them, carrying on as if the humans don’t even exist.
My muscles tense and I prepare to intervene as Arnold Jones steps forward, wielding a heavy axe with a purple handle. It’s clearly magged up.
Xave says, “Wait,” and stops me with a hand on my arm, as Cameron Hardy strides forward, looking as smooth and well-kempt as always, cutting Arnold off. He says something to him, calm in the face of a human firecracker who looks to be at the very end of his fuse. At first Arnold tries to push past him, but then Cameron says something that stops him. Reluctantly, he turns and retreats, pushing through the wall of human onlookers and out of sight.
Cameron gazes across the hodgepodge group of magic-born, eventually spotting me watching him. His expression confident but wary, he traverses the area between us via a wide arc that maintains plenty of distance between him and the newcomers.
When he’s close enough that I’ll be able to hear him without the need to raise his voice, he says, “Looks like we’re leaving just in time.”
“No,” I say. “You’re leaving at the exact wrong time. These people came to help you.”
“People?” he says.
“Yes, and they were your one hope and you’re going to throw it away because of your own fear.”
“My fear?” he says, putting an open hand on his chest. “I’m not scared. But the other humans are. They’ve been through too much and it’s time for it to stop. They need a fresh start, and so, it seems, do you. So take my advice and leave while you can, either with us or with your other friends. The magic-born can have their gang wars, and we can have our peace.”
“Separate but equal, right?” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “That’s how intolerance starts.”
“I’m not a racist,” Cameron says, a hot undercurrent to his words. For the first time I’ve managed to get under the young politician’s skin. “This isn’t about race; this is about species. Humans of all shapes, sizes, and colors have to stick together. There’s simply no room for the magic-born. They might as well be from another planet.”
At one time, I might’ve agreed. But not anymore. I’ve seen magic-born violence, but I’ve also seen the same violence in humans. And I’ve seen magic-born goodness, as I’ve seen the goodness in humans. No matter what Cameron Hardy says, we’re the same, but different, just as all people are the same but different, our connections as numerous as our diversity.
“Do what you have to do,” I say, nodding. “We all have a choice.”
His anger fades back into his plastic-perfect smile, and he returns the gesture. “Good luck,” he says, before departing the way he came. With a few simple words and motions, he corrals the human spectators and herds them back toward The Exchange, where they’ve been preparing to leave the city.
“Good riddance,” Angelique says when they’re gone.
“No,” Xave says. “We’re going with them.”
“What?” Angelique says, incredulity narrowing her eyes. “You can’t be serious. They hate us. They want nothing to do with us. We can’t help those who don’t want our help.”
I look at my friend who’s come so far on the rollercoaster of his life. Before Salem’s Revenge, he was my protector, not afraid of anyone or anything, except maybe the occasional cute boy. When I was reunited with him as a warlock, he could only pretend to be confident, when inside I could see his turmoil, his confusion, his fear. He was scared of himself, of what he’d become. But now…now he’s an even better version of the teenager he was before. Confident, wise, good. So good. “Everyone deserves help when they need it,” Xave says, “even if they think they don’t want it.”
“They want us dead,” Angelique says coldly.
“They’re not all like that,” I say, jumping in. “Look at it from their perspective. They’re scared. They feel powerless. All they want is to be left alone. I can understand that.”
Angelique’s expression seems to soften slightly, before hardening back into stone. “But what if we help them and they still hate us?”
“Then we still did the right thing,” I say.
Xave’s eyes meet mine, and it’s like we’re back in a foster home again, sharing a secret, one mind, one heart, one soul. Blood brothers from the moment life tossed us together on the waves of fate.
“You’re delusional,” Angelique says, having had enough of the conversation. She gracefully regains her feet and whisks herself away.
When she’s out of earshot, I say, “Thanks for helping us.”
Xave gets my meaning. Thanks for helping the humans. My people. As opposed to his people, the magic-born. “There’s no us and them,” he says. “If we’re going to make a change, we’re all going to have to stop thinking that way.”
“Sorry,” I say. “You’re right. It’s just hard. Hard for everyone.”
“I know,” Xave says. “But it doesn’t have to be. Not anymore.”
/> He leaves me to think about things as he melts into the crowd of magic-born, seeming to fit in instantly. As for me, I feel like a sore thumb, distinctly apart from the rest, who I still can’t stop thinking of as “them.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hex
The cave is empty.
“I swear they were here,” the girl, Chloe says, her voice rising.
A few moments ago when Hex placed his paw on her head, he could see this place. And then, because he wanted them to go here, they disappeared from that other place and came to this place. This empty, empty place that smells of earth and moisture and bat droppings and something very, very curious strewn on the ground. Hex sniffs at them. Slugs, he realizes. Overcooked. He slurps one down. Not bad, he decides, gobbling another.
“Not here now,” Grogg says, showcasing his freakish flexibility when he raises a foot to his mouth and starts sucking on his largest toe.
“They were held by these,” Chloe says, plucking a glowing band from the ground.
Hex trots over to sniff it. “Laney,” he barks.
“Where are they?” Chloe wonders aloud.
“We can see in old Master’s head,” Grogg says. “Grogg can do it for you.”
Hex drops onto his haunches and then springs off, pouncing on the mud troll and pinning him to the floor. “Not that,” he barks. “Too risky.”
Grogg disappears beneath him into the earth and Hex runs around in a circle looking for his friend, who reappears behind Chloe, using her as a shield. “You don’t trust us,” Grogg says, pouting. “You think Grogg is still bad.”
Hex peers at him between the girl’s skinny white legs, trying to calm the giddy urge he has to leap at him. “You were never bad,” he barks. “None of it was your fault. You were weak, and now you’re strong.”
Grogg tucks his extended lip back into his mouth, chewing on it until it breaks off and slides down his throat. “Grogg is strong,” he says slowly, as if trying out the words.
“You are very strong,” Chloe says, agreeing. “We’re survivors. That’s what Laney said. And survivors act even when they’re scared.”
“Let’s go,” Hex barks.
“You understand his barks, don’t you?” Chloe says to Grogg.
“Yes, we do,” Grogg says. “Woof-woof wants to go.”
“There are Shifters everywhere,” Chloe says, rubbing Hex’s head. It feels so good when she scratches behind his ears that he can barely focus on what she’s saying. He ducks away and regains control.
“We can be invisible,” Hex barks.
“Invisible,” Grogg says. “Yes, invisible is good.”
“Invisible? How?” Chloe says. Hex chuffs, because this girl doesn’t know him that well yet.
“Because I want us to,” he barks, even though she won’t understand. Showing her is better anyway.
And then they are. They’re invisible.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Laney
“Did you hear that?” Bil says, sounding alarmed.
“No,” I say, for the tenth time. I swear Bil seems to “hear something” every five steps. “And stop squeezing so tightly.”
We waited a while before creeping out of hiding. After a few minutes of searching, we managed to locate the main tunnel leading away from the underground stream. I could smell gorilla B.O. so I knew we were on the right track. Since then, we’ve followed the same tunnel for at least ten minutes, hoping it’ll lead us out of the caves.
“I hate the dark,” Bil says, but thankfully he relaxes his grasp.
“And yet yesterday you ran off into the dark in the middle of the night,” I say.
Bil goes silent. As usual, I’ve stabbed where it hurts the most. Why do I always do that? I get no pleasure from hurting other people’s feelings. Well, I might get some pleasure, but I usually feel bad about it later. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it. I know you can’t control when it happens.”
“Yes I can,” he says, surprising me. He sounds more than a little sheepish.
“What do you mean?” I say, probably a bit too sharply.
“I—I’ve done it before,” Bil admits. “I’ve felt the…mania coming on, and I’ve fought off the darkness. Last night was too much though. I was too weak. I wanted anything to take away the pain, to make me forget what Martin Carter told us.”
Although it kills me that if Bil had only been stronger we wouldn’t be in this position right now, I can’t help feeling bad for him. Damn soft heart of mine. I’ll have to eat more slugs so it’ll harden again. “It’s not your fault your mother was a lunatic power-hungry witch-bitch,” I say. “My parents were flame-wielding pyromaniac daughter-killers. So it sucks to be both of us.”
“You’re not angry?”
I might be a little angry. “Not really,” I say. “You can make it up to me by not squeezing my hand into human pulp.”
“That I can do,” Bil says.
“Wait a sec.” I stop and listen. “Did you hear that?”
“Very funny,” Bil says.
“Shh!” I hiss, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I’m serious.” There’s definitely sound echoing through the dark of the tunnel.
“I hear it, too,” Bil whispers into my ear.
Voices. Shuffling. Movement of some sort. And then:
Light.
Orange flames flicker around a bend in the tunnel as vision is suddenly returned to us. It’s human nature to want to move toward the light, but in this case the light will likely kill us. “Run!” I urge, twisting around and bolting in the opposite direction, feeling along the wall frantically to avoid crashing into the hard stone. Our footfalls are loud, like echoing explosions in the silence of the tunnel, and soon there are shouts when whoever was carrying the torches realize their prey is escaping.
The wall falls away on one side but I’m moving so fast it’s another five steps before I can skid to a stop, bracing myself for the impact of Bil crashing into me from behind, which he does, nearly toppling me. “A side tunnel,” I explain quickly, manhandling him back to the gap in the wall. Just as the flickering orange light rounds the bend behind us, preceding the shouts and heavy footsteps, I yank Bil into the gloom and retreat backwards, keeping my eyes on the main tunnel.
Forms race past, illuminated briefly by bright haloes of orange flames. Not torches, I realize, as I notice how the fire seems to burn directly on their skin. Pyros. There’s a crackle of electricity, like a horizontal lightning strike. Volts. The Shifters have allies, I realize, my heart sinking. Once more, the magic-born’s desire to destroy all of humanity temporarily supersedes the hatred between opposing witch gangs.
Could this get any worse?
I get my answer a moment later when the last of the light and forms streak past, the sound of their footsteps retreating into the distance. Abject darkness creeps back in, and I’m almost glad for it this time. The darkness feels safer than the light somehow.
Until a rough voice whispers in my ear, that is. “Look what the cat dragged in.” Unless Bil Nez has a hidden talent for doing voices, we’re not alone.
A scream rises in my throat as claws sink into my back, scraping along my flesh, opening it up like paper separated by a shredder.
Instinct takes over, and although I’m no Shifter and don’t have the ability to transform into a wildcat, I fight like one anyway. Using my heel like a firing piston, I stamp down hard behind me, crunching down on something lumpy, my ankle rolling over top of it, roaring in agony. Stupidly, I’ve used the ankle I sprained during my swan dive off the cliff. But I have no time to think about that, as I kick backwards with my good foot, connecting solidly with something soft and furry that yowls in pain, sounding much more screechy now. The leopard is back, I realize.
Bil Nez apparently hasn’t been immobile either, and there’s a thud and another shriek as he lands some sort of blow. Although his Resistor abilities are of no use against a magical creature that fights with nothing more than raw animalistic str
ength and ferocity, he’s no stranger to the new, violent world we live in, and I suddenly realize how lucky I am to have him with me now.
“C’mon,” he urges, pushing me from behind and back into the main tunnel. I want to go left, back up the way we were originally heading, but I immediately notice the way the blackness gives way to a gray murk and then a lighter brown. More Pyros are approaching from that direction, as if they’re patrolling this particular tunnel in waves. Just our luck.
So I go right, chasing after the group of Volts and Pyros who we narrowly escaped from in the first place. The whole world feels like it’s been turned upside down. Well, more upside down than it already was, whatever that means.
There’s a horrifyingly bloodthirsty roar from behind us as the leopard springs out into the tunnel, and when I glance over my shoulder she’s backlit by the light of the Pyros. Far bigger than a normal leopard, I suspect she would easily fit in during the prehistoric era, battling saber-tooth tigers and other ancient beasts with ease. And I just kicked her and stomped on her paw. And Bil just smacked her in the face.
Yeah, regardless of whatever orders she has from Flora—“They’re mine; bring them to me alive!”—I get the feeling she’s going to chew first, think later, which makes my feet move so fast despite my hurt ankle that they practically lift off the ground, carrying me forward at breakneck speeds. Eat my dust, Usain Bolt!
Or at least I thought I was fast. But if I’m like an Olympic sprinter, the leopard’s like the wind, springing past us in a blurry arc and skidding to a stop, cutting off our pursuit.
As she stalks toward us, shrouded partially by Bil and my shadows cast from the light approaching from behind, my heart beats so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t explode from my chest. I’m glad it doesn’t though, because I’m sure the leopard would gobble my bloody heart up, savoring the taste on her tongue with the zeal of a world renowned food critic responsible for giving out Michelin stars.
“What do we have here?” a voice says from behind. Keeping one eye trained on the leopard, I hazard a glance behind me with my other eye. A t-shirt-and-jeans-wearing Pyro tosses a fireball back and forth casually between his hands.