Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (19 page)

T
he road seems to shrink before us with each step, as if rolling itself up into a tight bundle, like a rug. We have less than ten miles before we reach Washington, PA, and all I want is some quiet thinking time.

Not gonna happen.

The broken iPod that is Laney asks the question I’ve been fighting for the last hour. “What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing,” I say for the tenth time.

“There has to be
something
,” she says. “You’re being chased by a Siren who wants you to be her sex slave and a mute homeless guy who’s a lot more talented than he appears to be, and apparently the Necros have put a bounty on your head, which—oh yeah—means that every last witch gang in America is out looking for you. Sounds like
nothing
to me.” Her sarcasm slaps me in the face in a way only she seems able to do.

“Not only the witch gangs,” I say. “Other witch hunters are after me, too.”

“Ha! This gets better and better,” she says. “Let me guess: The End. If I want to keep my sister safe, it seems like being near you is the last place we should be.”

I stop and whirl on her. “Then why are you still here?” I spout. “I never asked you to come with me. You tagged along, Laney. For the last two months it’s been me and Hex and we’ve been just fine. And I know—as you’ve constantly reminded me—that you and your sister have survived on your own, so why
are
you here?”

For a moment her face goes so red that I think she might spit in my face, or hit me, and I almost wish she would, because it would be better than what she does next. Her shoulders sag and she bites her lip and I can tell she’s fighting back tears. “I was tired of feeling alone,” she says, before stalking off.

I stand there for three minutes, watching Laney and Trish and Hex move off down the road, the only friends I have at the moment.

And then I follow them.

~~~

I can’t stand the silence anymore, so I ask, “What else has she written?”

Laney’s eyes shoot toward me, and I almost feel like I’m looking down the dark barrels of her shotgun, something I hope I never have to experience again.

She looks away, keeps walking. “You mean Trish?” she says a minute later.

“Yeah.”

“You mean besides ‘Tall dead no’ and ‘Ads hall rise’?”

“They might not just be gibberish,” I say. “They might mean something. Like they did before. Perhaps if we can decipher them…”

“My sister isn’t some puzzle you can solve,” she says. “Not everything has an answer.”

“You said it yourself, there are no coincidences.” I might be pushing her too far, but I’m tired of the awkward silence, tired of just taking everything this screwed up world is dishing out.

She sighs and I know I’ve won.

“She’s all I’ve got,” she says. Not what I expected her to say.

“Not anymore,” I say. “Hex and I won’t abandon you. If you ever want to go your own way, you can, but it’ll always be your choice.” I don’t know why I say it and maybe it’s a lame attempt to sew our frayed friendship back together, but it feels right the moment the words roll off my lips.

Laney seems to consider that for a moment. “She’s not some freak,” she says.

“I never said—”

“I know it’s weird that she doesn’t speak anymore and writes in the air and does that freaky staring thing…”

“Like she’s doing right now?” I interject. Trish watches us curiously, a thin smile on her lips.

“Yes,” Laney says. “She never did that before…before my parents died.”

“She never did anything strange?” I ask.

“Kids do lots of strange things,” Laney says, “but nothing out of the ordinary. It’s like something snapped in her when she—” She stops suddenly, her lips clamping shut so tightly that her top and bottom teeth clack off of each other.

“When she what?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

“Laney?” I say.

She won’t answer, even when I ask the question another half-dozen times. Now it’s me who’s being the nosy pest.

I give up as we pass the
Welcome to Washington
sign, the W smudged out by what appear to be ashy fingerprints.
Ashington.
Scorched beneath are big black letters:
PYROS RULE
.

Washington, Pennsylvania has been taken by the Pyros.

Her lips a thin line, Laney fires me a look, but then trudges past the sign, holding her sister’s hand so tightly her knuckles turn white.

~~~

Curling fingers of smoke drift skyward in the distance. Splotches of bright blue and green stand out amongst the darkening landscape, almost like strange flowers in full bloom. Not flowers; magical fire.
Welcome to Ashington
.

As slinking shadows slide over me, throwing rocks and sticks around my feet, I grab Laney’s other hand. “We’ll find a detour around the town,” I say.

She looks up at me, then down at our locked hands. “No,” she says. “I want to see it.”

I frown. “Bad idea. Pyros are pretty badass, especially in large groups. I’m all for poking a sleeping bear if it’s absolutely necessary, but…”

Laney stops abruptly, so I do, too. Then I realize: Laney only stopped because Trish did. Continuing to grip her sister’s hand, Trish begins writing in the air with the other one. Rapt, Laney and I stare at her finger moving gracefully in the moonlight.

“A,” we say at the same time as Trish connects the upside-down V with a crossing line. I go silent, letting Laney verbalize her sister’s message. “L. L. G. O. N. E.”

“All gone,” I say, when Trish’s hand drops back to her side.

“The Pyros,” Laney says. “They were here, but they’re not anymore.”

When did Laney start believing in her sister’s messages? I don’t ask, because I think I know: She’s
always
believed in them, even if she didn’t want to.

“I don’t know…” I say, not because I don’t believe Trish, or Laney’s interpretation of her words, but because I know what Mr. Jackson would advise.
Don’t pick a fight you can’t win. Avoid large groups of witches.

Hex paws at my leg, whining.
C’mon
, he seems to say.

“If this goes all wrong, it’s on me,” Laney says. “My responsibility.” Her blue eyes are sparkling, prettier under the starlight than I’ve ever seen them.

“Okay,” I say. What I don’t say is that we’ll all be dead if it goes wrong, so responsibility won’t matter one darn bit.

~~~

The warmth of the burning buildings is almost a relief after the cold rain of yesterday, but even that is dying. On the face, it appears Trish was right. The Pyros are gone, probably recently, leaving the fires to burn themselves out.

We stay low, below the thickness of the dark smog that clouds an otherwise clear night sky. Hex bounds ahead, as if to prove that his low stature has its advantages. He turns and looks back, barks once.
Slow pokes
, he seems to say, a gleam in his dark eyes.

We pass a McDonald’s, the golden arches mostly consumed by flames, the green roof caved in, glowing blue with still-hot embers. “I guess the Pyros are joining the fight against childhood obesity,” Laney says, making an unexpected joke.

I force out a laugh, although I know Laney’s overcompensating for whatever contradicting emotions are pouring through her.

They were holding fire in their hands.
Not red and orange, but blue and green. Balls of fire.

They were going to burn us to death.

There seems to be no rhyme or reason to which buildings the Pyros set on fire, unless, of course, Laney was right and they’re trying to make a political statement to a country that no longer has politics. Regardless, the common theme is that the fires are dying out, which is strange in and of itself, because according to everything Mr. Jackson taught me, magical flames don’t die easily. Either the Pyros have to snuff them out or someone’s got to extinguish them.

“Weird,” I murmur.

“What?” Laney says.

“Uh, nothing.” No need to get Laney worried about something that might mean nothing.

And then I see it. A noxious brew of horror and disgust rises up in my chest, but I choke it down, try to control it, even as I step in front of Laney and Trish, trying to shield their view. Of course, that only makes them try harder to see around me. “Outta the way,” Laney says, pushing past me.

“Ahhh, sick!” Laney exclaims, seeing what I saw.

Hex is sniffing around the pile of corpses, as if it’s nothing more than a bed of roses. Are they…human? It hits me.

“I think those are the Pyros,” I murmur softly, almost reverently. Any witch hunter that could take down an entire gang of Pyros deserves some level of respect. Unless it was another witch gang that did it…

“What?” Laney says. “You don’t think the Pyros killed anybody?” There’s an edge to her voice that’s becoming all too familiar.

“That’s not what I said. I’m sure the Pyros killed many humans, probably hundreds of survivors just to take over this town. But I don’t think
these
are human bodies. They’re dead Pyros…that’s why the fires are dying, because the Pyros that set them are dead. And think about it. Any humans killed by Pyros would have been burned to nothing more than ash.”

Laney chews on her lips, fingering her shotgun. “Well, any enemy of the Pyros is a friend to me,” she says. “I’d like to find them and say thank you.”

“Funny you should say that,” an electronic voice blares. Instinctively, I duck, as if the sound might carry something sharp and deadly.

Laney ducks, too, although Trish remains standing completely upright, staring at one of the buildings, one that’s relatively unscathed. Hex barks twice and then goes back to sniffing at the dead witches.

“Who the hell was that?” Laney asks, but I’m already smiling, because there’s only one person I know in this new world who would set up a microphone and speaker in a town half-burned to the ground.

“Tillman Huckle,” I say.

T
rish is already heading toward the building when I take off after her, loping toward it with long, practiced strides. Hex lets out a
woof!
and gives chase.

Behind me, Laney says, “Stop and tell me who Tillman Huckle is or I’ll shoot you in the back, Rhett Carter!”

“Do what you gotta do!” I shout back over my shoulder, but I’m not stopping, because I haven’t seen Tillman Huckle in weeks and it’s not every day you get the chance to catch up with one of the few friends you’ve got left in the world.

I pass Trish’s shorter legs and only just arrive at the building entrance a split-second after Hex, who appears out of thin air, startling me. “Do you really have to do that?” I say, glaring at my dog. He smiles back, his pink tongue dripping droplets of drool at my feet.

I put a hand on the doorknob, but something stops me from opening it. What if I’m mistaken? What if it’s not my old friend, Tillman Huckle, the young, entrepreneurial magical weapons dealer? Absently, my fingertips graze over the magged-up throwing stars in my belt. How many times have they saved my life? Countless. And all because Tillman Huckle was willing to accept instant noodles as payment for something far more valuable.

I flinch again as I realize Trish is by my side, tugging on my arm. She’s nodding vehemently, pointing at the door. I hope she’s right and I’m not walking into a trap.

“Follow me quietly,” I say to anyone who might be listening, jiggling the doorknob. It’s locked.

I take a step back, considering.

BOOM!

I leap away as the doorknob shatters, along with a six-inch hole in the wood around where it used to be. Laney’s foot flies past me, kicking the door inward with a resounding thud that reverberates off the walls.

“I said ‘quietly,’” I say.

“It worked, didn’t it?” she says, rolling her eyes.

“And woke up half the town,” I say.

“There’s probably only one person—besides us—in the town, so that’s not really possible,” she says.

“Touché,” I say, stepping past her and inside.

A small, dark apartment lobby. Torn flowered wallpaper. A smashed vase with crinkled fake flowers spread out at disjointed angles. A flickering light. Not a happy place.

“Who’s Tillman Huckle?” Laney whispers behind me. I look back and she’s got Trish’s hand, as if for support, although neither of them look the least bit scared.

“A friend,” I say, moving toward the stairway.

“You have friends?” she says, and though I pretend to ignore her, I smile in the dark.

I pause at the stairwell. There’s a flight of steps leading downward—presumably into a basement or cellar or laundry room—into inky blackness. Above me, I can just make out the outline of the staircase railing, rising many floors. Five, maybe six, levels.

“Up or down?” Laney says.

Just then, a light flashes on, illuminating the steps going up.

“Up,” I say with a smirk.

“Because the freaky speaker voice person turned the lights on for us?”

“Yes,” I say, and because some people never change and it’s a good thing they don’t. Tillman Huckle is one of those people.

We reach the second floor, and immediately, the lights for the third floor steps blink on. “Up again,” I say unnecessarily. I’m fully smiling now, despite everything including the pile of corpses just outside.

Happiness comes in small measures these days.

The moment my foot hits the third floor landing, I expect the next set of bulbs to light our way, but instead the steps above us remain mired in shadow. “Guess your friend got bored,” Laney says.

“No,” I say. “This is our stop.”

I push through the fire door—a very necessary safety measure in a town that was full of Pyros—and into the third floor hallway. Almost instantly, a series of lights flare to life, one by one, highlighting our path down the corridor. They stop maybe three-quarters of the way down, leaving the remainder of the hallway dark and invisible.

Paying no attention to whether the others are following me, I stride quickly to the end of the lights and glance left and then right. Two doors. 315 or 316. 315 has a welcome mat covered in dirty footprints.
Soo
not Tillman Huckle’s style.

I lean right and knock firmly on 316.

The door opens into a small, dark apartment. The only light is provided by a wall of screens showing the street outside, the stairwell, and each floor’s hallway. Two of the screens are dark, as if the related cameras have been destroyed. Laney, Trish, and Hex appear on the screen in the dead center, and I can just make out the back of my head, disappearing as I step inside.

“Password?” a voice says from the right, where there’s a largish couch, a loveseat, and a giant, plush recliner. There’s a flat screen TV on in the corner. A soldier that looks at least part cyborg is blasting away at what appear to be aliens with long, rubbery tentacles as feet and arms. Tufts of unkempt brown hair sprout like grass over the top of the recliner, and the sound of controls being mashed fills my ears.

“You know it’s me, Huckle,” I say.

“Password,” he repeats, snorting out a laugh.

I lower my voice, hoping Laney and her sister won’t hear, and say, “I like big butts and I cannot lie.”

Tillman doesn’t hold back, letting out a loud guffaw.

“Really?” Laney says. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Who are your friends?” Huckle asks, not bothering to turn around to look at us.
Click-clack
, buttons mashed.

“Strays,” I say, firing Laney a look that wipes the amusement off her face.

“What do you mean, strays?” she protests, but I hold up a hand.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. “It’s just what witch hunters call surviving humans who are cut off from society, not connected to a larger group.”

There’s a loud roar as a monstrous blue alien dies, severed tentacles flying like shrapnel.
Stage Cleared
pops up on the screen, and Tillman Huckle finally rises to his feet. Turns. Smiles. “Welcome to my shop,” he says. Hex scampers to him and accepts Tillman’s offered behind-the-ear scratch.

“Laney, Trish,” I say, “meet Tillman Huckle.”

“How do you have electricity?” Laney says.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Huckle responds. He adds a quick belly rub to his repertoire of ways-to-steal-my-magical-dog-from-me. Ever since I introduced him to Hex, it’s been a mission of his to get him from me. Leaving Hex with his feet still in the air, Huckle lopes awkwardly across the room, nearly tripping twice over his own feet. His greasy brown hair is twice as long and twice as disheveled as the last time I saw him, and his glasses are cracked in half a dozen more places, as evidenced by the thin-cut strips of duct tape holding them together. A result of domestic accidents, most likely.

When my tall, gangly friend crouches down to look at Trish, he’s still as tall as her. “Trish, right?” he says. She nods. “Aren’t you a quiet girl, so unlike the feisty one.”

“Quit talking to my sister,” Laney says, pushing between them, her shotgun across her chest.

“What’s wrong with her?” Tillman asks.

“You shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Laney says. “There’s nothing wrong with my sister.”

“Huckle,” I say. “Leave her alone.” He glances at me, rises back to his full height, at least a foot taller than Laney. I crane my neck to whisper in his ear. “She’s traumatized. Hasn’t spoken since she watched her sister kill their parents.”

Tillman doesn’t react, just keeps looking at Trish, who’s peeking out from behind Laney, just a single eye visible. “Hmm,” Tillman says, playing with the tips of a nasty mustache he definitely didn’t have the last time I saw him.

“Nice ’stache,” I say.

“Didn’t you hear? Mos are making a comeback,” Tillman says, looking Laney up and down, from her wide stance to the angles of her arms as she places her hands on her hips to her cock-eyed expression that I realize I’m finally getting used to.

“You’re thinking of beards,” I say. And then, trying to ease the tension in the room, I change the subject. “Tillman Huckle sells magged-up—I mean, magical—weapons to witch hunters,” I say.

“Why do you keep calling him by his first
and
last name?” Laney asks scornfully.

I sigh. Leave it to her to zone in on the really important issues. “I don’t always. Sometimes I just call him Huckle. But Tillman Huckle sounds right, doesn’t it? I don’t know—it’s just one of those names.”

“One of a kind,” Laney says, and I can’t tell if she’s being serious.

“As fascinating as it is to hear you talk about me as if I’m not in the room, I think I’ll go back to my game,” Tillman says, turning away. “Hex, you in?”

Hex barks appreciatively and follows Tillman to his chair, plopping down beside him. With a few button crunches, the screen once again begins flickering with gratuitous violence.

“Who is this guy?” Laney says. “Can we trust him?”

“I can still hear you!” Tillman calls from behind his easy chair. Hex chuffs as if to say
Me too!

Laney and I both ignore them. “I know he’s a little eccentric, but I swear to you, he’s as trustworthy as it gets these days,” I say.

“If you’re hungry, feel free to dine on a wide protection of Ramen noodles,” Huckle shouts above the boom of a mind-numbing explosion from a rocket he’s just fired from a shoulder-launcher.

“Don’t you mean, ‘selection’ of Ramen noodles?” Laney says.

“That’s what I said,” Huckle says.

“He does that sometimes,” I say. “Uses the wrong word intentionally. He’s really quite smart.”

There’s skepticism all over Laney’s face, but finally she shrugs. “I guess we don’t have much of a choice, do we?” She wanders over and flops on the couch. I don’t miss the way her shotgun rests on her knees, aimed in Tillman Huckle’s general direction.