Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (93 page)

Laney grins and scoops a couple of discarded, bloody weapons from the ground. “A girl after my own heart,” she says, handing the twin knives to Rain. “You’re going to need these.”

Rain holds them at eye level, and I say, “Don’t kill the humans, the zombies, the guys in the dark cloaks or the girls that glow like the sun. Oh, or the crazy old woman with the fingernails growing out of her head.”

Rain nods her understanding, and we turn toward the battle, which continues to move across the field, the humans retreating with their Necro and Claire protectors, and then turning to stand and fight. Fires burn everywhere, coughing up thick clouds of dark smoke; red puddles soak into the ground, like the remnants of a passing bloodstorm; the screams and shouts and growls are ceaseless, almost drifting into the background, losing their rough bone-chilling edges.

I see Xave commanding a large group of Reanimates, which leap atop a Caster who falls back under the onslaught. Just before he dies, a yellow ball streaks from his fingertips and slams into Xave, flattening him. Was it a killing curse, or some other less-destructive form of magic? I stare in horror as he lies motionless, a lump in the dark. Then Mr. Jackson is there, pulling his son to his feet and they’re both running back behind the wall of advancing corpses. He stumbles several times, but manages to get back to safety.

I let out a deep sigh. “He’s okay,” I breathe.

Laney starts to move, but I grab her arm. “Wait,” I say, remembering something. “Something’s not right.” My vision. The humans on the field. The attack wasn’t from one side—it was from both. The Shifters and their magic-born allies on one end, and—

“They’re pushing them into a trap,” I say, reaching the horrible conclusion a moment before I see the exact image from the vision. A child, bawling, straggling behind the retreating humans, her parents already dead or ambivalent to their daughter’s plight. A panther bounds into view, a blurry streak of black lightning. Flora pounces on the child without mercy and her cries cease to exist.

At that exact moment, a drumbeat sounds in the distance, as thunderous as cannon blasts. Even as Flora devours the flesh of her prey, the other half of her army arrives.

The clay warriors are as tall as trees, their hulking bodies well-formed, the opposite of Grogg’s lumpy, drooping skin. They march on powerful legs, carrying actual weapons forged of thick iron, like swords and maces, massive instruments of destruction. The drumbeats are their footsteps, hammering the ground, causing it to shake with the power of an earthquake.

From where I’m standing, they look unstoppable. The few hundred humans that are still alive scream louder, way out of their depths, huddling together behind a wall of magic-born and witch hunters.

Mags’s ghouls flock toward the clay warriors, smashing their heads with boulders and tree trunks, but the creations seem to absorb each massive object into their flesh, making them stronger. One of them swings a Paul-Bunyan-size axe, narrowly missing the Reaper, who lunges out of the path at the last second. The immense blade devastates a handful of Reanimates that are unable to get away in time, crushing them into undead goo.

Any hope left seems to fall away with that axe blow. This is impossible. The Shifters planned things too well. Flora, as usual, has masterminded the perfect battle, one she can only win.

“Screw this!” Laney says, grabbing my chin as I stare on dumbfounded at the carnage being carried out before me. “The clay warriors can’t do crap without someone to control them. Kill the Shifters. Focus on the Shifters. If we kill them, their warriors will fall.”

Thank God for Laney and her never-say-die attitude. My pessimism goes to bother someone else, and together, our little foursome charges into battle, passing on the instructions to whatever allies we come into contact with.

I mostly ignore any of the other magic-born, focusing on the biggest threat: the Shifters. I do, however, use any attacks by Pyros, Volts, or Destroyers against the Shifters, deflecting their weapons into the crazed beasts. I notice Rain and Bil doing the same, taking down Shifters of all shapes and sizes. From time to time I hear the booms from Laney’s Glock, which gives me comfort and strength knowing she’s still fighting, still okay.

The area immediately surrounding me cleared of enemies, I whirl around, the entire world ablaze with light from fires and magic. A pack of Reanimates swarms over a massive polar bear, tearing it to shreds. A Claire screams and an oversized wolf is reduced to matted fur and chunks of flesh. Rain and Bil fight back to back, Resisting the magic that streaks toward them, sending it back at their foes. And Laney, with her Glock in her hand, stands in the midst of it all, beautiful and strong and kicking more ass than anyone.

It’s working. As each Shifter succumbs to the onslaught, one of the clay warriors crumbles, collapsing to the earth with a thunderous boom that would rival that of a falling meteor, kicking up dust and debris and filling the air with a feverish haze.

And yet our numbers are dwindling and there are too many of them, the clay warriors taking out dozens of humans and magic-born with a single swing. I spot one of them swatting at his face, as if plagued by a pesky mosquito.
Grogg!
I almost scream. The little mud troll apparently wasn’t satisfied with warning me of the impending attack—now he’s thrown himself into the midst of the battle, popping from the clay warrior’s skin and then burrowing into it again. He repeats the motion over and over, as if threading a string through its earthy flesh. Finally he emerges for good, diving for the ground as the warrior’s head topples from its shoulders.

I cheer because I can’t help it. Grogg’s the only one who’s had any success fighting the clay monsters directly. My cheer fades when I see the headless warrior reach for the ground, its fingers blindly groping around and then clamping on its head, which it picks up and places back atop its massive neck. The cracks created by Grogg seal themselves and the soldier goes back to killing.

The sheer size of their numbers and strength will be our downfall, no matter how determined we are. We have to kill their leader, their god, the defeater of President Washington, the cruelest of the cruel. Flora must die.

I spy her on the fringe of the battle, avoiding Laney and her Glock and the three Resistors, including me. She’s smarter and more cautious than her fellow witches-turned-animals, going for the easy kills, protecting herself above anyone else.

Not anymore. My legs on fire, I pump toward her, my sword ready. My sword and I are both ready to end this.

The attack comes from above, a powerful hammer blow that smashes the earth at my feet, barely missing flattening me into a witch hunter pancake. When I look up, I realize why I failed to spot the enemy. The clay warrior is so enormous that his legs straddle the entirety of the battlefield, his torso the size of a building, his arms wielding a hammer each, one of which is sunk ten feet deep into the earth before me. Flora’s creation. And her protector.

A shadow looms over me, blotting out the sky, blotting out the entire world. The second hammer, rushing down. I push hard with my foot like a sprinter and take off, feeling more than seeing the looming threat, diving at the last second as the hammer pummels the earth behind me.

As I struggle to my feet, I know I won’t be able to get to her. She’s got me closed off at every turn, and I’ll be lucky to survive the next hammer blow, much less the rest of the battle. But when the avatar pulls the hammer from the earth, raising it for its next attack, I spot a flash of golden hair as Laney sneaks around the edge, curling in behind Flora, who’s stopped her bloody progress to concentrate on controlling the giant.

Flora lifts her paw and the clay monster does the same with the hammer, readying it for another attack.

Laney levels her Glock for the second time at the Shifter leader.

I don’t know how Flora knows, perhaps some innate animal sense for danger, but she seems to realize the attack is coming a split second before Laney pulls the trigger, twisting around and spinning away even as the Glock flashes. The panther’s body jerks as she’s hit by at least one of the bullets, but it doesn’t stop her lithe, muscled form from leaping on Laney, knocking her over.

“Wait!” I shout, as Flora raises a clawed paw, but the panther doesn’t acknowledge me because she’s in control, her warrior raising his hammer to kill me at the same moment she kills Laney.

There’s movement near Flora, something small but quick, her long dress flapping in the breeze. A girl, so small, so thin, charging right toward the Shifter leader. For a moment I think
Trish!
but no, her hair is as red as the changing leaves, not golden blond. And anyway, Trish is dead, waiting to be reborn as a babe, not a young girl.

She dives on Flora’s back, both of her little fists rising and falling as if she’s punching her repeatedly. That’s when I catch the dual glints of steel in the moonlight. Not punching—stabbing.

Flora’s back arches and she howls, pushing herself back and throwing the young girl off. The girl rolls to a stop, staring at her hands, which are glistening with blood. “I did it,” she says, almost to herself.

Laney pushes to her feet and says, “Chloe?”

The girl named Chloe who Laney apparently knows says, “I killed the witch.” There’s pride and amazement in her voice as she stares in awe at the slain beast. With child-like curiosity, she approaches the fallen panther.

“Back away,” Laney says sharply, taking a step toward her. Something’s not right, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It hits me, and I look up, at the giant clay warrior still standing upright, having not crumbled, although it appears to be frozen in time. Flora is still alive.

“Chloe!” Laney snaps, her rebuke like a gunshot, but it falls on deaf ears, the tiny sprite of a child reaching out to touch the bloody, matted fur of the Shifter leader.

With a vicious snarl, Flora lunges, closing her jaws on Chloe’s arm, shaking her head, and tearing the appendage free, leaving the girl staring in shock and horror at the stump now spouting blood.

With a deep-throated scream, Laney pulls her weapon’s trigger again and again, but Flora, wounded but far from dead, bounds off, racing across the field and away from the waning battle, abandoning what’s left of her allies.

We can’t let her escape; we can’t. But that’s not what she wants. It’s not in her to run when she’s so close to destroying us all. She turns, still holding the poor girl’s arm in her bloody maw, her golden eyes the gateways to hell itself.

And she raises her paw.

A hammer-shaped shadow looms over us.

“Flora!” a commanding voice yells, and the panther’s paw hovers in midair, her nose sniffing the air as if searching for a familiar scent. She drops her paw, but not in command of her clay warrior, which leaves his hammer blow unreleased. Her mouth gapes open and Chloe’s gruesome arm falls to the earth.

“Who said that?” Flora asks, her voice rising. “Who called my name?” Her tone is insistent, demanding a response.

A tall woman walks through the grass toward the panther, her head held high, like that of a queen, regal and elegant. There’s no fear in her step; no hesitation. The way she moves leaves zero doubt in my mind that she’s magic-born, her long black dress seeming to paint the charred landscape with ash. “Flora,” she says again, this time softer and yet still fully in control.

The panther’s yellow eyes lock on the woman and widen visibly. “M-Mother?” she says, her voice that of a child, with an almost innocent quality to it, something that is so unexpected coming from the child killer that it leaves me feeling strangely light and breathless, like my feet have left the ground.

“Yes, it is I, my daughter,” the woman says.

“Tricks and lies,” Flora screeches. “I saw yow die. It destroyed me.” Flora rests back on her haunches, as if preparing to spring at the woman. The clay hammer continues to hover ominously overhead.

Somehow, the woman manages to remain composed, never flinching. “I faked my own death. I needed you to believe I was gone so you could stand on your own. But now I’m back for good.”

“Liar!” Flora hisses, flashing her fangs.

“I used to call you Fifi,” the woman says quickly.

The panther’s eyes widen into full moons. “No,” Flora yowls mournfully. “No. You’re gone. You’re dead. You’re…” As her voice falters, the fight seems to leave her, her body slackening with unexpended energy.

Opening her arms, the woman reaches for her. “Come here, child.”

Something familiar about the woman’s demeanor registers deep inside me. She’s a remarkable actress, but not who she pretends to be. My feet are moving before I even have time to really consider the ramifications—all I know is that Flora isn’t stupid, regardless of her mental state.

As I circle behind them, the woman cradles the panther’s head, which is still dripping blood, in her arms, gently stroking her fur.

“Hush, child, and go to sleep,” the woman says. There’s a flash of silver as the knife she’s been hiding in her hand catches a moonbeam.

Although Flora can’t see what I see, some primal animal instinct brings her to the same conclusion I’ve already reached. “No!” she growls, kicking at the woman with her powerful hind legs, shoving her “mother” backwards, where she lands lithely on her feet. The transformation is instantaneous, the woman’s flesh brightening to pale white and her dark hair blooming red. Her fraud discovered, Angelique hisses at the panther, her eyes wild with anger.