“Um,” I say.
Hex whines at my leg. His instincts are telling him what’s coming, too.
Bil looks at me sharply, his eyes wide and white, as if he’s only just realized he’s not alone. He adds to his earlier statement. “Human ants crushed under magic-born boots,” he says. Then he laughs again, this time with his whole body, even slapping his knee for good measure.
“Yeah. People dying are funny,” I say dryly. Hex gives me a look that says, Why can’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?
I shrug and Bil stops, his jovial expression changing to anger in an instant. “What do you know of the dead?” he says, stepping in so close I can smell the spicy beef jerky on his breath.
There are so many things I could say—that I’ve had many people close to me die, that my best friend happens to be a dead-raiser, that I fought an army of the dead—but I know this version of Bil is not to be argued with. And his twitching fingers tell me he’s just itching to use either his crossbow or rifle. So instead I just say, “Not much.”
He’s frozen for a moment, and then his whole body relaxes as he laughs loudly. “Me either,” he says. “We see the bodies, but we can’t see the souls.”
“My friend Tillman Huckle once saw the ghost of his deceased girlfriend,” I say.
“The weapons seller?” Bil asks, and for a second it almost feels like a normal conversation.
“Yeah,” I say. “The one and only.”
“That guy is crazy,” he says.
If I can just keep this conversation simple, maybe this version of Bil will actually be more forthcoming than his usual self. So I repeat the question he ignored earlier. “How did you find me?”
More laughter. More knee slapping. The joke’s on me, apparently.
“The night in the house,” he says.
Although it’s not much to go on, I know exactly when he means. “You mean when you ditched us?” I say, wishing the accusatory tone out of my voice the moment the words leave my lips.
In one swift motion, he snatches his crossbow from where it’s strapped to his back, a bolt already spring-loaded. He aims it at my face.
Hex bares his teeth and issues a low growl.
Oops, I think, which Laney would probably call a major understatement.
“You don’t know me!” Bil shouts, his lips bubbling with spittle. Maybe it was a big mistake trusting him to get me to New Washington, but he’d seemed so much more…stable…just an hour earlier, when we shared beef jerky and a bottle of water before leaving the farmhouse behind.
I’m backing away, my hands in the air, wondering whether he’ll be able to hit a moving target as Hex and I bolt for cover. That’s when I remember Laney’s approach to handling Bil while on the top of Mount Washington, what feels like an eternity ago. Her voice whispers in my ear. Play along with him.
“No!” I shout, taking a step forward. My foot feels like lead. “I don’t know you, I don’t know me, I don’t know anyone! All I know is that these witches gotta die!”
Bil cocks his head to the left. “That’s what I’ve been saying,” he says. “I’ve been saying that to everyone. And when I told President Washington, she sent me on a mission to kill you. But you’re not a witch, Rhett Carter.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not. Because witches are girls. But I’m not a warlock either, my friend. I’m a freaking witch hunter!”
Bil finally drops his crossbow to his side, and my heart, which has been hammering in my chest, starts to slow. Thanks Laney, I think. Wherever you are.
“Witch hunters should rule the world,” Bil says.
“And you could be president,” I say.
He laughs.
~~~
For the last three hours, Bil’s been shooting his crossbow at nothing. Hex, surprisingly acting like a relatively normal dog, has been treating it like a game of fetch, racing off to retrieve the bolt. It’s made for slow going, but at least we’re going.
But it hasn’t cooled the anger I’ve felt since hearing my father’s recording.
Hex takes off after another bolt, which clatters down the road. I take a deep breath, trying to relax, but it doesn’t work. Instead, liquid fire burns through my veins, pumping into my heart, turning me into an inferno. I’ll help New America kill all the witches. I have to.
Just off the side of the road, I notice a small anthill, teeming with activity. Thousands of tiny black ants march in the dirt, each one carrying something. Food or building materials. To and from the hill they go, stopping only briefly to greet each other with what appears to be a kiss on the cheek, oblivious to the destruction wrought upon the world by the magic-born. Unaffected. Are humans—and even magic-born—so insignificant in the scheme of things that the world barely notices us? The seasons keep on changing, insects continue their lives as if nothing has happened, fish keep swimming, the earth rotates around the sun and the moon around the earth. Do we even matter?
“Oh God, did it happen again?” Bil asks, his voice closer than I expected.
I flinch slightly. When did he strap his crossbow to his back and settle in beside me? “Um, did what happen?” I say.
Hex trots up, the bolt in his mouth, dropping it at Bil’s feet and looking up at him expectantly. Again?
Bil snatches the bolt and shoves it in his pocket. “Did I go away again?” he asks.
The truth hits me in the chest. He knows. He knows about his own insanity, his mood changes. He’s aware of it but unable to stop it.
A new bolt appears in Hex’s mouth and he drops it at my feet this time. I grab it absently and chuck it down the road, my attention fully on Bil.
“Yes,” I say. “You pointed your crossbow at my head.”
His cheeks bulge out and he closes his eyes. “Rhett, I—” Whatever he was going to say, an apology I suspect, vanishes on his tongue.
“It’s okay,” I say, just happy to be able to have a normal conversation again. I’ve been trapped with my own thoughts for far too long.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he says. “Rhett, I’m scared, man.”
He sounds broken, like he’s almost on the verge of tears. His tough-as-nails act gives way in an instant, and he looks more like the teenager that he is than I’ve ever seen.
Hex returns and gives me the slimy, dirty bolt, which I shove in my pocket. A new one appears in his mouth seconds later, but I ignore him.
“You’ve been through a lot,” I say neutrally. I don’t want to set him off again. He still hasn’t answered my question about how he found me, despite me having asked it twice.
“So have you,” he scoffs. “So has everyone. But you’re not going crazy. Your friend—Laney, right?—isn’t going crazy. What’s wrong with me?”
Although I’m not sure whether he’s right about me not going crazy, I don’t respond to that. Instead I ask, “Do you remember anything from the last few hours?”
He shakes his head again, defeat clear in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his chin dips toward his chest. “It’s a big blank, like it always is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I ask. “When you rescued us from The End.”
He laughs at that, but it’s his normal laugh, not the crazy one. “It’s not the easiest conversation starter,” he says. “Hey, Rhett, good to see you. How’s your magic dog? Killed any witches lately? Have you heard I’ve gone completely nuts?”
I almost want to laugh, because he’s acting like himself again, like the guy I met fighting witches, who camped with me for a night, joking and laughing over a couple of scavenged cans of Pepsi, a few Slim Jims, and a can of barbecue baked beans. Funny how those almost feel like the good old days now.
“Good point,” I say. “Not an easy conversation.”
He offers a wry smile. “I might’ve been in denial, too,” he says. “I was pretending the blackouts were only when I was sleeping, that they were a part of the stress of what happened with the Sirens.”
&
nbsp; Although we’ve had our problems over the last few weeks, I feel bad for Bil, like I did when he told me what he’d been through, how he almost ended up a Siren’s slave. Like me, he’s just a kid trying to survive in a terrible, terrible world.
I hate to ask, but if I’m going to continue to travel with him, I have to know. “What do you think it is?”
His lips tighten. “You should’ve been a dancer,” he says. Instinctively, my fingers curl into fists as I assume he’s just slipped back into insanity again.
“A dancer?” I say evenly, preparing to play along if necessary.
He laughs and I cringe. But then he turns toward me, his expression completely lucid. “It’s still me, Rhett,” he says. “It was only an analogy. You’re dancing around the question like Ricky Martin on the stage.”
I try to hide my relief as I blow out a breath. “Oh,” I say.
“I don’t know if I’m bi-polar or schizophrenic or what. For all I know it might be a side effect of the Siren’s magic.”
“But you’re a Resistor,” I point out. “Magic shouldn’t have that strong of a hold on you.”
“Then I guess I’m just plain old nuts,” he says, pushing out a laugh that seems forced.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I don’t know what Bil’s thinking about, but I’m wondering whether his unpredictable alter-ego would still consider carrying out his original mission—assassinating me—even if his real self has decided against it. Then I realize it doesn’t matter. If I was in his position, having undergone some kind of a psychotic break, I’d be in desperate need of a friend.
“Bil,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got your back, man. No matter what. As long as you’re not still planning on killing me,” I add, trying to be funny.
He does laugh, so I consider it a win. “Thanks, Rhett. And I’m sorry for everything I put you through.”
We continue for a few minutes, listening to our own footsteps, which have synchronized. A question tugs at the back of my mind. “Just out of curiosity, how close did you get to carrying out your mission?”
He glances my way. “You mean killing you?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes as he says, “Not too close.”
I look away, not comforted in the least.
Chapter Fourteen
Laney
We break camp as soon as it gets dark, the opposite of what I’m used to.
I can’t see in the dark the way the Necros can, so Xavier agrees to lead me by holding a short rope tied around my wrist.
“Don’t lead me off a cliff,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome,” he says, his white smile and eyes the only things I can see in the dark, his dark skin melting into the night.
“You owe me,” I say.
“For what?”
My Glock is heavy in its holster. “Oh, I don’t know…unlawful imprisonment, raising my friend’s girlfriend from the dead, general awfulness…those sorts of things.”
He turns away and I almost feel bad. I remember all the stories Rhett told me about Xavier, how he was his protector, his loyal friend, the biggest-hearted person he knew. I remember how Xave cried on my shoulder at the loss of Felix.
The compassion I feel for him makes me want to punch a tree.
“C’mon,” he says, tugging at the rope. “We’re falling behind.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I say, wishing the fight with the Slammers hadn’t left me so scared I won’t even consider going off on my own. But I begin walking, hearing the muffled sounds of the rest of the Necros moving through the woods. The plan is to head south, looking for any sign of the Changelings or Claires, under the assumption that they’ll be moving south, too, in an attempt to get closer to the human stronghold, New Washington.
The heat from the smoldering cabin lessens as we move forward. Although I’m tentative with each step through the forest, Xave does a fantastic job leading me, careful to steer me around anything that might trip me up. He even holds branches away from my face so I can step past them.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll shoot your warlock ass from behind?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t.”
How could he possibly know that? He’s right, of course, but how could he know? Lucky guess. I stay silent, focusing on listening for once, making sure no one tries to sneak up on me from behind.
But after two hours of blind hiking, my tongue gets antsy again. “Do you really believe your father is trying to make peace?” I ask.
“Yep,” Xave says.
I wait for more, but I don’t get it.
“Don’t you think fighting both humans and magic-born is a stupid way to make peace?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says.
“Do you say anything other than yep or nope?” I ask, ducking in case he decides to fling a branch back at my face.
He stops. Looks back. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, but I still can’t read his expression. “Yep,” he says, and then spins around and continues on, pulling me behind him.
I smile in the dark.
I want to ask a dozen more questions, but I manage to keep my big mouth shut, waiting him out. Unfortunately he’s exceptionally good at the “Quiet Game,” almost as good as Trish, and another hour passes in near silence, broken only by the rustling of footsteps and the occasional hoot of an owl, invisible, high above us in the trees under the cloud-covered night sky.
Just when I’ve given up on conversation, Xave says, “I’m not saying anything more than yep or nope because you’ve already made up your mind about me. About the Necros, too.”
“You just said more than yep or nope,” I point out, which gets me a bare chuckle.
“Hiding behind a joke,” Xave says. “Seems to be a pattern with you.”
I consider stepping on the back of his heel, but that feels like I’d just be making his point for him. So instead I say, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” which does the same thing, but with less juvenile flair.
“Let me guess: To get to the other side,” Xave says.
“Wrong,” I say. “It had no choice because it was a dead chicken reanimated by the Necros and sent across.”
“Very funny,” Xave says. “But we don’t do chickens.”
“Why not? I’ve heard they can be pretty feisty when backed into a corner. Talons out and all that.”
He sighs. “Avoiding reality with jokes,” he says.
“There aren’t many chances left for laughter these days,” I say. And I’ve tricked you into saying more than one word answers, I add in my head.
As if reading my mind, he says, “Yeah.”
I push on. “If peace is really what you want, why not try to bring both parties together to talk about it? Couldn’t we sign a treaty or something?”
I wait for yep or nope. I get more. “We tried,” Xave says, to my surprise. “New America told us to go screw ourselves and the other witch gangs are so splintered that each one had a different answer. We gathered together any of them who were willing to talk peace—the Pyros, the Destroyers, the Volts, the Wardens, a few others—but they were just pretending to be our allies.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, remembering the massacre on Heinz Field, when witch turned on witch, warlock on warlock.
“If no one will listen, we’ll have to defeat anyone who won’t. Starting with the Changelings and then the human leaders.”
Kill to make peace. Twisted logic that almost makes sense under the screwed up circumstances we find ourselves in. “So you and a dozen Necros are going to save the world?” I say, unable to hide my sarcasm.
“A few of the Wardens survived, too,” Xavier says, either ignoring my jab or not noticing it. “And there are more Necros hidden further south, guarding what’s left of our army.”
Wait…what? “Army?” I say. “Your army was des
troyed during the missile attack.”
“Just the youngest ones,” Xave says, not missing a step.
I, on the other hand, stumble as I realize what he’s saying. What I’ve been too stupid to realize. Xave stops, spins, and grabs my arm, keeping me from falling flat on my face.
I don’t thank him because my mind is whirling. “You mean the older Reanimates weren’t destroyed?” I ask, remembering how when we were in the dungeon Xave told us that it takes the same number of weeks as a person is years old when they die, in order to reanimate them. Which is why the army was only children. “But weren’t the other corpses being brewed in the cauldrons at Heinz Field?”
“My father is a smart man,” Xave says. “And a smart man never puts all his corpses in one cauldron.”
A chill runs down my spine as I realize: The rest of the bodies the Necros had been collecting are somewhere else, along with the rest of the Necros. Which means…
The Reaper still controls an army of the dead.
~~~
I don’t say another word for the next few hours as we trudge through the woods, picking a jagged path southwards. There’s nothing to say. If you’d have told me two weeks ago that one day I’d be part of a not-so-merry band of Necros seeking to exterminate a couple of other magic-born gangs, I’d have given you directions to the strait-jacket factory.
The thought is funny enough to make me laugh on the inside.
I’m beginning to feel like a pet on a leash, responding to each tug of the rope like an obedient, well-trained Shitzu. Of course, if I really was a dog, I should run ahead, pulling my owner behind me. So I do. Maybe it’s exhaustion making me crazy, or maybe I really am crazy, but I push past Xave, my legs burning as they churn beneath me.
And run smack into the back of a Necro, who turns slowly, his face cloaked in the shadow of his hood. “Uh, sorry. I was just pretending to be a dog,” I say. Instinctively, my hand moves to my Glock.