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 destroyed 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.
“You should be more careful,” the Reaper says, pushing his hood aside so I can barely make out his staring eyes.
“And you should get the hell out of my way next time,” I retort, feeling reckless all of a sudden. What am I doing here? Trying to find my sister, I think. Yeah, but I don’t have to hang out with these freaks while searching for her.
“Not a nice thing to say to someone who saved your life.”
“I was handling it.”
“Dangling upside down from a Slammer’s grip is hardly handling it,” the Reaper says. I see the barest sliver of white teeth as he grins in the dark.
“Had her right where I wanted her,” I say.
“Everyone needs a little help sometimes,” the Reaper says.
“Yeah? Well, sometimes people don’t want help, even when they need it.”
“True,” the Reaper says. “If someone’s determined to sink their ship, you can plug holes all day and they’ll just keep making new ones.”
“Don’t go all philosophical on me,” I say. “I don’t even like being on boats. I get seasick.”
“You know, I can see why Rhett likes you,” the Reaper says. “You have a way of making even the most mundane conversations seem much livelier.”
“If they ever create an award for best conversationalist, let me know and I’ll apply. Until then, have a sip from my bottle of I-Don’t-Give-A-Crap and keep on walking.”
The Reaper chuckles and turns away, continuing through the woods.
As Xave brushes past, he says, “Nice work. Even I can’t get him to shut up.” I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. “But maybe I should do the leading from now on, considering you can’t seem to tell a tree from a bush from a person in the dark.”
I shrug and follow him, because he’s exactly right.
After a few minutes, he fires a glance back and says, “You know, if you’d have gone to the same school as Rhett and I, I’m pretty sure we’d have all been friends.”
“Beth, too?” I snap, right away regretting it.
He stops and my heart beats so loudly he can probably hear it. Thud. Thud. After two beats he strides forward, pulling me behind him. He doesn’t respond to my comment.
So much for that best conversationalist award. More like conversation killer. Although he is a corpse-raising freak, he was…is…Rhett’s friend. And it’s no more his fault he’s a warlock than it is my sister’s that she’s a witch. Right?
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words burning my throat like acid. Apologizing to humans is hard for me. Apo
logizing to a warlock is like Chinese water torture.
He’s silent for three or four steps and then Xave says, “No apology necessary. I understand why you’d be angry. I know I hurt Rhett with what I did to Beth. I just thought…I just thought…”
“You thought you could bring her back,” I finish for him.
“I wanted her to be perfect,” he says, and although it’s similar to what he said when the missiles were raining down around us and our world was on the verge of collapse, it doesn’t sound nearly as insane this time. It sounds true and heartfelt.
“The eyes needed some work,” I say, snapping my teeth shut too late to stop yet another insensitive comment. Stupid, stupid, I think, for once wishing my diarrhea of the mouth would take a night off.
To my surprise, however, Xave laughs. “You think? I didn’t notice.” I’m not sure what to say to that, nor do I trust my mouth. “Do you think she was still inside there somewhere?” he asks, filling the silence.
Now is not the time for little white lies. “She was already dead, Xave. A long time ago.”
“You think I don’t know that? I was practically there when it happened. We were neighbors. Her scream woke me up. I got over there as fast as I could, but it was too late. She was—” He chokes, coughs, and then continues. “She was gushing blood from a slash in her stomach. I tried to put pressure on it, but the wound was too long, too deep. Too much life had already flowed out of her. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. Her lips were red. I held her until she was gone.”
His voice has grown robotic, like he’s reading a long-rehearsed speech. Detachment. A coping mechanism. “Rhett would be glad to know you were there for her at the end,” I say. “What happened next?”
“People in black cloaks, maybe five of them, burst into Beth’s house and grabbed me, pulled me away from her body, while I kicked and screamed and yelled. I was thrown in the back of a vehicle, a van. At some point I realized I’d lost my voice and stopped screaming, and yet screams were all around me. The dark hooded people, who I later found out were Necros who had been ordered by my father to protect me, started the van and drove away. I found my voice again and told them we had to go back for my friend. For Beth. We couldn’t just leave her there. We had to bury her. They didn’t listen, just kept driving, ignoring me like they were zombies.”
I only just realize we’ve stopped, and that Xave’s hand is on my arm, almost clutching it for support. Even now, months later, this is a hard story for him to tell.
“They took me to a big warehouse, guarded by dozens of Necros. I was scared to death and confused, but they locked me in a room with a bed and said everything would be explained in time. I pounded on the door, on the walls, screaming myself hoarse. No one came.
“A few miserable days passed. They gave me food, they gave me water, but that was all. No information. I was sure I was being held for ransom, and the moment they realized my foster family didn’t have much money, surely they’d kill me. That’s when he came.”
“Who?” I say, realizing the answer the moment the question slips out. “The Reaper.” “Yes. My father. He explained everything. What was happening, who he was, who I was. Of course, I didn’t believe any of it. My best guess was that I’d been abducted by some freaky cult that would sacrifice me to their gods.” He chuckles at the memory, which seems anything but funny.
“Your guess wasn’t too far from the truth,” I say. “I’d say ‘freaky cult’ about sums it up.”
He laughs at that, too, which makes me like him slightly more, just above the I-Hate-Your-Stinking-Guts level. He continues: “When I told the Reaper what had happened to Beth, he jolted, like he’d been shocked. He almost looked…sad. It’s not what I expected from a cult leader. He even hugged me, and I let him because I had no strength left. It actually helped. And then, to my surprise, he said he’d get her body. That we could bury her together.”
“Ha!” I say, my mouth getting the better of me again. “As if a Necromancer would ever bury a potential soldier to add to their army.”
Xavier bites his lip. “Two days later he brought Beth’s body. She’d been cleaned up, the blood wiped off of her lips and body. She was dressed in a clean, white dress. If it wasn’t for the decay and the smell, she would’ve almost looked like she was only sleeping.”
Although I can see the emotion on his face, I can’t hold back the fury building in my chest. “Yeah, a mint condition corpse, perfect for reanimation.”
Xavier looks away, blinking quickly, clearly fighting back tears. “It wasn’t like that. I even dug a hole, out behind the warehouse. The Reaper, who was still insisting he was my father, offered to help, or have his men dig it, but this was something I had to do myself, and they let me. They even got me a coffin for her and helped me lower her into the grave. I covered her with dirt.”
Despite the tears on his cheeks, I say, “That’s where you should have left her.”
He nods. “I can’t change the past. I won’t try to justify digging her up, reanimating her, only that I thought it was the right thing at the time.”
“Yeah, I’m sure your father did a great job of convincing you.”
I just make out Xave’s eyebrows going up in the dark. “No,” he says. “He did everything he could to talk me out of it. But he couldn’t. Once I’d seen what the Necros were capable of…once I’d seen what I was capable of…there was no changing my mind about Beth. Despite my father’s constant reminders that Reanimates weren’t the same as the person whose body they used, I managed to convince myself that I could do it. That I could perfect the dark magic and bend it to my will. That I could bring Beth back from the dead, not just reanimate her body.”
I shudder, all the talk of corpses and reanimation bringing recent memories to the forefront of my mind. And because I can see the truth in what he’s saying. I mean, I heard the way the reanimated Beth said Rhett’s name. Was it simply an instinctual thing? A random word said over and over again because she’d said it—thought it—so many times before she’d died? Or was she still in there somewhere, trying to make herself known? No. Impossible. The dead stay dead. Even the most powerful magic can’t change that. “She died in your arms,” I say.
“I realize that now, but at the time I thought if I made her perfect on the outside, she’d be perfect on the inside, too.”
The way he says it is so pure, like the simple logic of a child, that I find myself wishing he’d been right. More than that, I find myself on his side, any wall between us having been torn down by his story.
I’m more confused than ever. I don’t seem to have the slightest idea who the enemy is anymore. The Necros have done so many awful things, and yet they seem to be the ones trying to fight against the other witch gangs. My sister, who’s as pure as they come, is a Claire, but what if she’s the exception and the rest of them are evil, having allied with the Changelings? What if they’re brainwashing her right now, convincing her to use her powers against humanity? My stomach aches at the thought.
My thoughts will have to wait, however, because just then we hear a shout from up ahead.
“Found something!” the voice yells.
Chapter Fifteen
Rhett
We settle down for the night in a Sunoco station. The shelves are empty, looted long ago, but Hex leads us to a small, locked, metal door. There are dozens of dents in it, and the metal lock looks like it’s been shot at, riddled with bullet holes. And yet, somehow, it refused to open.
Bil pulls out his rifle, but I grab the stock, because Hex is already pawing at the door. “You’ll kill yourself with a ricochet. Let Hex do it.”
Hex leaps up and licks the door handle. There’s a click. Bil shakes his head in amazement.
“A lick for a click,” I say. “Good boy.” Hex lets me scratch him behind his dark ear as Bil pushes into the space beyond the door.
“Bingo,” Bil says. “Enough water to last us for weeks and plenty of snacks.”
Hex and I follow h
im in, where he’s already filling a bag with supplies. Beef jerky. Water bottles. Nuts and dried fruit. There’s even some over-the-counter medicine. Considering my track record for injuries, I’m sure that will come in handy.
There are two stools likely used for reaching the top shelves. Given my height, I don’t need them for that, but I claim one as a seat, placing it against the wall so I have a backrest.
I close my eyes while Bil continues to load up and Hex sniffs everything in sight. I swear the days are getting longer. Was it really only two days earlier that Laney and Trish took off on their own? It seems like weeks since I’ve seen them, each beat of my heart pounding a drum filled only with regret.
Another thought hits me. “Where are all the witches?” I say, thinking out loud. My eyes fly open. Bil looks at me strangely. Hex looks at me even more strangely. “Seriously,” I say. “I haven’t seen a single witch since Pittsburgh. It’s been at least a week.” Which is not normal. There’s one thing that’s been very consistent since this all began: Witches are everywhere.
“The missiles,” Bil says. “New America flexed its muscles and proved it’s a force to be reckoned with. Most of the magic-born are lying low, considering what to do next. It’s likely they’ll realize once more that fighting each other won’t help them defeat the remaining humans. Like before, they’ll form alliances. It’s quiet because we’re about to begin the final fight for our lives.”
His words wash over me like a cold wave, chilling me to the core. Is he right? Could the witch gangs set aside their differences one more time in order to finish us off? Would we stand any chance if they did? Something twists in my heart. A subtle change. This isn’t about revenge. Not for Beth, not for my foster family, not for all the people I’ve failed to save along the way. This is about the survival of a species. And although I’ll continue to fight in honor of Beth, it won’t be to avenge her death. It will be to make her death matter. So that she’ll be able to see from wherever she is now that I haven’t given up.
So that she’ll be proud.