“The restaurant. But the skeletons…” I try to imagine what it would have been like for her. Her parents dead, her sister hers to protect, entering the restaurant and finding…what?
“They weren’t skeletons,” she says flatly. “They were corpses with gaping holes in them, their”—she glances at Trish and lowers her voice to a whisper—“insides hanging out. Marco was the worst, his brain on the outside of his skull, like something out of a zombie movie. It didn’t even look real. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t. Something was happening to their flesh, like it was wax dripping off of them.”
“That’s dark magic,” I say. “The darkest. Cutters we call them. They cast powerful spells on their victims. Something inside them cuts its way out, through bone and flesh. Then the skin and everything else just melts away.”
“Yummy,” Laney says. “Thanks for the lesson.”
I raise an eyebrow. After months of “witch education” with Mr. Jackson, I’ve become so accustomed to talking about this stuff that I’m not sure I’ll ever be as sensitive about it as I should be.
“If I ever see a Cutter I might do some cutting of my own,” Laney says.
“Not likely,” I say. “The Cutters were so powerful and dangerous that they were one of the first witch gangs to be exterminated by the others.” Mr. Jackson’s words flow from my lips so easily. Too easily.
“Exterminated?”
“Yeah. Half a dozen other gangs became temporary allies to wipe the Cutters out before they grew too strong.”
Laney shakes her head. “I’ve seen bad B-grade movies that had more believable plots. You know, the ones with giant worms that terrorize small hick towns?”
I chuckle. I know exactly the kind of movies she means. “I’m sorry about Marco,” I say. “I should’ve been the one to do it. Had I known…”
“No,” Laney says, her eyes following Hex as he runs from side to side, sniffing small flowers that have sprung up between cracks in the highway. I expect her to say something sentimental. As usual, I’m wrong. “It was better that I do it. Otherwise we would have been tied in kills rather than me up two.”
I look away so she doesn’t see my smile.
The exit veers off to the right. Neither of us speaks as we follow the road, which winds in a full circle and under the highway bridge. It’s probably late afternoon by now, the bridge casting a long, murky shadow. The air feels five degrees cooler in the shade.
“We’ll stay here for the night,” Laney says. Not a question, not a suggestion. She’s not used to collaborating.
“I really think we should push on to Washington. We can make it before midnight.” I pour some water into a depression in the ground for Hex.
“No,” Laney says.
“It’s not safe out on the road. Trust me, I know.”
“Just because I decided to go on a little road trip doesn’t mean I fully trust you. We just met.”
“I’m not one of the bad guys,” I say. “I hunt witches, not humans.”
“Most of the witch hunters I’ve seen lately are the bad ones,” Laney insists.
“You think I’m like The End?” I ask evenly.
Laney shrugs, as if it’s every bit as plausible as skeletons coming to life and trying to kill us.
“Well I’m not. I didn’t have to take you with me,” I say.
“You need us,” she says. “You never would’ve survived the skeletons without me.”
“I killed my fair share, too,” I say, surprised to actually find myself gloating about killing.
“Oh, so it’s a pissing contest now, is it?” Laney says incredulously. “Well, I might not have the goods”—she gestures lewdly downwards—“but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang with you.”
“What does that even mean?” I say, shaking my head and feeling a strange amusement come over me. What are we even talking about?
Laney’s eyes widen and for a second I think she might hit me, but then a sharp laugh escapes her lips. “I have no idea,” she says. “It sounded better in my head.”
“I hate when that happens,” I say. “We’ll stay here for the night,” I add, giving in because I’m suddenly feeling happy and generous. Almost giddy. Weirdest. Fight. Ever.
Laney sits down next to Trish, who’s stroking Hex as he laps at the water. I flop down nearby.
“Do I smell?” Laney asks, raising her arm to sniff her pit. “I think I forgot to put on deodorant today.”
“No,” I say, straight-faced, even though I could probably smell her from two miles away. “Do I?”
“Like stink,” she says.
Before I can rise to the bait and sniff my own armpits, Hex stiffens, arches his back, snaps his head upwards. Trish’s finger jabs at the air, scrawling an invisible message.
My eyes meet Laney’s and I can see the fear there. No matter how much she denies it, chalking Trish’s eccentricities up to gibberish and the result of her trauma, she knows there’s more to her air drawing. “When she starts drawing it usually means something bad is going to happen,” Laney admits, unblinking.
“What is she writing?” I ask, realizing my hands are clasped too tightly in my lap.
Laney squints, tries to make out the letters. “H-E-M-S-A-V-E-T,” she says. Trish stops, looks at her sister expectantly. “Hemsavet,” Laney says. “I don’t understand, Sis.”
“No,” I say. “The ‘S’ is first. ‘Save them.’”
“Save who?” Laney asks her sister.
Trish looks past me, down the road leading away from the bridge.
Just then, we hear a gunshot.
It’s followed by a scream.
“What the hell was that?” Laney says.
“A scream,” I say. “And a gunshot.”
“Thanks, that helps,” Laney says, rolling her eyes.
Trish is frantically drawing in the air again, but Laney’s not even looking. She’s staring in the direction of the scream. I slide over to read the disappearing words. “Save them. Save them. Save them. She’s just repeating the same message.”
“We need to save ourselves,” Laney says. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s continue on to Washington.”
“But your sister thinks…”
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying!” Laney shouts.
Trish stops drawing and puts a tiny hand on her sister’s arm. Laney grimaces as if hurt by the touch. “No,” she says. “No. We’re not going toward that scream.” When Trish and I both look at her, she repeats, “No.”
Another scream shatters the temporary silence. I flinch, my nerves stretched as tightly as a leather canvas, on the verge of breaking, but unable to.
For some reason, the memory from my third field trip with Mr. Jackson pops into my head. When the Hallucinators killed the boy and his mom.
I blink and Laney’s staring at me, but not at my eyes. Lower. I follow her gaze to my stomach, where I’ve lifted my shirt to reveal a long jagged scar, a white line against my dark skin. My fingers are running along its raised edges.
“Where’d you get that?” she asks.
I ignore her question, say, “I have to try to save them. Whoever they are.”
“Fine,” Laney says. “But if you’re not back in an hour, we’re leaving without you.”
“Do what you have to do,” I say, already turning away. “Hex, stay here with them,” I command.
I’m already a half mile down the road when I realize Hex is just behind me, his head lowered to the ground as if I won’t be able to see him if he can’t see me. I smile because, of course, he wouldn’t listen to me. And the truth is, I’m glad.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The screams are coming from the white-siding house, taking shape as I get closer.
“No! Leave them alone! Do whatever you want with me, but let them go!” a woman’s voice pleads frantically.
“Where’s the fun in that?” a sharper woman’s voice says, amusement in her tone.
The wail of a child pierces
the silence in between the mother’s shouts.
Hex looks up at me. Is he frowning? If he is, he’s only mirroring my expression.
I have a pretty good guess as to what is traumatizing the people inside the house. Witches. Likely having a bit of fun before finishing the job. A chance for me to stop them?
I leap over a chain link fence and dart to the side of the house, keeping low.
“Please! Please…” The mother’s voice is losing strength, her children’s sobs reduced to muted whimpers. I have to hurry or there’ll be no one left to save.
There’s an open window on my left. Hex paws at my leg, his expression intense, as if to say, Let’s do this.
A new voice carries through the window, a deep grumble. A warl. “Slow down! We need the blood while they’re still alive!”
“Maybe I’ll just take yours instead,” the witch fires back.
“I’d like to see you try!”
“Children, behave or I’ll kill you both.” A third voice, like thunder. Another warl, his tone commanding attention and obedience. By the sound of it, the leader of the gang that’s terrorizing the people inside.
“Buzzkill,” the witch mutters, but she doesn’t argue further.
I pop up and sneak a glance through a thin white curtain that’s blowing in the breeze. When I duck back, the image remains in my head. A woman on the floor, cheeks streaked and glistening with tears, held down by a gargantuan warl, skin like night. Two children, strung up, held over some sort of a basin. A witch and another warl standing near them, fiddling with some sort of contraption attached to their skin. Red tubes running from them to the basin. And I know:
The tubes are only red because they’re filled with the children’s blood.
A flood of anger and fear gushes through my veins. I can’t bear to see another child die. But Mr. Jackson’s words after the incident with the Hallucinators freezes me in place:
Do you see why you can’t save them all? Do you see? If you die, then they all die. If you live, then maybe some will live. You have to choose your battles wisely, when victory is guaranteed.
Would Mr. Jackson advise me to attack two warls and a witch to save a mother and her two children? I know the answer is no, that he’d liken this to the Asian woman and her son. Do I care what Mr. Jackson would think? It’s not his battle anymore.
My decision. And I say these people need my help.
I raise a finger in the air, then a second, glancing back to make sure Hex is paying attention, that he’s ready to spring into action when I raise my third finger.
A shadow looms, its dark fingers clamping over my mouth…
A pungent, chemically smell fills my nostrils and the world begins to blur, to spin like an amusement park ride. And all I see before everything goes dark are pink lips outlined in black, shoved out between coils of ebony fabric.
The world fades to nothing.
~~~
Beth nestles into my side, clutching at me like I’m a warm blanket.
She tilts her head and her lips part, ever so slightly. I dip my chin and close my eyes.
Her mouth is soft and moist, and moves against mine. Our teeth clack off each other once, awkwardly, but we don’t stop, not until we’re out of breath and laughing, and when my eyes flutter open I see the truth…
I gasp, horror filling my chest, twisting my grin into a tortured grimace of revulsion, as bile rises in my throat…
Beth’s lips are covered in blood, smeared in a horrifying clown’s smile. I reach up to touch my own lips and the tips of my fingers come away crimson. As she leans forward for another bloody kiss, I scream—
A hand blankets my mouth, cutting off my scream. “Shut it,” a voice says. “You’ll wake the children.” Her laugh is gleeful and slightly deranged.
As my eyes snap open I want to claw at the hand, rip it away, but my arms won’t move, like they’re frozen. A face appears over me, attached to the muffling hand by a thin, bony arm and pointy shoulder. A witch, with the yellow eyes of a cat, shining in the relative darkness. A thin layer of black fur coats her skin, and the beginnings of white whiskers are poking from just under her smallish round nose.
It was a dream. Just a dream. In reality, my first kiss with Beth was perfect, so perfect, not some terror-filled nightmare.
Blink, blink. Blink, blink. The nightmare hovers just behind my eyes.
“Are we ready to behave?” she asks, her head rotating to the side in question.
I narrow my eyes, but manage a nod.
When she lifts her hand from my mouth, I say, “What are you?” Mr. Jackson’s lessons about the various witch gangs flash through my head like a series of study cards.
“Not a very good witch hunter if you can’t even identify your prey, are yow?” she says, running a pink tongue over her white teeth. “Which makes me wonder…”
“Where are the children?” I say evenly, once more tightening my arms against my bonds. Sharp cords bite into my skin and I realize I’m tied to a table.
Next to me, there’s a muffled whine. I crane my neck to find Hex in a chicken cage, his mouth muzzled. He looks at me with big, apologetic eyes.
And then I realize what she is. A Shifter. Witches who perform spells to change into various animals; in this case, a cat. The transformation is only partially complete. “I’m looking forward to eating yow.”
I suck in a shaky breath. Not what I expected her to say.
Another voice chimes in from somewhere behind me, where I can’t see. “My sweet Flora, you will not be eating our prisoner.” The warl I heard earlier, the one who seemed to be the leader. Prisoner? The magic-born I’m used to meeting kill first, take prisoners later. Like the Necros. Only all their prisoners are dead.
Flora hisses at the newcomer and I flinch.
“Prisoner?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Haven’t you heard?” the warl says, stepping forward so I can see him. He’s tall, but an inch or two shorter than me, with dark eyes and a firm jaw. He’s wearing a tight tee and jeans. As far as I can tell, his body’s not undergoing any changes like Flora’s.
“Heard what?” I say.
“You’re a hot item these days, although I have no clue why. You’re just another witch hunter as far as I’m concerned…”
“What do you mean?” I ask. My heart is pounding, and I’m not sure why.
“You really haven’t heard, have you?” he says, tapping his teeth with his fingernails. “Interesting. Why would the Necros want you?”
“The Necros?” I say, my heart beating even faster.
“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” he says, but I barely hear him because I’m still thinking about what he said before: The Necros want you.
When he grabs my chin and squeezes, my attention jerks back to him. “I swear I don’t know,” I say. Unless…but they couldn’t know I’m following them. I’ve been careful, stayed out of sight, kept my distance…
His hand tightens, crushing my cheeks and lips. He leans in closer, his face inches from mine. “We have ways of getting the truth,” he says, releasing his grip slowly.
“I don’t know anything,” I say, looking straight into his eyes.
“Now can we kill him, Ax?” Flora says.
“No,” Ax says, “but we can hurt him.”
~~~
I’m sick with my own weakness. I’ve failed again. Failed to save them. Does that prove Mr. Jackson was right to ignore the cries for help from so many innocents?
For once, I don’t feel so sure in saying no.
We’re in some kind of a cellar, lit only by a lone, dusty bulb dangling from a wire. Hex is still in his cage, his chin resting on his paws.
The dead children hang from hooks descending from the ceiling, their skin so white it’s like they’ve been bleached. Their blood has been drained from their innocent little bodies. When Mr. Jackson explained how Shifters perform their spells, I didn’t want to believe it. The key ingredient is fresh blood
from living children. A noxious mix of self-loathing and rage swirls through my chest. How could they kill children with such indifferent ease?
Their mother is propped up, her lifeless eyes open, angled as if she’s looking at her children. I thank whatever higher power might be out there that she can’t really see them.
I’m sitting up now, still bound, moved by the strong hands of a gargantuan warl. The one that was arguing with Flora earlier. They’ve been calling him Sledge. Shirtless, his dark skin bulges in all the right places. The beginnings of curving scythe-like horns extend from his forehead. There’s no doubt as to what he’s transforming into: a bull, the kind that tosses cowboys into the air at the rodeo.
A fourth member of their gang, a tall shadowy witch, stands silently in the corner, her face covered in bandages, only her black-lined lips protruding. The one who snuck up on Hex and me. If mysterious was a person, it would be her. So far, she doesn’t seem to be changing into an animal.
Flora prowls between me and the kids, almost fully transformed now. Not a housecat, but a panther, with razor sharp teeth, a lean sinewy body, and all the predatory instincts that come with the territory. She can still speak, but her words are higher pitched and tend to end with a “yow” sound.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
“Eat the kids,” Ax says indifferently, sending waves through my stomach.
“I want him,” she says, her tail flicking back and forth as she stares at me.
“He’s off limits,” Ax says.
“Just a lick then. His toes?” I feel a crash of revulsion tremble through me.
“You’re sick, you know that?” Ax says.
“C’mon—just a taste. I have needs,” Flora says, stalking past me, her tail curling around my neck, tickling my skin.