“Do you know which gang took her?” the president asks.
“I think it was the Changelings,” Laney says. I notice how she doesn’t mention the Claires.
President Washington’s eyebrows go up. “The Changelings…” she says, trailing off, sounding as if she’s lost in thought. “What would the Changelings want with a little girl?”
“How the hell should I know?” Laney says, despite knowing exactly what they want. I stay silent.
The president gives Laney a long look, as if searching for a crack in her confident exterior, but then relaxes and says, “It just so happens that the Changelings are enemy number one now that the Necros have been neutralized. We’ll help you find your sister.”
“Great,” Laney says. “What about Rhett?”
“I’ve got other plans for your Resistor friend. He’s a powerful witch hunter, after all. He’ll join one of our upcoming missions.”
“A mission to do what?” Laney asks. I was about to ask the same thing.
“What else?” the president says. “Kill witches.”
~~~
Laney manages to give my hand a quick squeeze before Hemsworth guides her away. I wonder if I should refuse to be split apart, to insist we stay together while we’re in New Washington, but my mouth stays shut. Twice Laney shrugs off the hand that Hemsworth tries to keep on her shoulder, until he gives up, perhaps afraid she’ll bite off one of his fingers.
When she’s gone, I say, “Will I be able to see her later?”
“Of course,” President Washington says. “Friendship is one thing we still have left, and to deny it would be to deny life.”
It sounds like something she’s rehearsed. But still, her words do give me hope.
“Okay,” I say. “What next?”
“Time to meet your new team,” she says. I don’t mention that I didn’t really have an old team, unless you count Hex, Laney, Trish, and Bil Nez. Weirdest. Team. Ever.
“What about my dog?” I say instead. I reach down to pet his head. He licks my hand. I’ve never seen him act so…normal. He’s hiding his real talents. I wonder whether Bil has told her about what he can really do.
“We have a kennel,” she says.
“No,” I say. “He comes with me. Nonnegotiable.”
The president raises her eyebrows. “Fair enough. As long as he doesn’t get in the way of your work.”
“He won’t,” I say. I don’t say that he’ll likely make the mission a success all on his own. Despite her open-mindedness toward witches, I don’t know where she stands on magical animals.
“Follow me,” she says, turning to go, immediately surrounded by soldiers. One of them stands a head taller than the rest. His grey beard stretches all the way to his chest. A chill runs through me because I realize what he is.
A wizard.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice him earlier, especially given his professional-basketball-player height. Maybe he used magic to hide himself from me. Or maybe I was too focused on meeting the president, which isn’t exactly an everyday experience.
Whatever the case, he now turns slowly in my direction, and I gasp when I see his face.
Charles Gordon.
No. Way.
He’s a famous actor. Or at least, he was an actor. Although I only now realize that he was never really acting at all. The only roles he ever took in major Hollywood movies were that of a grey-bearded wizard, which would have been a cinch for an actual wizard to play. I loved him in The Elf Lord, loved to hate him in The Dark Wizard of White Castle, and never missed one of his interviews, in which he always described the challenges of playing such legendary types of characters.
Some challenge.
He smiles and winks and I’m torn between wanting to scream “Wizard!” or ask for his autograph. The president said there was one wizard on their side, but I never would’ve guessed it would be the wizard-actor Charles Gordon.
If I had any doubts left that the world has gone completely insane, they’ve now disappeared.
It also explains why the president looked so nonchalant, even when both Laney and I threatened to hurt her. More than threatened—tried. If Hemsworth and his soldiers hadn’t been quick enough to stop us, there’s no doubt the wizard would have.
The president is allies with a wizard. A wizard is helping the humans. I’m still trying to get my head around the last thing I expected to find when I reached New Washington (thanks for the heads up, Bil!), as we stroll through what used to be Washington D.C. Evidence of the carnage wrought by the witches during Salem’s Revenge is everywhere. Caved-in roofs on brownstone buildings, torn up sidewalks, bloody smears on the streets. I don’t know why, but it’s not what I expected. Since Bil Nez has told us about New America, I’d had this picture of a city untouched by the witches. A surviving city. But that’s all it is. Surviving doesn’t mean pristine buildings and well-maintained roads. Not anymore. Our standard of living has gone from being unable to live without smart phones and laptops and digital video recorders, to hoping we can fill our bellies and not get turned into hamsters by some witch with a cruel sense of humor.
The apartment walk-ups still standing on the left barely look livable with their missing front doors and shattered windows, and yet I’m aware of the dozens of sets of eyes watching us as we pass. One woman sits on the front steps, muttering under her breath and cradling a rifle in one arm and a baby in the other. Although she looks in our direction, her gaze almost seems to pass through us, as if we’re as intangible as ghosts.
Through the gaps in the buildings to the right, I dimly recognize that there’s a large open expanse. A highway maybe? It’s strange to think that less than a year ago the residents of these homes might’ve complained about the constant roar and commotion caused by commuter traffic; now, the silence seems much worse somehow. Are all the commuters dead? Will they ever drive to work again? And if so, will they have a greater appreciation for the mundane routine they once loathed?
I don’t notice the wizard’s presence beside me until he speaks. “The Potomac River,” he says.
I startle, my eyes flickering to his, which stand almost a foot higher than mine. I flinch and my hand instinctively goes for my sword. My scabbard is empty, my sword confiscated at the gate. If the wizard chooses to attack me, will my ability be enough to Resist his powers? I don’t know, as I’ve never really tested them for an extended period of time without relief.
I say nothing, just walk straight ahead, following the president and her entourage.
“So I see you’ve met at least a few of my kind,” Charles Gordon says with a chuckle.
I’m surprised by the brevity of his words. Most wizards are dark, terrifying creatures, but this man seems as charismatic now as he did on the red carpet, on Ellen, and on the big screen. I catch his eyes, which twinkle blue and then green and then purple in the dark. I look away sharply.
Perhaps celebrity is a more powerful force than magic, because I feel drawn to him, magnetized. At ease.
“Most of the wizards I’ve met tried to kill me, not make conversation,” I say.
“Most?”
“Okay, all. Except for you.”
“And yet…you’re still alive,” he says. “A significant feat.” He strokes his beard while I try to match his incredibly long strides.
“You know what I am,” I say. I don’t mean it as a question.
He answers anyway. “Yes. You and your friend, Bil Nez, are important to this fight.”
I fight the urge to look at him, not wanting to show that his words have affected me. It’s because they sound so similar to what the Reaper, my once mentor, said not so long ago.
“I’m just one guy,” I say.
“Hmm,” the wizard says, as if my statement wasn’t a fact. “And yet, far more stable than the other Resistors.”
Compared to Bil Nez, I guess I’m the poster boy for sanity. I wonder how much he knows about Bil, but I can’t ask without bringing my own knowledge into the conversation.
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So instead I ask about the other Resistor. “Why did the other Resistor switch sides and join the magic-born?” I ask.
“Time will tell which side she is on,” the wizard offers.
This coming from the wizard who’s supposedly helping the humans. “And which side are you on?” I ask, finally meeting his eyes once more.
This time they’re as black as the night sky, dark marbles that seem to devour the light around them. “On the president’s, of course,” he says, before striding away.
A stiff breeze hits me and I shiver. I glance down at Hex, whose eyes are changing colors and sparkling, exactly like Charles Gordon’s.
And, also like the wizard’s, Hex’s eyes go black.
I hope no one else notices.
~~~
The White House looks like Roman ruins. For one, it’s no longer white, more like gray, with random circles of black spotting its walls, as if the historic building’s been hit by firecrackers let loose by mischievous deviants. Only two of the six iconic pillars are still standing, the others broken in chunks that litter the lawn and steps. I can almost imagine a future where young magic-born go on field trips to the White House. “And this is where we conquered the humans,” their teachers will say. “Come on now, let’s take a picture.”
“The witches sent Slammers to assassinate President Bartlet,” President Washington says, turning back to speak to me for the first time since our journey began. “His skull was found crushed and his spine snapped like a twig.”
“TMI,” I say, trying to vanquish the image from my mind.
“Knowledge is power,” the president says.
“Original,” I say. I’m not sure why I’m being so snarky, except that I feel unsettled. It might be a defense mechanism. Or maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with Laney.
“You’re not intimidated by my political standing,” the president says.
It doesn’t sound like a question so I don’t respond.
“Good,” she says. “There’s no room for intimidation in this world. You either stand and fight, or cower and die.”
“You’d suck at motivational speaking,” I say, which draws a surprising laugh.
“I would,” she says, turning away to move along a path cut through the rubble. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, I can’t help but feel a swell of excitement in my chest as we pass through the doors. To the White House.
I’m in the White House.
Weird.
My first thought is: I can’t wait to tell Laney. And that’s when I know it’s officially started. The moving on. I’m sorry, Beth, I whisper in my mind. I’m so sorry. It’s supposed to be her that I want to share my experiences with, who I think about when something incredible happens. But all that feels like a lifetime ago. We’re a lifetime away from football practice and school newspaper articles and Xave’s boyfriend dramas. I’m changed and Beth is dead. And Laney is alive.
My eyes are flooded before I know it and I have to blink furiously to get control.
I look around me at the ovular space into which we’ve entered. Busts of former presidents lay sideways on the floor, missing noses and ears. No one’s bothered to pick them up, to restore them to their stands. Such symbols have no place now.
The space is well-lighted, and not by candlelight or lanterns like I expected. Light bulbs! “You have electricity,” I blurt out.
“Rationed,” the president says, moving through the space. “We have a sufficient store of batteries to keep the generators going for several more months.”
“Why not just have the witches create light?” I say, unable to hide the contempt in my tone.
“The people are scared enough of our witch allies without them flaunting their power,” the president says, taking my question more seriously than I expected. Before disappearing into the next room, she adds, “The sooner you cast off your prejudices against the magic-born, the better.”
I feel the familiar burn of my blood boiling. I’m not prejudiced, not anymore. Laney’s sister is a witch. I’m not prejudiced against her, am I? No. Of course not. Just the other witches. The ones that murder humans like we’re nothing more than pesky flies to be swatted.
Then I realize: it’s not the heat of anger I feel, but the flush of embarrassment. Could the president be right? Even after being saved by Trish multiple times, after learning my mentor and best friend are both warlocks, does my anger and hatred for the magic-born trump the logical reality that there could be some good witches?
I stomp after her, trying not to think about it. The president and her entourage, including Charles Gordon, are already most of the way up the steps to the first floor. For the first time I notice the way President Washington seems to keep her distance from the wizard, always maintaining a slight buffer between them. Despite what she says, she’s still not comfortable having them around.
Even Hex is halfway up, following the procession. I’m thankful he’s not flying his way to the top, like he’d normally do. Perhaps he innately understands the need to hide his abilities. I take the steps two at a time, trying to stay close, glancing back once to find Bil Nez, who hasn’t spoken a word to me since we arrived, slinking away.
On the next level, we enter a room with red walls and red furniture. Some of the red color looks darker, like someone splashed paint around. I try not to think what that might mean, or why the president would choose to bring me to a room decorated with the color of blood.
She waves a hand at a red couch, but I remain standing. “I’m fine,” I say.
“Suit yourself,” she says, sitting delicately on the ornate couch, which has the same spots of darker red. “Leave us,” she says to the soldiers.
One of them says, “Madam President?”
“My advisers and I will be meeting privately with Mr. Carter,” she says. “Thank you.” Despite the politeness of her words, the command in her tone is obvious. The soldiers file out without another word.
I feel awkward standing when she’s sitting, which makes me rock from foot to foot. Even Charles takes a seat in a red lions-feet chair that’s about half as big as it needs to be for a man his size. Under his cloak, his knees stick up like mountain peaks.
“Come in,” the president commands, and a door opens off to the side.
The entire doorway fills as a redwood-sized man stoops to enter. I fall back a step, immediately on the defensive. He’s a Slammer, with fists like basketballs and a face only a mother could love. And she’d have to be a pretty compassionate mother at that. The floor shakes as he steps inside, having to remain stooped to avoid hitting his head on the high ceiling. I glance at the exit door, which is only a few feet away, and then back at the Slammer, whose arms are so long he could probably lunge and grab me before I could escape.
“You have nothing to fear from Samsa,” the president says, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice. “I, too, was uneasy in his presence at first, but you learn to accept him as he is. Especially when he’s saved numerous human lives while within our borders.” Her words paint a different picture to her expression, which is pale white and full of fear.
Yes, but how many of those humans has he later eaten? I want to ask. I shake off the image of him gnawing on a shin bone while he roasts a human corpse on a spit. Be open-minded, I remind myself.
“You watch wrestling?” Samsa asks, skipping words as if English is his second language. I think I detect a slight Russian accent.
“Um...” Guys in tights rolling around and getting all sweaty while trying to beat the living snot out of each other? “Not really.”
“Samsa was a professional wrestler,” the president explains, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “They called him The Monster. He was a large man even at normal size, but of course, as you can see, using his magic makes him significantly larger.”
“Riiiight,” I say. What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?
Even as I’m pondering the fact that I’m in the White House wit
h the president, a warlock, and a wizard, I notice another presence in the room. The…creature is nestled between the gigantic Slammer’s legs, peeking out with huge eyes through a mane of shaggy, brown hair. Stooped over, the hunch in his back protrudes noticeably higher than the crown of his head. His skin—on his face, neck and hands—is a strange color of brown and sort of clumpy, almost like…mud. The rest of his skin is covered by a brown frock, cinched at the waist with a thick leather belt.
“Don’t mind Grogg,” the president says. “He’s not an official adviser, but he’s useful in carrying out simple tasks.”
“What…is he?” I ask, which I only realize sounds incredibly rude after the question has already left my mouth.
“Well, technically he’s mud,” she says. “Or at least fashioned from it. There are a couple of witches in our midst who do wonderful work with mud. They’re working on creating some large clay soldiers to protect our northern borders. The only challenge is that they have to be awake and aware in order to control their creations. We could use a dozen more of their kind, but unfortunately most of the witches with their skillset are decidedly anti-human.”
She says it like it’s the same thing as being anti-guns or anti-abortion, not being against an entire species. “Hi, Grogg,” I say, trying to get a better look at his face.
Like a frightened child, the mud troll (I don’t know how else to categorize him) shrinks back behind Samsa’s pillar-like leg. Only a single eye peeks out. Hex barks and runs up, sniffing around the Slammer’s leg and trying to inspect Grogg with all the curiosity of a puppy out for a stroll. I sort of hope he decides to pee on the warlock’s leg, which isn’t my finest moment.
“They can be quite skittish with strangers,” the president explains. “Although they’re controlled by their creators, they seem to have their own personality.”
“Interesting,” I say. Freaky, I think. Hex runs between the warlock’s legs and Grogg skitters around the other side, always keeping the thick trunk of flesh and bone and muscle between Hex and him. Or her. Or it. I’m not sure if gender applies to mud-creatures. Hex goes the other way, but Grogg is too quick, scurrying back around.