“Hex!” I cry, my eyes flashing open and my arm pulling Hex into the midst of our embrace. His tongue continues to move like an overworked licking machine, dancing between my face and Laney’s.
And though I didn’t think we’d ever be able to again, we laugh and laugh and laugh, tears streaming down our faces as quickly as Hex can lap them up.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Laney
The Necros come to collect the dead, and I give Rhett a break from my tears, both the happy and sad. For a long time, I stare at the enormous, unmoving form of the Slammer, Samsa, whose strength apparently only held out long enough to force my sister’s sacrifice. I should feel some satisfaction at his death, but all I feel is emptiness. Numbness. When I stand up, I notice that the blood is gone from my clothes, which are completely white, as if someone’s bleached them for me.
“Her blood was always the purest of all,” I murmur as Hex scampers off to once more become Bil Nez’s shadow.
Rhett nods thoughtfully, but looks distracted by Xavier’s dark form, which is hunched over a dead Changeling. “I’ll let you two catch up,” I say, starting to move away. Rhett grabs my arm. “I’m okay,” I say. “I don’t need to be coddled.” He doesn’t seem to believe me, but he grudgingly releases my arm and walks over to his old friend.
Somewhat numb, I stare at the bodies scattered across the White House lawn. Well, I guess it’s just a lawn now that the White House has been sucked into the magical void of damnation. The same chasm I would’ve died in if not for Trish’s miraculous final act.
I take a deep breath, trying not to fall into an entirely different chasm.
I spot movement on what’s left of the steps, which sends a deranged burst of excitement through my chest. Maybe one of the president’s magic-born survived! I’m almost itching to use my Glock again. A sick thought, but sometimes having something to do is the only way not to be sad.
As it turns out, it is a witch, just not one I’m allowed to kill. At least I don’t think so—I’ll have to check with Rhett.
The red Changeling, who I haven’t seen since she informed me of where Trish had gone, drags herself to a sitting position against one of the two remaining pillars, which are no longer holding anything up. Although she’s looking in my direction, it’s almost like she sees right through me, to the remnants of the battlefield.
I’ve never seen her look so unbeautiful. Her kohl-lined eyes are smeared. Her long, red hair is tangled and knotted, hanging limply around her face, which is a mixture of sweat and ash and blood. Her once-perfect dress is in tatters. I know that she could snap her fingers and she’d be celebrity-worthy once more, but she doesn’t. In any other situation I might’ve relished seeing her like this, gotten a good laugh out of it, but I can’t take any amusement from her despair.
Her lips open as if she wants to say something, but then they close. She reaches both hands toward the sky, which is far too blue and sunny and beautiful for any of our moods. Is she praying? I wonder. Do witches pray? Do they believe in God, or is there some other power they worship, the Great and Mighty Bestower of Magical Powers?
When she lowers her gaze, her eyes finally settle on mine. This time she speaks. “I have nothing,” she says.
Her words are so different to any others I’ve heard her utter. There’s no hidden agenda, no sarcasm, no arrogance. It’s like everything that made her her has been stripped away. Does that mean this broken person is the real her? Or are we all really layers and layers of complexity, of which some are only revealed during the most extreme circumstances?
“You have your life,” I say.
“That is nothing now that they’re gone,” she says. “They’re all dead because I brought them here. Because I wanted the Changelings to rise above the muck and be the heroes.”
“You can’t make yourself a hero,” I say. “You have to be born one. And sometimes the least likely heroes are the ones this world needs the most.”
Although I expect her to argue, she doesn’t; instead, she nods, almost to herself, as if really thinking about my words. Understanding them.
As I wonder whether I’ve misjudged her from the beginning, whether she was really just another lost soul searching for redemption, she reaches for something lying near her on the ground. Something glinting in the sunlight. In a split-second of clarity, I realize what she’s about to do.
“No!” I shout, but her hand’s already moving, her mind made up.
She jams the blade deep into her gut, clutching it with two hands as her mouth bursts open in a rush of breath.
I scream and Rhett’s by my side in an instant, Xave, too. But there’s nothing any of us can do, although we try our best, using torn-off strips of my clean clothes to try to stop the bleeding, even as her life flows out of her through the self-inflicted wound. When the blood keeps soaking through and it’s apparent she’s moments away from death, Xave says, “You two should leave. Only I can be here now.”
Rhett nods and takes my hand and we start to walk away, neither of us wanting to see Xave work his gruesome magic. Sunlight hits my face from the opposite side, unexpectedly. It’s already shining on one side, from the east, but now my cheek is being warmed from the west. Which doesn’t make sense because it’s still too early for the sun to have moved that far.
Rhett notices it, too, and we both look up at the same time. Angels—missing only their haloes and wings—descend on magical sunbeams, their pearlescent gowns flowing about their feet. Not angels, I realize—Claires. My sister’s people. No, her Children, I remember. It’s what she told me just before she left me. They need me. Although I don’t understand how a child could have children, somehow I know it’s true.
They land softly on bare feet, their brown and black and white skin covered save for their arms and faces. The right words stick in my throat, but I force them out. “I’m sorry,” I say. “She’s gone. Your—your Mother is gone.”
We know, they say, dozens of voices speaking as one, as if from heaven. We saw her go. She spoke with us, for a while. We come not for her, but for the red one.
I follow their gazes to the red Changeling, who lies dead. Xavier has already begun preparing her body for Reanimation, flicking some kind of potion on her face. He can’t bring her back the way she was. But he can use what’s left of her to add to the Necro army. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “She’s gone, too.”
No, they say. Almost, but not yet.
One of them, a willowy beauty, glides forward. Xave moves away, watching from nearby. The girl’s finger is a glowing orb, and it reminds me of the finger of light that brought Rhett and I back together. My sister’s magic. The girl touches her finger to the red Changeling’s lips, which start to glow softly. Soon her entire body is pulsing with white light.
Stir her not, for she needs to sleep, the girl says in our heads.
Yeah, an eternal sleep, I think.
No, the girl says, looking right at me. Did she just read my mind? She lives. Sometimes those who don’t want life are the ones who deserve it the most.
A week ago I would’ve told you the red witch deserved to die a horrible death. But now…I’m not so sure. She might not be the kind of hero she wanted to be, but she did sacrifice everything to try to stop President Washington. That counts in my book.
While the Claires continue to tend to the Changeling leader and the Necros continue to tend to the dead, I move away from the middle of the battleground, drawn to the eastern edge of the lawn. Where the human soldiers were. And where the human soldiers died.
Claires flit amongst me, so graceful, the polar opposite of my jerky strides. They check each body for signs of life, before moving on to the next one. One or two of the bodies capture their attention and they go to work, but most are mutilated beyond recognition. The witch’s spells did their evil job.
Then I see him, and I realize why my feet brought me over here. My eyes immediately pool with tears, but I blink them away. At this time more than any, I ha
ve to be the girl he thought I was, hard as iron and scared of nothing—even death.
Hemsworth has a hole in his chest, like he’s been hit with a cannonball. The gore is turning black as it dries. Biting my lip, I use several of the soldiers’ packs to cover the wound. His face, remarkably, is unmarred, almost as if he’s merely sleeping.
“You know, once I realized you weren’t such a jerk I kinda liked you,” I say, kneeling down beside him. “I know we barely knew each other a couple of days, but it felt like more, you know what I mean?”
A finger of warmth starts in my toes and moves upwards, all the way to my chest. And though he can’t speak for himself anymore, I know it’s a sign. He did feel the same way. My next words are harder to get out.
“I feel like…you could’ve been a sort of”—I turn my head to the side and will the tears away, swallowing heavily—“father to me. Like we both lost people we love, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have new people we love.”
With the back of my hand, I angrily wipe the hot tears off my cheeks.
~~~
Rhett
I follow Xave around like he used to do to me before and after football practice. I shake my head when I realize that was only months—and not years—ago. Although I feel like I should still be angry with him, about so many things, I can’t find it in me.
“How do you do it?” I ask him.
He glances at me, and then goes back to sprinkling a potion on one of the corpses. “Don’t give me a hard time. I’m not in the mood.”
He misunderstood me. “I’m not,” I say. “I don’t mean the dead-raising. Laney told me you said it’s just a part of you, that you can’t not do it. I might never fully understand that, but I’m willing to try.”
His eyes meet mine again, but this time there’s no frustration in them. “Thanks,” he says. “So what did you mean? How do I do what?”
“Two things,” I say. “First, how do you Reanimate so quickly? Your father explained that it takes months to Reanimate corpses, especially older ones.”
“And second?” he asks.
“Second, how did you make it so the corpses didn’t attack any humans this time? My experience has been that they attack anything that moves. We might’ve lost the battle if not for their help. As much as they freak me out, I’m almost sad that they all had to re-die during the battle.”
He looks like he wants to smile, but can’t quite make his mouth obey. A new voice comes in from the side. “Because he’s better than me. Better than any of us.”
The Reaper approaches, his dark hood thrown back from his dark-skinned face, and again I can’t help thinking of him as Mr. Jackson, the man who trained me to hunt witches. He extends a hand, watching me intently with deep brown eyes.
I stare at his offered hand for a long second before taking it. Back in the Necro dungeons I would’ve sooner spit in the Reaper’s hand than shake it. How quickly things have changed.
“Xavier has perfected our craft in a way no one else could,” the Reaper says. A hint of a smile plays on Xave’s lips as he pretends to prepare another body for Reanimation.
“He can raise the dead faster,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And make them more controlled.”
“Yes.”
I nod, the events at the plane crash site and on the White House lawn making more sense. But there’s still something that doesn’t make sense. “You thought the Changelings were the greatest enemy to peace,” I say.
The Reaper just looks at me because I haven’t asked a question. Xave stops his work to watch his father’s reaction. “And you hadn’t told Xave that New America was being led by a witch. Not just any witch, the Head of the Witch Council.”
Suddenly he can’t seem to meet my eyes, his gaze wandering off toward the sunrise. “I was wrong about the Changelings, but can you really blame me? They weren’t doing much to instill our trust in them. I had allies on the Council, but she was never one of them; her motives were a mystery to me.”
“Okay. Let’s say I believe you,” I say. “I mean, let’s say, hypothetically speaking of course, that you’re slightly better than a lying scumbag.” The Reaper flinches, but I don’t feel bad and don’t stop. Can’t stop. “Why didn’t you tell Xave, your own son, what was happening in New America?”
The Reaper, who suddenly looks less like a powerful Necromancer and more like an ordinary old man named Mr. Jackson, sighs deeply. “He had a lot on his mind already without being burdened with the knowledge that New America was being controlled by four of the most powerful members of the Council, including the leader.”
“Four?” I say, started by the unexpected detail. “Which four?”
Mr. Jackson nods slowly. “The president, now deceased. The wizard, Charles Gordon, also dead. Samsa, the gargantuan, who took your father’s place on the Council after he was deemed a traitor and banished, killed in action today.” My heart constricts. My father’s place on the Council. My father who I can never get close to again.
Trish’s vision blinks in my mind. “And the fourth is Flora,” I say evenly. “The Shifter. She’s the only one of them still alive.”
He nods with closed lips.
“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell Xave the truth,” I point out.
“I didn’t want to distract him with the difficult situation in New America,” he says. I can tell even he knows it’s a lame answer.
“Distract me?” Xave says, storming forward. This is the Xave I know, corrector of injustices. “I was changing everything with my work and you didn’t think I deserved to know the truth?”
“Would it have changed anything?” the Reaper says, finally meeting his son’s eyes.
Xave doesn’t back down. “Hell yes it might’ve.”
“And that’s exactly the problem,” his father says. “This needed to happen exactly the way it happened.”
Xave waves his arms around, gesturing to all the dead. “Really? They all had to die like this? Just because I use the dead as my tools doesn’t mean I want people to die.” He’s practically shouting now, drawing the attention of the others around us. Some of the Claires are looking our way. Laney stands up from a body she’s inspecting and stares at us.
“Son, I’m sorry,” the Reaper says, but Xave is already marching away, as pissed as I’ve ever seen him.
“Make it up to him,” I say. “Stop with the lies and half-truths and maybe you’ll start to deserve your son.”
The Reaper looks genuinely sad, although that could be an act, too. “There’s not time for smoothing out ruffled emotions,” he says. “Not yet.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “This is the perfect time. We did it. We killed President Washington and everyone who serves her. It’s over.”
The Reaper shakes his head. “It’s not over by a longshot. First we have to unite the humans and those magic-born who want peace. You think that’ll be easy? Can you imagine a Necro having lunch with a human? Rebuilding a house together? Even looking at each other without wanting to fight?”
“But it can be done,” I say. “The people just need to be reasoned with by someone they trust.”
“Their own president was the enemy,” the Reaper says, and this time his argument hits home. The president being a witch makes Watergate seem like a tabloid newsbyte rather than a major scandal.
“Yeah, that sucks,” I say. “But still. We have to believe that the world can come back from this.”
“I agree,” the Reaper says. “Unfortunately, that’s not the only problem.”
I sigh, wishing I could cover my ears and avoid hearing the next problem. But I can’t—it’s just not in me anymore. “What?”
“Another foe will rise up to replace President Washington,” the Reaper says. “One who’s smarter, and possibly stronger.”
Great. “Who this time? The Queen of England?”
My sarcasm is lost on the Reaper’s deep frown. “You really don’t know?” he says.
>
Of course I know. Of course. Trish’s final gift to me was that of knowledge of a future so certain and awful that I can’t even pretend to ignore it. “Flora,” I say, the memory of the panther-like Shifter licking my face springing to mind. It makes me want to take a shower.
“Yes. I saw what Flora did for you,” the Reaper says.
Trish’s vision has made me even more confused by Flora’s motives. “Yeah, she saved me. She broke the president’s spell and allowed me to kill her. I owe her everything.”
“No,” the Reaper says, chuckling mirthlessly. “She used you to eliminate her competition. She’s wanted to overthrow Washington for years, but couldn’t because of all the support Washington had. At first she wanted to join with the Necros, since we had the same goal. But when I rejected her she switched sides. She figured if she couldn’t beat her old foe, she would stay close to her. Bide her time. And then you came along and she saw an opportunity to help someone give her what she wanted. She played you from the beginning.”
“No,” I say, in denial. “I didn’t even know she was here until near the end. And she couldn’t have planned for me to get petrified. It just happened and then she broke the spell.” Even as I deny the Reaper’s accusation, I remember something. “Wait. There was a creature made of mud. Grogg.”
The Reaper nods as if he’s not surprised. “What did this creature say to you?”
“He tried to turn me against the president,” I say. “And he led Bil Nez to where they were keeping us. But what does Grogg have to do with Flora?”
The Reaper laughs again, this time genuinely. “Apparently I wasn’t as good a witch hunting instructor as I thought. The Shifters have a secondary power to shapeshifting. Molding,” he says. “They can create life-like creatures from ordinary things, like mud. They control whatever they create.”
I’m dumbfounded. “Flora made Grogg?” I say.
“Or another Shifter who serves her,” the Reaper says. “As soon as she realized you were in New Washington she saw it as an opportunity to kill the president, using your strength as a Resistor for her own nefarious purposes.”