Brew (Salem's Revenge Book 1) Read online

  I don’t want to think about what would happen.

  Next to the parking lot, a dormitory rises up, constructed of red brick and neat rows of small, identical windows. It’s the type of place I was hoping to be living in a year from now, back when there was college and football scholarships and NO WITCHES.

  A noise stops me. It’s a clatter and a thud and the rumble of low voices.

  Crap. Someone’s coming. And anyone who’d be making that much noise can’t possibly be human.

  Hex and I race for the entrance door, desperate to get inside the dorm before the witches arrive. I try the handle.

  Locked. I curse under my breath, hearing the voices get closer and closer. Another thud. A laugh.

  “C’mon,” I hiss, urging Hex to follow me around the dorm, which is directly across from a commercial area with shops and restaurants. He bounds out in front of me, his feet lifting off the ground. He’s flying, something I’ve never seen him do before. But I don’t have time to dwell on it as I sprint after him.

  Someone shouts behind us. The witches have spotted us. I risk a glance back, my heart skipping a beat when I see the fleet of pickup trucks in pursuit. Riding in the truck beds are black-cloaked witches and warlocks, sitting amongst piles of corpses.

  Necros.

  A few jump down and start chasing me across the lawn.

  A burning hot flame erupts in my veins and I have the urge to stop, to turn, to fight them. All I want to do is kill as many of them as possible before they kill me. But no. That would be a mistake. My revenge must be complete. Killing a few of the witches who took my friends from me is not enough. I have to kill them all.

  So I race onward, crossing the street and turning down the main stretch of road. A shattered-window drugstore flashes by on the right, and I cut hard to the left, following Hex down a smaller cross street. His feet return to the ground, his claws scraping on the pavement.

  He veers right into an alleyway, leaping over something bundled on the ground. I try to do the same, but my exhausted legs are like lead, my feet clipping the top of the low barrier. My stomach drops and I go down, skidding at first, and then rolling on the hard brick, collecting filth and garbage around my flailing arms and legs.

  “Ahh!” I yell, stopping when my head clangs off the side of a Dumpster. Not my most graceful landing. Head throbbing, I gaze down the alley. Hex waits impatiently, his tongue wagging, his head gesturing for me to keep going.

  As I drag to my feet, I spot movement near the mouth of the passage. The bundle is moving. Not a bundle—a brown sleeping bag, worn and tattered. A familiar head pops out and my breath hitches.

  The homeless guy from the woods. The one who “borrowed” a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water. The speechless man with the severed tongue. Like before, his face is contorted in pain. From me accidentally kicking him? Or is he always in pain from some unseen ailment?

  Hex barks, but I’m frozen, watching the man. How is it possible that this man travelled from the woods of West Virginia to Morgantown? Why would he? Is he following me?

  There’s a shout somewhere nearby. The Necros, getting closer.

  The guy’s head snaps back and then returns to me, wide-eyed. He pushes the sleeping bag away from his feet and starts to run toward me, but stops when pain flashes across his face, opening his mouth in a silent groan. Is something wrong with his legs? If so, it would be a small miracle that he followed me for so many miles. And it’s not like he forced me to run down his alley and trip over him. The whole thing has me confused and speechless. The knock on the head didn’t help things either.

  He takes another step, but he doesn’t limp. And yet…the pain is clearly there, stopping him once more. Biting down hard, he gestures to the side of the alley. I follow the path of his finger to a black, iron door, the back entrance to a restaurant kitchen, most likely. He wants me to go in the door? Why should I trust him? Just because I shared a bit of my provisions with him doesn’t mean he won’t screw me over.

  It’s not me, but Hex who chooses to believe the man. My dog pads over to the door and paws at it, his claws scraping on the metal.

  The shouts are getting louder, the footsteps on the asphalt full of urgency. The Necros want to kill me.

  I’m out of time. And if the homeless guy’s door is good enough for Hex, it’s good enough for me. “Thank you,” I say, forcing my legs toward the door. I open it and Hex bolts through. When I look back to gesture the man inside, he’s gone, his sleeping bag left crookedly on the rubbish-strewn ground. Evidently he found another place to hide.

  I close the door just as I see a dark form round the corner.

  ~~~

  The Necros thunder past, their cries fading into the distance. Are we safe?

  Without any magical lights, it’s pitch black inside. I twitch when Hex’s eyes brighten, lighting the room like flashlights. He’s never done that before. “Good boy,” I say, scratching behind his ears with one hand while using my other to shield my eyes against the light.

  I was right. We’re in a commercial kitchen, all metal counters and shelves and cooktops. Hex’s eye-lights pass over an old chef’s hat, discarded haphazardly in a dusty corner next to a dead cockroach. Hex forgets about me to sniff at the rumpled hat and insect.

  “Hex,” I say, but he ignores me. I wait patiently until my dog’s curiosity is sated. When he turns back to me, I say, “Over here.” Hex passes the light beams over the far wall, where the dark rectangular outline of where shelving used to be is imprinted in the white plasterboard. The shelves have fallen over—or more likely were knocked over—a mess of various cooking supplies smashed and broken on the floor. Snapped uncooked spaghetti noodles, a shattered jar of pasta sauce, now brown and congealed, a busted-open bag of flour…and one dead chef.

  I recoil sharply, backing into the corner with the chef’s hat and the dead cockroach, nearly stepping on Hex, who lithely dances out of the way. “Ugh,” I say, holding my nose, but unable to tear my gaze from the dead person, who is nothing more than a collection of bones.

  My stomach convulses when a rat crawls out of a gaping hole in the skeleton’s skull. What kind of witch could do damage like that?

  “We need to go—now,” I say. Hex looks at me with what appears to be disagreement, as if to say, But there are SO MANY smells to investigate here!

  “Sorry, boy, I think I’m going to be sick. Lead the way.”

  Thankfully, Hex obeys, turning his flashlight eyes in the direction of a door that surely leads to the restaurant. We push through the swinging double doors and into a graveyard that used to be an Italian restaurant. Dead people are everywhere, as are the rats.

  Six months of violence and death and gore have hardened me, but my stomach’s not made of iron. It heaves, and it’s all I can do to turn to the side to spew on the wall, where a colorful picture of a Mario-looking man spinning a pizza in one hand has been painted.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve and look down at Hex, who’s anxiously staring up at me. “I’m okay, boy,” I say. And then: “Why would this place still be open at three in the morning?” The question is for myself, but Hex whines and aims his lights at a large banner that’s pinned to the far wall. My first thought is: My dog can read. And my second is: Ahhh, I see. The sign reads:

  CONGRATS ED & SALLY ON 30 HAPPY YEARS!

  An anniversary party, apparently one that went late into the night, perhaps an attempt by the aging couple to show that there was still youth in their bones.

  I try not to look at the dead.

  “We need to get to higher ground,” I say as if the rats are a flood that could wash us away.

  Hex wags his tail and barks at a rodent that scurries by. Then he takes off across the restaurant, the beams of his flashlight eyes bouncing around like ping pong balls. I hurry after him, glad that the skeletons and rats are once more thrown into darkness.

  We hustle up a curving staircase and onto the second floor, which, mercifully, is free
of bones and rats. Apparently the guests of honor didn’t have enough friends to occupy the whole of the restaurant. Each table is set neatly, although dusty after months of disuse, with a glass dish in the center filled with melted white wax. Menus are placed on each corner, and I’m half-tempted to sit down and have a look, as if someone might come by and take my order. As if life is normal and you can go to a restaurant when you’re hungry.

  But Hex is already on the move, skirting the empty tables with ease, passing through another swinging door that’s marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. A second kitchen? I’m not sure I want to find out. “Wait up, boy,” I say, but the door’s already swinging shut and it’s all I can do to hurry across the room with the last shreds of light, trying not to break a leg by tripping on a chair.

  The door comes up quicker than I expect, but smartly, I’ve got my hands out to push through it. I barely catch a glimpse of a small room and Hex’s tail as he bounds up another set of stairs. A third floor?

  Once more, I’m thrust into darkness, so I have no choice but to chase after my unusual canine, who’s acting more and more like he owns this place. As I feel my way across the space, my imagination runs rampant. Icy bone hands reach for my neck, and I shiver as they pass through my skin, an intangible specter playing a prank.

  My heart is racing when I trip on the wooden steps. Hard points and angles claw at my toes.

  I haul to my feet, glancing behind me just in case. There are no icy bone hands, no ghosts, just an empty untouched storage room, its shelves stacked neatly with supplies. Boxes of pasta, cans of beans, jars of tomato sauce, Doritos, beef jerky…

  I almost turn away to follow Hex, but then I stop. My eyes zero in on the Doritos and beef jerky. Not normal items for an Italian restaurant. And below them: cases of bottled water and dozens of canned goods, stacked neatly, everything from Chef Boyardee to green beans to mixed peas and carrots. Survival supplies.

  Could it be? Could someone be living in this dead restaurant?

  Chook-chook. The sound is heavy and ominous in the silence. I stare at the supplies, afraid to turn around. “Don’t move, Bottle Eyes, or I’ll freaking blow your face off,” a girl’s voice says. I quite like my face, so I stay frozen in place. I can even live with the unnecessary and somewhat childish jab at my thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Let’s not do anything hasty,” I say to the shelves, which, technically, is moving, albeit only my lips, but I’m hoping she’ll give me a pass in support of open communication.

  “Inaction leads to death,” she says, which sounds like something Mr. Jackson would say. Her voice is raspy, in a good way, reminding me of Miley Cyrus singing the kinds of songs that appeal to a young audience. Well, she was singing songs—now she’s probably dead.

  “And in this case, action leads to my death, which I’m trying to avoid,” I say.

  “Don’t talk unless I tell you to,” she says. So much for open communication.

  I don’t talk.

  “What’s your name?” I’m not sure why that’s relevant. I keep my mouth shut.

  “Very good,” she says after a minute of silence. “I was testing your ability to obey commands.” Fascinating. Where did Hex run off to? “Good dog,” the girl says. The lemming! He’s switched sides! It shouldn’t surprise me; all it takes is a bit of food and a belly scratch to win Hex’s heart.

  “He’s my dog,” I say, even though I haven’t received permission to speak.

  “The Drooler seems to like me better,” she says.

  “That’s because you have a big gun. Earning love out of fear is a false love.”

  “Your words are cleverer than most folks I run into. How do you know I have a big gun?” I’m surprised she hasn’t rebuked me for speaking out of turn. For now, I’ll consider it a small victory.

  “Small guns don’t make the noise yours did.” Silence. “You still there?”

  “Yeah.” The voice comes from much closer, practically right next to my ear, and I nearly jump out of my skin. This girl knows how to move quietly; perhaps that’s how she’s managed to survive this long.

  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I ask, finally turning to face her.

  The barrel of her shotgun hits me square between the eyes, pushing the bridge of my glasses into my skin. “It would save me from pulling the trigger,” she says.

  She’s carrying a lantern, and behind her, Hex’s eyes have returned to their normal light-brown hue. She’s around my age, maybe a year younger, with short blond hair and turquoise eyes. Her cheeks look orange in the flickering candlelight, and are speckled with freckles. There’s no fear in her expression. I guess that’s because she’s the one holding the big gun.

  “Why do you have a sword?” she asks.

  “Why do you have a gun?” I say.

  She chews on her lip. “You’re not a warl,” she says.

  “You’re not a witch,” I reply. Witches don’t carry guns. Why would they?

  “Thanks for reminding me,” she says.

  I notice a tattoo on the side of her neck. Two Chinese characters. “You want to be a witch?” I ask.

  “Not really, but it would be easier being the predator than the prey.”

  Fair enough. “Well, it’s been nice chatting, but we’d best be getting on our way…”

  “I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time,” she says. Is that a hint of loneliness I detect?

  “Neither have I.” Well, except for a strange, tongue-less bum who didn’t really talk back, and Hex, who’s not exactly the best conversationalist.

  “Do you want to come upstairs for a minute?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow. Not what I expected her to say. “If you don’t do anything stupid, I won’t shoot a hole through your chest.” That’s more like it.

  “I’d love to,” I say. What I really mean is, Do I have a choice?

  This girl is nuts, I think as I trudge up the stairs in front of her, the hard metal barrel of her gun poking into my spine. “Try anything funny, Four Eyes, and you can roll around in a wheelchair,” she says. Charming.

  At the top of the stairs, Hex is, as usual, wagging his tail and wearing a smile. I can see the delight in his eyes: new friends! I try to warn him off with my cold expression. Don’t get attached, buddy.

  My dog leads me into a small apartment, lit by another lantern in one of the corners. The window is covered with thick, dark drapes, completely blocking out the morning sun and hiding the space from prying eyes. A small bed is flush with the opposite wall, messy and unmade, piled with sheets and blankets. Evidently the Italian chef lived above his restaurant. Convenient.

  “Sit down,” the girl orders.

  Obediently, I crouch and then rest my butt on the worn blue carpet, feeling aches and pains from the last few days in my muscles and joints. Still, it feels good to sit. Hex plops down next to me, his tail thumping the floor. “I take my coffee with two brown sugars and a splash of skim milk,” I say. What I wouldn’t give for a coffee.

  Ignoring my comment, she sits several feet away, resting the gun casually in her lap. “Let’s talk,” she says.

  “Have you ever used that gun before?” I ask.

  “What do you think?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “A dead witch and warl during Salem’s Revenge would agree,” she says. “Both head shots.”

  God. If she’s telling the truth, I’ve got nothing on her. Without Mr. Jackson’s intervention, I’d be dead.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Jane,” she says. “And yours?”

  “Joe Blow,” I say. “And I suspect your last name is Doe?”

  She laughs. “You’re kind of funny. Smart too. I guess it doesn’t really matter if you know my real name, does it?”

  I shrug and present an offering. “My name’s Rhett Carter, so you can stop referring to me with various insults aimed at my pathetically inadequate eyesight.”

  “Sorry to bend your feelings,” she says, but she doesn’t sound
sorry. “You could be making that name up, too.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My name’s Laney Grant.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “Now I can stop referring to you as Psycho Gun Girl in my head.”

  “Ha ha,” she says, her tone unimpressed.

  I’m about to ask about the coffee I ordered, when there’s a rustling from the bed. I glance over and a tiny hand pokes out of the sheets. “A friend of yours?” I say.

  “My sister. Trish,” Laney says.

  “I thought you said you haven’t talked to anyone lately?”

  “She doesn’t really talk,” Laney says, fixing her eyes on the bed.

  “Too young?”

  “Too traumatized,” Laney says without emotion.

  The hand stretches and the face of a little girl emerges from the pile of blankets, yawning. Her eyes blink open. Blue, like Laney’s. She sees me, but if she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. She can’t be older than nine.

  “There’s something wrong with her,” Laney says, as if Trish isn’t even in the room. Again, her sister doesn’t react, just looks at us.

  “There’s something wrong with all of us,” I say.

  Laney laughs again, and I don’t mind it. It’s not a bad laugh, not annoying like some are. Somewhat contagious. “Isn’t that the truth,” she agrees. “So what’s wrong with you?”

  “I generally don’t fit in,” I say. “I’m a nerd, I read too much…”

  “A true basket case,” Laney mocks.

  “When I score a touchdown in football, I don’t even get excited,” I say.

  “Screwed up.”

  “I miss my first and last dead foster parents like they died yesterday.”

  “Beyond help.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Well, then what’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “Except that I’m a trigger-happy sixteen-year-old with a mute sister, two dead magic-born parents, and an unhealthy obsession with war history.”

  Unconsciously, my lips part. Two dots connect and I don’t like the picture they make. “Your parents were witches?”