Free Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set by David Estes Page A

different.
    The fury is curling inside me, fiery tendrils of flame licking at my heart, but I don’t show it. Not this time. Typically Mr. Jackson can see the anger plastered on my face, in the line of my taut muscles, in the way my strokes get stronger and stronger…and then he calls me on it, tells me to focus, to not let my temper control me. And it always disappears and I always lose.
    Always.
    Every time.
    Failure.
    Not today.
    Today I hide my boiling wrath, clamp a lid on the pot and pretend my anger isn’t there. But it is there. And it continues to feed my muscles, my body, and I launch an attack that even I didn’t know I had in me. Mr. Jackson fights back, but I match him stroke for stroke, and then he trips and falls back, his sword spinning away from him, and I leap…
    …and he rolls, faster than lightning, there and gone, my sword stabbing into the wood floor. He’s on me before I can draw my weapon back, pushing me down, shoving his sword at my neck.
    For a moment I think he’ll do it.
    Instead, he stops the tip just above my bare skin, sheened with sweat.
    I can’t breathe, because his knees are on my chest and I’m shocked I almost won and afraid he might still kill me.
    And then I see it in his eyes. Not anger or victory or anything that should be there.
    What I see is fear.
     
    ~~~
     
    I’m leaving. I’ve finally come to my senses. All of this “education,” all of this “training,” it’s not real. They’re ways of getting me to stay. Reasons to delay my departure. And the “field trips?” They’re meant to scare me into never leaving Mr. Jackson’s house. I could see it in the fear in Mr. Jackson’s eyes today when I almost beat him. He never intended me to get that strong, to get that close—and it scared the crap out of him.
    The only thing I can’t get my mind around is why. Why does Mr. Jackson care? As a neighbor, he was nice enough, but it’s not like we were ever close. I never visited him or anything. The only thing I can think of is that perhaps he’s trying to replace his son—the warlock—with a human kid. Maybe he likes the feeling of having someone to protect. Or maybe he’s just a really nice guy who wants to help me stay alive.
    Regardless, I’m not his burden—not anymore. I’m leaving today, when he least expects it, when he goes out for one of his so-called errands.
    But first I need to get as much information as possible.
    “Was your son involved?” I ask sharply when I see Mr. Jackson. I don’t know why it would matter one way or the other, but I can’t stop from asking. I expect him to close off again, but he doesn’t.
    “With the attack?” Mr. Jackson says, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t see him so I can’t be certain. But I hope he wasn’t, that he was better than all that.”
    He’s not telling me everything. I can sense it in the dead quiet space after he closes his mouth. Not that I’m surprised. He’s been keeping things from me since the moment I met him. “And now?” I ask.
    “He’s…”
    “He’s what?” I push.
    “Never mind,” Mr. Jackson says. “It’s not important.”
    Everything is important when I’m about to be on my own. “Mr. Jackson,” I say, “what witch gang does your son belong to?”
    “I told you, I haven’t seen him since before Salem’s Revenge.”
    “That doesn’t mean you don’t know,” I say. Please don’t walk away , I think.
    His gaze flits to the radio and then back to me. “Don’t judge him,” he says. Why would he say that? Unless…
    “What gang?” I ask firmly.
    Mr. Jackson fixes me with a heavy stare. “The Necros,” he says.

Chapter Eleven
     
    T hree months since Salem’s Revenge. Three months since the happiest time in my life was ripped away from me without remorse by the witch gangs.
    Three months since Mr. Jackson started training me.
    Three months since Mr. Jackson started lying to me.
    He’s never wanted to follow the Necros to help me destroy them. Or at