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

least that’s not his primary goal. He wants to follow them to find his son. And then what will he do? Who knows? Leave me to deal with them on my own, probably. While he goes and plays house with his kid, like everything is normal.
    Enough.
    I’ve had enough.
    Of his lectures, of being his punching bag, of his lies.
    I slip out through the backyard when Mr. Jackson is out.
    As I pull myself over the rough wooden fence, I wonder whether I should have left a longer note:
     
    Mr. Jackson,
    I appreciate everything you did for me—saving my life, taking me in, training me, trying to help me—but it’s time I learned to survive in this world on my own. I know you were just trying to protect me, but sometimes a guy needs to stand on his own two feet. I hope you understand. Perhaps our paths will cross again one day, but if not, I hope you find your son and the life you want.
     
    Your friend and student,
     
    Rhett Carter
     
    I skirt the edge of the fence, one of Mr. Jackson’s three magic-infused swords heavy where it’s strapped to my backpack. I needed a weapon and Mr. Jackson had three of them, so I figured I didn’t have much of a choice but to steal one of them. And it’s not even really stealing when, according to Mr. Jackson, he scavenged them off of dead witches. Making my way along the edge of the adjoining backyards, I’m anxious to get out of our neighborhood before Mr. Jackson returns.
    As I run on silent feet, I keep my head on a swivel, my ears perked like a rabbit to identify any danger before it’s too late. Just as I reach the first cross street and begin to check in both directions, I hear the scuff of feet.
    Holy freaking—
    I dive for the ground, my heart like a race horse’s hooves, my nerves an explosion of fear. Hand and elbows and knees and feet, I pull myself behind a thick bush, watching the street between the foliage.
    Two, four, six young magic-born march past, wearing jeans and shorts and t-shirts, clothes so normal I’d think they were typical teenagers if not for the balls of fire grasped in each of their hands. Three guys, three girls. All Pyros. Wielders of fire magic.
    My exhalations are like brass gongs, so loud in my ears that I’m sure they’ll hear me.
    They stop. Look around. One of them says something and they all laugh. One of the girls winds up and throws a fireball at one of the houses, which promptly bursts into flame.
    They all laugh again, and I wait for the screams.
    The Pyros continue down the street, occasionally chucking fireballs at houses, too lazy to search for humans the old-fashioned way. To my relief, there are no screams, just the sickening sound of wood crackling and popping in the blaze.
    I manage to slip past the Pyros who are terrorizing my neighborhood. I sneak along fences and behind foliage and between houses, many of which are burning. The smoke is thick and heavy and wants to get into my mouth, but I stay low, where the air is clear.
    Without Mr. Jackson to guide me, I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going, just that I have to keep moving forward. I have to find some Necros, who will lead me to their lair, wherever that is. What I’ll do when I get there, I have no clue.
    Kill the Reaper and avenge Beth, right? Xave, too, if the witches have already killed him. I mull over the possible reasons the Necros would’ve taken Xavier alive, when usually they deal only in the dead. Perhaps the recipe for one of their deadly brews calls for, among other things, bat wings, eye of newt, and hair from a parentless homosexual seventeen-year-old male. I'm hoping they just wanted a lock of his thick dark curls, and not a hand or a foot or worse.
    I cringe at my own dark thoughts, but feel a smirk on my lips. It’s exactly the type of gruesome joke that Xave would’ve laughed at.
    “But he’s dead,” I remind myself, forcing the hope away like a bad dream.
    The world is eerily silent, even as I move into a commercial part of the city, which should