Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set by David Estes

that’s the truth, although it seems to sit in my gut like bad Chinese food. What once started as a mission to find Xave and Beth, who I’d deluded myself into believing were alive, has become a mission of death. And wrapped around that mission are the Necromancers, who were at least in part responsible for the deaths of everyone I loved.
    Xave and Beth are dead, I remind myself, crushing the tiny bloom of hope that springs up inside me every time I think of them.
    It’s only after having numerous near-death experiences that I’ve come to realize that we all used to be just a misstep off a curb into the path of a bus away from death; but it’s no different today, except now it’s like the buses have grown teeth and are jumping the curb to eat you whole.
    There’s a soft whine and Hex wanders over to me, barely illuminated by a thin sliver of moonlight that finds its way through the branches to our makeshift campsite. He rests his chin on my lap, stares up with those impenetrable brown eyes of his, and sticks his tongue out at me.
    I laugh and laugh and laugh and scratch him behind the ears until my face hurts and both our eyelids start to droop.
    And then I make a resolution.
     
    ~~~
     
    I awake to a throaty bark, whipping my sword from its sheath before my eyes have a chance to spring open.
    Hex is beside me, hackles raised, teeth bared and rumbling out a growl at a man who’s backing away slowly, trying to fade into the woods.
    The brown-skinned man isn’t old, but not young either—sort of in the middle somewhere. Forty, maybe forty five, with a hint of silver around the edges of his medium-brown, thick hair, which is so greasy and matted it looks as if an entire generation of head lice might’ve taken up residence on his scalp. He’s wearing ripped black jeans tucked into heavy brown boots, and an old blue-and-white striped sweater, stained with dirt and grease and time. He looks like one of the homeless men I used to pass on the city streets, playing harmonicas and homemade drums for money. Of course now we’re all homeless, in a way.
    And he’s holding an unopened bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water.
    “Those are ours,” I say, as if the thief wouldn’t be aware that he was stealing. Hex growls his agreement.
    The homeless guy doesn’t speak, just drops the water bottle and raises his hands above his head. He winces, as if in pain.
    “The jerky, too,” I say. Hex barks, practically right in my ear. “Down, boy,” I say, hoping I can calm my dog’s nerves. Hex barks again, as if in protest, but then lets his growl fade away as he settles onto his haunches. “Good, boy.”
    The man looks up at the jerky, which he’s still holding above his head, and then back at me, as if trying to decide whether the threat of my sword is bigger than his empty stomach. I sigh. “What’s your name?” I ask.
    Cautiously eyeing Hex, the man drops his hands to his side. His face still twisted in pain, he gestures to his mouth and shakes his head. Doesn’t say a word.
    “You’re hungry?” I say.
    He shakes his head again, stops, then nods. Is he hungry or not? And why won’t he speak?
    I chew on my lip, trying to decide my next move. Other than the red witch, I’ve never seen anyone in these woods before. Could this be a trick? It’s hard to tell the difference between friends and foes these days. Witches, warls, and wizzes look the same as everyone else when they want to. Could he be a warlock, a gang member scouting the forest for easy human prey? The rumors claim that more than fifty percent of the surviving population is “magicked-up” (or magged-up, as some of the witch hunters I’ve met like to say). Which makes it a definite possibility that this guy’s one of them, and I’m not really into taking chances.
    “Get out of here,” I say. “Take the jerky and water bottle with you.” I point my sword into the woods to emphasize my point.
    Eyebrows raised, the guy bends down and picks up the