Poison Princess

16

DAY 220 A.F.

I thought I’d heard a motorcycle.

This morning the winds were still. With no leaves, cars, or animal calls, sound carried differently now.

Can it possibly be? I wondered as I stumbled away from the house, weak from blood loss. Since my discovery last week, I’d been aggressively . . . farming.

That motorcycle sound stirred up memories from a former life, a time of comfort and plenty that seemed a thousand years past.

I could almost close my eyes, listen to that rumble, and pretend I still lived that existence.

Almost. The bitter scent of ash and the jarring voices in my mind made it hard to pretend.

You’re just delirious, Evie. There was no motorcycle—any more than there would be planes in the sky.

Yes, delirium. Alas, that was an occupational hazard of being a blood farmer. Especially one with such bountiful crops as mine.

I’d believed the side effects from yesterday’s bloodletting had abated. Apparently they hadn’t, if I was imagining figments from the past.

But really, what was one more imaginary sound? Join the chorus, roar along with the voices!

I trudged onward to the barn, determined to get to work. The sky was clear for now. That unbroken blue above should’ve been beautiful to me, but it seemed like it was trying too hard to compensate for the lack of green.

To me, that blue sky seemed like a forced smile. . . .

I remembered Brandon once saying that his thoughts were on shuffle between me and football. Now my life was on shuffle, among three miserable tracks.

Track One. In the morning, I would bandage Mom’s ribs. I might be deluding myself, but I didn’t think they looked worse. Yet her thoughts seemed foggier, and she was sleeping all the time.

After making Mom comfortable, I would head to the barn for Track Two before lunch. My new rows of crops seemed to mute the voices, shoring up my sanity for precious hours—yet that came with a price.

Track Three. When I was alone in my bed at night, those voices exploded. As if my beloved crops had just forced them into a bottle of soda that would later be shaken until the top burst.

Until I wanted to tear out my hair. If I could somehow sleep through the noise, I was rewarded with lifelike scenes of the red witch. . . .

Just minutes ago, I’d completed Track One. I’d left Mom dozing fitfully after a crying jag. Hers, not mine.

The more her health declined, the more emotional she grew.

“Why didn’t I . . . listen?” she’d wheezed. “Gran told me you were special, and I laughed at her. Why couldn’t I believe in her—or you . . . the two people I loved most in the world?”

Though I’d often wondered that myself, I’d tried to soothe her, telling her that everything was going to be fine now.

After her outburst, I knew I couldn’t reveal my new talent. For days, I’d debated it, but how would she feel when confronted with yet more proof that I was “special”? More crying, more coughing fits?

My pilgrim’s bounty would be like a slap in the face to the woman who’d dispatched me to Child’s Last Chance. So I’d decided to keep quiet.

If she was out of it, I could sneak her little bites of succulent honeydew and strawberries. Yesterday morning, she’d murmured, “This must be a dream.”

For other times, I’d simply pickled the vegetables and told her I’d found jars in storage or at a neighbor’s.

Did I know how to pickle food? Hell no. But I knew how to eat pickles out of a jar, then drop the new veggies into the pickle juice.

At the barn doors, I opened the padlock. No, we hadn’t had visitors or trespassers here; regardless, I’d been paranoid enough about the priceless contents of our barn to lock it.

Inside, Allegra whinnied with a touch more energy. At least she was on her feet. After an initial lack of appetite, she’d become the delighted recipient of constant melon rinds.

“Hey, girl.” I ran my palm down her neck, touching noses with her. I’d allotted two more days before I’d risk a trip with her.

Too soon, and I could kill her, eliminating any hope of finding a doctor. Too late, and . . .

Don’t go there, Evie.

In the back, I ducked under the fallen roof rafters to enter my garden, shucking out of my jacket. After rolling up a sleeve of my sweater, I pulled out my pack of razor blades from my jeans pocket, sliding one off the top.

I took a deep breath, then dragged the blade along the plump vein leading to my elbow. If only the doctors in Atlanta could see me now!

Ah, but those smug quacks were probably all ash.

As though kindling a fire, I used my blood to coax carrot seeds and potato eyes to life. I dappled drops over kernels, watching as sleek stalks sprouted ears of corn for me.

Yet too soon, dizziness and a bone-deep chill washed over me. I now understood why dying movie characters always whispered, “Cold, so . . . cold,” as they bled out. Body warmth oozed out right along with the blood.

I sighed when my skin began healing. Though my hand shook, I reopened that tender vein with another razor slice, wincing with pain.

As the blood ran, I fought to keep my eyes open. The barn started to spin and that chill intensified.

Delirium must be taking hold, because I heard that imaginary motorcycle—roaring down Haven’s shell drive.

Not imaginary? My first thought: Had the Cajun . . . lived?

From time to time, I’d thought of him, mostly to curse him for taking Mel’s phone—even though I’d begun to wonder if I could possibly have gotten her back to Haven and into the cellar in time.

Did I blame him for her death? Whenever I imagined Mel incinerated in her car, I did.

It hurt less than blaming myself for my mistakes—for not making my mother see the truth, for not believing in my own sanity, for not warning people.

For not saying, “Hell yeah, Mel, you’re staying here tonight.”

The motorcycle was getting closer. No matter who it was, I needed to tidy up and get my shotgun ready. I wiped my arm clean, then shoved down my sleeve.

Gun in hand, I stumbled outside, locking the barn behind me.

The biker caught sight of me and slowed to a stop, canting his helmet. He had on a black leather jacket, worn jeans, and boots. A wicked-looking crossbow was slung over his back.

I recognized his build, the wide expanse of his shoulders. My lips parted in shock. Jackson Deveaux.

He was alive.

I tottered, as if the ground was shaking beneath my feet. Then I frowned. The ground had briefly quaked.

He parked, turned off his engine. When he removed his helmet, I saw that his jet-black hair was longer, his face not quite as tanned. His eyes were still that vivid gray, but had dark circles under them.

He looked weary. And there was a hardness to his features that hadn’t been there before.

I didn’t know how I felt about seeing him again. In my mind, he was a villain. But he was also a former classmate—for however short a duration. Hadn’t I yearned to see someone my own age? This one was actually, physically here.