Poison Princess

I shrank back when I saw a blurry outline of a person. Slowly, my eyes adjusted.

Jackson was in my room! I’d never had a boy in my room—much less that boy.

He still had his crossbow strapped over his shoulder. In his hand? Yet another candle.

As I tried to shake off the remnants of that dream and get my bearings—how had I gotten in bed? why was he inside?—I feigned sleep, watching him as he snooped around like he owned the place.

He gazed at the storm clouds I’d painted on the walls, strolled into my closet and rummaged around, then emerged to check out my dance trophies and recital pictures. He flipped through a supply of sketchbooks—all blank.

Drawing held little interest for me these days. The voices made it impossible for me to sit still. And besides, my brain was already stained beyond repair.

As if he couldn’t help himself, he returned to the wall paintings, holding up the candle to trace his fingers over the clouds. The flickering light ghosted over a grisly-looking scar on his forearm.

I recognized that injury, had been in his home when a drunken man had slashed Jackson’s skin to the bone.

I’d witnessed how brutal this boy could be—he’d nearly beaten the man to death in front of me. Yet he was now touching my paintings gently, almost reverently.

I felt like a spy, like this was a moment I was never supposed to share. It seemed . . . intimate. When he touched the cane, I swore I could feel him aching for those fields, for that rain about to fall.

He abruptly dropped his hands. Without turning, he said, “So this is where Evangeline Greene grew up.”

“What are you doing in my room? How did I get into bed?”

He finally faced me, but ignored my questions. “That closet of yours—not quite big enough, no?”

I flushed to remember that he hadn’t even had a bedroom of his own.

He opened the top drawer of my dresser. “How many ribbons and bebins can one girl have?” With raised brows, he lifted a pink Victoria’s Secret bra from the next drawer. “I fondly recall this one.”

Between gritted teeth, I said, “Drop it like it’s hot.”

“Oh, it’s hot, all right.” He smirked, but he did toss it back. “How do you even keep up with all the stuff you own? Doan know that I’d want to have so much, me. Must be a full-time job just to remember where everything is.”

I recalled his home, his meager possessions, his few books—that worn copy of Robinson Crusoe by the couch that he’d slept on. . . .

“You were even richer than I thought.”

Rich? Why would he bring that up? Then I remembered that he was a thief—and he’d shamelessly told me he would steal supplies from us! “Where is my mother?”

“Drinking the tea I made her and reading one of the last newspaper editions from back east.”

“If you hurt her or upset her in any way, I will make you pay.”

“Hurt her? When I found her, she was trying to get down the stairs, scared to death from hearing that fool shot you took.”

“Oh, God!”

“Doan worry. I managed to get you up your tree-house ladder and save the day.” He frowned. “You weigh a lot less than I thought. Anyway, I explained to her that you accidentally shot at me—which didn’t surprise her—then I showed her how you were passed out, limp as a noodle.”

“Mom!” I called. Just as I ripped off my bedspread to race into her room, she called back, “In here, honey.” She sounded perfectly fine, even better than before.

My relief was short-lived when I saw Jackson eyeing my uncovered legs. With a gasp, I yanked the bedspread back over me. Why was I no longer wearing my boots and jeans? Had I taken them off?

Or had Jackson? He wouldn’t. . . .

Oh, but he would. Under my breath, I hissed, “You undressed me?”

He gave me a bored glance. “Partially.”

Gaze darting around the room, I demanded, “Where is my gun?”

“I put it away before you killed a white hat with it. You might’ve been clever with the ladder and the door braces, but a markswoman you ain’t.”

While I was working up the most vile and cutting insult I could imagine, he eased my bedroom door shut.

My eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering me, he nonchalantly unstrapped his bow, then sat beside me in bed, his back against the headboard.

And there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I stiffened, scooting to the edge of the mattress. He seemed even bigger than I’d remembered, taking up far too much of the bed.

“You know, I’d never hurt your mère, no. She’s never done anything to me. Unlike her coldhearted daughter.”

What had I ever done to him? He was the one who’d stolen from me and my friends, who’d bellowed at me in the rain.

“Non, Karen and I had a nice long chat.”

“Karen?” He was on a first-name basis with Mom? How long had I been out? “She wouldn’t let you just roam around our home!” Then I noticed that his hair was wet, his black T-shirt and worn jeans clean. So I added, “And if she did, she shouldn’t have. She doesn’t know you.”

“I explained that you and me were history podnas in school.” With a mean smile, he added, “I told her that you’d even been to my house—and met my mother.”

I swallowed at the memory of that night, at the way his voice grew tight with anger just to mention it. He seemed to be daring me to say something about it.

When I didn’t, he added, “After that, Karen was fine with my being here.”

I clutched my bedspread. “I don’t apologize for going to your house that night. You had no right to take my journal from me.”

“I doan like unsolved puzzles, me. You wouldn’t show me your drawings, so I asked Lionel to borrow them.”

“Considering the journal’s contents, you can understand why I wanted it back.”

“How long have you had visions?”

His matter-of-fact question flustered me. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . . how can you talk about this so—so calmly?”

“I had a cousin who could read the future in coffee grinds. My grandmother could predict hurricanes a month in advance.”

It seemed like everyone in Louisiana had known somebody with “the sight.”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“No matter. Your mother explained some things to me.”

Had she told him that my grandmother was a Tarot card fanatic who thought I would be the world’s salvation? Bang-up job I’m doing, Gran! “What exactly did Mom explain?”

“That you’re s’posed to be sweet and charming and funny.” He pinned me with a look. “I doan see it.”

“You need to leave Haven. Now.” What if he saw the contents of the barn? “You’re not welcome here.”

He smirked. “Karen disagrees.”

“I doubt she’ll welcome you if I tell her you undressed me.”

“Maybe she’ll only partially welcome me.”

Smart-ass.

“So now it’s time for you and me to talk, Evangeline. I didn’t only come here to barter. Came here to warn you.”

“About what?”

“There’s a wave of men coming down this way in a day or two. An army. Three thousand strong.”

“So? That’s great news.” Then my heart leapt. “They must have medics!”