Poison Princess

“Uh-huh. Over the last half a year, I’ve seen everything in your journal coming true. I had to know why.”

“You and your puzzles,” I said absently. “Why did you think I’d still be alive, when most girls died?”

“I knew.” At my raised brows, he gruffly said, “I got ways, me.” Before I could delve deeper, he continued, “But I never imagined what I’d find when I got here. In a backwater parish in Louisiana, there’s this soft little girl hiding crops in a barn.” Jackson held my gaze. “I’ll be damned before the general gets his hands on them.”

“When will they come?”

“If it’s clear tomorrow, the first convoy of trucks will be here by noon at the latest. Why woan you believe me?”

“It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. I can’t move Mom! She’s in terrible pain just rising from the bed—how am I going to get her down the stairs? What if I hurt her worse? I could kill her!” Struggling for an even tone, I asked, “What would you do if it were your mother?”

I’d just assumed she’d died when Jackson and Clotile had been at the doctor’s. . . .

He stilled beside me. “Doan want to talk about her, no.” He could talk about the horror that had befallen Clotile, but not about whatever had happened to his mother?

Could her fate have been worse? “Okay, then. I won’t mention it again.”

“What if I promise to find your mère a doctor in Texas?”

If someone had told me yesterday that I’d soon be considering this—trusting my mother’s life to Jackson Deveaux—I would have laughed. “Can I just think about this until morning?”

“What for, you?”

He’d shared his agonizing tale with me. I could at least be honest about my hesitation. “I’m not used to making decisions like this,” I admitted. “Mom pretty much took care of any tough calls for the first ninety-five percent of my life. I’m still stumbling here, and God knows I can’t afford a misstep with this. Nothing matters to me more than her. Nothing.”

“Evie—”

“She might take a turn for the better now that she’s eaten so well.”

He exhaled a pent-up breath, but that muscle ticked in his cheek again. “We’ll talk in the morning. Early. Until then, I’m goan to be filling this car with supplies, readying to bug out fast.”

“What supplies?”

“I’m goan to top off every container I can find with fuel or water. Goan to rummage for weapons and a few tools. And you better be packed, ready to go. Just in case,” he added, but I knew he had no doubt in his mind that we’d be leaving.

“You’re pretty confident you’ll get this car to work, then?”

He nodded. “Now, what’re we goan to do about the crops?”

I gazed away. “Do?” We?

“When the army finds them, that general’s goan to want to know all about them. If you’re here, he’ll give you to the twins to torture until you reveal everything. If you’re not here, he’ll send trackers after you. One way or another, he will get answers. Is that something you want him to find out?”

Dear God, no. If that man was as evil as Jackson said, he’d probably drain me daily. I shivered.

“Evangeline, damn it, tell me about them, and I’ll help you. How’d you do it? Voodoo? Magic? Government experiment?” When I remained silent, he grated, “Come on, after all I told you?” He made a sound of frustration. “Then at least answer me this: If I pack that box of seeds from your pantry, can those crops come about again?”

I could at least answer that, right? I worried my bottom lip. Mom thought we could trust him. Take a leap, Evie. We did need him.

So why did I still distrust him so strongly? Was it because of our history, or because he was so different from me, from the folks I’d grown up with? “You yourself told me you were a thousand times worse than everyone said. You acted like you wanted to kiss me just so you and your friends could steal from me and mine. How can I trust you?”

He cast me a disbelieving look. “You think that’s the only reason I wanted to kiss you? You doan know much about boys, no. I would’ve taken you to bed that night so fast it’d make your head swim.” Another swig.

My breaths shallowed. “L-like I said before, I’ll address this in the morning. It might be a moot point.” At his raised brows, I said, “All this is assuming you can get our car fixed.”

“It’s been fixed, peekôn.”

I held my breath as he reached for the start button. When the engine came roaring to life in the quiet of the night, I glanced at Mom’s room again.

I imagined her tucked in her bed, about to doze off, dreamily smiling at the sound.

20

DAY 221 A.F.

I rose at dawn, wide-awake.

I was too wired to be hungover, even though Jackson and I had sat in the car, passing his flask back and forth as I’d charged my iPod. He believed electronics that escaped a direct Flash hit didn’t get fried: “Kind of like people.” He’d been right about my iPod.

But when he’d asked about the crops again, I’d quietly thanked him for dinner and gone to bed. . . .

Now I slipped to the window, gazing out at the morning dust storm—a howler. Which meant those men would be delayed and I could hold Jackson off a little while longer. Maybe Mom was better, well enough to evacuate.

I poured water from my pitcher into my stoppered sink, hurriedly brushing my teeth and hair. After pulling on some jeans, a hoodie, and my customary bandanna around my neck, I left my room.

In the hallway, I slowed. Jackson was sitting at the top of the stairs, opening his flask. He didn’t look like he’d slept, still had his crossbow slung over his back, his own bandanna smeared with soot.

I frowned when he closed the flask without taking a drink. He just stared at it in his hands.

Uneasiness settled over me, as if I were an animal sensing a storm. Pressure. Danger coming.

“Evangeline, your mère’s gone.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Leave it to a cretin like you to joke about something like that.”

“She passed away in the night.”

Even as it felt like a vise was grinding closed over my chest, I snapped, “That’s not funny! God, you haven’t changed a bit!”

“She’s passed on,” he murmured again.

“No.” Dread grew as I studied his tired face. “You’re lying.” I pointed my finger at him. “No!”

He just stared at me. As the world began to spin, I bolted down the hall, clamping onto her room’s doorjamb as I careened inside.

One look and I knew she was gone. Her face was truly peaceful. For the first time since the Flash.

Some wretched sound slipped past my lips. She’s gone. My mother is . . .

Gone.

In a daze, I stepped closer to the bed, realizing that she clutched a picture in one ghostly white hand.

I remembered the photo. It was of her, me, and Gran in front of Haven one Easter. I was standing between them, proudly displaying a basket full of eggs. The azaleas had been in bloom, dazzlingly bold in color. The air had smelled of new cane, gardenias, and a distant high tide.

Now, as I’d done a thousand times before, I sat beside Mom on her bed to talk. “You wouldn’t do this.” I barely recognized my voice. “You wouldn’t leave me alone like this.”