Poison Princess

“Not a chance.” I didn’t have a choice. Aside from my promise to my mom, I had to solve this Arcana mystery. Because it’s never going to stop. “If you’re set on Texas, I’ll drive you until you find another car to repair.”

“You got me mal pris.” Stuck in a bad situation. “If I let you go by yourself, you’re as good as dead.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he talked over me, saying, “Come on, girl, you got no way to protect yourself.”

I did once. I used to have soldiers on every corner, watching over me. I gazed down at my mug, remembering my shell-shocked cane and those valiant oaks. Gone forever.

Just like my mother.

“Look at me, Evie. You certain you want to go that way?”

“I am.” And I was certain that I’d be better off with him. “Will you . . . will you help me?”

“Mais yeah,” he said grandly. “I’ll take you there. But I got conditions, me.”

“Of course you do.”

“You tell me your secrets. I got to know how you grew the crops. Got to know how you’ll do it again.”

Maybe I should motivate him? “I will tell you anything you want to know—as soon as I get to my gran’s.”

He hesitated before saying, “D’accord.” Agreed.

My relief was tinged with suspicion. “You don’t like me. We were never friends.”

He didn’t deny either.

“We might as well be strangers, Jackson. Yet you’re willing to travel with me, risking your life?”

“Strangers? That’s relative, ain’t it? You know me better than anyone alive. And I know you better than anyone does except your grandmother.”

Because Mom’s gone.

“Hell, Evie, there’s no one left but you. No one to speak Cajun to, no one who remembers the bayou, what it smelled like or how the sun—”

“Used to stream through the moss and cypress needles?”

“Exactement.”

“Then we’re agreed.”

With an unreadable expression, he said, “Bien. Now, there are two ways we can go. The Army of the Southeast swept down from South Carolina to Louisiana—we can backtrack over their trail, heading up through Atlanta. The major roads will be clear of wreckage, and there’ll be fewer Bagmen. On the downside, the troops will have picked clean the local gas stations and grocery stores. We got a good supply of water from Haven—if we ration—but fuel and food will be sparse. And sourcing burns up your daylight.”

This sounded less than ideal. “What’s the second way?”

“We could head north into Tennessee, then cut east. We’ll miss their trail, but risk Bagmen and blocked roads.”

I was surprised—and impressed—by how knowledgeable he was. “What do you suggest?”

“Backtracking. The trip will take longer, and it’ll be lean going, but I think it’ll be safer.”

Take longer? Now that I was on my way to find Gran, impatience burned in me. “How long are we talking?”

“I drove the entire day—and we made all of sixty miles through the windstorms. The visibility was about five feet. It’s goan to take weeks to get there.”

My lips parted. “Are we going to stop before dusk every day? The winds go still at night—I could’ve driven a shift.”

“Bagmen roam at night, so we doan.”

“Surely if we’re in a car, they can’t catch us.”

“If it was just me . . . but with you . . .” He scrubbed a bandaged hand over his mouth, looking as if he’d only just grasped what a huge responsibility he’d taken on. The responsibility for another person. “Have you even seen a Bagman? Other than in your visions?”

I hesitated, then shook my head.

“When we hunted them, we went out in groups of ten, trained and armed to the teeth. You and me? We can’t risk meeting up with them. Especially not in numbers. If anything happens to me out on the road, you’re done. No two ways about it.”

“I managed to survive since the Flash without you.”

“You were hidden away, with food, water, and a strong shelter. It’s bedlam out there. Folks have lost their fool minds.”

“I have a difficult time believing that everything good has just fallen by the wayside so quickly.” Decency, morality. “It’s only been seven months. People wouldn’t have resorted to cannibalism already.”

“There’s—no—food, Evie.” He stood, retrieving the flask from his pocket. “Even with so few people left, grocery stores were picked clean in days. There’re no crops, hardly any animals. The better part of a year is plenty of time for a new food chain to come into play.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Food chain?”

“The strong—like the militias and that army—got all the supplies and food. They’re at the top. The slightly less strong are the cannibals. Near the bottom, the weak are starving. And the unlucky weak? They’re somebody’s dinner.” He drank deep, holding my gaze. “So you think real hard about where you want me to take you tomorrow, peekôn.”

* * *

I tried to sleep in the silent ship.

Haven House was always—had always been—so noisy. I would never hear it creak and groan again. Would never hear the cane whisper me to sleep. Would never hear my mom’s heels clicking across the marble floor.

Even the voices were quiet, as if they wanted me to experience my grief to its full, excruciating potential.

Or perhaps they were quiet because Jackson was mere feet from me, sleeping slumped over that desk. He’d told me we’d always stay in the same room on the road because, again, “no place is one hundred percent safe.” His crossbow was at the ready.

I felt alternately uneasy and protected to have him so close.

As I lay on a too-soft foam bed in a too-quiet cabin, I relived the day. A trio of memories had been etched into my mind, and I knew they’d never be forgotten.

The proud look Jackson had given me when I dropped the lighter to burn down my home and cremate my mother.

The feel of his blistered palm when we ran hand-in-hand from the flames.

How peaceful Mom had looked in death.

Tears gathered and spilled—there was no stopping them. I imagined her last thoughts, imagined her clutching that picture. Had she known it would be her last night to live?

Why hadn’t I stayed with her?

If she hadn’t died in her sleep, then I could have been there to hold her hand, to see her . . . to see her through it.

Curling on my side, I wept, trying so hard not to make a sound.

Jackson suddenly shot upright. “You need to stop crying.”

I kept crying.

With a harsh oath, he grated, “Out here, there’s no room for this. You’re too soft, Evangeline.”

Yes, Jackson had only just begun to recognize what a weighty responsibility he’d taken on today—and now the reality was setting in. I sat up, swiping my forearm over my face. “I c-can’t help it.” Sooner or later, he’d get sick of me.

“Your mère died in grace. What more could you want for her? I only hope to go out so clean.”

I cried harder.