Poison Princess

Retro Cracker Barrel meets Hoarders.

“Evie! You all right?”

As my breath returned, I gave him a thumbs-up signal.

“Selena?”

She gave a determined nod as she readied her bow.

Though the back half of the van plugged the hole we’d just made, sealing the Bagmen out, they’d already started banging on the back windows, moaning with thirst.

We wouldn’t have long.

Jackson collected his own bow, shouldering his pack. “Then let’s move.” Leaving the engine running, we filed out into the house. “Where’s this coo-yôn goan to be, Evie?”

“He has to be in the basement.”

“Where’s that?”

With all the boxes, I couldn’t spy out a door. And with all the noise—the moaning Bagmen pummeled the van, the engine still revved in the confines of the room—I could barely hear his voice in my head.

When I bit my lip, struggling to concentrate, Selena shoved me out of the way. “J.D., I’ll go right. You’re left. I’ll find you two directly.” She clicked on the spy flashlight hanging from her belt, then slipped away.

Jackson too raised a flashlight, bow at the ready. “Let’s go, Evie,” he said, adding, “And, peekôn—”

“Like a shadow,” I finished for him.

He led me forward, following a path through masses of boxes. Some of them were stacked so high they looked like they’d topple over on us.

We passed a boy’s room, decorated with a space theme. Jackson’s light shone over wallpaper depicting the galaxy and intricate mobiles of the planets dangling from the ceiling. Space shuttle posters adorned the walls. High-tech-looking computers and video game consoles were neatly organized.

Jackson gave a harsh laugh. “I’ve never been in a nerdery before.”

Matthew’s voice was growing fainter still, filling me with dread.

Selena returned, slipping up beside us. “There’s a dead woman in a car in the garage. Car’s out of gas. Ignition on. She’s only been croaked a day, tops.”

Suicide? What had happened here?

Jackson was unfazed by the suicide, instead wondering, “Who the hell fixed her car?”

Selena shrugged. “I found the way into the basement. There’s water rushing down there.”

Jackson met my gaze. We both knew my vision was coming true. “Selena, show us!”

With a nod, she took off through the obstacle course of boxes.

Jackson and I followed her to a nondescript door at the top of the basement stairwell. Pitch blackness greeted us. Snagging two glow sticks from his bag, he snapped them, tossing them below. They landed in water.

From their eerie green glow, we could see that the stairs led to a short hallway with two doors. Water was cascading from the top gap of one door, spouting from its old-fashioned keyhole as if from a pitcher. . . .

Selena said, “It’s deep in there.”

Jackson turned to me. “Unless that boy has gills, he’s not goan to be alive.”

“Oh, God!” I didn’t hear Matthew in my head at all. Silence. “Please, you have to get him out of there!”

“You lost your mind?”

“Please, Jack!”

“Damn it, girl.” A harsher oath followed as he shoved his bag into my chest, then tossed Selena his bow. “Want this remembered,” he muttered, pushing past us to descend the steps four at a time.

We followed. “Can you break it down?” I cried.

He sloshed through knee-high water to reach the bowing door, sizing it up. Then he brandished the buck knife he always carried.

“It’s solid oak,” Selena said. “No way you can pierce it.”

“Not goan to.” He swiped water from his face. “You both head back up. Now.”

As Selena and I ascended the steps, he worked the blade into the seam between the doorknob and the frame. His muscles rippled as he wedged it in, until only the hilt was visible.

Then he backed to the wall, bracing himself, and kicked the knife sideways. Once. And again—

The door exploded outward. A flume of water rushed over Jackson; a limp body rode the current, as if the basement had spat it out.

“Jackson!” I screamed.

He broke the surface and seized the pale boy, hauling him back to the steps.

“Is he alive?” I asked, squinting as Matthew’s “tableau” appeared over him—a smiling young man carrying a knapsack and a single white rose. He had his vacant gaze raised to a blinding sun, about to walk off a cliff, a small dog nipping at his heels.

I shook myself and the image faded. I didn’t want to see Matthew’s tableau; I wanted to see him safe!

Jackson felt the boy’s neck, then hovered a hand over his mouth. “Breathing. Just knocked out.”

My legs nearly gave way.

Selena said, “The water’s still rising, J.D.”

Jackson gave a quick nod, heaving the kid over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. When he bounded up the stairs, I marveled at his strength.

“Come on, you!” he snapped at me. “We ain’t out of this yet.”

By the time we returned to the van, the Bagmen were rocking it so hard you could see its shock absorbers. Getting inside was like boarding a boat in rough seas, but we managed to slide open the side door.

I scrambled across the floor in the back, motioning for Jackson to let the boy down gently—

He dropped him like a dead alligator, attention already on other things as he determined the situation. “They’re too thick behind us, and we’re wedged in,” he said. “Stay here. I’m letting them in.”

“What?” Selena and I cried in unison, but he’d already slammed the side door and loped off, wending around the boxes.

Shortly after, I heard what sounded like him kicking a door down. A sharp whistle followed. Gradually, the van stopped rocking.

Then came Jackson hauling ass around the corner, a line of Bagmen in pursuit. He hurtled some boxes, purposely knocking others over to slow the creatures down.

Selena leaned out to cover him, but the Baggers all stopped at the entrance to the basement, drawn by the undeniable call of that water. . . .

Once Jackson had hopped in the van, he shoved it into reverse and gunned the engine. Tires squealed. The smell of burned rubber filled the air as we inched out.

And then . . . we shot backward in a rush, leveling any Bagmen stragglers.

Part of the house caved in behind us. But there was enough of an opening for newcomers to crawl in.

None chased the van. As I gazed out the back windows, I saw them begin to teem into that hole, like ants in reverse.

Once we were back on the dirt road, heading out, Selena cried, “We did it!”

Jackson’s eyes were dancing with excitement. “Hell, yeah!” He slapped her raised hand.

With disaster averted, I cradled the boy’s head in my lap.

“Let’s pick up the bikes, J.D., then break open that fifth to celebrate!” She turned up her iPod, to some kind of irritating industrial music.

Grinning, Jackson glanced back at me in the rearview mirror.

I mouthed, Thank you so much.

He shrugged, his demeanor brusque, then looked away.

I peered down at Matthew’s face, startled by the overwhelming tenderness I already felt for him—as if I’d found a long-lost brother.

Something drew my attention to his arm. The sleeve of his plaid button-down had rolled up, revealing a silver