Poison Princess

make it to my feet, he has snagged stoppered vials?

He lobs them at me. They shatter, splashing their contents across my skin.

Acid.

The pain. Paralyzing. Mind-numbing.

I shriek. The skin on my upper arm, one thigh, one calf—dissolving. I drop to my knees. Consciousness dims.

“Evangeline!” Jackson’s agonized roar is like a beacon, focusing me.

Arthur stalks closer, vowing, “I will melt you inch by inch, will make you beg, just as I did Father.”

I struggle to rise, to ignore my hissing, burning flesh as it begins to heal.

When the Alchemist sees my skin regenerating, he mutters, “Not possible.”

I gasp out, “You keep saying that . . . about things that are . . . already occurring.” He hasn’t witnessed even a fraction of my powers. The idea makes me proud, smug. I stagger to my feet.

Ready to end this, I call on my soldiers, loosing them into the fray. Battering-ram limbs beat down doors and windows so that vines can snake inside, overrunning every room.

Just as Matthew said, there is a heat in battle, and I feel it pumping inside me. Glorious! I yell from it and my soldiers respond violently.

Thorny stalks drape the front of the house. Behind me, a wall of green roils, a twining mass. As we creep forward, Arthur freezes, gaze blank with horror.

Just before we reach him, he whirls around, sprinting for the exit. He doesn’t get two steps outside before a limb shoots in front of him, blocking his way. Ivy flies at him from the sides of the porch, coiling around his torso, the tips boring into his skin.

“Nooo! Stop this, you freak!”

A rose stalk creeps along the ceiling like beading water. Descending with vicious stealth, it slithers around his neck.

When it locks tight, I murmur, “Your new collar, Arthur.”

More stalks bind his legs, ascending to his arms as if he were a trellis, wringing a high-pitched scream from his lungs. Tightening like barbed wire, they dig their thorny fangs deeper, deeper, until his lungs can’t expand enough for a second scream.

He peers back at me over his shoulder, his eyes pleading.

How many girls have begged him not to hurt them? How many has he poured acid on?

How many has he maimed?

He’d been planning on doing it to me—

Suddenly he thrashes, freeing one arm with that insane strength. From his pocket, he snatches one last vial of acid.

Before he can strike, I wave my hand: the order for execution.

The vines holding his body slingshot in different directions, ripping him in half.

In a spray of arcing blood and splintering bone, the Alchemist is no more.

Two separate halves. Deposited on opposite ends of the porch. A puddle of crimson in the middle.

I’ve won the day, but the victory has taken its toll on me. When I totter on my feet, my soldiers press against my back, steadying me like a bookend. As I’d seen the red witch do, I stab my claws into one rose stalk, siphoning the life I’d given it back into my body, speeding my healing.

“Evangeline!” Jackson nears.

Why have you come here? Why, why? Fleeing from him is no longer an option. I won’t hide what I am anymore.

“Bébé, answer me! Please . . .”

I spy him sprinting down the street, Matthew close behind. They’re not alone. Selena and Finn follow.

When the four slow in front of the house, the web of briars parts to reveal me standing at the head of the steps. Half of my bloody T-shirt and the legs of my jeans have dissolved, baring my regenerating skin and glowing glyphs. My red hair whips from the tornado of thorns above.

A vine curls about my neck affectionately. I rub my cheek against it, petting it, my poisonous claws glinting.

Behind me, the thorny barbed wire, the vise of vines, and the battering-­ram oaks all await my command. They choke every opening of the Alchemist’s lair, until the shape of the house is unrecognizable.

I gaze down at the other Arcana. Matthew is proud. Selena is lethal, icy. And not surprised at all. Just as I’d suspected, she knows all about us. About me.

Finneas appears stunned—and guilty? He mutters, “Never thought you’d walk in.”

Off to the side, lips parted and eyes wide, is Jackson.

Walk in . . . ? Just then, the three girls begin fighting their way past the vines in the front doorway. With another wave of my hand, I allow them passage. They run out of Arthur’s house past me, screaming for their lives.

Then something draws my attention down. A new marking appears on my hand, not one of my glyphs, but a small tattooed illustration. It’s the Alchemist’s symbol, a glowing lantern—his lure.

So odd to see it on my skin, yet familiar in a way. Just as Matthew told me, the battles must be fought, the markings earned.

Make a kill; earn a tattoo trophy. I swallow, going light-headed as a memory bombards me. At last, I recall the answer to that chilling question.

The doctor asked, “Do you understand why you must reject your grandmother’s teachings?”

I nodded, slurring my words: “Because she wants me to do bad things to other kids.”

The rest of that car ride with Gran blossoms in my consciousness, the scene as fresh as the day it was created:

Just as the cops blared their sirens behind us, she told me, “Every few centuries, a new life-or- death game begins. You must trump the twenty-one other Arcana, Evie. Only one can live.”

“What does that mean, Gran?” I asked, panicked.

“At the end of the game, your hands will be covered with their symbols.” After pulling over to the side of the road, she gently cupped my chin, meeting my gaze with grandmotherly affection in her twinkling brown eyes. “Because you’re going to kill them all. . . .”

Kill them all.

This is what I am. Deep down, hadn’t I known I might have to murder Arthur? It was the Alchemist who’d been doomed the moment he’d “trapped” me.

I now wear his symbol, will forever. I have entered the game, whether I wanted to or not.

No wonder Matthew asked me if I was going to kill him. And what of Selena? Has she kept us around, planning to murder us in our sleep?

Maybe she waits for us to attract more Arcana, like Finn. I wonder if the Archer finds it challenging not to kill us until the time is right.

I turn to Jackson, meeting his stunned gray gaze. This is what I truly am. . . .

I notice a blood-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around his hand. He’s injured himself? I look closer. Not a bandage. Clutched in his grasp is . . . my poppy-red ribbon.

The ribbon he’s saved since before the Flash.

He’s not standing near Selena, and he’s come here for me. Do I believe what is right before me—or my memory of them kissing? What if I’d misinterpreted things?

Oh, God. Finn.

Had I walked in on Selena and the Magician—disguising himself as Jackson?

Am I grasping at straws because I still want Jackson so much? It’s possible that he never touched her, right?

For a dizzy moment, I wonder if Jackson and I still have a future. I ache for it. He can bring me back from