Poison Princess

18

“I can’t believe you just welcomed him into our home. Without even talking to me?” I demanded as I plaited Mom’s hair.

She wanted to “look presentable” for our first cooked dinner in ages, and for our first company since the Flash.

She’d entreated me to dress up as well, to be respectful of the effort Jackson alone was making—since he’d refused all her offers of my help.

I’d scoffed, until she finally said, “Dress up, Evie. Or go downstairs and insist on making yourself useful.”

An actual order from Mom? I’d chosen the lesser of two evils, dragging on one of the few nice outfits that still fit me, a Nanette Lepore wrap dress with complementing blocky heels. I even wore my diamond earrings and a coat of precious lip gloss.

With a pang, I’d donned the necklace Brand had given me the night before he died.

“How could I have talked to you about Jack?” Mom asked now. “You were knocked out.”

“And you didn’t suspect that he might have been the one to hurt me?”

“Honestly, Evie, his explanation made perfect sense—I’m surprised you haven’t shot yourself in the foot by now. Besides, I have a good feeling about him.”

“What did you tell him about me?” I finished her braid, smoothing a lock here and there.

“That you’re special. That you have a purpose in this world. And that you’ll need support in order to fulfill it.”

Not too bad of a reveal. What mother wouldn’t say that about her daughter? “Please don’t tell him any more about us, about our business. He’s not the nice boy you think he is. Not like Brandon was.”

I thought back to the last time I’d seen my first and only boyfriend, recalling his smile as he’d gone off to do battle for me, saving me from getting gaffled. I should’ve told him that I loved him—instead of “You’re the best.”

And it was because of the Cajun that I’d never gotten to speak to Brandon ever again.

“Don’t be so hard on Jack, honey. Everything’s different now. He even said he’s going to fix my car tonight. Imagine that.” She sighed. “Having a car.”

Early on, Mom and I had talked about going to North Carolina to find Gran. I’d asked her, “Do you really think she’s still alive?”

Mom had cried, “I have to.”

Three things had kept us here: the lack of a vehicle, our wait for order to be restored, and the ready sources of water.

The wells were getting low, and apparently, order wasn’t forthcoming. But a car might be. “Do you believe what Jackson said about the militia?”

She nodded. “If there are so few women survivors, and if those men truly think there will never be another government . . . Evie, people with no hope for the future can be very dangerous.” She paused, seeming to think of the exact right way to phrase her next words. “I know this is hard for you to understand, but things can get worse for us, for anyone who’s left.”

“But they’ll probably have a doctor who could fix you right up.”

She shook her head. “And they’ll marry you off to some old man. If you’re lucky.”

“You were trying to set me up with animal control!”

“Until Jack came along. He’s so considerate. Not to mention gorgeous! Did you get a load of his shoulders? And that rakish grin?”

I’d always thought of it as a smirk.

“He’s strong, resourceful, and intelligent. He can take care of you.”

And what about you? “If I have to marry some geezer to get you well”—to save your life—“then that’s my decision.”

“Forget it, Evie.”

“Why do you get to sacrifice for me, but I can’t do the same?”

“Because I’m your mother.”

“You think I wouldn’t do whatever it takes to get you medical attention?”

“That’s precisely what I’m afraid of.” She started coughing, which only steeled my resolve.

“Why don’t we see how you feel in the morning?” I said, wondering if her side could get any tighter, any darker over the night. “We can decide then.” I’d already decided.

I thought she’d argue more, but she let it go. “Regardless, we need Jack.” At my bug-eyed look, she added, “You could get him to stay with us, if you were nice to him.”

“I admit he’s handy. But everything in me says not to trust him.” He’d lied to me, stolen from me, played me for a fool.

“That’s a shame. Because I asked him to look out for you—if anything ever happened to me.”

I stilled. “You wouldn’t. You just met him!”

“Like I said, I have a good feeling about him. And he told me he’d consider it! He likes you, Evie. He wouldn’t have come back here to warn us if he didn’t. Now, promise me you’ll try to get along with him.” I opened my mouth to argue, but she began coughing worse than before.

I hurried to rub her back, saying, “Okay, okay, I promise I’ll try.” Once her fit subsided, I handed her a glass of water. “I’ll go see if he needs help.”

Her expression brightened, easing the strain on her pale face. “Thank you, honey.”

Still mentally grumbling, I headed down the shadowy staircase. At once, the voices grew louder. Oh, and now there was a new one among the chorus, a girl’s.

—Behold the Bringer of Doubt.—

“Ugh!” I snapped under my breath. “What does that mean? Leave me alone!”

“You talking to yourself?” Jackson said. He’d paused on his way upstairs with a folding card table—so Mom wouldn’t have to go down.

Which was . . . considerate of him.

He climbed to the step just below me and murmured in that deep voice, “Um, um, UM, Evangeline. You dress up all pretty for me?”

Strike considerate. “Hardly.” When he just stared at me, I narrowed my eyes. “How long were you standing down there?”

“Long enough to know you’re fixing to break that promise you just made. Now, be polite, honey.”

You wouldn’t know polite if it bit you in the ass. With a fake smile and cheery tone, I said, “Why Jackson, I can’t wait for dinner! I’ll go get the dishes!”

But he blocked me, resting the edge of the table on a stair. His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, his expression intent.

He pressed one palm against the wall beside my head, leaning in close—just as he had all those months ago when he’d almost kissed me. When he’d stalled for Lionel.

I remembered how stupid I’d been that night. I remembered the excitement—and the attraction—I’d felt.

He’d been handsome then. Now he was gorgeous; was he even more devious?

“Damn, cher, you still smell like a blossom. Been so long since I’ve seen a flower that I’d nearly forgotten what they smelled like.” He took a lock of my hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re dressing up and using expensive perfume? Ole Jack senses a trap. Consider me snared.”

“What’s your racket? Why are you really here?”

“Maybe I’m not the bad guy you make me out to be.”

“Which is exactly what a bad guy would say.” I pushed past him, but he grabbed my arm.

“You listen to me, Evie. And let me tell you how this night’s goan to proceed.”

I gaped at his condescending tone. “How dare you—”

He talked over me. “We’re goan to have us a grand dinner, as nice as you can think to make it, with you being sweet as an ange. After we eat, you, me, and your mère are goan to make the veiller”—spend the evening visiting—“till she goes to sleep. Then you’re goan to give me an answer about tomorrow, and I’ll get to work. Because I am leaving here ahead of that militia. Comprends?”

“I . . . I . . .” My face started to throb. Oh, no, no. Not now! Not in front of his shrewd gaze.

Grueling pain shot through my head. The staircase and Jackson began to disappear. The more I fought the vision, the worse my head pounded.

I tried to stumble away, to get to privacy, but he caught my arm. “Evie? What’s the matter, you?”

Instead of the house, I saw blackened forest all around me. “Jackson,” I whispered, now clutching him desperately. “Please, don’t let it . . .” My legs gave way, and I was grasping at him, grasping—

But he was gone. Everything was gone.

I was outside on a freezing night, standing in a haze of smoke, with my eyes burning and my nose running. I could hear men screaming in terror all around me, but I couldn’t see why.

When explosions rocked the earth beneath my feet, panic set in, dread. I had loved ones out in the chaos, but couldn’t reach them, could do nothing to protect them.

Until she appeared. The girl with the bow.

Though I couldn’t make out her features, I watched her move through the smoke like a wraith. She was glorious, a goddess. She drew back her bowstring, taking aim—

At me.

“No!” I cried. “Wait!”

Without hesitation, she loosed her arrow. I had time to close my eyes. And to hesitantly crack them open.

She’d shot a faceless man through his throat, a man who’d wanted to hurt me, to harm my loved ones.

When she turned to me, her skin was glaringly bright, but tinged with red, like a hunter’s moon.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t know.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “You never do. The Archer always keeps an arrow in her quiver for you; interrupt my shot again, and I will give it to you directly.”

I recognized her voice. She was the Bringer of Doubt. . . .

“Evie, bébé,” Jackson said softly, bringing me back. “I’ve got you.”

I blinked, and again. As the vision cleared, I found him gazing down at me. I was in his strong arms, on the floor at the base of the steps. He had a napkin pressed against my nose. It was bleeding?

I couldn’t endure this for much longer. Many more nights of this, and I would run into that archer’s sights.

“You had a vision, no?”

I muttered in realization, “It’s never going to stop.” I was as doomed as my mother if I didn’t get help too. And my grandmother was the only one who would know what I needed.

I edged away from Jackson, but he wouldn’t release me. “Tell me what you saw. Was it about tomorrow? The army?”

“No. It makes no sense.” Who was that girl? An ally or enemy? Did she even exist? I pushed against his chest, snatching the napkin to hold against my nose. “Please, just let me go. Now, Jackson!”

“Go where?” he snapped.

Matching his tone, I said, “To—dinner.” When he finally released me, I staggered away toward the kitchen.

Part of me wanted to dismiss the Archer as imaginary. Yet all my other visions had come true. Before the Flash, I’d listened to everyone but myself. I’d ignored what I could remember about Gran’s teachings, even after I’d started to believe them.

Now I would trust my instincts—and they said this Archer was out in the world today.

Which meant that all the voices belonged to actual kids.

Girls with glowing red skin, boys who could fly. Why not? I could make crops sprout with my blood and control their movement with my mind.

Matthew was real, out there as well. My friend. One day, I’d find him.

But the rest of those kids . . . ? My instincts also said I might do well to avoid them.

When Mom finished her helping of stew, hope grew inside me.

For the last week, she’d picked at her food, but clearly her appetite was returning. Maybe she was on the mend.

“Jack, that was absolutely delightful.”

To his credit, it had been. He’d stinted on nothing, cooking an incredible meal, schlepping table and chairs up for us to sit with Mom, making me break out the finest china and crystal.

When I’d collected three everyday settings, he’d frowned. “Come on, rich girl, I know that’s not the best you got.”

I’d been uneasy about the number of candles he’d lit—it was extravagant—but those flickering flames shimmered off the crystal and warred with the ash, painting the room with a kind brush.

Even Mom’s cheeks looked like they had color.

“Thank you so much,” she told him. “Or I guess I should say merci.”

With a “rakish” grin, he said, “De rien, cher.” It was nothing, dear.

She tittered. Was she tipsy? Likely.

To my astonishment, she’d offered him free use of the liquor cabinet—as long as he made her dinner tea “Irish.” With a heavy hand, he’d dosed her dainty teacup from a bottle of expensive whiskey, then filled a Baccarat highball glass for himself.

All evening he’d been doting on her, while I’d been on pins and needles, wondering what his game was, wondering what he thought of my earlier blackout.

But if this was what it took to ease the strain on Mom’s face, then I’d play along. For now.

“Jack, did you know that Evie speaks fluent French?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking smug. “I did indeedy.”

She asked me, “Wasn’t dinner great, honey?”

I forced yet another smile. Mom wasn’t the only one who’d finished her helping. Instead of complimenting Jackson and boosting his ego, I asked him, “Who taught you how to cook?”

He grated, “Nécessité.”

Mom picked up on the sudden tension, and said, “Maybe you can teach Evie?”

Grin smoothly back in place, he told her, “Something tells me she can’t boil an egg.”

Mom smiled but was quick to say, “Our Evie’s a fast learner.”

Our Evie? Trying to get him to take mental ownership of me, Mom?

When he just shrugged noncommittally, she said, “Did you ever come across kids your age when you were in the militia?”

“Only other boys.”

“So our Evie is kind of a rarity.”

He smirked against the rim of his glass. “Oh, she is that.”

I glared.

“Doesn’t she look pretty tonight, Jack?”

“Mom!” I felt like I was on match.com. “I’m going to do the dishes.”

“That can wait. Honey, we should look at your baby pictures! Oh, and your first dance recital!”

Would this night never end? “They’re all on the flash drive. We went paperless, remember?” Which meant they were completely inaccessible, along with all my e-books and e-mails. Even if we’d had a generator, few electronics worked after the apocalypse. Damn technology.

“I saved the hard copies. They’re in the sewing room.”

I was about to beg her not to torture me—or Jackson—like this, but she started coughing into her napkin.

As her face turned bright red, I helplessly rubbed her back. When her coughing finally eased, she looked . . . scared. She tried to hide it, but I saw blood, stark against her crisp white napkin.

I glanced at Jackson. Though his face was expressionless, I could’ve sworn a muscle ticked in his cheek.