Poison Princess

23

“Hold on, Evie!” he yelled, arms straining as he fought the steering wheel.

The car swept up that embankment sideways—a ramp launching us off the ground.

Then . . . weightlessness. Jackson surrendered the wheel, shoving his arm over my chest. The engine revved as we rolled in the air.

My feet were above my head. When the ground suddenly punched the top of the car, I screamed; airbags deployed.

Still we plummeted . . . rolling . . .

Sudden stop. The car landed upside down. Windows shattered on impact, metal shrieking from strain.

Jackson and I hung from our seat belts. And it’d sounded like we’d landed on another car?

Even over the wheezing gaskets, our breaths were loud. “Wh-what just happened?” I peered out the window opening, disoriented. We were off the ground, by at least half a dozen feet.

At once, Jackson’s buck knife flashed out, stabbing the airbags. “I hope you got your bug-out bag packed right. Now stay still.”

“You’re not going to cut my seat—”

He cut my seat belt.

“Ow!” I scrambled upright, hunching down on the roof of the car.

Then he cut his own belt, twisting to his back. “Evie, grab your bag and shut your mouth! You hear me?”

I reached back, rummaging until I laid hands on my pack. “What is going on?”

“We’re in a heap of trouble.” He grabbed his own pack, his bow, and the shotgun, then shimmied out through the window hole. Jumping down, he hurried to help me out.

As we crawled free from the wreck, comprehension dawned. We’d landed on an old car. All around us were more wrecked vehicles.

A graveyard of cars.

At once, flashlight beams started bouncing toward us. What sounded like a . . . dog bayed. While I marveled that one still lived, Jackson raised the shotgun, cocking it.

His lips were thin with fury, his gaze murderous.

“Those people aren’t coming to help?” I whispered. “Maybe th-they know that road is dangerous.”

“They ain’t coming to help. They’re slavers coming to hunt. They were just laying in wait.”

Oh my God.

He gazed from the group nearing on our right—to the forbidding ruins of a forest to our left. Then his expression grew determined.

He gripped my upper arm and hauled me toward the murky tree line. I struggled to keep up, but mud—actual mud—was sucking at my boots. Which meant moisture.

Which meant Bagmen.

“Jackson, we can’t go into that forest,” I murmured between breaths, glancing over my shoulder. The men were gaining. In the erratic light, I could make out a few of them, regular dressed middle-aged guys. No manacles at the ready. They looked so . . . normal.

“Not a forest. Used to be a wooded swamp.”

“What if those people do want to help us?”

“It was a trap.” With one hand, Jackson swapped out the gun for his bow, bolting an arrow in place. “A spike strip took out all four tires. These cars were all wrecked on purpose.”

“They wouldn’t!”

“Oh, yeah. They might be too scared to follow us. An old swamp’s probably full of Baggers.”

“Forget that! You can’t convince me that we’d be better off in there!”

He squeezed my arm. “The ones who set the trap are slavers—at best. At least the Bagmen usually go right for the throat.”

I gaped, letting him lead me away from the approaching lights, the yelling men.

As soon as we plunged past the tree line, sounds echoed all around us. A snapping twig. The rustle of sooty leaves.

Dead branches crackled just to our left. Jackson released me with a shove, whirling around with his bow at the ready. “Run, Evie!”

With a cry, I stumbled forward. But scorched vines littered the ground, slowing my retreat.

Though I had no idea where I was going, I struggled on. The rising moon streamed shafts of light through the leafless trees. Shadows wavered all around me.

Where was Jackson? I’d never been more terrified. Had never felt more vulnerable . . .

—I watch you like a hawk.—

—Blood will tell, blood will run.—

—Don’t look at this hand, look at that one.—

“No, no! Shut up, shut up!” Slice. Pain flared in my palms.

I gazed down, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My thorns had grown back. Staring at my claws, I burst into a clearing, glanced up. Three Bagmen were mere feet from me.

I drew up short with a gasp. One stood while two smaller ones crawled on hands and knees, licking the mud.

Their heads swung in my direction.

They were even more horrific than in my visions. Pus seeped from their eyes, glistening in the moonlight. Their irises were as pale as cream. And their skin . . . battered and creased all over, like wadded-up paper sacks—but so slimy.

Blood and filth stained their slack mouths, their tattered clothes.

The standing one’s runny gaze landed on my throat. With a shuffling gait, it lurched toward me. I backed away. Did I dare scream for Jackson? Were there more behind me?

The creature was picking up speed. In a panic, I dug into my hoodie pocket for salt, slicing the lining with a claw. My supply of salt began drizzling away, sand from an hourglass.

I managed to salvage a handful. Aimed it at the Bagman. Threw it as hard as I could.

Would the crystals sear its skin, blind it . . . ?

The salt dropped uselessly to the ground well in front of it.

Shit, shit! My gaze darted once more—

I heard a twang. An arrow suddenly jutted from the big one’s right eye.

As the creature’s body collapsed, a hand covered my mouth from behind. I jerked with fright, but Jackson whispered at my ear, “Quiet.”

When I nodded, he released me to loose two more arrows, dispatching the remaining pair.

Three monsters, dropped like carnival targets. I’d seen his skill at fighting, but I’d never seen him shoot.

Yet as I was staring up at him with undisguised awe, he was frowning down at me. “Evie, what’s on your face?”

“I don’t know, ash? Did those men follow?”

He blinked his eyes. “No. But there’ll be more Baggers in the hours till dawn. I need those arrows.” He started for the ones he’d killed, but murmured over his shoulder, “You stick to me like a shadow, you.”

Before, I’d bristled when he gave me that order. Now I whispered, “Not a problem, Jackson.”