Poison Princess

21

Once we were clear of the fire and any potential militia scouts, Jackson drove up on the parish levee, parking on the rise.

I stepped out of the car, shielding my gaze against the sun. From this vantage, I could see smoke billowing up from Haven.

My mother’s funeral pyre.

Jackson muttered from behind me, “She’s in a better place.” And that was all he said on the matter.

In this, I believed him completely.

As I gazed over the wasted horizon—at the ash-clogged mire that used to be a flowing bayou, at the sooty plains that were once verdant fields, at the angry flames rising from Haven—I reasoned that she had to be.

—The Empress is in play.—

I woke to the voices whispering this phrase again and again. Yet now these characters sounded different, more alert, maybe even a touch less smug?

I blinked open my puffy eyes, disoriented. It was dusk, the winds were still, and Jackson had just parked . . . in a shipyard? “Where are we?” Had I really slept the entire day away?

“Not nearly as far as I’d like to be. Still in Louisiana.”

“Why are we in a shipyard?” One that was on the banks of a dried-out bayou.

“People forget to loot the ships in dry dock. We’re spending the night here.” As he got out of the car, he readied his crossbow. He clearly knew what he was doing with that weapon, was as comfortable with it as I’d once been with back handsprings.

I wondered who’d taught him to shoot. Nécessité?

Before I could unbuckle my seat belt and climb out, he was at my door. “Stick to me like a shadow, you,” he ordered.

Though I bristled at his tone, I followed him as he stalked deeper into the yard.

“I like the look of that one, right there.” He pointed out a huge metal shrimp boat raised on a repair cradle, its paint blistered off.

“What’s so special about it?”

“It’ll take a ladder to reach the inside, and there’s only one way in or out. Safe as a drum. Good money says there’ll be canned food in the galley.”

In minutes, we’d found a ladder and were climbing to the ship. He grabbed my arm, hauling me aboard, then dragged the ladder up behind us.

As we stole across the deck, old shrimp, crab, and oyster shells crackled beneath our boots, but the sound seemed to please Jackson.

Inside, there was a spacious captain’s cabin, and three smaller cabins with bunk beds already made up. At least we wouldn’t have to sleep in the same room.

After searching every inch of the vessel, we returned to the galley. Jackson rooted around, pleased with the haul: cans of soup, unopened boxes of crackers, discount-club packs of bottled water, sacks of beef jerky, and a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum.

“Knew this one was a beauty when I first saw it. I got a sense for these things. Now, doan get me wrong—no place is one hundred percent safe. You always got to be on your guard.”

I made some sound of acknowledgment.

“I’m sure this ain’t exactly what you’re used to—as far as ships go—but it’s a find all the same.”

The last boat I’d been on was the Radcliffes’, a seven-figure yacht called Billable Hours.

When the kitchen faucet actually produced water, Jackson explained, “From the tanks. You can’t drink it, but you can grab a shower.”

“Shower?” I perked up somewhat.

“Ouais. You open a couple of cans for us, and I’ll go get your bag.”

In a daze, I perused the food offerings, wondering what he would like. There were at least a dozen cans of soup. Seemed like such a windfall, but I knew from experience that I needed about fifteen hundred calories a day to maintain my weight. I selected a can of minestrone soup, wincing at the calorie count. Two hundred.

I could only imagine how much a boy like Jackson would need. We’d burn through this—and all the supplies he’d scavenged from Haven—before the week was out.

Just as he returned from dumping my suitcase on the big cabin’s foam mattress, I cut myself on the rim of a can.

“Eck, girl.” He seized my hand. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ll be fine!”

“Let me see.” He held up my finger, sticking it into his mouth like I was a little kid. I snatched my hand back, turning toward the cabin.

He grumbled, “Damn, Evie, suit yourself.” Then, louder: “Remember, doan drink any of the water. And save some for me.”

Jack had set up a flashlight in the small bathroom, so I was able to search the medicine cabinet for a Band-Aid to conceal my healing. I found one among an aspirin bottle, packs of No-Doz, and an ancient-looking box of condoms.

I stripped off my filthy clothes, entering the cramped fiberglass stall. The drain was covered with little bottles of shampoo and slivers of Irish Spring soap.

Under the paltry stream of tepid water, I scrubbed as fast as I could. But I was coated with ash, reeking of soot.

Because Haven burned to the ground today.

Had that been just hours before? It felt like a week ago.

My mother died today.

I pressed the side of my face against the stall, struggling not to cry. I feared if I started, I wouldn’t stop. . . .

The shower began to disappear, black dots tracing before my eyes. “No, no, no! Not another one,” I whispered desperately, shoving the heels of my palms against my temples as my headache grew.

Blood trickled from my nose, dripping onto the shampoo bottles. I gazed down, riveted by the stark scarlet drops.

Drip, drip, drip—

“They know, Empress,” Matthew said.

I flattened myself against the fiberglass stall. He was here! In the bathroom with me.

I jerked around, giving him my back, glaring over my shoulder. But he appeared to have no interest in my nudity.

“The Empress is in play,” he said. “The Arcana sense it, like a disturbance in the Force.”

“Star Wars, Matthew? Really?”

“You’re a target. Take her before she grows too powerful, the bad cards whisper. But you talked so loud they thought you wanted to lure them to your farm.” He tapped his temple. “Beware the lures.”

His words spurred a memory from my last day with Gran: “I hate taking you from home, sweetheart,” she told me as she pulled her Blazer out onto the interstate. “Only the bravest—or most foolish—Arcana would ever go to Haven, home of the great Empress. . . .”

“I talked loud? What does that mean?” I was not only receiving voices but broadcasting my own?

Matthew frowned. “No one is as loud as you. They talk back louder, goading.”

“The voices are from the characters I’ve seen, aren’t they? The archer, the flying boy. Death.”

He nodded. “Major Arcana.”

The trump cards of Tarot. “How can their voices be in my head? Am I some kind of clairvoyant?”

“Clairaudient. All Arcana have a call. Like birds. I’m crazy like a fox.”

Whatever, kid. “What do they hear me say? How do I talk softer?”

In a patronizing tone he replied, “Inside voice, Evie.”

I pinched my forehead, irritated at the double meaning—which told me nothing. “Why would they want to goad me? What have I done to them?”

“You’re Arcana.”

“I-I don’t understand. And I . . . I can’t do much more of this ‘Arcana’ stuff!”

“I’ll keep sending you visions.” He touched his nose, murmuring, “Drip, drip, drip. You have to learn.”

“Sending me? Are you saying I’m not . . . foreseeing you on my own?”

“I send you visions.”

“Or maybe I’m deluded, and I’m imagining you saying this even now. Maybe you’re not even real!”

He rolled his eyes. “Nooo. I send you visions. Not your Arcana power. Mine, mine, mine.”

So now I wasn’t even psychic? “Do all Arcana have powers?”

“Vast. Superhuman.”

My eyes narrowed as a suspicion arose. “Are you sending me those nightmares, too? Because I am over them!”

“Never nightmares! Empress, we’re behind. Find me.”

I’d been planning to seek him out eventually. “But I have to get to my gran. Where are you anyway?”

“Find me before Death finds you.”

“Or what?”

He drew his head back, as if this was obvious. “Or he’ll . . . touch you. His power. You are the card that Death covets.”

I shuddered, remembering the Reaper looming over me, reaching for me with his bare hands. “Why covet me? I don’t understand.” But Matthew had disappeared.

And all the water had run out.

“Damn it!” Jackson had asked me for so little—make soup and save water. I’d failed at both simple tasks.

Queasy with guilt, I returned to the cabin. His backpack now lay on the bed beside my suitcase. Surely he wouldn’t expect us to stay in the same room?

I’d just finished changing when he opened the cabin door without a knock, stepping over the raised threshold with mugs of soup in hand.

His gaze roamed over me, over the cami top and gym skirt I’d been forced to wear. His packing had left much to be desired.

My wardrobe now consisted of a total of one pair of jeans and a hoodie—both of which I’d had on—about ten hair ribbons, more underwear than I could possibly wear in a lifetime, bras that barely fit, workout clothes, and one mismatched pair of socks.

He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Too soon, Jackson, much too soon.

After handing me a surprisingly warm mug, he sat at the cabin’s built-in desk to sip from his own. I felt a pang to see that he’d had to wrap his injured hands in strips of cloth. He was covered in grit and ash from digging.

He’d tried so hard to help with my mom. . . .

“This is as good a time as any to talk about the coming days,” he said.

I eased down onto the edge of the bed across from him. “Okay.”

“I did end up making some . . . assurances to your mother. Kept ’em pretty vague, so I feel sure I can wiggle out of them without goan straight to hell. My worry is that you made promises to her.”

“I did.”

He muttered a curse. “Maybe to get to your grandmother?”

“That’s the one.”

“Let me explain the landscape for you, peekôn. Between us and North Carolina, you’ve got Bagmen, offshoot militias, and doomsday cults—who are feeling mighty righteous these days. The slavers control the cities—”

“Slavers are real?” We’d heard rumors. . . .

“Ouais. They round up people to dig wells, like slaves in a gold mine.” At my bemused look, he said, “If they caught someone like me, they’d chain me in an ash-filled quarry with a pickax, or shove me into a mineshaft, and wouldn’t let me out till I struck the water table. Course, if they captured you . . . it’d be different. Same with the cannibals.”

“C-cannibals?” Again, there’d been whisperings.

When he nodded, I tried to imagine what modern-day American cannibals would look like, kept picturing them wearing body parts threaded on a necklace. Maybe they carried bloody clubs. . . .

Though these threats chilled me to the bone, I still said, “I start for the Outer Banks tomorrow.”

“You might not have a whole lot of skills, but it seems like you got stubborn mastered. There ain’t any way for me to talk you out of this, is there?”

“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.

“Damn it, Evie!” His brows drew together, his lips thinned. “To hell with it. Cry all you like, but I doan have to watch it!” Snatching up his bow, he stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door.

I stared after him, miserable, listening as he strode through the ship. But just as suddenly, he started back toward the cabin. I heard him slide down outside, sitting against the door. He exhaled a gust of breath.

I continued to cry; he rose to pace.

What felt like hours later, he flung open the door. “You know what PEWS is?”

I shook my head dumbly.

“Perimeter early-warning system. It’s a way to hear enemies creeping up on you. Like the crackling shells out on the deck.”

“O-okay?” Tears were streaming down my face.

But he wouldn’t look at me, just started pacing again. “You can crush up lightbulbs outside your door, any kind of glass. A groaning staircase works just as well. That’s part of the reason I always try to roll two-story houses. When I’m driving, you’re goan to be looking for places for us to overnight, so keep that in mind.”

I tentatively nodded.

“Now, Baggers can smell water from miles away, so they still flock to old bodies of—”

“Then wh-why are we in a shipyard?”

“A ship on blocks is too good to pass up. Bagmen are like rabid wolves—they can hunt, but they can’t figure out how to use a ladder. Besides, every overnight has its own drawbacks. Any house with an open door? You have to wonder if a Bagger got in there first, like a moccasin coiled in your boot. Public building? You can’t spit without hitting a fire exit. Fire exits equal Bagman entrances.”

“Y-you know a lot.”

“I do, Evie,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know that Bagman scratches aren’t contagious, but their saliva or blood in your own will turn you in less than two days. I know that the only way to kill them is beheading or a shot to the brainpan. I’ve seen ’em all dried-out and chalky, till you think they got to be dead—but if you toss a bucket of water on ’em, they’ll come slithering across the ground to bite you. I know that they’re not allergic to sun like everybody thinks. They just doan like it ’cause it dries out their slimy skin. Enough of an incentive and they’ll brave the sun. I’ve seen ’em out past dawn licking dew from cars, or even from the ground.”

As I shivered to imagine such a sight, he canted his head at me. “You paying attention? I learned this stuff, but I’ve paid for it. Giving it to you for free.”

I would grasp at anything to occupy my mind. “I want to learn more.”

“All righty.” He hauled his backpack to the bed, taking a seat across from me. “Now, this here’s my bug-out bag. Only critical stuff and survival gear.” He dumped its contents onto the cover, his bearing seemingly proud?

My gaze flicked over energy gel-packs and protein bars, a canister of Morton salt, a Swiss Army multipurpose tool, a travel toothbrush, lighters, medical tape, a windup flashlight, glow sticks, three mini bottles of liquor, and a canteen.

Some items were more surprising: a small hammer and bag of nails, an envelope of photos that he didn’t seem keen for me to see, and a pistol, snapped in a holster. “We’ll turn your backpack into a bug-out bag too. And every night, we’ll sort our resources.” At my questioning look, he said, “So we know what to be looking out for on the road.”

My tears were drying. “Like what?”

“If your bootlaces get busted, we woan pass by a corpse with decent lace-up boots.”

I swallowed. This was my life now. “If you have a pistol, why do you carry only a bow and arrow?”

“Only?” he scoffed. “This is bolt-action.” He reached for his weapon, showing me a magazine clip with six short arrows inside. “It’s quiet, and the arrows are reusable. Not so great against militiamen, but perfect for Baggers. Besides, that pistol’s only got one bullet—hanging on to it in case I get bit.”

“Oh. When do I get my shotgun back?”

“Try never.” I glared. “I’m goan to saw off the barrel. Carry it along with my bow for black hats. But here, I’ll help you get started with supplies.” He handed me the three mini bottles.

I raised my brows. “Jack Daniels?”

He met my gaze. “Is always good to have in hand.”

I set them away, too tired and emotionally raw to deal with his innuendo.

But he scooped the bottles up, dropping them insistently into my lap. “Doan scoff at the liquor, Evie. What else on earth can disinfect, catch an enemy on fire, and get you drunk? Tell me, what could you use the empty bottles for?”

“Um . . . glass for a PEWS?”

The corners of his lips curved just the slightest bit.