Poison Princess

32

Matthew and I were standing at the edge of a great charred field. Above us, continuous lightning bolts fractured an ink-black sky.

He was still holding my hand in his, allowing me to experience his foresight. This scene was even more vibrant than the ones he’d sent my way. In fact, it was seamless from reality. How could he even tell reality from a vision?

He whispered in my mind, “Hit or miss.”

From his thoughts, I knew that we were here to secretly observe a battle of the Arcana—one happening right now, somewhere out in the world.

There were five Arcana, divided into two small alliances. Already, it neared its conclusion.

Had Matthew foreseen who would win?

He shook his head. “Future flows like waves—or eddies. Can’t always see. But bet on him to win.” Matthew pointed to the field, to the tall, armored male striding across the sooty earth, a sword in each hand. “Death.”

Exactly as I remembered him from Haven, the Reaper wore a full set of black armor and a helmet with light glowing behind the grille.

He was awing, and so clearly at ease with those swords. A perfect killer.

Had I actually once looked at his card and pitied him?

All around him, lightning javelins exploded, spitting electricity. Far in the distance, the sparking outline of a boy’s form blazed in the night. “Eyes to the skies, lads!” he yelled as the spears came down faster and faster.

Just as I wondered what his name was, Matthew whispered, “Joules. Master of Electricity. The Tower Card.”

Bolts were striking all around Death, but he didn’t alter his course, didn’t even hunch down in the fray. Occasionally he’d deflect a javelin with one of his swords.

I caught sight of his target—a black-haired girl who looked even younger than me. She was limping across that barren landscape, dragging a leg, struggling to escape him.

I feared it was a lost cause. Though she had weapons—a trident-looking blade in each hand—he wore armor. I didn’t think she could pierce it unless she could reach his helmet grille.

And her body had already been damaged in some way. I squinted at the veins of black forking over her olive skin. They grew thicker and thicker until they intersected in large patches.

“Touch of Death,” Matthew explained.

Out of breath and whimpering, she twisted to keep the Reaper in sight.

“The Temperance Card,” Matthew whispered. “Calanthe. She wields the Weight of Sins.”

She stumbled, losing her balance, collapsing to her back. A cloud of ash wafted up, haloing her body—

A trident blade came flying out of the soot, twirling end over end, directly for Death’s helmet.

With a flick of his wrist, he batted the blade away with his sword. Like a gnat.

Once the ash settled, I could see that her expression was one of utter terror—this girl knew she was about to die.

When those javelins rained down with even more force and number around Death, I realized that Joules was trying to save her. He was hurtling spears on the run—because a horned beast stalked him.

I recognized the skulking creature on my own. Ogen, El Diablo—the Devil Card. Death’s repulsive ally.

Yet Ogen’s body was now morphing, expanding—first into a colossal ogre, then into a giant. His brutish strength was unbelievable.

Joules kept up his maddened volley, retreating from Ogen. If that creature seized the boy . . .

Death spun his swords all around him, deflecting the bolts with uncanny speed. He was striding through a shower of lightning—and his demeanor seemed bored.

Just before Death reached Calanthe, a blur from above started to dive down like a comet. A flying boy! I’d seen him before, with his old-timey clothes and majestic black wings. I’d heard him before as well: I watch you like a hawk.

Through Matthew’s thoughts, I discovered that he was Gabriel, the Judgment Card. Also known as the archangel, his MO was to hover above the battle, choosing the perfect moment to attack. Then he would dive, increasing his missilelike speed, leveling off just above the ground.

Now he was plummeting so fast, he displaced the air with a whistle.

With his first flyby, he knocked Death’s helmet away. At once, Calanthe hurled her remaining blade at the Reaper’s face—as if according to plan.

But he dodged it with ease. How fast was he?

I wanted to see Death’s face, but ash swirled all around, obscuring it. His long white-blond hair concealed his features as well.

Losing little velocity, Gabriel bowed his back, muscles and tendons straining as he looped his body into the air once more. His speed was still a shrill whistle as he made his second strike.

But the Reaper was too fast even for the archangel. His swords flashed out, slashing one silken black wing, sending the boy careening across the night sky.

I heard Joules yelling—clashing with Ogen? No more javelins to blitz Death; nothing to save the girl now.

Could we help her?

Matthew whispered, “We’re not here, Empress.”

So we could only watch as Death took her life. With his armored back to me, he loomed over Calanthe. When she began to beg for mercy, he gave one curt shake of his head, and she trailed off.

With a weak cry, she raised one hand, as if to wield some kind of power against him.

“Crush him,” Matthew murmured. “Weight of Sins.”

A haze erupted around her, ripples of energy seeming to flow out from her, bombarding Death.

He laughed. “I’d have to consider my deeds sinful for you to have power over me, Calanthe.” He lopped off her arm with one of his swords, while his other arced around for her neck. Slice.

I gazed away, my eyes watering.

Matthew squeezed my hand. “She fears him no more.”

Across the field, Joules howled with grief, retreating as Ogen gave chase.

Leaving Death alone with his kill.

When he turned toward his red-eyed steed, awaiting not far from our secret spot, I glimpsed Death’s face for the first time.

Surprise rocked me. Death was the most beautiful boy I had ever imagined.

Looking to be no more than twenty years old, he was tall and broad-shouldered with a breathtaking face. I imagined some might describe his features as noble. His eyes glittered like . . . stars.

How could someone so evil look so divine?

He jammed his battered helmet onto the saddle pommel, and exhaled a gust of breath. Every line in his bearing screamed weariness.

Yet then he stilled, craning his neck to look directly at Matthew. “I’ve been around long enough to sense your unblinking gaze, Fool.” His voice was a harsh rasp. “You allowed her to see me at play? Perhaps I won’t kill you last after all.”

Then his attention turned on me. “Don’t worry, Empress, Matto remembers his debts. He’ll show you to me as well.” His accent sounded Eastern European, or maybe Russian? “I’ll watch all your battles and discover your cunning tricks. After tonight, I’ll whisper in your mind more freely than any of the Arcana.”

I was speechless, still awestruck by his face.

Which seemed to take him aback. “Are you weak? Our game is no fun if you’re weak. Are you faint of heart and short of courage?”

Matthew squeezed my hand, prompting me to croak, “No.” It sounded like a question.

Death narrowed those glittering eyes. “I’ve waited endless years to battle you again. Will you not face me?”

Face him? What was I supposed to “battle” him with?

Behind him, that field might as well have been a lunar landscape for all the plants that grew. Should I attack an armored knight with my thorn claws?

Just as he’d once said, I did have life in my blood. But even if I had time to grow seeds, garden plants couldn’t withstand those swords.

How much blood would it take to grow an acorn into a formidable ally?

“Remember, Empress,” he said. “Death always defeats life. It might take time, but I will always win.” As he mounted that mighty steed, he pinned me with his hypnotic gaze. “When your blood bathes my sword, I’ll drink it just to mock you. . . .”

I woke with a gasp, back at the McMansion.

Matthew looked groggy, slow to come out of his vision.

“What the hell, kid?!” We’d not only witnessed a murder, we’d talked with the killer! “Wake up.” I shook his shoulder. He seemed a hundred times more exhausted than before he’d slept. “Why does Death expect me to face him?”

He ran his hand over his forehead. “The ancient battles must be fought, the markings earned, the bad cards defeated.”

My senses were on high alert after that disturbing vision, my patience at an all-time low. Striving for an even tone, I said, “Why must they be fought? Maybe we have—oh, I don’t know—enough on our plates after the Flash!”

“The battles begin at the End,” he said yet again.

“The Flash marked the beginning?” Right when the voices kicked up. Had the apocalypse awakened the Arcana? I swallowed. Or vice versa? “What caused the Flash, Matthew?”

“Sun.”

I exhaled in relief. Okay, a solar flare made sense. Then I remembered . . . “Isn’t there a Sun Card?”

Shrug.

Patience, Evie. “Is the Sun good or bad?”

“The sun is a star.”

And wasn’t there a Star Card too? Moving on . . . “How did Death see us?”

“Old. Knows my glimpse.”

“How old is he?”

“Really.”

“Matthew!” I rose, pacing.

“Twenty-one centuries or so.”

“Twenty-one! Is he immortal?”

Another shrug. “Just hasn’t been killed in a while.”

Back and forth I paced. “But he knows you. Are you . . . his age?”

With a roll of his eyes, Matthew informed me, “I’m sixteen.”

Patience! “Then tell me when you two met.”

“Twenty-one centuries ago.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re killing me, kid.”

He shot to his feet, clamping my shoulders. “Never kill you!”

“It’s just a figure of speech, Matthew.” I eased out of his grip.

“Oh.” He sank back on the bed. “I’ve seen the games, the past. I’ve seen Death. In some ways, I’m wise,” he said, looking anything but.

“Crazy like a fox,” I murmured. “Okay, so say I have to fight in some kind of supernatural ‘ancient battle.’ What’s the purpose? What do we get if we win?”

My mind raced as I imagined what kind of prize might be equal to the risk. Maybe there was a protected haven on earth, one that still had rain and greenery?

Death was some kind of otherworldly knight; did he possess an untouched fortress somewhere? Then I remembered his plane of unbroken black, cluttered with ruins. Not precisely where I’d choose to live.

Maybe there was some way to go back in time and stop the apocalypse! Hadn’t Gran believed I was going to save the world? I needed to know the stakes.

My heart dropped when Matthew said, “If you win, you get to . . . live.”

“So there’s no way to improve our lot? Just more danger and worry heaped on my shoulders?”

“Danger! And worry!”

“No. I refuse this. I didn’t sign up for this shit! I never opted in. But I sure as hell can opt out.”

“No refusal. You are Arcana. Learn your powers. Use them.”

“Nuh-uh, I’m a girl with no dog in this fight,” I assured him. “I’ll raise a white flag, seek a truce. You can help me with Death, since you know him.”

“I’m in his pocket, so he’s in my eyes.”

“And that means what?”

Matthew nodded. “No truce. No peace. He is Death. He knows one thing—killing.”

“Then I’ll run.” Was that what my life would be like from now on? Fleeing from an armored serial killer, always looking over my shoulder, dreading his approach? How long could I keep that up?

With a shiver, I thought of Matthew’s eulogy for Calanthe.

She fears him no more. . . .