Poison Princess (7 page)

In texts, he'd actually begun counting down the days left until my birthday—like he had a cherry countdown widget.

When I caught him sneaking a glance at my chest, his expression one of longing, I remembered a movie where one of the heroines had likened boobs to smart bombs. I'd laughed. Now I marveled at how right she'd been.

I scraped up a placid smile. “Let's talk after practice.”

He leaned in. “Spence's parents are going out of town, not this weekend but the next. So it'd be after your birthday . . .”

Jackson was too close, could overhear this private conversation!

“. . . you can tell your mom you're spending the night with Melissa, then stay with me.”

“Brandon, we'll meet
later
. I'll let you know then.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure.” When his friends called for him, he dipped down to give me a peck on the lips, then jogged off.

As I collected my books, I heard Lionel say in French, “Surprised you didn't make a run at that one.” He indicated me with a jerk of his chin. “She's not your type, but she's pretty.”

Jackson's
type
? He probably preferred drunken Bayou Bessies who put out
before
the crawfish boil.

“She's ice-cold and she's a conceited bitch,” Jackson replied in French, his voice rumbling with anger. “Just a useless little doll—pretty to look at and not a damn thing more.”

While Lionel snickered, I gritted my teeth, determined not to let them know I understood.

Oh, I'm more than a useless little doll, Cajun. I'm a damaged one. And if you knew what went on inside my mind, you'd make the sign of the cross and run the other way.

Yet Jackson was sharp. His gaze took in my stiffened shoulders and clenched jaw.

With narrowed eyes, he faced me while continuing to address Lionel in French, “
You
should make a run at her, and be sure to take her down a peg while you're at it. Never met a girl who needed it more.”

I tried to school my reaction, didn't know if I succeeded.

When the bell rang and Lionel shuffled off, Jackson grated to me,
“Tu parles le Français Cadien?”

I hesitated a moment, looked up, then glanced over my shoulder. In a confused tone, I said, “Are you talking to
me
?” Advantage Evie.

Jackson looked thunderstruck.
“Tu parles Français!”

“Huh? What are you saying?”

He stalked closer, looking dangerous, making me crane my head up to hold his gaze. “Like you doan know, you.”

Matching his fuming tone, I enunciated, “I do not speak
Basin
.” It came out even snobbier than I'd intended, but I was okay with that.

After unending moments, Jackson turned toward his class, but he looked back, pointing at me with a taped finger.
“Je te guette.”
I'm watching you.

DAY 3 B.F.

I lay in bed with my books spread out all around me, my buzzing cell phone in my open palm, my TV on, volume muted.

On Thursday nights, Mel and I always watched
America's Next Top Model
together, texting commentary. She opened with:
I'd totally do the ginger model
.

But I had no energy to respond.

R U there?


I finally texted,
U'd do the dress dummy.


HAHAHAHAHAHA bitch


I grinned sleepily, then turned back to my homework. I'd been reading the same sentence again and again with no comprehension. Ultimately, I gave up, collapsing onto my back. Sprawled like a casualty, I gazed around me.

After my stint in the bleak, no-frills CLC, I was still unused to the luxuries of home. My room here was spacious, with a walk-in closet you could get lost in and a Sotheby's auction worth of antique furniture. The astronomical thread-count of these yummy sheets made me want to purr.

I'd even missed my wall mural. Before I'd gone round the bend last spring, when things had been so hopeless, I'd drawn the blackest, most ominous storm clouds, then rendered them aglow with lightning bolts. I found myself staring even now. . . .

A text chime distracted me.
Spence hasn't called. WTF Greene?


Working on it
, I texted with a wide yawn. Though so much was riding on my grades, I still couldn't motivate myself to study. Convincing myself that I'd never have a pop quiz tomorrow—I mean, what were the odds?—I decided to go to sleep.

With one lethargic leg, I shuffled books off my bed. My journal was already tucked safely under my mattress.

I texted:
C-P. bout 2 pass out, tlk 2moro?
My responses to Brandon's messages had been equally lame.

But U never miss ANTM


Though I could
hear
the hurt in her text, I still wrote,
Nite.
Phone and TV off.

In the dark of the night, our old house settled with ghostly groans, shrouded in fog. The moisture swelled the boards, making the frame shift like it was trying to get comfortable.

On nights like this, a ship at sea was quieter.

Haven was the only home I'd ever known. I could feel its history, could feel the farm suffering now. Since I'd been back, the weather had been like a near-sneeze, rain clouds building and building, only to dissipate with no payoff. The drought wore on. . . .

But when I shut my eyes, I found my thoughts drifting to another source of worry. Jackson Deveaux. Courtesy of the Cajun, my week had deteriorated even more. As promised, he'd been keeping his eye on me, scowling the entire time.

Like he was being forced to investigate something he particularly hated.

In English yesterday, he'd glowered at the kid behind me, taking the swiftly vacated desk. While I'd sat stiffly, he'd leaned forward until awareness of him had permeated my senses. I'd been able to hear his breaths, to smell the medical tape on his hands and a woodsier male scent that made my skin flush. The room had been dark and close as another teasing storm front had rolled into the parish.

Then he'd started murmuring
le Français Cadien
to me, telling me that he knew I could understand him, and that he'd prove it. Wanting to thwart him in any way possible, I'd shown no reaction, even when he'd said in a husky tone that I smelled
comme une fleur
, like a blossom.

Why wouldn't he leave me alone?

Just as he'd studied me, I'd tried to analyze him. One thing I'd noticed? When he didn't think anyone was looking, his gaze turned restless, as if he longed to be anywhere but where he was at that moment. And he would absently run his fingers over the tape on his knuckles. Why did he wear it?

I threw my arm over my face. Why was I musing about Jackson?

Instead of my own boyfriend?

I wasn't thinking clearly! God, I just needed one good night's sleep. Though my bitter little pills hadn't prevented yesterday's hallucination—or, rather, my
residual blip
—they still succeeded in making me sleepy.

I glanced over at my pill bottle.
Desperate times . . .

Later that night, I woke to find myself standing in my driveway in my underwear, with no memory of how I came to be there.

I blinked several times. Surely this was a dream, or even a hallucination.

Last I remembered, I'd been tanked on pills, drifting off in my bed. So, any minute now, I'd
really
wake up.

Any minute . . .

Nope. Still standing there, barefooted on my oyster-shell driveway, wearing nothing but boy-short panties and an old cheerleading camp T-shirt.

Shit.

I squinted through the mist to get my bearings, but I could barely see a few feet in front of me.

The fog was as thick and wet as breath on a mirror, dimming the heat lightning above. Yellow bolts the color of a cat's eye forked out above me.

Assuring myself that there was a perfectly logical reason why this hallucination was more lifelike than the others, I started back toward the house, wincing as the razor-sharp shells sliced my tender feet. Naturally, our driveway was raised, flanked by two drainage ditches all the way to our lawn. Which meant I was stuck halfway down the mile-long drive.

A stable person might ask herself why she had no cuts from the trip out here; it wasn't like I'd been plopped here from the sky.

Maybe because this is just a dream?
I told myself that, even as I cussed and sputtered my way across the shells.

And to make the situation worse, I again felt like I was being watched. I ran my hand over my nape.
Ignore it—

A horse shrieked. I jerked my head around, peering through the fog, but couldn't determine the direction.

Another frenzied shriek—that couldn't possibly have come from my gentle nag dozing in the barn. I quickened my pace.

My eyes went wide when I made out the sound of hooves crushing the shells; a horse was speeding toward me. From behind me? Farther down the drive? I couldn't tell!

This isn't real. You're in control, focused!

Hard to focus when my feet were getting sliced! “Shit, shit.”

Hooves pounded closer . . .
closer
as I hopped and yelped my way down the drive like a cartoon character.

Then I heard metal clanking against metal, almost like the sound of
armor
?

My instincts got the better of me. Ignoring the pain, I began to seriously run.

Finally the end of the drive was in sight. To my right, Haven House loomed. To my left was the edge of our front cane field.

The house was safer.

The field was closer.

How much of a lead did I have on the rider? The heaving breaths of that horse sounded directly behind me. How close was he?

A memory of Gran's voice drifted through my mind:
“The fog lies, Evie.”

As soon as the driveway dumped into the front lawn, I veered off, sprinting toward the field. This close to harvest, the cane was mature, twice as tall as I was. I could lose anyone in those rows. I craned my head back but saw only a blur of a rider.

Running . . . running . . .

I heard a whistle, as if something was slicing through the air. A sword? Even in my panic, some memory was tickling my brain.

The cane was twenty feet away.

Ten feet.

When I heard that whistling directly behind me and felt a sudden breeze on my nape, I dove for the edge of the cane rows, arms outstretched in front of me.

Amid the stalks, I scrambled to my knees, but the rider didn't follow. His horse reared with another shriek, front legs stabbing the air with sharpened hooves.

I gaped up at my pursuer. He wore black armor with a fearsome helmet. The weapon he'd wielded was a scythe; it now sat glinting in a saddle holster. His pale stallion had red eyes.

As he spurred that mount to stalk back and forth at the edge of the field, I fought realization.

Scythe. Black armor. A pale horse.

This was . . . Death. The classic image of the Grim Reaper.

His horse's mane was blowing in a wind that I could not feel. The feathery leaves of the cane above me were still.

As I stared at him, the regular soundtrack of the farm—my own horse whinnying in sleep, katydids chirping—gave way to the sounds of gravel crunching underfoot, that breeze picking up, and the occasional . . . hiss?

Behind Death, Haven House began to disappear, transformed into a space of gleaming black, cluttered with crushed pillars and piles of rubble. Like ancient city ruins?

I sensed that this was his barren, soulless lair, and his plane seemed to be pressing against my own.

Would he find my half of the world—all green and misty with sultry night air—as incomprehensible as I found his?

If he left, would my house come back? Would my
mother
inside come back? This delusion had gone from mind-blowingly wrong to horrifying.
Can't process this!