Poison Princess
Page 27

I still couldn’t believe I’d been face to face with these things. I could’ve been bitten. Hell, I could’ve died in the wreck or been captured!
Of course, the night was still young. . . .
When he started dragging the corpse away from our hideout, I asked, “Why are you doing that?”
“Bagmen drink their fallen. Not goan to invite them to a happy hour.”
Learn something new from Jackson every day. “Are you certain their skin’s not contagious?”
“I know it ain’t with me. Just to be safe, you doan touch it, no.” Taking the arrow from me, Jackson wiped it on the sole of his boot, then returned it to his bow’s magazine clip.
Back in the dead-tree hideout, I said, “If I get bitten—”
“You will have my arrow in your brainpan directly, doan you worry,” he said without a nanosecond of hesitation.
“Well. Good to know.” I wondered if I could regenerate from a bite. May I never have to find out. “When the Bagmen go find shelter, will those men come for us?”
“Let’s hope a windstorm dusts up,” he said, never taking his alert gaze off the woods. “Their dog woan be able to track us.”
“They looked like regular people.” I could almost imagine they’d been part of a community watch on the trail of criminals, like I should’ve stopped and said, “They went thattaway!”
“Jackson, why’d they wreck all those cars?” And why’d they have to wreck ours? Right when we had some gas in the tank.
All our water, our seeds . . . gone.
“It’s an easy way to provision,” he said. “They’re probably wanting women, too. I think that’s half the problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me,” I insisted.
“Everywhere I go, I meet crazy-ass coo-yôns. I’ve only run into one or two solid characters since the Flash. You remember when you asked me how everything went bad so quick? I think the lack of women is fuel to the fire.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ohhh, men are now bad because they have, like, masculine ‘needs’ or some other crock?”
“I ain’t making excuses for ’em. Just think you women civilize us men. Without you around, we . . . devolve or something.”
Huh. His explanation made as much sense as anything I could come up with. “Jackson, I think you’re a lot smarter than I gave you credit for.”
He faced me with a scowl. When he realized I was serious, he said, “You’d keep me as a history podna now?”
Again, I thought that this was something he should’ve already forgotten. At least enough that it wasn’t worth a mention. Still I said, “Sans doute.” Without a doubt.
I could tell that pleased him. “You should try to rest up, ange.”
There was no chance of sleep. “I can help you keep watch.”
He gave a soft laugh. “I told you—nothing can get the drop on me. Nothing.”
“Wow. If only you felt confident on that score.”
“I spent my whole life watching my six.” At my frown, he said, “Watching my back.”
I recalled that drunk man barreling into Jackson’s house, a threat coming out of the blue. Had others come quietly? “I sleep with one eye open,” Jackson had once said.
And his comment about crawling to the hospital on Sunday mornings after being kicked in the ribs? I’d just assumed he was referring to injuries from his wild Saturday night bar brawls.
Or had he been talking about an earlier time in his life, when he’d been a scared little boy, beaten by his mother’s drunken . . . dates?
Maybe that was why he traced his scars. They might be records of near misses or hard-earned victories. No wonder he could be so brutal.
I felt a spike of shame that I’d judged him for thrashing that man in his home. No more.
“Evie, bed down.” Scanning the dark, he murmured, “You doan have to be scared. I’ve got you.”
You do, don’t you? Here we were in the Bagmen’s lair, and I wasn’t terrified for my life. Jackson would kill any that strayed too close. In fact, they should fear him.
I was with the boy that monsters should fear.
The idea was liberating. We were carless, with nearly zero supplies, fresh from a wreck and trapped in a swamp filled with bloodthirsty zombies—and yet I was beginning to feel optimistic.
As long as he had that bow, maybe we were the bogeymen.
I shrugged off my bug-out bag, marveling at how relieved I was to have it now. Because of Jackson riding my ass, I still had my flash drive, a full canteen, my jewelry, another change of clothes, some energy gel-packs and more. “I’m actually not scared. Can you believe it? If there was ever a time for me to be . . .”
“Maybe you’re in shock.”
“Maybe I’m safe with you.” Grinning softly, I told him, “Thank you, Jackson, it’s great to be alive.”
“Smart-ass,” he grated, but the corners of his lips quirked.
Curling up in the ashy leaves, using my bag as a pillow, I watched him. I’d always found him physically attractive, but not to the degree that girls like Catherine had.
Tonight I was starting to see why she’d sighed over him.
The moonlight illuminated his chiseled cheekbones and his black, black hair. His gorgeous eyes gleamed. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but the stubble only added to his looks.
When he turned his head, listening for something, I admired his profile, his strong chin and straight nose.
He was focused and ruthless, and seeing him like this made me want to sigh.
Never in a million years could I have imagined that Jackson Deveaux would end up being my protector, a refuge from the voices, and a . . . friend.
If I wasn’t careful, I’d do something incredibly stupid, like fall for him.
He must have noticed me regarding him so closely. “Get some sleep.”
“I’m too keyed up from the wreck. Never been in one before. Have you?”
“Motorcycle wrecks all the time. Hell, you almost made me crash.”
“Me?”
Again his lips curled. “That first morning I saw you, I could barely take my eyes off your ass in that little dress.” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, as if he was remembering the sight even now.
Which made my breath hitch. I couldn’t tell if I was flattered, embarrassed, or excited.
“Then I got a gander of that face of yours. Nearly hit a pothole and took a header over the handlebars, me.” He shot me a glance, looking like he regretted saying so much.
Definitely flattered and excited—
He suddenly tensed. In an instant, he’d taken aim and shot his bow.
When I heard a thud in the distance, I swallowed. “You move the body, I’ll get the arrow.”
He helped me to my feet. “Now, Evangeline, I know you ain’t about to leave that bag behind.”
Once we’d returned from our tasks and settled back in again, I told him, “Jackson, I meant what I said earlier. Thank you for saving me tonight.”
Another sideways glance to see if I was serious. “If you truly want to thank me, you’ll tell me a secret.”
Part of me did feel like I owed it to him, but on the other hand . . . “You already know so much more about me than I do about you. You investigated my room, all my belongings—down to my panty drawer.”
He made a low ooom sound of agreement. “That I did.”
“And you had Brandon’s cell phone. Did you go through it?”
“Why would I?” he muttered, not denying either.
“I’m embarrassed by what you were able to see and read.” And hear.
He just stared out into the night, sharing nothing of what was going on in that mysterious mind of his. But I could feel the tension rolling off him.
Finally he said, “Did you . . . did you really want to get hitched to Radcliffe? Have kids and play tennis?”
“I’d planned to leave Sterling as soon as possible,” I said honestly. “Go to college at Vandy or UT Austin.”
“Leave that boy behind?” At once, Jackson’s mood seemed to improve.
“I was getting out, one way or another.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t true love on your part, no?”
I kind of wished it had been. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been in love with Brandon, as if I hadn’t appreciated how good our lives were, at least before I’d been sent away. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
“Then tell me where you really were last summer, when you dropped off the face of the earth. You weren’t at a special school, were you?”
Two realizations struck me—Jackson was one of the most perceptive people I’d ever met. And he’d studied every byte of data on that phone.
Surely he would notice that my text messages to Brandon had gone from countless to zero overnight—until the rare texts began to arrive over the summer. On the exact same days of the month, at the same time.
Though I’d told no one where I was, a clever boy could figure out that I’d been locked up somewhere. “No way I’m talking about that, Jackson. Not until you divvy.”
He looked to be growing uneasy again, like he’d prefer facing an army of Bagmen over talking about himself.
“We don’t have to do this,” I assured him. “We don’t have to get to know each other—even though we’re on the road together and we might die tomorrow. As soon as we get to North Carolina, I’ll tell you all my deepest, darkest secrets, and you can leave, still a stranger to me. If that’s what you want.”
He exhaled a gust of breath. “Ask, then.” He dragged his flask out of his own bag, as if in readiness.
Surprised he was cooperating, I sat up. “What did you really want to do after school?”
“A podna of mine worked on an oil rig off the coast of Mexico. Eight-week stints. Great money.” He flashed me a rueful grin. “No girls. I was goan to send money to Clotile, and she’d look after my mère.” In a more somber tone, he added, “We had it all figured out.”
A boy with hopes, dreams, and a Spanish for Beginners book. Just as I’d wondered all those months ago, he had planned on getting out of that hellhole. “You said Clotile . . . that she might be your sister. Do you know who your father was?”
“I knew of him, more like. Only met him once.”
“Why?”
“He was too busy spoiling his legitimate son to spend time with me—or to send a single dime to ma mère. Told her he wouldn’t admit culpability or some bullshit.”
“Sounds like a lawyer.”
With a contemplative swig of his flask, Jackson muttered, “Heh.” Cajun for Huh. You think so? “By the time I learned I could nail his ass with a paternity suit, I was more concerned with telling him where to shove his money.” His hand tightened around the bow stock. “I knew who my père was, but Clotile could only narrow hers down to three or so. My father made the short list. Blood or no, she was a sister to me.”
“I’m sorry you lost her.”
“And what about your dad?” he asked, changing the subject.
Another thing I’d learned about the Cajun? He didn’t like messy emotions. His go-to response for just about every situation tended to be pure anger, with a side of action.
“I never knew my father,” I said. “He disappeared when I was young. Went into the bayou on a fishing trip and never came back.”
Jackson looked like he had an opinion on that, but wisely kept it to himself. “Am I done now?”
“Please tell me why you were on parole.”
Another shrug. “One of my ex-stepfathers wouldn’t take non for an answer. He terrified ma mère. And he paid for it.” The fierce protectiveness in his gaze was staggering.
So Clotile hadn’t been the only woman he cared about who’d been abused?
“I did to him what you saw me do to that other man—and then some.”
“Bagasse?”
He nodded. “Knew I’d get sentenced; didn’t care. He somehow pulled through, but he’d never be able to hurt another woman.”
As I wondered what that meant, Jackson said, “Now can we get back to your summer away?”
He’d shared so much with me that I supposed I could at least tell him this. And hadn’t I yearned to talk to someone about these things? But I didn’t want him to look at me like those docs had. Because at some point in the last nine days, Jackson’s opinion of me had become important—
“You went to a nuthouse, didn’t you?”
“Wh-why would you guess that?”
“If anybody else saw that journal of yours, you’d have been sent up for true.”
I glared. “Or maybe you guessed that because you saw my texts to Brandon, and put things together.”
“You told me there was a reason you’d asked about me going to prison. I think it was ’cause you got locked up too, only you were with all the fous.” Lunatics.
“Ugh! You are such a dick!”
“Shh.” His gaze darted, body tensing before he gradually settled down once more.
I never should have sidled around this subject with him! Now he thought I was mental.
“You go in for the visions—or the voices?”
I just stifled a gasp. “What . . . how did you know about the voices?” Why was I bothering to hide anything from this boy?
“I’m not stupid, Evie. I’ve caught you talking to yourself. A lot. Muttering for someone to leave you alone or begging them to shut up.”
“I don’t . . . it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“Why should I tell you anything? You’ll just make fun of me again,” I pointed out, even as I was nearly shaking with the need to unload. “You’ll call me a lunatic.”