Poison Princess
Page 35

Now Jackson yanked the wheel, careening onto the hilly dirt road that led to the house. The sharp ruts bounced the van so hard my teeth clattered.
“Easy, J.D.,” Selena protested from the back. “No seat belts back here, remember.”
Jackson had been adamant about sticking me in shotgun for this jaunt, had met my eyes as he’d yanked on my seat belt to test it. At once, Selena had started bitching that the only seat belts were in the front.
Now he said, “I want this remembered, peekôn. You holding the hell on?”
I nodded. “Bagmen ahead.” Already we were driving past stragglers, the crowd of them growing thicker and thicker.
He didn’t try to dodge them. The first we struck gave a guttural wail as it ramped up over the hood and into the air. The second one must not have fed recently; its body exploded into dusty chunks, coating the windshield.
When the house was in sight . . . we still didn’t slow. “Kids, doan try this at home,” Jackson muttered, his expression intent. Did he possess no fear? Instead, he looked as if the house had personally insulted him and he was about to make it pay.
I swallowed. As our targeted exterior wall loomed, I suddenly doubted this plan, wanting nothing more than to call it off.
Too late.
Impact. We crashed into that wall. Through it. Siding and boards battered the hood as Jackson slammed on the brakes.
Halfway inside the house, the van jolted to a stop. My body pitched forward, the seat belt wrenching the air out of my lungs.
As I fought for breath, I cracked open my eyes. One headlight remained intact, casting a muted glow over a living room. Drywall plaster clouded the air, but I could still see the outdated carpet and furniture. And cardboard boxes—they were everywhere, piled high against every wall, stacked throughout.
Retro Cracker Barrel meets Hoarders.
“Evie! You all right?”
As my breath returned, I gave him a thumbs-up signal.
“Selena?”
She gave a determined nod as she readied her bow.
Though the back half of the van plugged the hole we’d just made, sealing the Bagmen out, they’d already started banging on the back windows, moaning with thirst.
We wouldn’t have long.
Jackson collected his own bow, shouldering his pack. “Then let’s move.” Leaving the engine running, we filed out into the house. “Where’s this coo-yôn goan to be, Evie?”
“He has to be in the basement.”
“Where’s that?”
With all the boxes, I couldn’t spy out a door. And with all the noise—the moaning Bagmen pummeled the van, the engine still revved in the confines of the room—I could barely hear his voice in my head.
When I bit my lip, struggling to concentrate, Selena shoved me out of the way. “J.D., I’ll go right. You’re left. I’ll find you two directly.” She clicked on the spy flashlight hanging from her belt, then slipped away.
Jackson too raised a flashlight, bow at the ready. “Let’s go, Evie,” he said, adding, “And, peekôn—”
“Like a shadow,” I finished for him.
He led me forward, following a path through masses of boxes. Some of them were stacked so high they looked like they’d topple over on us.
We passed a boy’s room, decorated with a space theme. Jackson’s light shone over wallpaper depicting the galaxy and intricate mobiles of the planets dangling from the ceiling. Space shuttle posters adorned the walls. High-tech-looking computers and video game consoles were neatly organized.
Jackson gave a harsh laugh. “I’ve never been in a nerdery before.”
Matthew’s voice was growing fainter still, filling me with dread.
Selena returned, slipping up beside us. “There’s a dead woman in a car in the garage. Car’s out of gas. Ignition on. She’s only been croaked a day, tops.”
Suicide? What had happened here?
Jackson was unfazed by the suicide, instead wondering, “Who the hell fixed her car?”
Selena shrugged. “I found the way into the basement. There’s water rushing down there.”
Jackson met my gaze. We both knew my vision was coming true. “Selena, show us!”
With a nod, she took off through the obstacle course of boxes.
Jackson and I followed her to a nondescript door at the top of the basement stairwell. Pitch blackness greeted us. Snagging two glow sticks from his bag, he snapped them, tossing them below. They landed in water.
From their eerie green glow, we could see that the stairs led to a short hallway with two doors. Water was cascading from the top gap of one door, spouting from its old-fashioned keyhole as if from a pitcher. . . .
Selena said, “It’s deep in there.”
Jackson turned to me. “Unless that boy has gills, he’s not goan to be alive.”
“Oh, God!” I didn’t hear Matthew in my head at all. Silence. “Please, you have to get him out of there!”
“You lost your mind?”
“Please, Jack!”
“Damn it, girl.” A harsher oath followed as he shoved his bag into my chest, then tossed Selena his bow. “Want this remembered,” he muttered, pushing past us to descend the steps four at a time.
We followed. “Can you break it down?” I cried.
He sloshed through knee-high water to reach the bowing door, sizing it up. Then he brandished the buck knife he always carried.
“It’s solid oak,” Selena said. “No way you can pierce it.”
“Not goan to.” He swiped water from his face. “You both head back up. Now.”
As Selena and I ascended the steps, he worked the blade into the seam between the doorknob and the frame. His muscles rippled as he wedged it in, until only the hilt was visible.
Then he backed to the wall, bracing himself, and kicked the knife sideways. Once. And again—
The door exploded outward. A flume of water rushed over Jackson; a limp body rode the current, as if the basement had spat it out.
“Jackson!” I screamed.
He broke the surface and seized the pale boy, hauling him back to the steps.
“Is he alive?” I asked, squinting as Matthew’s “tableau” appeared over him—a smiling young man carrying a knapsack and a single white rose. He had his vacant gaze raised to a blinding sun, about to walk off a cliff, a small dog nipping at his heels.
I shook myself and the image faded. I didn’t want to see Matthew’s tableau; I wanted to see him safe!
Jackson felt the boy’s neck, then hovered a hand over his mouth. “Breathing. Just knocked out.”
My legs nearly gave way.
Selena said, “The water’s still rising, J.D.”
Jackson gave a quick nod, heaving the kid over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. When he bounded up the stairs, I marveled at his strength.
“Come on, you!” he snapped at me. “We ain’t out of this yet.”
By the time we returned to the van, the Bagmen were rocking it so hard you could see its shock absorbers. Getting inside was like boarding a boat in rough seas, but we managed to slide open the side door.
I scrambled across the floor in the back, motioning for Jackson to let the boy down gently—
He dropped him like a dead alligator, attention already on other things as he determined the situation. “They’re too thick behind us, and we’re wedged in,” he said. “Stay here. I’m letting them in.”
“What?” Selena and I cried in unison, but he’d already slammed the side door and loped off, wending around the boxes.
Shortly after, I heard what sounded like him kicking a door down. A sharp whistle followed. Gradually, the van stopped rocking.
Then came Jackson hauling ass around the corner, a line of Bagmen in pursuit. He hurtled some boxes, purposely knocking others over to slow the creatures down.
Selena leaned out to cover him, but the Baggers all stopped at the entrance to the basement, drawn by the undeniable call of that water. . . .
Once Jackson had hopped in the van, he shoved it into reverse and gunned the engine. Tires squealed. The smell of burned rubber filled the air as we inched out.
And then . . . we shot backward in a rush, leveling any Bagmen stragglers.
Part of the house caved in behind us. But there was enough of an opening for newcomers to crawl in.
None chased the van. As I gazed out the back windows, I saw them begin to teem into that hole, like ants in reverse.
Once we were back on the dirt road, heading out, Selena cried, “We did it!”
Jackson’s eyes were dancing with excitement. “Hell, yeah!” He slapped her raised hand.
With disaster averted, I cradled the boy’s head in my lap.
“Let’s pick up the bikes, J.D., then break open that fifth to celebrate!” She turned up her iPod, to some kind of irritating industrial music.
Grinning, Jackson glanced back at me in the rearview mirror.
I mouthed, Thank you so much.
He shrugged, his demeanor brusque, then looked away.
I peered down at Matthew’s face, startled by the overwhelming tenderness I already felt for him—as if I’d found a long-lost brother.
Something drew my attention to his arm. The sleeve of his plaid button-down had rolled up, revealing a silver MedicAlert bracelet circling his wrist. It was stamped with the word AUTISTIC and an emergency contact phone number.
For some reason, I didn’t want Selena or even Jackson to see this, didn’t want them to judge him. I whispered to Matthew, “You won’t need this anymore.”
I reached down to unfasten it; as soon as my skin made contact with his, a vision softly appeared inside my head, fluttering down into my consciousness like a tossed scarf.
The van disappeared. I found myself in the boy’s home watching a scene unfold.
Just before dusk, the house began quaking. Then came a deafening metallic pop, sounding like a manhole cover had exploded. Water rushed downstairs. It wasn’t long before Bagmen streamed into the yard, beating at the house.
The boy stood in that creepy time-warp living room alone. Waiting. Though he was so tall, and at least my age, he looked young and lost among all those hoarded boxes. Hours passed, and still he waited. The yard was now thick with zombies.
When a middle-aged brunette finally emerged from her bedroom, he met her gaze, not bothering to hide his emotions. Vulnerable. Pleading.
“Matthew,” she said in a high voice, adjusting the prim skirt-suit she wore, “why don’t you go check on the pipe? See if you can’t fix the leak? I’ll go secure the garage.”
His soulful eyes misted. “Yes, Mother,” he rasped, dragging his feet down the stairs and into that flooding basement.
Once he’d trudged through foot-deep water to find the burst pipe—a massive one that he could never fix—he heard the woman murmur from the basement hallway, “Mother knows best, son.”
As the water continued to rise, he faced her. His expression was heartbroken.
But not surprised.
Not even when she forced the door closed behind her and locked him inside to drown. . . .
Chapter 31
“Slap that boy awake,” Jackson told me.
We’d just broken into a four-bedroom brick McMansion for the night. After searching the place, Jackson had returned to the van to ferry a still-unconscious Matthew to one of the twin beds in a guest room.
“I want to know how he got himself into that fool bind.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall, hitting the fifth that he and Selena had broken out to celebrate our successful rescue mission.
I sat beside Matthew, shaking his shoulder. Then harder.
Nothing.
“He’ll wake up soon enough.” Selena snapped her fingers for the bottle. “Come on, J.D., there’s a dartboard downstairs.”
Jackson nodded. “Evie, let’s leave him for now.”
“I don’t want him to wake up and not know where he is.” Not after the day he’d had. Mother knows best. I shivered. “You guys can go and play—”
“My friend came for me.”
My gaze darted down. Matthew’s whisper had been . . . out loud? After so long hearing his voice in my head, it sounded so rich, so authentic.
He was awake, his eyes open. Utterly familiar to me.
Shooting upright, he yanked me into his arms to hold me close, his breath shuddering, as if he’d been aching to see me.
Over Matthew’s shoulder, I saw Jackson’s frown turn into a scowl.
In a pissy tone, Selena said, “I thought you told us that you’d never met this boy.”
“I-I haven’t.”
“Empress,” Matthew sighed against my hair.
I stiffened, wishing he hadn’t said that out loud.
“Why did you call her that?” Jackson demanded, while Selena canted her head with curiosity.
Matthew drew away from me to face him. “Why don’t you?”
I couldn’t tell if his tone was challenging or merely puzzled. Apparently neither could Jackson. “Tell us your name.”
“Matthew Mat Zero Matto.” With a sly look, he said, “Empress knows my name.”
Jackson asked, “Where’d the water come from in your house?”
“A pipe.” Then he explained to Jackson, “Water travels in pipes.”
Jackson pushed up from his spot against the wall, clearly reaching his limit of patience. “You hit your head or something, boy?”
“Jackson, please.”
Another scowl from the Cajun. Then he muttered to Selena, “He’s slower than Christmas.”
“Christmas,” Matthew began grandly, “is . . . slow.”
In a loud voice, Selena enunciated to him, “I am Sah-lee-nah Loo-ah. This is Jackson Dah-voh.”
In a bored tone, Matthew said, “Dee-vee-oh and Luna.” He turned from them without interest to gaze at me. “You came for me.”
“We did, Matthew,” I said. “Jackson’s the one who freed you from the basement. Selena played a huge role as well.”