Poison Princess ac-1 Read online

  And Jackson had kept me occupied, had acted interested in me . . . so that Lionel . . .

  Oh my God.

  Struggling not to throw up, I told Mel, “I know who’s got our phones. And if you help me, I’m going to get them back.”

  11

  “You’ve had better ideas,” Mel muttered, squinting to see out of her bug-splattered windshield. At dusk the insects swarmed, and their squashed bodies had meshed till they were like tar on the glass.

  “Maybe so, but I have to do this.” I’d never been so incensed in all my life, and I’d be damned if I let Jackson get away with this. “Can’t you go any faster?”

  The sun would set soon, and we hadn’t even made the parish levee yet. It’d taken us hours to find the Cajun’s address on Mrs. Warren’s computer, and then I’d wasted even more time persuading Mel to drive me into the Basin.

  “You’re lucky I’m in for this one at all, Greene. I’m not losing my license because of a fifth ticket this year. . . .”

  She still hadn’t stopped grumbling by the time the towering levee loomed. “Let’s just call the cops.”

  And then they’d confiscate my journal. “Jackson only did this because he’s a bully and because he can. No one ever calls him out. But it’s time somebody did.”

  “How do you know he’ll have the phones? You said he just served as a lookout.”

  I hadn’t told Mel exactly how good Jackson had been at his job, only that he’d kept me talking to him while Lionel snatched our things. “I just know, okay?” Which wasn’t precisely true. He might not have the phones, but he’d have that sketchbook, which was my main priority.

  Not that the phones weren’t a big deal. Though I code-locked mine—good luck accessing any of my info—Brandon never locked his phone. And he had all our private texts over the last seven months, not to mention a folder filled with countless pics and vids of me.

  Were those Cajuns even now ogling images of me in my bathing suit, or snickering over the goofy faces I’d made for Brand’s camera? The corny jokes I’d told.

  Had they listened to my voice message from earlier? “Yes, I’ll spend the night with you.” My face burned, my fury ratcheting up to new heights.

  When we came upon the new bridge, stretching over acres of swamp, my lips thinned. Without this line of dull gray cement, I’d never even have known Jackson Deveaux.

  Once we reached the end of the bridge, we were officially in a new parish. Cajun country. Bayou inlets and smaller drawbridges abounded. A pair of wildlife agents in their black trucks sat chatting on a shoulder.

  Mel exhaled. “Why are you forcing me into the voice-of-reason role? You know that never works out for us.”

  “I need to do this,” I said simply. When I’d realized Jackson had played me, that the almost-kiss had been a ruse—it’d hurt. Even though I’d never wanted his kiss to begin with.

  Why did he have to act as if he’d liked me? It was a mean-spirited, coldhearted prank. How he and Lionel must have laughed at my gullibility!

  “It’s getting really dark,” Mel said as we approached the Basin turnoff. She didn’t just mean daylight-wise.

  Ominous clouds were back-building over the swamp. “Yeah, but what are the odds that it’ll actually rain?” Those clouds reminded me of the scene I’d painted on my wall, and of the blazing eyes I’d soon see.

  Folks didn’t usually drive to lower land when faced with a gale like that. I didn’t know which storm would prove worse—the weather or Jackson’s anger.

  Didn’t matter; I was bent on seeing this through tonight. I directed Mel to turn onto the dirt road that led to the Basin.

  After a few miles, she said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  We saw shrimp boats, bayou shacks, and shipyards filled with rusted heaps. Statuettes of the Virgin Mary graced every other yard. I’d known how Catholic the Basin folk were, but even I was surprised.

  We neared the end of the road, closing in on Jackson’s address. There were fewer structures down here, but more palmettos, banana trees, cypress. Trash had collected all around the ditch lilies.

  By the time the marsh was visible, it was dark and the car lights had come on. Red eyes glowed back from the reeds. Gators. They were so thick, some of the smaller ones lay on top of the others.

  Pairs of beady red dots, stacked like ladder rungs.

  Mel nervously adjusted her hands on the wheel, but she drove onward. The car crept deeper under a canopy of intertwined limbs and vines, like a ride going into a haunted tunnel.

  When the road surrendered to a rutted trail, Jackson’s home came into view—a shotgun house, long and narrow, with entrances on both ends. The clapboard framing was a mess of peeling paint. A couple of gator skins had been tacked over the worst spots.

  The roof was a rusted patchwork of mismatched tin sheets. In one section, a metal garbage can had been battered flat and hammered down.

  This place was as far from proud Haven as possible. I thought I’d seen poor. I was mistaken.

  “That’s where he lives?” Mel shuddered. “It’s horrid.”

  Suddenly I regretted her seeing this, as if I’d betrayed a secret of Jackson’s, which didn’t make any sense.

  “Evie, my car’ll get stuck if I drive any farther. And it’s not like we have our phones on us.”

  “Not yet. Just stay here, and I’ll walk it. Be back with our stuff.”

  “What if he’s not even here?”

  I pointed out his motorcycle, parked under an overhang beside the rickety front porch. “That’s his.”

  When I opened the car door, she said, “Think about this.”

  I had. This entire situation was so unnecessary. None of this had needed to happen. All because Jackson had stolen from me! He’d violated my privacy, had possibly seen and heard my intimate exchanges with Brandon.

  And he’d seen my drawings.

  That freedom I’d vowed I would never take for granted? His actions were threatening it!

  Remembering what was at stake made me slam the car door and venture forth. Yellow flies swarmed me, but I kept going, wending around tires, busted crab traps, cypress knees.

  Closer to his house, there was no cut lawn, there wasn’t even grass. In these parts, some folks who couldn’t afford a lawnmower “swept” their yards, keeping them free of vegetation—and of snakes. His yard was a giant patch of hard-packed earth.

  As I neared, I saw tools hanging from the porch roof. A machete and a saw clanked together in the growing breeze.

  I crossed a dried-out depression in front of four wobbly-looking steps. The first stair bowed even under my weight. How did a boy as big as Jackson climb them?

  There was no knocker on the unpainted plywood door, just a rusted lever to open it. The bottom was shredded in strips.

  From when animals had scratched to get in?

  With a shiver, I glanced back at the sky, saw the clouds were getting worse. I gazed at Mel in the distance, pensive in her car. Maybe this is . . . stupid.

  No. I had to get that journal back. I found my knuckles rapping the wood. “Hello?”

  The door groaned open wide.

  12

  “Mr. or Ms. Deveaux?” No answer. “I need to talk to Jackson,” I called as I stepped into the house.

  I saw no one inside but still got an eyeful. Just as bad as the outside.

  The main living area was cramped, the ceiling hanging so low I wondered if Jackson had to duck to walk around. Dangling from it was a single lightbulb, buzzing like a bee.

  The sole window had been boarded up. The door to a room in the back was closed, but I heard a TV blaring from inside.

  On the left wall was a ridiculously small kitchen. Six fish lay cleaned beside a sizzling pan. Some kind of game was chopped in chunks, already breaded in cornmeal. Had Jack angled, trapped, or shot everything on that counter?

  Why leave the stove on? “Jackson, where are you?” With a despairing eye, I took a closer look around the room.
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  Lining the wall to the right was a plaid couch, with cigarette burn holes pocking the arms. Frayed sheets had been spread over the sunken cushions.

  His boots sat on the floor at the foot of the couch. This is where he sleeps?

  My lips parted. He didn’t even have his own room.

  A Spanish for Beginners book lay on the floor, spine cracked and opened in the middle, with a worn copy of Robinson Crusoe beside it. That novel wasn’t on our reading list. So he read for enjoyment? And wanted to speak another language?

  I felt something tugging inside of me. As much as I thought of him as grown, he was an just eighteen-year-old boy who would have a boy’s plans and dreams.

  Maybe he imagined running away to Mexico or sailing away from this hellhole.

  It struck me how little I really knew about him.

  As my anger faded, I reminded myself that what little I knew, I hated. Still, I found myself trudging forward to turn off the stove before the place caught fire.

  I nibbled my lip. Where is he? What if my sketchbook was at Lionel’s? I didn’t see any of the phones here either.

  After I turned off the burner, I heard yelling from the back. Not the TV?

  Suddenly a harsh drumming pelted the tin roof. I gave a cry of surprise, but that noise drowned it out. “Just the rain,” I murmured to myself. “Drops on tin.” Finally!

  Water started beading along bulging seams in the ceiling, dripping down to the floor, over the couch. Jackson would have nowhere dry to sleep tonight.

  I jumped when stomping sounds shook the house, as if someone was bounding up a back set of stairs. When a door slammed in the back, the connecting door creaked open.

  Morbid curiosity drew me closer. One peek and I’ll slip out. . . .

  On a stained mattress, a middle-aged woman lay sprawled unconscious, her long jet-black hair a tangled halo around her head. She was nearly indecent, her robe hiked high up her legs. A rosary with glinting onyx beads and a small gothic cross circled her neck.

  Her arm hung over the side, an empty bottle of bourbon on the floor just beneath her fingertips. A plate of untouched scrambled eggs and toast sat atop a box crate by the bed.

  Was that Ms. Deveaux?

  A tall, sunburned man in wet overalls came into view. He started pacing alongside the bed, yelling at her unconscious form, gesturing with one fist and his own liquor bottle.

  Was the man her husband? Her boyfriend?

  I knew I needed to leave, but I was riveted to the spot, could no more look away than I could quit breathing.

  Then I saw Jackson on the other side of the bed, pulling her robe closed. Shaking her shoulder, he urgently muttered, “Maman, reveille!”

  She slurred something but didn’t move. The way Jackson gazed at her face, so protectively . . . I knew he’d cooked her that breakfast this morning.

  When the drunk lumbered toward her, Jackson smacked the man’s arm away.

  Both began yelling in Cajun French. Even with what I understood, I could barely follow. Jackson was trying to kick him out, telling him never to return?

  The man reached for Ms. Deveaux again. Jackson blocked him once more. Then the two squared off at the foot of the bed. Their voices got louder and louder, bellows of rage as they circled each other.

  Did the idiot not see that glint in Jackson’s eyes? The one promising pain?

  Instead of heeding that warning, the man clutched the neck of his bottle, busting the end on the windowsill. With surprising speed, he attacked with the jagged end. Jackson warded off the blow with his forearm.

  I saw bone before blood welled. I thrust the back of my hand against my mouth. Can’t imagine that pain!

  But Jackson? He merely smiled. An animal baring its teeth.

  At last, the drunk clambered back in fear. Too late. Jackson launched his big body forward, his fists flying.

  A stream of blood spurted from the man’s mouth, then another, and still Jackson ruthlessly beat him. The strength in his towering frame was brutal, the wildness in his eyes . . .

  Why couldn’t I run? Leave this sordid place behind?

  Leave these horrific sounds behind—the angry rain on tin, the woman’s slurring, the drunk’s grunts as Jackson landed blow after blow.

  Then . . . one last punch across the man’s jaw. I thought I heard bone crack.

  The force of the blow sent the man twirling on one foot, drooling blood and teeth as he went down.

  With a heartless laugh, Jackson sneered, “Bagasse.”

  Cane pulp. Beaten to a literal pulp. I covered my ears with my forearms, fighting dizziness.

  Now that the man had been defeated, Jackson’s wrath seemed to ebb. Until he slowly turned his head in my direction. His brows drew together in confusion. “Evangeline, what are you . . . ?”

  He swept a glance around his home, as if seeing it through my eyes. As if seeing this hellhole for the first time.

  Even after Jackson’s display of raw violence, I couldn’t stop myself from pitying him.

  He must have seen it in my expression, because his face reddened with embarrassment. His confusion evaporated, that rage returning. His gaze was almost blank with it. “Why in the hell did you come here?” The tendons in his neck strained as he stalked toward me. “You tell me why you’re in my goddamned house!”

  I could only gape as I retreated. Don’t turn your back on him, don’t look away. . . .

  “A girl like you in the Basin? C’est ça coo-yôn! Bonne à rien! Good for nothing but getting yourself in trouble!” I’d never heard his accent so thick.

  “I—I—”

  “Wanted a look at how the other half lives? That it?”

  I backed across the front threshold, almost to the porch steps. “I wanted the journal you stole!”

  Lightning flashed, highlighting the lines of fury on his face. Thunder boomed instantly, shaking the house so hard the porch rattled. I cried out and swayed for balance.

  “The journal with all your crazy drawings? You come to take me to task!” When Jackson reached for me with that injured arm, I recoiled, scrambling backward into the pounding rain.

  That loose step seemed to buckle beneath my foot; pain flared in my ankle.

  I felt myself falling . . . falling . . . landing on my ass in a puddle. I gasped, spitting mud and rain, too shocked to cry.

  Strands of wet hair plastered my face, my shoulders. I tried to rise, but the mud sucked me down. I swiped hair out of my eyes, coating my face with filth.

  Blinking against the rain, I shrieked, “You!” I wanted to rail at him, to blame him for my pain, my humiliation. And all I could say over and over was “You!” Finally I managed to yell, “You disgust me!”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Do I? I didn’t last night when you were wettin’ your lips, hoping I’d kiss them, no. You wanted more of me then!”

  My face flushed with shame. Then I remembered. “You tricked me so your loser friend could steal our stuff. You acted as if you liked me!”

  “You didn’t seem to mind!” He raised his uninjured arm, shoving his fingers through his hair. “I heard your message to Radcliffe! You goan to kiss me? Then let that boy have you just days later?”

  “Give me my journal!”

  “Or what? What you goan do about it? The little doll got no teeth.”

  Frustration surged, because he was right. The Cajun had all the power; I had none.

  Unless I could choke someone in vine or slice them to ribbons?

  As my nails began to transform, I felt something akin to the blissful unity that I’d shared with the cane. I was awash in an awareness of all the plants around me—their locations, their strengths and weaknesses.

  Above Jackson’s house, a cypress tree shifted its branches over me. In the distance, I sensed kudzu vines hissing in response, slithering closer to defend me.

  And for a brief moment, I experienced an urge to show him who really had the power, to punish him for causing me pain.

  Punish him
? No, no! At once, I struggled to rein back the fury I’d unleashed.

  “You want your drawings?” Jackson stormed inside, returning with my journal. “Have them!” He flung the notebook like a Frisbee. Pages went sailing out, all over the muddy yard.

  “Nooo!” I cried out, watching them scatter, about to hyperventilate.

  By the time I’d managed to crawl to my hands and knees, I was breathing so hard I choked and coughed on raindrops. I reached for the pages nearest me, but every handful of paper made a vision sear my mind.

  Death. The bogeymen. The sun shining at night.

  With each page, I jerked again and again, yelling up at him, “I hate you! You disgusting brute!” His handsome face hid violence, seething ferocity.

  Even though he’d been protecting his mother, he’d liked beating that man unconscious. Jackson had just proved how heartless a boy he truly was. Bagasse . . .

  “HATE you! Never come near me again!”

  He blinked at my face, his expression turning from murderous to disbelieving. He shook his head hard.

  What was he seeing?

  “Evie!” Mel cried. She’d come for me!

  As she looped an arm around my shoulders to help me stand, she yelled at Jackson, “Stay away from her, you lowlife trash!”

  With a last dumbstruck look at my face, he turned to stride away.

  Just as he slammed inside that shack, my vines reached his porch. Mel was too busy checking me for injuries to see, but I watched them sway upright like cobras, waiting for me to command them.

  I whispered, “No.” At once, they raced back into the brush like plucked rubber bands. Then I told Mel, “I-I need these drawings. All of them.”

  Without a word, she dropped to her knees beside me.

  Both of us in the mud, collecting my crazy.

  13

  “You’re being so quiet,” I told Mel as she helped me up to my front porch. The rain was receding, the screen door open to the night breeze. We were both still coated with mud. “I hate when you go quiet.”

  On the way here, I’d told Mel about CLC, my visions, my mom, my gran—though not about the plants—finishing just as we’d pulled up.