Poison Princess ac-1

by Kresley Cole

  “Good. It’s our business only.” She paused before my room’s big wall mural, tilting her head uneasily. Instead of a nice watercolor or a retro-funk design, I’d painted an eerie landscape of tangled vines, looming oaks, and darkening skies descending over hills of cane. I knew she’d considered painting over the mural but feared I’d reach my limit and mutiny.

  “Have you taken your medicine this morning?”

  “Like I always do, Mom.” Though I couldn’t say my bitter little pills had done much for my nightmares, they did stave off the delusions that had plagued me last spring.

  Those terrifying hallucinations had been so lifelike, leaving me temporarily blinded to the world around me. I’d barely completed my sophomore year, brazening out the visions, training myself to act like nothing was wrong.

  In one of those delusions, I’d seen flames blazing across a night sky. Beneath the waves of fire, fleeing rats and serpents had roiled over Haven’s front lawn, until the ground looked like it was rippling.

  In another, the sun had shone—at night—searing people’s eyes till they ran with pus, mutating their bodies and rotting their brains. They became zombielike blood drinkers, with skin that looked like crinkled paper bags and oozed a rancid slime. I called them bogeymen. . . .

  My short-term goal was simple: Don’t get exiled back to CLC. My long-term goal was a bit more challenging: Survive the rest of high school so I could escape to college.

  “And you and Brandon are still an item?” Mom almost sounded disbelieving, as if she didn’t understand why he would still be going out with me after my three-month absence.

  “He’ll be here soon,” I said in an insistent tone. Now she’d gotten me nervous.

  No, no. All summer, he’d faithfully texted me, though I’d only been allowed to respond twice a month. And ever since my return last week, he’d been wonderful—my cheerful, smiling boyfriend bringing me flowers and taking me to movies.

  “I like Brandon. He’s such a good boy.” At last, Mom concluded this morning’s interrogation. “I’m glad you’re back, honey. It’s been so quiet around Haven without you.”

  Quiet? I yearned to say, “Really, Karen? You know what’s worse than quiet? Fluorescent bulbs crackling twenty-four hours a day in the center. Or maybe the sound of my cutter roommate weeping as she attacked her thigh with a spork? How about disconnected laughter with no punch line?”

  But then, that last one had been me.

  In the end, I said nothing about the center. Just two years and out.

  “Mom, I’ve got a big day.” I shouldered my backpack. “And I want to be outside when Brand shows.” I’d already made him wait for me all summer.

  “Oh, of course.” She shadowed me down the grand staircase, our steps echoing in unison. At the door, she tucked my hair behind my ears and gave me a kiss on my forehead, as if I were a little girl. “Your shampoo smells nice—might have to borrow some.”

  “Sure.” I forced another smile, then walked outside. The foggy air was so still—as if the earth had exhaled but forgotten to inhale once more.

  I descended the front steps, then turned to gaze at the imposing home I’d missed so much.

  Haven House was a grand twenty-two-room mansion, fronted by twelve stately columns. Its colors—wood siding of the lightest cream, hurricane shutters of the darkest forest green—had remained unchanged since it’d originally been built for my great-great-great-great-grandmother.

  Twelve massive oak trees encircled the structure, their sprawling limbs grown together in places, like hundred-ton hydras trapping prey.

  The locals thought Haven House looked haunted. Seeing the place bathed in fog, I had to admit that was fair.

  As I waited, I meandered across the front lawn to a nearby cane row, leaning in to smell a purple stalk. Crisp but sweet. One of the feathery green leaves was curled so that it looked like it was embracing my hand. That made me smile.

  “You’ll get rain soon,” I murmured, hoping Sterling’s drought would finally end.

  My smile deepened when I saw a sleek Porsche convertible speeding down our oystershell drive, a blur of red.

  Brandon. He was the most enviable catch in our parish. Senior. Quarterback. Rich. The trifecta of boyfriends.

  When he pulled up, I opened the passenger door with a grin. “Hey, big guy.”

  But he frowned. “You look . . . tired.”

  “I didn’t get to bed till late,” I replied, darting a glance over my shoulder as I tossed my bag into the minuscule backseat. When the kitchen curtain fluttered to the side, I just stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Two years and out . . .

  “You feeling okay?” His gaze was filled with concern. “We can pick up some coffee on the way.”

  I shut the door behind me. “Sure. Whatever.” He hadn’t complimented me on my hair or outfit—my Chloé baby-blue sleeveless dress with the hem no more than four regulation inches above the knee, the silky black ribbon that held my hair back in a curling ponytail, my matching black Miu Miu ankle-wrap heels.

  My diamond earrings and Patek Philippe wristwatch served as my only jewelry.

  I’d spent weeks planning this outfit, two days in Atlanta acquiring it, and the last hour convincing myself I’d never looked better.

  He hiked his wide shoulders, the matter forgotten, then peeled down Haven’s drive, tires spitting up an arc of shell fragments as we zoomed past acre after acre of cane.

  Once we’d reached the highway, a seamed and worn-out stretch of old Louisiana road, he said, “You’re so quiet this morning.”

  “I had weird dreams last night.” Nightmares. Nothing new there.

  Without fail, my good dreams were filled with plants. I’d see ivy and roses growing before my eyes or crops sprouting all around me.

  But lately in my nightmares, a crazed redheaded woman with gleaming green eyes used those same plants to . . . hurt people, in grisly ways. When her victims begged for mercy, she would cackle with delight.

  She was cloaked and partially hooded, so I couldn’t make out all of her face, but she had pale skin and green ivylike tattoos running down both her cheeks. Her wild red hair was strewn with leaves.

  I called her the red witch. “Sorry,” I said with a shiver. “They kind of put me in a funk.”

  “Oh.” His demeanor told me he felt way out of his depth. I’d once asked him if he had nightmares, and he’d looked at me blankly, unable to remember one.

  That was the thing about Brandon—he was the most happy-go-lucky boy I’d ever met. Though he was built like a bear—or a pro football player—his temperament was more adoring canine than grizzly.

  Secretly, I put a lot of store in him, hoping his normal could drag me back from my wasteland-visions brink. Which was why I’d fretted about him finding another girl and breaking up with me while I was locked up at CLC.

  Now it seemed like at least one thing was going to work out. Brandon had stayed true to me. With every mile we drove away from Haven, the sun shone brighter and brighter, the fog lifting.

  “Well, I know how to put my girl in a good mood.” He gave me his mischievous grin.

  I was helpless not to be charmed. “Oh, yeah, big guy? How’s that?”

  He pulled off the road under the shade of a pecan tree, tires popping the fallen pecans. After waiting for the dust to pass us, he pressed a button and put down the convertible top. “How fast you wanna go, Eves?”

  Few things exhilarated me more than flying down the highway with the top down. For about a nanosecond I considered how to repair the utter loss of my hairstyling—braid a loose fishtail over your shoulder—then told him, “Kick her in the guts.”

  He peeled out, the engine purring with power. Hands raised, I threw my head back and yelled, “Faster!”

  At each gear, he redlined before shifting, until the car stretched her legs. As houses whizzed past, I laughed with delight.

  The months before were a dim memory compared to this—the sun, the wind, Brandon sliding me
excited grins. He was right; this was just what I needed.

  Leave it to my teddy bear of a football player to make me feel carefree and sane again.

  And didn’t that deserve a kiss?

  Unbuckling my seat belt, I clambered up on my knees, tugging my dress up a couple of inches so I could lean over to him. I pressed my lips against the smooth-shaven skin of his cheek. “Just what the doctor ordered, Brand.”

  “You know it!”

  I kissed his broad jaw, then—as my experienced best friend Melissa had instructed—I nuzzled his ear, letting him feel my breath.

  “Ah, Evie,” he rasped. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

  I was getting an idea. I knew I played with fire, teasing him like this. He’d already been reminding me of a promise I’d made right before I left for deportment school: If we were still going out when I turned sixteen (I was a young junior), I would play my V card. My birthday was next Monday—

  “What the hell does that guy want?” he suddenly exclaimed.

  I drew my head back from Brandon, saw he was glancing past me. I darted a look back, and my stomach plummeted.

  A guy on a motorcycle had pulled up right next to us, keeping pace with the car, checking me out. His helmet had a tinted visor so I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was staring at my ass.

  First instinct? Drop my butt in the seat, willing my body to disappear into the upholstery. Second instinct? Stay where I was and glare at the pervert. This was my morning, my laughter, my fast drive in my boyfriend’s luxury sports car.

  After a summer spent in a fluorescent hell, I deserved this morning.

  When I twisted around to glare over my shoulder, I saw the guy’s helmet had dipped, attention definitely on my ass. Then he slowly raised his head, as if he was raking his gaze over every inch of me.

  It felt like hours passed before he reached my eyes. I tugged my hair off my face, and we stared at each other for so long that I wondered when he was going to run off the road.

  Then he gave me a curt nod and sped past us, expertly dodging a pothole. Two more motorcycles followed, each carrying two people. They honked and cheered, while Brandon’s face turned as red as his car.

  I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d probably never have to see them again.

  2

  To preserve his paint job, Brand parked in the back of the Sterling High parking lot. Even among the many Mercedeses and Beamers, his car attracted attention.

  I climbed out and collected my book bag, groaning under the weight, hoping Brand would take a hint. He didn’t. So, on an already stifling morning, I would be schlepping my own stuff.

  I told myself I liked that he didn’t help me with my books. Brand was a modern man, treating me as an equal. I told myself that a lot on our long trek toward the front entrance.

  Probably just as well. I had my secret sketchbook in my bag, and I’d learned the hard way never to let it out of my possession.

  When we reached the freshly irrigated quad, someone produced a football, and Brand’s eyes locked on it like a retriever’s. Somehow he broke his trained gaze to look at me with a questioning expression.

  I sighed, smoothing my hair—frantically braided once we’d reached Sterling city limits. “Go. I’ll see you inside.”

  “You’re the best, Eves.” He grinned—with dimples—his hazel eyes bright. “I figure even you can make it from here by yourself!”

  I was, in fact, directionally challenged. For someone who didn’t have a mean bone in his body, he tended to land some zingers.

  I reminded myself that Brandon had a good heart, he just genuinely didn’t know better. I’d begun to realize that he was a good boy, but not yet a great guy.

  Maybe I could drag him over the finish line with that.

  He planted a sweet kiss on my lips, then jogged off with one hand raised for the ball.

  Heading toward the front doors, I passed a rosebush with double blooms of poppy red—my favorite color. A breeze blew, making it seem like the flowers swayed to face me.

  Ever since I could remember, I’d loved all plant life. I drew roses, oaks, vine crops, and berry briars compulsively, fascinated with their shapes, their blooms, their defenses.

  My eyelids would go to half-mast from the scent of freshly tilled pastureland.

  Which was part of my problem. I wasn’t normal.

  Teenage girls should be obsessed with clothes and boys, not the smell of dirt or the admirable deviousness of briars.

  Come, touch . . . but you’ll pay a price.

  A metallic-blue Beamer screeched into a parking space just feet from me, the driver laying on the horn.

  Melissa Warren, my best friend and sister from another mister.

  Mel was a hyperactive wild child who was a stranger to shame and had never acquainted herself with embarrassment. And she always leapt before she looked. I was actually surprised she’d managed to survive her summer overseas without me.

  We’d been best friends for a decade—but without a doubt, I was the brains of that operation.

  I couldn’t have missed her more.

  Considering her five-foot-eleven height, Mel hopped out of her car with surprising speed, raising her straightened arms over her head and snapping her fingers. “That’s how you park a car, bitches.” Mel was going through a phase lately where she called everyone bitches.

  Her mother was the guidance counselor at our school, because Mel’s dad had paid for Sterling High’s new library—and because Mrs. Warren needed a hobby. Most parents figured that if Melissa Warren was a product of her parenting skills, then they shouldn’t put much stock in Mrs. Warren’s guidancing skills.

  Today Mel wore a crisp navy skirt and a red baby-doll T-shirt that had probably cost half a grand and would never be worn again. Her bright Dior lipstick was a classic red to match, her auburn hair tied with a navy bow. Prepster chic.

  In short order, she popped her trunk, dragged out her designer book bag, then locked her keys in the car.

  With a shrug, she joined me. “Hey, look over my shoulder. Is that Spencer in the quad with Brand?” Spencer Stephens III, Brand’s best friend.

  When I nodded, she said, “He’s looking at me right now, isn’t he? All pining-like?”

  He was in no way looking at Mel.

  “This year I’m taking our flirtationship to a new level,” Mel informed me. “He just needs a nudge in the right direction.”

  Unfortunately, Mel didn’t know how to nudge. She play-punched hard, titty-twisted with impunity, and wasn’t above the occasional headlock. And that was if she liked you.

  In a pissy tone, she added, “Maybe if your boyfriend would—finally—set us up.”

  Brandon had laughed the last time I’d asked him, saying, “As soon as you housebreak her.” Note to self: Put in another request today.

  Two of our other friends spotted us then. Grace Anne had on a yellow sateen dress that complemented her flawless café-au-lait skin. Catherine Ashley’s jewelry sparkled from a mile away.

  The four of us were popular bowhead cheerleaders. And I was proud of it.

  They smiled and waved excitedly as if I hadn’t seen them every day last week as we’d spilled deets about our vacations. Mel had modeled in Paris, Grace had gone to Hawaii, and Catherine had toured New Zealand.

  After I’d repeatedly declared my summer the most boring ever, they’d stopped asking about it. I was pictureless, had zero images on my phone for three months, not a single uploadable.

  It was as if I hadn’t even existed.

  But I’d dutifully oohed and aahed over their pics—blurred, cropped shots of the Eiffel Tower and all.

  Brand’s pics—of him smiling at the beach, or at his parents’ ritzy get-togethers, or on a yacht cruising the Gulf Coast—had been like a knife to the heart because I should have been in all of them.

  Last spring, I had been. He had an entire folder on his phone stuffed with pics and vids of us goofing off together.

&
nbsp; “Great dress, Evie,” Catherine Ashley said.

  Grace Anne’s gaze was assessing. “Great everything. Boho braid, no-frills dress, and flirty, flirty heels. Nicely done.”

  With a sigh, I teased, “If only my friends knew how to dress, too.”

  As we walked toward the front doors, students stopped and turned, girls checking out what we were wearing, guys checking for a summer’s worth of developing curves.

  Funny thing about our school—there were no distinct cliques like you saw on TV shows, just gradations of popularity.

  I waved at different folks again and again, much to the bowheads’ amusement. I was pretty much friends with everybody.

  No one ever sat alone during my lunch period. No girl walked the hall with a wardrobe malfunction under my watch. I had even shut down the sale of freshman elevator passes on our one-story campus.

  When we reached the entrance of the white-stuccoed building, I realized school was just what I needed. Routine, friends, normalcy. Here, I could forget all the crazy, all the nightmares. This was my world, my little queendom—

  The sudden rumble of motorcycles made everyone go silent, like a needle scratch across an old record.

  No way they’d be the same creepers from before. That group had looked too old for high school. And wouldn’t we have passed them?

  But then, it wasn’t like the genteel town of Sterling had many motorcyclists. I gazed behind me, saw the same five kids from earlier.

  Now I was ready to meld into auto upholstery.

  Each of them was dressed in dark clothes; among our student body’s ever-present khaki and bright couture, they stood out like bruises.

  The biggest boy—the one who’d leered at me—ramped over the curb to the quad, pulling right up on the side to park. The others followed. I noticed their bikes all had mismatched parts. Likely stolen.

  “Who are they?” I asked. “Have they come to start trouble?”

  Grace answered, “Haven’t you heard? They’re a bunch of juvies from Basin High School.”

  Basin High? That was in a totally different parish, on the other side of the levee. Basin equaled Cajun. “But why are they here?”