by Kresley Cole
“Then leave.” Surely he wouldn’t abandon me.
“Bonne chance, peekôn.” He turned and strode toward his bike.
“Wait, Jackson! I can’t ride with you! My mom hates motorcycles, and she’ll hear me trying to sneak in.” I studied my muddy Italian boots as I mumbled, “Will you walk with me? Just as far as the cane fields?”
He exhaled with undisguised irritation. “I’ll stay with you that far.” He disengaged the kickstand, pushing his bike.
Tendrils of fog drifted in as we walked in silence.
Though he was buzzed, Jackson somehow seemed alert. He was also so clearly begrudging that I was tempted to snap, “God, just leave!”
But the lightning still had me spooked. Even if it hadn’t been real.
I hated that I was afraid. I hated that I wanted him close by.
As we continued, I peered up at him from under my lashes, struggling to understand the excitement I’d felt when he’d been about to kiss me—versus the meh I’d felt when Brandon had actually been kissing me.
I pictured Brandon’s clean-cut good looks, his wavy brown locks, his letterman jacket and bright future.
Jack’s prospects? The state penitentiary in Angola. Just a matter of when he got sent there.
If Brandon was a good boy but not yet a great guy, Jackson was a bad boy—and already a bad guy.
And yet with the Cajun, I’d gotten a taste of what it was like to desire a boy, really desire. . . .
He offered me his flask.
I declined, asking, “Why do you drink so much?”
“You’re a fine one to talk, you.” When he saw I was waiting for an answer, he said, “Give me one reason not to.”
“It’s bad for your health.”
“You think I’m goan to live long enough to die of the effects of alcohol? Cheers to that.”
I tilted my head at him, musing on all the rumors that swirled around him—the knifings, the correctional center, the thefts in Sterling. “Jackson, are you as bad as everyone says?”
At the rim of his flask, he said, “A thousand times worse, fille.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if to punctuate his statement.
Once we’d reached the dirt track that ran between two large cane fields, I said, “Thank you for seeing me this far. I’m good from here.”
“I’m not goan to leave you in the middle of a field,” he grumbled, yet with every step deeper into the cane, he seemed to grow more uneasy. “In the bayou, folks think this place is haunted.” He again cast me that studying glance. “Is it?”
“Maybe a little.” When the cane whispered in the windless night, I edged closer to the rows, running my splayed fingers over the stalks, taking comfort after my hallucination. Here I was safe.
A calm descended over me. I soaked up the sultry air, savoring the insect chatter, the sweet smell of dew, the animals at play all around us.
Everything was so alive, teeming with life. I sighed, my lids going half-masted.
“Drôle fille,” Jackson muttered. In proper French, drôle meant funny. In Cajun? Weird.
“What did you say?”
“It’s a foggy night and we’re walking by these rustling canes. A p’tee fille like you strolling along without a care in the world? Shouldn’t you be hanging on to my arm?”
“Hardly.”
When something stirred nearby, Jackson said, “This cane doan . . . unsettle you?”
“I love it. You’re probably just hearing raccoons.” Or snakes.
I noticed that he hadn’t hit that flask once since we’d been surrounded by cane. Maybe he sensed that something wasn’t right with me, with this place. Maybe he believed the tales of hauntings and wanted to be on his guard.
When I could make out Haven’s lights in the distance, I asked, “Are you superstitious, Jackson?”
“Mais yeah. Just ’cause I’m Catholic doan mean I can’t be superstitious,” he said, exhaling with relief once we’d emerged from the cane. Then he immediately whistled low at the sight of Haven House. “Even bigger than I remember.”
I tried to see it from his eyes. The gaslights flickered over the twelve proud columns. Night-blooming jasmine ascended the many trellises, forever reaching for the grand old house as if with lust. Those majestic oaks had already caught it; they encircled the structure protectively.
Jackson’s gaze darted over the place with such keenness that I figured we were due for a break-in directly.
“You know what I think?” he finally said. “I think you are just like this house, Evangeline. Rich and fine on the outside, but no one’s got a clue what’s going on inside.”
He really could be surprisingly perceptive at times. “You think I’m fine, Cajun?”
He rolled his eyes, as if we were retreading established ground. “And both you and this place are a lot weirder than you have any business being.”
You’ve got no idea, Cajun. No. Idea.
With a shrug, I turned toward the barn. He eventually followed, catching up. When I opened the door, the horses nickered a welcome. Well, all of them except for my sweet old nag Allegra—named before that allergy medicine had taken off; she snored.
Outside the door, Jackson parked his bike, leaning against it. “A big ole mansion like this, and just you and your folks live here?”
Though only Mom’s silver Mercedes SUV was parked out front, I let him think I had a father on-site.
“You really are the richest family in the parish, then?”
“No. Everybody knows the Radcliffes are.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “Are you goan to stay out here? Woan you get scared?”
Scared? Six million strong.
“If you asked me nice, I might stay and be your bodyguard.”
When I gave a scoffing laugh at that, he scowled. “You love to laugh at me, doan you, peekôn? Enjoy it now, ’cause it woan always be that way.”
“What does that mean?”
He just narrowed his eyes at me, looking dangerous in the gaslights.
“Feel free to leave at any time, Jackson. Because I don’t need a bodyguard, and I won’t be scared. I don’t have a choice anyway, since you refused to take me to find Melissa or Brandon.”
“Radcliffe again?” With a grated curse, Jackson pushed up from his bike, striding to the doorway. “Even though he helped Clotile with that keg-stand? After that, I thought for true you’d be reevaluating your definition of solid.”
“You . . . you saw that?”
“Everyone saw that. And at your own birthday party, too. They also saw you trying to win his attention back. Looked desperate, if you ask me.”
Bile rose in my throat. Jackson had said that I needed to be taken down a peg. Mission accomplished.
“I just doan know what he thinks Clotile has over you. You’re pretty to look at in that skirt of yours, you’re good at dancing, and you smell like a flower. What’s not to like?”
When he smirked at me, I hit my limit. Enough! “You’re enjoying this!”
“De bon cœur.” Wholeheartedly.
“You would. Because you’re a cruel, classless boy who gets off on other people’s unhappiness.” I held his gaze. “Brandon is twice the man you are. He always will be.”
Jackson’s expression turned more menacing than I’d ever seen it.
Done with him, I slammed the door in his face, then marched into the office at the back of the barn. Fuming, I paced. Reevaluate your definition of solid?
I wanted to strangle him!
No, no, I didn’t need to be thinking about Jackson Deveaux; I needed to focus on who—or what—had attacked me.
Or at least to determine if I’d actually been attacked. When I reviewed every detail I could recall—and damn, I’d been buzzed—I concluded one thing. I was screwed.
I could accept the plants—hallucinations or not, they’d begun to comfort me. But the lightning javelins? Death on a pale horse? Seeing the cryptic boy in class?
Screwe
d. Two years and out would never work. Change of plans. Yes, I’d promised my mom that I wouldn’t contact Gran—but I was CLC-bound anyway.
Death had said, “No one told you to expect me?” Maybe someone had?
I would sneak a call to my grandmother tomorrow.
As I wondered how I’d begin our first conversation in eight years, my head and face started tingling. Then hurting. The barn soon faded away. “No, no!”
Too much! I can’t take any more of this! I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would do anything.
When I opened them again, I was standing in a windowless room, with beanbags on a tiled floor and Star Wars posters on the walls. A basement playroom?
Then I spied the cryptic boy, standing just before me!
“You must prepare, Evie,” he said.
The bubbly sensation I usually experienced now felt more like a migraine, as if this vision were being shot into my skull with a nail gun. “J-just leave me alone!” Then to myself, I muttered, “How many visions can I have in one night?”
“Many,” he answered. “It’s the eve of the Beginning. Much work to do!”
Great. He was going to make as little sense as he had the first time I’d seen him. “Who are you?”
“Matthew Mat Zero Matto. Easier to think of me as the Fool Card.”
A card. Ah, God, I had internalized my gran’s Tarot teachings. A character from the deck she’d always played with was now talking to me. “And I suppose the reaper who visited—the one who wants to kill me—was the Death Card.”
He nodded. “Major Arcana.”
Hadn’t Gran once explained the Major Arcana to me? They were special cards, maybe the trump cards of the Tarot?
Wasn’t there a time when I’d shuffled through her deck, the cards feeling so big in my little hands . . . ? I couldn’t remember!
“And the red witch?” I demanded. “What card is she? How can she”—we—“control plants?” That was the extent of our similarities.
I was good and she was evil. Period. I’d be a Glinda the Good Witch of plants—all peace, love, and unity with them—and she would be our hated scourge.
Death himself said that I was all about life—and the witch was clearly all about death.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. As if any of these characters were real!
“Red witch?” Matthew frowned. “Ah, she arises. We’ll deal with her when the time comes.”
“Deal with her? You mean fight her?”
“She’s strong. You are not. Yet.”
The pain in my head grew excruciating. My eyes watered. “Matthew, this hurts!” I tasted blood running down the back of my throat, increasing my nausea.
The pressure eased a little, but not all the way. “I don’t want you to hurt,” he said gravely.
“Why do you keep appearing?”
“Field of battle. Arsenal. Obstacles. Foes. I’ve taught you each; you listen poorly, take pills, drink.”
When blood trickled from my nose, I pressed the back of my hand against it. “I’m about to go under, kid. I mean screaming, hair-pulling, whackadoodle cracked. I can’t keep having these visions.”
He gazed at me with solemn brown eyes. “I won’t fail you. Evie, you are my only friend.”
His heartfelt words took me aback. He did seem so familiar. Just when I was wondering why I felt a measure of trust in him—he’d done everything imaginable not to deserve it—I reminded myself that he didn’t exist.
I shook my head hard, clearing just enough of the vision to escape. I made for the door, snagging a horse blanket, then out toward the cane. Rainclouds had gathered above the field; thunder rumbled.
“No, Evie,” he called. “Not under the clouds! Rain . . .”
I glanced back. He looked frightened, unable to follow. Scared of precipitation?
He didn’t need to know that Sterling’s clouds were two-faced scammers, hadn’t delivered on their promise all summer. I marched on.
“You aren’t ready!” he called after me. “Your eyes will go bright if you look at the lights!”
“Just leave me alone, Matthew!”
“Turn away from the lights. Turn away! Want you safe!”
“So—do—I!”
Right before I reached the edge of the cane, he warned once more, “The Beginning is nigh. . . .”
10
DAY 0
When I hadn’t heard from Mel or Brandon by noon, panic set in. Why wouldn’t they pick up their phones?
Surely the two of them hadn’t gotten . . . gaffled.
Especially when no one else seemed to have been. Without my cell, I’d been on my laptop, scouring students’ posts online for info.
All morning, I’d looked at keg-party pics and Solo-cup shares. I’d read updates from kids bragging about being at the party of the year.
Not a word about the cops. And apparently, Mom hadn’t heard anything either. . . .
I’d woken at dawn in the middle of the cane field, having slept soundly for hours. Surprisingly, I hadn’t been hungover—a miracle considering how tanked I’d been, so drunk I’d hallucinated worse than ever before.
I’d been desperate to shower and brush my teeth, but I hadn’t wanted Mom to see me in the clothes I’d gone out in. After a while, I hadn’t cared.
She’d been so distracted by the drought, on the phone with another farmer, that she hadn’t even noticed I was wearing a Versace halter and a moth-eaten pair of last year’s jodhpurs.
Mom would’ve heard about the bust by then, yet she’d said nothing, just absently kissed my cheek before running off to another emergency farmers’ meeting.
After I’d showered and dressed, I’d begun to feel confident that my boyfriend had truly hushed the situation.
Just as he’d said he would. My drunken knight in shining armor had won his battle.
Now I patted the enormous diamond solitaire around my neck, realizing that Brandon Radcliffe was not just the type of boy I needed in my life; he was the one I wanted—dependable, happy-go-lucky, easy to read.
Not brooding, mysterious, and impossible to decipher.
I decided to get something locked down with my boyfriend, so I’d stop thinking stupid thoughts about Angola-bound Cajuns.
With that in mind, I called Brandon’s cell from my home line yet again, intending to leave a message this time.
“Hey, Brand, I hope everything’s okay. Starting to worry.” I nibbled my bottom lip, debating how to begin this. “Last night, about our conversation . . . we got interrupted—when you went off to save the day for me. And I just wanted to tell you my decision.”
I paused, knowing there was no turning back from this. “My decision is . . . yes. I’ll spend the night with you next weekend.” Done. Locked down. “I . . . I’m . . .” Relieved? Nervous? “Um, call me. At home.”
He still hadn’t called by three in the afternoon, when Mel sauntered into my room.
“Where in the hell have you been?” My mood was foul. My plans to talk to Gran had been thwarted. I hadn’t dared to call her from the house phone. “What happened to you last night?”
“Spencer and I went to his car, totally hooked up. I threw one over on him, released some steam, and he’s puppy-dog whipped now.” She made a whip-cracking sound. “Melly’s got mojo—he wants an ER.”
Exclusive relationship? Already? I felt excitement for her, before remembering I was pissed.
“Just when we were finishing up, the cops came,” Mel said. “We drove out the back way.”
“Why didn’t you come here to find me?” I demanded.
She blinked. “I just did. So what happened to you, Eves?”
“Hmm. After Brandon left to go smooth things over with the sheriff and find you, I sat alone in the woods.” I was attacked and terrified. “Eventually, I walked miles to get home—with that annoying Jackson Deveaux—and spent the night in the barn.” Or rather, in the cane field. “You just left me out there, Mel. You chose bros over hoes,” I said, drawin
g blood.
She gasped. “I thought you were with Brandon! I’ll break up with Spencer as penance!”
The thing about Mel—she truly would. How could I stay mad at her when I’d been lying to her so much? In the end, I muttered, “You’re forgiven.”
“Thank you, Greene! I didn’t want to bwake Spencey’s wittle heart.” She lay back on my bed, adding mischievously, “Not yet.”
My laptop chimed. “An e-mail from Brandon?” Strange. We texted 99 percent of the time. He basically used his cell phone as his computer.
everything’s cool w/ the cops. bout to get lecture from Dad tho. talk later.
“That’s weird. Why didn’t he just text? He doesn’t know that I got stranded without my phone.” And why hadn’t he even mentioned my voice mail?
“He couldn’t text you,” Mel said, raising her hands in the air to study her nails. “Everybody’s phones got stolen.”
“What?” I shot to my feet.
“Why do you think I didn’t call all morning?” She rose with a frown. “Somebody snatched wallets and cells right off of people. And they broke into all our cars. But don’t worry, your bag didn’t get taken.”
I bolted out of my room, scrambling down the stairs to reach Mel’s Beamer. My journal!
“What’s wrong with you, Evie?” she demanded, trotting behind me, easily keeping up.
When I reached her car, I frantically slapped the door until she clicked it open. “Jesus, Evie, chill.”
My hand trembled as I reached for my bag. Surely a thief wouldn’t leave it but then steal the journal. Please let my drawings be inside—
I reeled on my feet.
My sketchbook was . . . gone. The one filled with rats and serpents under an apocalyptic sky, bodies mangled in thorn barbed wire, and horrific sack-faced bogeymen. I’d drawn one lapping blood from a victim’s throat. Like an animal at a trough.
My tear-blotted drawing of Death on a pale horse was dated from just a couple of nights ago.
It was the journal that Jackson had repeatedly angled to see. My eyes shot wide. The figure skulking among the cars last night—it was Lionel.
He’d stolen the phones and my sketchbook. My very own one-way ticket back to CLC.
