by Kresley Cole
Why had I revealed so much to him?
Oh yeah, because he’d shared with me. One difference: I didn’t judge him.
“Did you just get your feelings hurt again? Damn, cher, I doan know my way around this with you.”
I opened my eyes but wouldn’t look at him. “Around what?”
“Being with a girl like you.” Now I had to raise my brows at him. “Yeah, with your bebins and your girly ways. You got soft hands, and you’re . . . soft. But I doan think you’re a freak.”
“How could you not?” I imagined what Brandon’s reaction might have been if he were the one here with me tonight. Would he be able to handle my confession? Then I remembered that I probably wouldn’t have survived this long without Jackson.
“Look, Evie, I saw some things before the Flash, things that couldn’t be explained. Hell, my grandmère was rumored to be a traiteuse.”
A kind of Cajun medicine woman. “Really?”
He nodded. “After the Flash, I’m ready to believe just about anything. Do these voices make me uneasy? Mais yeah. Am I itching to know what causes them? Ouais. But that doan mean I think less of you for hearing them.” He curled his forefinger under my chin, until our eyes met—and I could see he was telling the truth. “Just glad you told me a secret.” He canted his head. “Though you got a thousand more, non?”
So many more.
One of those voices belongs to Death on a pale horse, and he wants to kill me. I communicate “clairaudiently” with a crazy boy who gives me nosebleeds when he thinks I’m not listening hard enough. Just about every morning, I wake up to the scent of blood and the sound of agonized screams.
My gaze dropped, and he lowered his hand.
“What’re the voices saying now?”
“They’re quiet enough to ignore,” I said. “When I’m around others, they pipe down.” I peered up at him from under a lock of hair and admitted, “But never as much as they’ve done around you.”
“Evangeline,” he sighed. “It ain’t ever goan to be easy with you, is it?”
Though I feared more and more that he would get sick of me and leave one day, I answered honestly, “Nope.”
25
DAY 235 A.F.
DEEPER IN MISSISSIPPI
“Do you need to slow down?” Jackson yelled over the winds.
I shook my head, wanting to continue on. We’d left Haven almost two weeks ago; I was beginning to fear we’d never get out of this state.
Bandannas over our faces and sunglasses in place, we meandered through another deserted town, with a windstorm whipping around us—and tremors beneath our feet.
Lucky for us, the storms had become more sporadic and shorter, lasting just an hour or two a day. A blessing, since we remained carless.
Even if Jackson could fix a vehicle, the tank would be empty.
On foot, we’d started seeing gaunt-cheeked survivors every now and then, peeking out from behind barricaded windows. Much to Jackson’s annoyance, I always gave them a tentative wave. But none of them had wanted anything to do with us. . . .
“You stay right behind me,” he said now, pressing on. He would always walk first, blocking the wind for me, insisting I draft behind him.
During the worst part of the storms, I would curl my forefinger around one of his belt loops, which always seemed to amuse him.
I did so now, dumbly following his broad back down yet another “main” street. During daylight hours, Jackson usually had the shotgun in hand, with his bow and bag slung over his shoulders.
Today, he also carried something far more exciting—
Without warning, my head started to pound. My nose itched.
Matthew.
My bandanna was continually bloody on the inside, courtesy of his appearances. Jackson might keep the voices in check, but Matthew showed whenever.
And with each visit I’d become more convinced that he was, in fact, sending me visions. I didn’t believe I’d ever been clairvoyant. He was the only one with that talent.
Now blood began trickling to my upper lip. These moving visions were the worst. I’d learned to just keep walking, even when Jackson disappeared and all I could see around me was Matthew’s basement.
—Find me, friend.—
I clamped my lips shut, willing myself not to speak out loud. I told you, I have to find my gran first. Where are you, anyway?
—On your way.—
Truly? What city are you in?
—Arcana means secrets; keep ours.—
I don’t understand. If I had a can of ravioli for every time I told Matthew that . . .
—Have you seen the red witch?—
Unfortunately, I dream about her all the time. Is she alive today?
—She arises. She’s coming for you. The Empress fights the red witch. Learn her strengths and weaknesses.—
Do you expect me to face her?
—Evie, you must be ready.—
Apparently. God, why do I put up with you?
—The same reason I put up with you.—
Which is?
—We are friends.—
Once he was gone, I furtively washed the blood away with water from my canteen. I’d just finished as the storm faded. When the ash settled over the town, the temperature began to rise on the shade-free street. The odor of refuse boiled up from the ground.
I unzipped my hoodie and pulled down my bandanna, surveying the area. I could see so much more around me. Not necessarily a good thing.
Of course there were bodies. But it was worse than that. . . .
Over his shoulder, Jackson muttered to me, “Bedlam.”
I was beginning to understand his compulsion to solve puzzles. Every few feet, a new mystery taunted me.
An eighteen wheeler lay atop a house. On my right, someone had painstakingly nailed a wedding dress and veil to a front door. A dingy sleeve waved in the wind.
To my left, a dead man and young boy were positioned in a front yard, as if they’d been making snow angels in the ash right up to the end.
On the side of a dumpster, someone had spray-painted: Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn . . . Whatever.
I struggled to assign meaning to things, to read clues. But post-Flash, little made sense. I had to wonder if Jackson might not be right, that maybe everyone was bad now. Or at least crazy.
Up ahead, there was a moaning Bagman, chained by the neck to a refrigerator, crawling in place, its pants rotting off. Who in their right mind would think chaining up a Bagman was a good idea?
Its skin was chalkier than the ones I’d seen in the swamp, and it moaned louder.
Jackson paused before it, offering me his crossbow. “Shoot it.”
I shook my head.
“Come on, it’ll do you some good to take one out.”
“No, Jackson.” Did I think the Bagman needed to live? Not at all. But I didn’t want to be the one dispatching it. What if I . . . liked killing it?
The witch enjoyed killing more than anything. I’m all about life.
With a scowl at me, Jackson shot it in the temple, then retrieved his arrow. Great. He was mad again.
But he surprised me a short while later, when we had to cut through the cracked open fuselage of a jumbo jet. He took my hand, helping me over the debris. I grimaced at the bodies still fastened into seat belts, still hunched in a crash position.
“Hell on earth, huh?” he asked when we were clear.
I nodded shakily. “About the only way to describe it.”
“You know, at first, I wanted you to see stuff like this all the time, so you’d get harder.”
My drill sergeant. “And now?”
“Now I wish you never needed to get harder. But it’s just goan to keep getting worse,” he said, continuing on.
I believed that. I’d be even more despairing over our circumstances if it wasn’t for the knowledge that every step took us closer to North Carolina—that and my growing fascination with Jackson.
It
was mind-boggling to me that I’d known him at school and had never guessed how remarkable he might be.
Unfortunately, my fascination was slipping toward infatuation. I told myself it would never work between us—best not to complicate things.
So why had I been absolutely thrilled when Jackson had begun carrying my bag?
Last night, we’d been forced to stay in a library—one of those fire-exit capitals—but at least this one had been locked up. As we’d meandered through the stacks with his windup flashlight, I’d teased him, “You carried my bag today. Does that mean you like me, Jackson? Hmm? Isn’t that what a beau does?”
His shoulders had stiffened at my tone. “Or maybe I help you along because you would slow me down otherwise.”
“Oh,” I’d said, on the verge of getting my feelings hurt “like that.” But then I’d wondered if maybe Jackson had snapped at me because I’d found a chink in his tarnished armor.
Which would mean that he did like me, and did think of himself as my beau.
That would also explain why he got so mad whenever my stomach growled. A boy like Jackson would be protective of any girl he thought “belonged” to him, and frustrated that he couldn’t provide for her.
Of course, this was all speculation. More likely, as Jackson repeatedly told me, I just didn’t understand boys whatsoever.
After all, why would he like me? I was still the same old Evie, the one he’d ridiculed and cursed. I wasn’t exactly this team’s critical asset. On the road, my skill set consisted of fussing over any injuries he sustained, biting back every complaint, and occasionally speaking French with him; it seemed to relax him.
He’d considered me useless before the Flash. When he’d first seen me afterward, he’d summed me up with one word: de’pouille. I had no illusions that I’d changed his opinion of me.
Still, when I found a copy of Robinson Crusoe on the library shelves, I’d secretly slipped it into my pack to give him later.
“Behind me, Evie!” Jackson snapped. He had his gun against his shoulder, aiming toward a house. I didn’t ask, just hurried behind him.
A middle-aged man stood on a front porch with his own rifle aimed back at us. Three preteen boys cowered behind him. Everything in the guy’s bearing said, Keep walking, strangers.
So we did, Jackson easing past, me walking behind. Yet then the man’s gaze darted from Jackson’s gun . . . to me, and lingered.
At once, fury seemed to roil within Jackson. “Lower that piece, old man, or I’ll drop you where you stand.”
The man didn’t comply. Faceoff.
Then Jackson bit out, “Your boys’ll be next—and I woan waste bullets on them, no.”
At the cruel threat, the man swallowed and gazed longingly at me. Eventually, he lowered his gun.
Keeping him in sight, Jackson squired me down one nerve-racking block. Another. Clear.
Only then did he spare a glance at me, scowling at my loose hair. “Start looking for a hat—or a pair of scissors.”
Cutting my hair? Despite the heat, I shrugged back into my jacket, pulling the hood over my head.
“He actually thought about trying to steal you,” Jackson grated. “To steal you from me.”
I shivered. Something told me the man hadn’t been sourcing for just a nanny.
We walked on, both of us silent. Jackson was still seething, and I remained on edge. We’d just seen what were probably the last four survivors in this town.
All male.
Sometimes I thought I was being stubbornly foolish to believe my grandmother was still alive. But then I’d remind myself that I’d survived the Flash and so had Mom. Maybe there was something in our genes that had saved us?
And Gran would have known to take shelter, to make any preparations she could.
In my heart, I believed she lived. Which meant I had to reach her. At times in the last few days, I’d stared at the picture my mom had held, fighting to recall more of Gran’s teachings.
Slowly, so slowly, I was piecing together that last day with her. I’d recollected more details about all the cards she’d made me study, but especially Death’s.
Against a crimson background, the Reaper had been clad in that black armor, scythe at the ready, riding his pale horse. He carried a black flag, emblazoned with a white rose. His victims—man, woman, and child—had all been on their knees before him, with their hands clasped in pleading.
Though the image had been eerie, I remembered being enthralled with that card more than all the others—even my own. Which had made Gran . . . nervous?
When she’d asked if that card frightened me, or made me really angry, I’d shaken my head firmly. “It makes me sad.”
Gran hadn’t liked that answer at all. “Why would you feel that way, Evie? He’s a villain!”
“His horse looks sick, and he has no friends. . . .”
Now I cast my mind back, delving for more. Yet it seemed like the harder I fought to remember, the further those memories danced out of my grasp.
One thing I’d recalled? Gran’s voice from long ago: “Sometimes you have to let things unfold, Evie.”
I suspected I was putting too much pressure on myself, blocking all my own efforts. But I didn’t know how to stop. . . .
Jackson drew up short. “Look there, Evie.” He jerked his chin at a motorcycle ahead, lying on its side, clean of ash.
“Jackson, careful.”
“The rider got bagged.” He pointed out a dried swath of blood and telltale slime leading from the motorcycle to a darkened bay in a fire station. “They dragged him over there, into the shadows to feed.” With a shrug, Jackson lifted the bike upright, engaging the kickstand. “Key’s in it.”
My eyes darted behind my shades. “Let’s go!”
“Nuh-uh, not without this bike.” He ran one palm along the frame, as reverently as he’d explored my paintings. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
“Should I care?”
As if he were speaking to a child, he said, “It’s a Ducati.”
“So?”
His expression said I’d just blasphemed or something. “This is the bike to end all bikes!” His words thrummed with excitement; he was so the teenage boy at this moment, flipping out over a motorcycle. “And to find it today? It’s a sign, Evie. Things’re turning around for us.” He hopped on, cranking it.
When the engine fired, his lips curled. “She’s got a nearly full tank, too.”
“Can’t we put that gas into a car?”
“None of them around here will be fixed already.” He rifled through the bike’s storage compartments, ruthlessly tossing the dead man’s mementos and pictures to stow his own bag and bow within easy reach. It even had an empty leather holster for Jackson to stick the shotgun. “Perfect fit.” He turned to me. “You ready?”
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before.”
“Pardon? I didn’t hear that right.”
“It’s true. My mom never let me.” I frowned at the small space on the seat that was left for me. “Um, my hood will come off, and I don’t want to cut my hair.”
“We’ll make an exception for this ride. Come on, you.” When I tromped over to him, he reached for my hood, pushing it back over my head. “You’re not scared, are you?”
In answer, I raised my chin and awkwardly climbed behind him. Our bodies now had, like, forty points of contact. I surveyed his back, wondering where I was going to put my hands.
Just when I realized how tightly my jeans had stretched over my thighs, I saw his head dip, his gaze locking on my right thigh, only moving to swing a glance over at my left.
He bit out a choked sound, then put his big, tanned hand flat on my knee. Even through the denim, his palm was scalding.
“Jackson!”
He balled it into a white-knuckled fist. The idea that I’d affected him in such a physical way made my breaths go shallow.
Without warning, he reached his arm back and wrenched me even closer to him, unt
il I was flush against his body from one of my knees to the other and up to my chest.
Then his hand dipped back between us! Before I could sputter a protest, he’d snagged his flask from his back pocket. Shoving it into his boot, he murmured, “It was getting in the way.”
Of what?
“This is where you put your arms around me, cher.”
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“Evie. Arms. Now.”
I rolled my eyes. After a hesitation, I finally reached around him—
Just as he rose up to disengage the kickstand.
My clasped hands brushed over him . . . there.
He sucked in a breath, his muscles gone rigid with tension; my face flamed as I yanked my hands back.
“If you touch me like that again, Evangeline,” he began in a husky tone, dropping to his seat once more, “in the space of a heartbeat, I will have you off this bike and onto the closest horizontal surface. And I woan be picky, no.”
Over my gasp, he explained, “I been strung tight for days, bébé.”
He must have suspected I was about to scramble off the bike like it was on fire—his hands, so rough and callused, captured mine, setting them well above his waist.
“Just so we understand each other.” Then he took off.
Strung tight? What exactly was I supposed to do with that knowledge? I sat stiffly behind him as we gained speed down the lonely road, through the town and beyond—passing a forlorn playground, a wide-open clapboard church, a field with bleached cattle remains.
But with each mile, I started to relax. I’d noticed that whenever Jackson and I touched, the voices went silent. Not just muted. Why?
I sighed, deciding to ponder that another time. For now, I just enjoyed the quiet. And the air blowing was like being in air-conditioning again. It almost smelled clean. I closed my eyes and raised my face.
“You like this?”
I opened my eyes to find him watching me over his shoulder. I bit my lip and nodded.
He gave me that sexy jerk of his chin, then shifted gears to go faster.
Adrenaline rush! I loved the speed, the feel of the bike, the way he could make it move so effortlessly. “Faster!”