Book 1 - Page 28 (2/2)

—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. G.o.d, 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 a.s.sign 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.

“h.e.l.l 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 circ.u.mstances 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 a.s.set. 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.”

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