Kresley Cole: Poison Princess

Those thorns bit into his flesh, a thousand greedy fangs. I painstakingly carved edges as I darkened those barbs, sharpening them.

The witch forced the vines to constrict, tighter, tighter, until his bones cracked—and blood poured.

She wrung it from that man like water from a rag. . . .

Cracking, squeezing. He had no breath to scream. One of his eyeballs burst from its socket, tethered to his skull by veins. As I sketched that, I wondered if he could still see out of it.

With drawings like this, it was easy to see why my journal had been my downfall before.

When I’d first complained of tingling sensations in my head and blurred vision, Mom had taken me to a slew of doctors for CT scans and tests, all negative. Throughout it all, I’d been able to disguise from everyone how bad the hallucinations had been. Then Mom had discovered my journal.

I’d trusted her, coming clean about my apocalyptic delusions. Big mistake.

After gaping in horror at page after page—of ash and devastation, of slimy bogeymen teeming among blackened ruins—she’d begun connecting the dots. “Don’t you understand, Evie? Your hallucinations are things that your grandmother taught you when you were little. Those doomsday kooks you see on the street? She’s not much different from them! Looking back, I can see that she . . . she indoctrinated you with these beliefs. I know, because she tried to do it to me!”

I’d been sunk. You can deny being insane all you want, but when a parent has hard copies of your crazy on file—and you’ve got a family history of mental illness—you’re screwed.

Mom had yanked me out of my sophomore year a couple of weeks early, then driven me to CLC. The docs there had stuck me in the same track they used for kids rescued from cults.

My deprogramming had started with a single question: “Evie, do you understand why you must reject your grandmother’s teachings . . . ?”

I’d given that doc an answer, slurring from the mind-altering meds they’d pumped into me. But I couldn’t quite recall my reply—

Gaston distracted me again, asking Jackson about his latest doe tag . Cajun for scoring?

I sneaked a glance at Jackson over my shoulder. On his desk, he had only the history text, a few sheets of loose-leaf paper, and a single pencil clutched in his big, taped fist. His expression was smug as he replied, “Embrasser et raconter? Jamais.” Kiss and tell? Never.

I gazed heavenward with irritation, then turned back to my journal, finishing another detail on my sketch—the man’s other eyeball succumbing to the pressure, dangling beside the first.

But Gaston’s next question drew my attention once more. “T’aimes l’une de ces filles?”

Did Jackson like any of the girls here?

His deep-voiced answer: “Une fille, peut-etre.” One, maybe.

Again I felt his eyes on me . Earlier Mel had asked, “Does he really think he’s got a shot at you?”

I kind of believed he really did .

Yesterday, I’d decided to give him a wide berth. Not so easily done. Unlike most boys, Jackson returned to his locker after every class. To be fair, his stops could’ve been for flask refills.

But sometimes he would take a drink, then turn to me with his lips parted, like he was about to ask me something.

I always gave him a cool smile, then strode off. And the Cajunland player seemed surprised that I was immune to his charms. Granted, he was attractive—some girls sighed as he passed them. . . .

Acting like I was fascinated with the classroom’s many wall maps, I glanced over my shoulder to gauge his looks once more.

His gaze was already on me. As we took each other’s measure, sunlight beamed through the window, striking his handsome face, highlighting his gray eyes and chiseled features.

With those cheekbones, squared jaw, and raven-black hair, he probably had Choctaw or Houma ancestry.

No wonder he has so many gaiennes.

Where had that thought come from? I faced forward with a blush.

Even if I didn’t have a boyfriend, I’d never go out with a parolee biker. Who, if rumors were to be believed, was the ringleader behind a new rash of thefts in Sterling.

Back to the drawing. I blanched at my ghastly depiction. Slice you to ribbons, choke you in vine. So totally disturbing—but I had no one to confide in, no one to tell me things would get better.

If my crazy was anything like what Gran had gone through, I wished we could talk about it. Yet Mom had forbidden me to contact her, didn’t want me even to think about her. . . .

“Everybody settle down,” Broussard said. “Today we’re going to learn a little about the French Acadians or Cadians—more commonly known as Cajuns.”

He could do all the Cajun PR he wanted to; everybody had already made up their minds about the transfers.

Whenever Clotile sashayed down the hall in her microminis and cutoff T-shirts, boys stopped and stared, jamming traffic. The guys in this town had just never encountered a girl so blatantly available for sex, and it was making them a little wild.

Most students steered clear of Jackson, whose steely gaze and buck knife had done nothing to dispel the cage-the-rage rumor.

The three other Cajuns were just as troublesome, punching students’ books out of their hands or tripping them.

“They were originally French settlers in Acadia,” Broussard began, “what’s now known as Nova Scotia.” He raised a wooden pointer to indicate Canada on a map. “When the Protestant English who controlled that area gave them ultimatums—one of which was to change their religion or leave—the fiercely Catholic Acadians migrated to Louisiana, to settle bayou lands that everyone else had deemed worthless. Acadian—Cadian—Cajun. Get it?”

I couldn’t have been less interested in this subject. I only tuned back in once Broussard had finished his lecture and began outlining our junior paper on local history.

Making up 40 percent of our grade, it would be a partnership effort. I listened without concern as he announced the sixteen partnerships; I could work with fairly much anyone in this class.

“Jackson Deveaux and Evie Greene.”

The. Hell.

Paired with the boy who’d been staring at me for days? I bit my lip, glancing back at him. He gave me a chin jerk in acknowledgment.

Broussard said, “For the last half of this class, you’ll sit with your partner, working out meeting and research schedules for the semester.”

Meeting with Jackson for an entire semester ? Obviously I’d have to write the whole paper. But something told me the drunken biker who’d ogled my ass in the Porsche might insist on us “researching” together.

When everyone else began moving desks, he patted the vacated seat next to him with a cocky smirk.

Did he expect me to trip over myself to get near him? To become a doe tag?

I didn’t need this! Already my classes were going to be grueling, without having to deal with a lecherous parolee on a regular basis.

A drop in grades was one of the signs my mom was supposed to look for that might indicate a relapse.

When I imagined returning to CLC, my hand shot up. Broussard ignored me.

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Broussard, can I . . .” My voice trailed off when he turned on me, his thick brows knitted with irritation.

“Evie, start working on this. Now .”

I decided to endure the next thirty minutes, then talk to Broussard after class—

Jackson slammed into the desk next to mine, his gray eyes furious. I hastily shut my journal, but he must’ve gotten a peek because he frowned for a second before saying, “You doan even know me, and you’re angling for another . . . podna?”