Dead of Winter (The Arcana Chronicles #3)(10)

Chills skittered over me. Here we sat in a tree-house type structure, telling scary stories by lantern light. As kids used to.

Post-apocalypse, all the stories were real.

“You don’t want to know more about their craft.” Matthew shivered. “I didn’t. Power is your burden; knowledge is mine.”

“What power?”

“You have more abilities now.”

Though I grew weaker overall from lack of sunlight, I had learned a new skill.

When I’d been in the gardens beneath Death’s home, preparing for the Devil’s attack, I’d unwittingly taken the knowledge of those plants into me—along with all their relatives.

Before, I’d revived and controlled plants and trees, but I’d never known them. Now I could recreate them without seed; I could generate differing spores to make one sleep for a time—or forever. The same with the toxin on my lips.

“Phytogenesis,” I said.

“Phytogenesis,” he echoed solemnly.

“Did you plan for me to fight Ogen? So I’d be among all that green as blood was spilling?” Trusting him is a free fall.

“Claimed your crown yet?”

My hundredth frown of the night. “Like on my card?” The Empress tableau and Tarot card depicted her/me with a crown of twelve brilliant stars. “Is that what you meant?”

He stared at his hand. Subject closed.

Okay . . . “Even when I fought Ogen, I spared Death and Lark. I controlled the red witch.” Matthew should give me props.

“You can muzzle her, but can you invoke?” Or none at all.

Invoke the witch? “She comes out when I’m under attack.” Pain drew her in a hurry. Fury as well. “It’s kind of automatic. Why would I invoke her?”

“Jack is missing.”

I sighed, resigned to letting him steer our conversation. “Yes, he is.”

“Your heart aches again. His does too. Hopes. High. Dashed. Love. He reflects over his life.”

“Like what?”

“Crossroads and missed opportunities. He has more regrets than the very old. Wishes he’d never lied to you.”

“So do I.” He’d lied with as much skill as he read people. I rose and walked over to the lookout slot, scanning as if I could see him.

Even though I feared I could never trust him again, I still loved him.

“He wishes he could have seen you just one last time.” Matthew’s tone turned sly. “I could show you his reflections.”

Trespass in Jack’s mind? But then, he had listened to the tape of my life story—without permission. “What he’s thinking about right now? Show me.”

“From his eyes,” Matthew whispered.

A vision began to play, so immersive that the world around me faded away. As Jack’s memory became my own, I was transported into the ramshackle cabin he’d shared with his mother. Through an open doorway, I could smell the bayou, could hear frogs and cicadas.

His mother was smiling down at him. She’d had stunning good looks, with her tanned skin, high cheekbones, and long raven hair. Jack had gotten his coloring from her.

But shadows laced her gray eyes as she introduced him to two visitors.

Maman calls me over to meet them: a middle-aged woman and a girl around my age, maybe eight or so. Everyone says Maman and I are dirt poor, but this pair doan look like they’re doing much better.

“Jack, this is Eula and her daughter, Clotile. Clotile’s your half sister.”

She’d been tiny, all skinny legs and big soulful eyes. Sadness filled me because I knew Clotile’s ultimate fate.

Less than nine years from that day, she would survive an apocalypse—only to be captured by Vincent and Violet.

Clotile had escaped them, just long enough to shoot herself. Jack still didn’t know why. Had she committed suicide to give him a chance to get free? Or because she couldn’t live with what the Lovers had done to her?

I tell Maman, “I doan have a sister.” I got a younger half brother though. Earlier this summer, Maman had driven us all the way to Sterling to show me my father’s mansion. She said it should’ve been ours. We’d watched Radcliffe and his other son, Brandon, tossing a football in the front yard.

My half brother kind of looked like me. But this girl’s scrawny with light brown hair and pale skin.

“You two got the same father. Radcliffe.” Maman can barely say his name.

“Maybe, Hélène.” Eula snorts. “I’m giving it one in three.”

Clotile gazes at the ceiling. I get the sense she’s embarrassed that she can’t pin down who her père is—but kind of used to it too.

Eula strides toward me and grasps my face in a way I hate. “Oh, ouais, you got his blood, for sure. Not that it matters anyway. You’ll never get a dime out of him.” She drops her hand. “You and Clotile go play. Your mère and me are goan to have a couple of drinks.”

When Maman drinks she turns into a different person. I give her a look that says, Doan do this. But she gazes away. What’d I expect, me?

Clotile takes my hand with a wide smile, and we head outside. She’s sweet enough, I suppose. And she can’t help being my sister.

I take her out onto the floating pier I’ve pieced together, showing her how to check traps. She watches in amazement, like I’m turning water into wine or something.