The Arcana Chronicles 3: Dead of Winter

“Did she survive the Flash? You never told me.”

He tensed beside me. “That’s one of those secrets that goes to the grave.”

I parted my lips to press him, but held off. Earlier today he’d confessed he might be about to snap. Now he was sharing these photos, fresh from an argument about Death, after riding for hours with a concussion—and saving me from Baggers.

I would cut Jack some slack.

The next picture was of him, Clotile, his best friend Lionel, and two other Basin kids who’d come to our school. They’d been at some kind of concert, smiling, eyes excited. “We got pickled that night for true.”

I remembered hanging out with lifelong friends: the camaraderie, the inside jokes, the easy laughter. My gaze darted toward the door. Had Aric ever experienced that? Surely he’d had friends before his Touch of Death had come online.

Did he even remember friendship after so long?

Jack’s voice grew thick. “I miss ’em. Especially Clotile.”

I laid my hand on his arm. “Matthew showed me the day when you first met her.”

Jack stiffened beneath my palm. “That wasn’t a very good one for you to see.”

“It only made my feelings for you stronger.”

He relaxed. “Then look all you want, peekôn. I can handle it better now.”

“Why?”

“Before the Flash, I had no control over my life, me. Now, even with all the unknowns and danger, I’m more in charge of my fate than ever before.”

“Really?”

“My problems are my own.” He pinned me with his gaze. “And it’s up to me to figure out solutions.”

This close to him, I could spy even darker flecks of gray in his irises. “That’s really mature, Jack.” He wasn’t a boy anymore.

“I got moments, me.”

“I think a lot of people used to underestimate you. But I also think those days are over. I know I won’t do it again.”

The corners of his lips curved. He could make my entire body go soft just from one of those grins—and he knew it: “Um um um, would you smell that honeysuckle?”

Clever Jack had figured out that I gave off scents with my moods. Rose? Meant I was about to strike. Sweet olive indicated I was excited. And yes, honeysuckle was the equivalent of me purring.

I flipped to another picture, this one of him and the rest of the group swimming at a spring, all of them tanned and laughing.

There Jack and I sat, reminiscing, swigging whiskey. And for a time, I was able to block out all the misery of the Flash. For a time, I was happy.

He showed me a picture of scenery from that spring. “The camera got knocked sideways, didn’t get anybody in frame. I always meant to throw that one away, but now . . . just look at those trees, Evie. That crystal-clear water.” He handed me the flask. “I believe we’ll have it again.”

“You truly do?” I’d been bullish about ending the game, but this interminable nighttime was throwing me. Would the sun never return? Was it better in other parts of the world? Maybe the equator?

“Ouais.” He tucked the photos back into the envelope. “Your mère told me you were special. Your grand-mère told you that you would save the world. I believe you will. You got to.”

“No pressure,” I said with a buzzed smile.

“Get steppin’, fille. I got an envie for things.” A craving.

I swigged. “Like what?”

He cast me a wolfish grin. “Cerises.” Cherries. We’d eaten them before we’d first kissed.

“What else do you crave?” When his wolfish grin deepened, I said, “What other foods do you crave? Contiens-toi.” Behave yourself.

He raised his palms in surrender. “Je cesse. Pour le moment.” I’ll stop. For now. “I miss fried okra and corn on the cob. You?”

“Hush puppies and mashed potatoes.”

“I made some mean hush puppies on my old cabin’s stove. I’ll cook them for you one day.” His gaze went distant, his head tipping back. “You remember how warm that breeze from the south could be? Smelling of the sea, of far-off places? I hated where I was so much that I would’ve gone anywhere else in the world. Now I wish to God I could go back to the Basin.”

I’d once regretted that Jack and I never talked. Now, when everything was so up in the air, I realized we’d just needed the time to talk. We’d always been on the run, fighting for our lives. And it didn’t hurt to get him on the right subject: the home we both missed so badly.

I handed him the flask, our fingers grazing. “I’d do anything to see a field of sugarcane beneath a blue sky. The rasp of the leaves could make my heart swell.”

“One day, you and me’ll stand together on the front porch of Haven and gaze out at green for miles and miles. We’ll swim in springs and go to concerts.” He capped the flask, setting it away. “When I look into those eyes of yours . . .”

“What?”

“Not much is still blue in this world. Not the sky, not the water. I look in your eyes and see our future. I feel it.” He reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out my poppy-red ribbon.

“You still have it!”

“Carry it with me, everywhere I go. Mon porte-bonheur.” My good-luck charm. “This tells me we’re goan to be together again.”

The hope in his expression captivated me—almost completely.

Almost. I’ve been dreaming of you, Jack, and I wish I could trust you. Someone else is tugging at my heart. . . .

“I’m goan to let you borrow this ribbon for now.” He tucked it into my front pocket. “You give it back to me when you can’t see yourself with any man but me.”

Being with Jack was like touching fire. When his fingers lingered on my jeans, I recognized the spark that could turn to an inferno.

My breaths shallowed; his eyes grew intent.

He reached for my hips, lifting me over his lap to straddle him.

“Jack!” I laid my palms on his shoulders.

With his gaze on my mouth, he bit his bottom lip, as if inviting me to do the same to him. “Give my right arm to taste you right now.”

A sense of rightness bloomed inside me. To be with him like this. To be warmed by our fire. To be on the verge of kissing, of making love. My glyphs glowed, reflecting in his eyes.

He gripped my hips, pressing me down atop his hardness, and I gasped with pleasure. “Yes.”

Lids heavy, he rocked me over his lap, banking that fire for both of us. “À moi, Evangeline,” he said, his voice dripping with pent-up lust. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. You’re goan to find your way back to us.” He dipped his hands to my ass, the heat of his palms searing me through my jeans.