Poison Tongue

by Nash Summers

  The door remained open. A warm light flickered in the hallway against the wood-paneled wall. I followed the warmth and light all the way to the living room.

  Monroe sat on the couch across from the fireplace where a fire blazed in front of him. A pile of blankets and a pillow sat stacked neatly on the couch cushions. On the end table to his right was an open bottle of whiskey—half-gone—and a glass filled with amber-colored liquid.

  When I stepped into the room, he didn’t look at me. He reached to his side, taking the glass of whiskey in his hand and putting it to his lips. His eyes focused on nothing but the fire. Red strokes of light swirled against his cool, reflective eyes.

  I stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, wanting to stay, needing to leave.

  After a few painfully quiet moments, Monroe said, “I wish I could drain the entire fucking swamp.” He looked up at me then, his eyes meeting mine. “So that it wouldn’t make you come here.”

  “I’m sorry that I’m here.” My voice was strong, even though it felt like my heart had cracked in two.

  Monroe snorted, took a large swig out of his glass. “I bet you are, Levi. That damn swamp, this damn curse—they’re the only reason you’d ever come near me. I know that. And still, it hurts you.”

  “I can’t help wanting it. There’s something so evil about it, so dark. It’s some sick obsession. Or maybe it’s love. I don’t even know if there’s a difference anymore.”

  Monroe poured the whiskey into his glass. His gaze focused again on the crackling flames. “There’s a difference.”

  I smiled sadly, looked down at my bare feet. “I’m afraid one of these nights you won’t be there to save me, that I’ll drown in that swamp.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “It could. I’ve been close a few times. I dream of it, how it would feel.”

  “It won’t happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I stay up every night and watch for you.” Another long sip of whiskey. “So I know it won’t happen. I’ll never let it happen.”

  “What? Every night?”

  “Every night.”

  “Why?”

  Monroe laughed then. Tossed his head back and laughed loudly enough for the sound to echo around the room, against the walls. He stared at the fire. I wished he would stare at me.

  “Why?” he said rhetorically. “The man who can look into a person’s eyes and see their soul is asking me ‘why?’”

  I said nothing.

  “I heard you laugh, once,” Monroe said. “I don’t think you laugh too often, but I was there, standing right next to you, and I heard you laugh. I might’ve known it before then, but it was the first time I admitted it myself.” He paused for a moment, put the glass to his lips, tipped his head back, and let the liquid pour down his throat. “If you drown yourself in that swamp, Levi, I’ll follow right behind you. Not sure my life is worth a damn if I never get to hear that laugh again.”

  I closed my eyes.

  My gran had been right. I might give up my soul for the devil because why would anyone bother keeping their soul if there wasn’t anyone to love you for it?

  I lied to myself, told myself it didn’t have to be anything but the touch, the pull, the release of the desire that continued to grow between us. It was a balloon that was too full, popping, the last thread in a well-worn bracelet finally snapping.

  He didn’t seem to notice I’d moved between his knees and stood there, looking down at him. When his view of the fire was blocked, only then did he look up at me.

  I hated when he looked at me. And I loved it too. The pits of his soul were so dark that when he looked at me, I could feel my body ache. I’d never questioned if my ability to see a person’s soul was a gift or a curse. But right then, as he stared up at me like that and I could see a glimmer of black scales and golden lights in his eyes, I knew it was a gift.

  The wet towel made a quiet thud as I dropped it to the floor. Monroe’s eyes didn’t leave my face. I reached out slowly and pressed the tips of my fingers against the stubble along his jaw. He closed his eyes and whispered my name.

  I crawled on top of him, my legs on the outsides of his thighs. Monroe wrapped his arms around me instantly. He pressed his palms against my shoulder blades and then slid his hands lower, slowly, down my back. The warmth of his hands and the warmth of the fire behind me felt like a soothing embrace.

  I leaned forward and kissed him. It was tentative, sweet. The kiss was slow, unlike the one we’d previously shared. Where that kiss was hot and hungry, this kiss was reserved. His lips felt soft pressed against mine. When I put my hands against the hardness of his chest and pressed my tongue into his mouth, he groaned, pulled me closer, and deepened the kiss.

  Goosebumps broke out all over my skin. My senses flew into overdrive. I could feel everything and knew nothing but where Monroe’s lips and tongue touched mine, his hands against my back.

  “Levi,” he said quietly, pulling back. “You want this?”

  When I opened my eyes, the room was dark except for the light at my back. The corners of the room were blacker than ever. The air was hot, humid, full of electricity and magic. “Yes. I want you.”

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Anything you’ll give me.”

  I reached down and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt. When I pulled it up, he lifted his arms. I tossed it off to the side and looked at him. His chest was hard, solid, his skin imperfect and scarred. White scars glistened in the firelight, along with a few red, angry marks. I reached out and touched one, running my finger across his skin, and felt him shiver.

  Monroe leaned forward and began kissing my neck. He tongued the spot beneath my ear, then nipped and bit my skin as he worked his way down to my collarbone. He moved his hands down to my hips, squeezing, holding me still.

  I tossed my head back, living for nothing but the feeling of his lips against my skin. When he dropped his head lower, taking one of my nipples into his mouth, biting gently, I moaned. Monroe made a noise deep in his throat that made my skin tingle.

  I reached down between us, unlatching his belt, whipping it free from his jeans and tossing it to the ground. When I popped open the button fly of his jeans and dipped my hand inside, he pulled back from me and groaned.

  “Under the couch,” Monroe said. His voice was strained. “There’s a box. Pull it out.”

  Staying seated, I stretched out and reached under the couch. I grabbed a hold of the edge of a box and slid it out, set it next to us on the sofa. When I moved to open it and see what was inside, Monroe wrapped his hand around the amulet on my neck and tugged. When I looked at him, he grinned at me and yanked the necklace harder.

  “Come here,” he said.

  He kissed me again, immediately slipping his tongue into my mouth. I moaned, pressed my hands against his chest, loving the feeling of his bare skin against my own.

  His erection strained against the soft denim of his jeans between my thighs. I rubbed my hand against him, relishing the sound of his deep groan. When I went to pull the waistband of his underwear down, Monroe loosened his grip on my hips and lifted himself enough to help me shove his jeans and underwear down his legs. His hands immediately returned to me after he eased his pants off.

  Monroe reached to rummage in the box. At the same time, he began kissing my neck again, biting harder now, lapping at my sensitive skin after he bit. The popping sound of a lid could be heard somewhere far in the distance, but I couldn’t tell where. Eyes closed, I could focus on little but Monroe’s touches, the feeling of his hot cock pressed against my own between our bodies.

  He reached behind me, one hand roughly grabbing my asscheek and spreading me open. A moment later the cool petting of his slick finger….

  I yelped and he used that opportunity to slowly push his cool, wet finger inside me.

  “Oh,” I said breathlessly.

  Monroe chuckled but kept pressing his finger inside, deeper. �
�Have you done this before?”

  Unable to do anything else, I leaned forward, rested my forehead against his shoulder, and nodded.

  After the briefest of pauses, Monroe asked, “Who?”

  I could barely find my breath. Monroe’s finger pressed all the way inside me, stretching me, an invasion to my body. And then, just as slowly, he pulled back out. And then in again. The slow burn of the push and pull stole all my attention, every last thought I could muster.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, Monroe pulled his finger out, only to push another one back in alongside it.

  “Levi,” he said quietly, patiently. I could hear the smile in his voice. “Who?”

  Breathing heavily, I said, “A boy I know from secondary school. Why?”

  Monroe pressed both of his fingers deep inside me. When they couldn’t go any farther, he curled his fingers, brushed the small bundle of nerves inside me.

  I gasped. He licked up my jaw to my ear and whispered, “So I can kill him, of course.”

  I closed my eyes and moaned his name. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to come out as a plea or scolding, but right then, to me, his name was gospel.

  “You’re pretty when you moan,” he said quietly. He grabbed hold of my erection with his free hand and rolled a finger against the drop forming at the tip. He began to pump up and down to the painfully slow melody his fingers set.

  The moment I thought I wouldn’t be able to take the slow torture any longer, he pulled away from me. A quiet sound of rustling, ripping of foil. Then the rounded end of him pressed against me, pushing carefully inside. He groaned deep in his throat as I slid down onto him, inch by inch.

  When he was fully inside, he kissed my jaw, whispered my name. His hand began stroking me again to the same rhythm his hips rolled. I breathed heavily, looking inside his clear eyes, him looking back into mine.

  He tipped his head back and I pressed my palms flat against his chest and began kissing a trail from the divot in his collarbone up to the bottom of his jaw. His fingers flexed a little more tightly, and his pace quickened.

  “God,” I said.

  Keeping the slow, methodical stride, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was hotter than the fire on my back. It was unhurried, sure of itself, as though we’d kissed like that every day since the dawn of time. He slid his tongue into my mouth, brushed against my lips.

  Among all his kisses, touches, and the deep-rooted feel of all he drove into me, something else crept, tracing after his touch. Smooth, gritty shards raked against my skin, scratching in the wake of a gentler touch.

  Monroe deepened the kiss, whispered crude comments sweetly in between breaths.

  It started as a tickle on the side of my thigh. A gentle kiss of a feather, light and delicate. Then the watery feeling of scales moving against my bare flesh. It traveled from my thigh up to my hip bone, pausing there. Then around my stomach, against my belly button, higher still.

  The end of its tail brushed the side of my asscheek. A gasp escaped that Monroe stole for himself.

  “Monroe,” I said as the serpent moved up, trailed across my nipple, to the top of my shoulder.

  “There’s not a part of me that doesn’t want you.”

  With a shift of his hips, he moved a little quicker, pressing against the spot inside me that made my throat close.

  I tossed my head back, my eyes still closed. The snake slithered its way around my neck, once, twice, the edges of the scales sweeping across my bottom lip. The pressure inside me began to build, like a pot about to overflow.

  “Fuck, Levi,” he hissed.

  He pressed his forehead against my throat. I cracked my eyes open, and even in the darkness of the room, I watched the black serpent move from my throat to Monroe’s, wrapping around both of us, squeezing us together.

  It was the coldness of the scales, the feel of Monroe’s ragged breath against my chest, the almost painful constriction around my throat that tossed me over the edge. I came with a small cry, Monroe’s hand on me speeding, then slowing. And then I felt his body tense below me, and he followed close behind.

  I AWOKE quietly. Strong arms wrapped snugly around me, Monroe’s warm body pressed against my back. The room was dark. Only the moonlight shone in through the bedroom window. We’d come upstairs after Monroe had put the fire out downstairs.

  Carefully I slid from Monroe’s grip. After circling around the bed, I walked over to the window, pressed my fingertips against its cool glass, and looked out into the calm, dark swamp.

  I closed my eyes and listened. The swamp waters were singing. And they were singing a love song.

  Chapter 12

  SOMETHING WASN’T right.

  I jumped awake with a jolt, like a hot cattle prod had been pressed directly into the center of my chest. I gasped for air, unable to breathe. Static sang in my ears. My heart raced too quickly. I could barely keep up with it.

  The room remained still and dark. Monroe’s room. Only a few rays of morning light glistened in through the window. Other than my breathing, the room sat silently. Nothing moved, no creatures loomed in the corners, everything remained silent, calm. The stacks of car magazines were right where they’d been the night before. The discarded clothes still hung over the bottom right bedpost.

  And yet, I knew something was wrong. But I couldn’t place my finger on it. My mind was full of cotton. My stomach flipped and turned and heaved.

  Feeling childish, I turned toward Monroe. It had been a lot of years since I’d woken from a nightmare and not remembered what it had been. And rarely afterward did I feel like I needed reassurance. But I shook, unsteady.

  It was when I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder that I noticed it—noticed what was wrong.

  The blood.

  Beneath him—no, beneath both of us—pooled giant floral patterns, blossoms of blood against the white sheets. It took me two horrified seconds before I grabbed Monroe’s arm and shook him hard. “Monroe!”

  When his sleep-heavy eyes opened and he looked at me, a weight was lifted off my chest.

  “Monroe,” I said uneasily, my voice shaking.

  He sat up and cupped my face in his hands. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Unable to speak, I pulled away from him and jumped off the bed. The moment I moved, his gaze dropped to where I’d been lying. A huge, soaked bloodstain sat beneath me. It was still bright, fresh. Streams of it dropped down the sides like long, red claws.

  “Jesus!” Startled, Monroe jumped off the bed. He scrambled around, wrapped his arms around me, pulled me toward him. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” I said against his chest.

  He pulled away enough to look me over, making sure I wasn’t hurt. He ran his hands up my arms, turned my head back and forth, my neck side to side. The worry on his face could’ve broken my heart.

  “Monroe,” I said quietly. “I’m okay.”

  He stared into my eyes for a moment before letting out a deep breath. “Fuck. I was so afraid—scared I’d done something terrible—”

  “You didn’t,” I said quickly.

  Slowly, feeling foolish for being almost shy, I reached out, took his hand, and laced our fingers together. That simple touch seemed to calm him. His shoulders relaxed. His other fist unclenched.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “I’m fine.” He stared at the crimson sheets from where we stood next to the bed. “Maybe it’s not blood.”

  “What else could it be?”

  He snorted. “Blood ain’t making much sense either, right now.”

  “We have to call the sheriff.”

  Monroe didn’t seem to hear me. “Who would put this here? Who could put this here? While we slept?”

  “Monroe,” I tried to get his attention. “Where’s your phone?”

  He paused a moment, stared at me. “In the kitchen.”

  “Go call the sheriff.”

  Dazed, Monroe left the room
. I listened to his bare feet patter down the hallway and then the stairs.

  The blood covering the white sheets felt dry to the touch. I looked myself over, checking for stains, marks on my skin. There was nothing.

  The room had been dark when we’d come in last night. Streams of moonlight hit the white bed sheets. They’d been white then. I was positive. But now they were tarnished, covered in an act of crime neither of us had committed.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the swamp. And when I closed my eyes and listened closely, I could hear it laughing.

  “Levi.” A hand gently touched my shoulder.

  Monroe stood behind me, mouth agape, telephone loosely pressed against the side of his face. The dial tone buzzed loudly in the background. For moments I looked at him, listened to that dial tone.

  “What happened?” He stared at the bed.

  The sheets were white. Stark white. Painfully white. The sunlight danced across them, proud, unaware of what had been there moments before. There wasn’t even a speckle of blood that touched the sheets.

  “Did you change the sheets?” Monroe pressed.

  “No.”

  His jaw locked. “The blood was there. We both saw it. How the hell could this—”

  We stared at the bed, neither of us having any words to describe what we’d seen, what we felt. Monroe’s fingers lacing again with mine was the only small comfort between us.

  Minutes flew by. Every time I blinked, I half expected to open my eyes to the sight of maroon-colored sheets.

  “It’s the curse,” I whispered.

  “My curse,” Monroe corrected me.

  “Your curse. It’s mixing with whatever I… am. With my love for the darkness, with my desire to wallow in the swamp. From us being near, evil is slipping into this world from the cracks in hell.”

  Monroe stared at me, looking more and more angry as the seconds passed. “Don’t say shit like that, Levi. What we are together isn’t like that.”

  Unable to bear another moment of enduring the way he looked at me, I turned away. “You know I’m right. You know when we’re together there’s evil brewing. We can both feel it. I can see it. The darkness in your soul is darker when I’m around.”