Poison's Kiss

by Breeana Shields

  We don’t leave until his paper looks brand-new again.

  The bookshop is cradled in the elbow of Gali Street, between a butcher shop and flower peddler. The contrast never fails to startle me: one window blooming with bright life, and the other filled with limp geese swinging from the rafters, pink and freshly dead. Life on one side and death on the other, with only stories in between. Little bells on the door jangle when I push it open, and Japa pops his head from behind a stack of books. “Marinda,” he calls, “you’ve just made my day. I’m swamped.” Japa has a full head of silver hair and the kind of eyes that smile even when his lips don’t.

  I shrug off my identity at the door and feel lighter as I step over the threshold.

  Gopal doesn’t approve of me taking a job here. It makes him edgy, my interacting with normal people, though he would deny it. “There’s no reason for you to work, rajakumari,” he said when he found out about the bookshop. “Do I not provide you with all that you need?” We have enough in the way of money, but he doesn’t come close to meeting all my needs or Mani’s.

  “It’s good tradecraft,” I told him. “Haven’t you always taught me I should blend in? Girls my age work, Gopal. Most of them are apprenticed by now.”

  He had no reply for that. He just grunted and shook his head. But he didn’t forbid me, so I keep coming at least once a week.

  “Good morning, Japa,” I say. “How can I help?”

  Japa folds me in a brief embrace, and I turn my head slightly so that the kiss aimed for my cheek lands closer to my ear. No reason to be careless. He motions toward the stack of books. “I could use some help shelving all of those,” he says, and then spots Mani hiding behind my knees. “Ah, and I see you brought the best helper of all.”

  Mani’s face scrunches up in confusion. “But I never help,” he says with a hint of a wobble in his voice.

  “On the contrary,” Japa says, mussing Mani’s hair. “A boy lost in a book is the best kind of advertising.” Mani gives a shy smile, and a wave of gratitude washes over me. Mani scampers off to the corner of the shop to curl up on a fluffy purple cushion like a small prince; he will spend the day there having adventures in the pages that he is denied in real life.

  Japa plucks an ancient-looking book from the top of the stack. “Take extra care with this one,” he says. “My supplier claims it’s from the Dark Days.” His eyes are bright. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  I try to keep the ignorance from showing on my face. I’ve heard of the Dark Days in passing, but my education has been on a need-to-know basis. If it can’t be used as a weapon, it’s not deemed worth my time. That includes history.

  “It’s incredible,” I say. I try to sound appropriately awed, but hot shame climbs up my neck and licks at my cheeks.

  Thank the ancestors Japa is too entranced to notice. He admires the book a few seconds longer and then pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

  The book is deep burgundy with a ribbed spine and worn edges. I ease the cover open to find that each page is actually composed of four separate, narrow rectangles made from dried palm leaves and strung together with a slender leather cord. Some of the rectangles have writing in a language I can’t read—probably ancient Sundarian—and some are illuminated with miniature paintings. It’s breathtaking. I turn the pages carefully—the palm leaves feel delicate between my fingers, like they could crumble with the slightest amount of pressure.

  One page has an illustration of a village being destroyed. Flames curl up the sides of buildings, and smoke hangs thick in the air. But what catches my eye is the source of the inferno: it’s an enormous snake with fire bursting from its mouth. And the villagers are staring at it in slack-jawed horror.

  I close the book. I really should get to work. I slide the volume onto the top shelf where Japa keeps the items for collectors and turn to the rest of the stack.

  Shelving is one of my favorite tasks. Japa isn’t fussy about speed, so I take my time admiring the books, caressing their soft leather covers with my fingertips, flipping through pages, falling in love before I slide each volume onto the shelf, snug between friends. Slowly the gaps fill in and my pile begins to shrink. I’m so absorbed that I startle a little when someone pushes the door open and the noise from the street spills into the bookshop.

  I shake my head, disoriented. The sun is high in the sky now and I must have been here for hours, though it feels like it has been only moments. Mani is curled on his side, eyes closed, a book splayed across the bridge of his nose.

  A boy a year or two older than me stands at the entrance surveying the shop like he can’t quite remember why he’s here. He’s tall and broad with arms shaped like a workhand’s and inky black hair that falls across his forehead in waves. He glances over and I realize I’ve been staring. My cheeks flame. I should be offering to help—Japa isn’t paying me to stare at the customers. I start toward him, my mouth already forming a question, when Japa calls out, “Deven, how are you, my boy?” I snap my mouth closed, disappointed and relieved in equal measure. Deven. The name rolls around my mind as he follows Japa into the storeroom.

  Mani yawns behind me and I realize that I am still standing in the same spot, staring at the door. I press my hands through my hair at the temples. I can’t seem to hold on to time today. Mani stretches his arms out in front of him and arches his back like a cat. He has a page-shaped line across the left half of his face.

  “I fell asleep,” he says.

  “I can see that.” I flop down beside him. “Boring book?”

  He looks at me as if I’ve just suggested we have mud for dinner. “No,” he says. “It has pirates.” He waits a beat. “I just got really sleepy.”

  I run my fingers through his thick hair. “A nap was probably good for you,” I tell him. And it’s true. His cheeks have more color and his breath is coming with less effort.

  “Can we stay longer?” He clutches the book to his chest like he’s afraid I’m going to pry it from him.

  I laugh. “Yes,” I say. “I’m not quite finished.” Mani flashes me a grin and leans against the wall, book propped on his knees. I return to the shelves, though my gaze keeps wandering to the storeroom entrance. I can’t help wondering what Japa and his visitor are talking about that is taking so long. Is Deven family? Is he Japa’s grandson? I can’t remember ever seeing him here before, but then again, I’m not here that often.

  I try to get reabsorbed in my project, but it’s too late. The spell has been broken and my mind is jumpy and distracted.

  The last few books are cradled in the crook of my arm when Japa comes back from the storeroom with Deven at his heels. “Marinda,” he says, “you’ve done so much.” This is generous, considering he must know I could have finished hours ago—that he has been paying me to browse through novels. “I want you to meet my young friend Deven.” Questions pool at the tip of my tongue. How do they know each other? And for how long? How can they be friends with such a large age difference? But I have been trained to swallow my questions, so I smile instead.

  “Nice to meet you,” Deven says, moving toward me. I step backward without thinking and then cringe. It’s a mistake to let my discomfort show so easily, and I try to cover with a light laugh that comes out more like a bark. Deven gives a half smile, just one side of his mouth lifting a bit like he’s not sure what to think of me. Then he tries again, leaning to kiss each side of my face. This time I am more adept at subtly twisting my neck, making sure his lips land far from mine. I find myself longing for one of the cultures west of Sundari where people greet each other with extended hands—what a luxury to have the length of two whole arms between you. Or even better, one of the kingdoms where greetings come in the form of nods and bows and there is no touching at all.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” I say, though now it sounds like a lie. Deven smiles—a real one with both sides of his mouth—and I stop breathing for a moment. My face feels hot all over and I’m relieved when I fee
l Mani’s hand on my elbow.

  “Ah,” says Japa, “this is Marinda’s brother, Mani.”

  Deven kneels down to Mani’s height. “What book do you have there?” Mani doesn’t answer but twists his wrists so that the cover is facing out. “That’s one of my favorites,” Deven tells him.

  Mani raises his eyebrows skeptically. “Really? What’s your favorite part?”

  Deven strokes his chin. “Hmm,” he says. “That’s a bit like having to choose a favorite pastry. But if you forced me to make a decision, I guess I would have to pick when the pirates find the hidden cave with the maps painted on the walls in blood.”

  Mani gasps. “That’s my favorite part too.”

  Deven leans forward, his voice just above a whisper, conspiratorial. “I could tell you were a smart one.” Mani beams and Deven claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends.

  I feel unsettled, like Deven has made a promise that he can’t keep. “We’d better go,” I say. “It’s getting late.”

  Deven stands up. “I need to get going too. Can I walk you home?”

  The question makes my throat burn. It’s an utterly ordinary thing for a boy to say to a girl. But boys never say ordinary things to me. It hurts how much it pleases me that he wants to walk me home. It hurts even more that he never can.

  A memory surfaces, one I try never to think about. I was seven years old, playing on the grass in front of the girls’ home. Gopal almost never allowed me to be outside by myself, but that day he was in a good mood and had given me permission. I gathered up as many rocks as I could find and I built a village—rock houses populated with rock people. Rock mothers and rock fathers and fat rock babies held by adoring rock siblings. A boy walking past stopped and watched me for a few minutes. Then he came into the yard.

  “Do you want to play?” he said.

  I shrugged. I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure it was allowed. The boy sat down anyway. He showed me how to stack the stones into a tower and then, when we grew bored of that, how to use the chalky rocks to draw pictures on the darker ones. We played all afternoon, and then Gopal stepped outside.

  I stopped breathing and braced myself for a blow that never landed.

  Instead, Gopal invited the boy inside, offered him a drink and let us play for the rest of the day. My heart felt like it had expanded to fill my whole chest. It felt too good to be true.

  And it was.

  At the end of the night, Gopal held the boy down and forced me to kiss him. Then he made me watch as the boy perspired and cried and seized and died. When I tried to turn away, Gopal grabbed my head and held it in place. “Watch, rajakumari,” he said. “Learn.”

  When it was all over, I was hysterical. “He was my friend,” I said between sobs.

  Gopal pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger and stared into my eyes. “You don’t have any friends.”

  The memory sends a wave of nausea through me. I’m about to tell Deven that he can’t walk us home, but he’s already heading for the door.

  “We’re done here, right, Japa?” he says.

  Japa nods. “Of course. Have a good evening.” He gives a wave meant for all three of us.

  I feel trapped. “You really don’t need to…,” I start, but then stop as Mani slides a hand into Deven’s and turns toward me.

  “Come on, Marinda.” Mani’s eyes are bright, his expression so hopeful that it sends a spasm of pain through me, but I can’t give in to him. Deven can’t be seen with us, can’t know where we live.

  I don’t move.

  “Is there a problem?” Deven asks.

  Japa looks up sharply, and suddenly I’m trapped between two bad options. Let Deven walk us home or draw attention to ourselves if we don’t. I swallow hard. Maybe we can find an excuse to separate from him before we make it back to our flat.

  “No,” I say. “Of course not.”

  But I hope I’m not leading him into a den of vipers.

  We slip outside and collide with a wall of heat and noise. The air is so thick, I feel instantly clammy. Gali Street is filled with shoppers—the kind who want to avoid the haggling and magic of the market and prefer to pay a fixed price with no strings attached. It’s not as loud as the market, no one is shouting out prices or calling out fortunes, but the sheer number of people produces a racket all its own—hundreds of small noises blended together into a dull roar.

  A group of boys race in front of us carrying pails that slosh water over the sides. The children giggle as they dip rags in the buckets and toss them toward one another, droplets flinging through the air before the wet smack of cloth against bare torsos and legs. In this oppressive heat, it’s a game where losing is winning. I turn toward Mani, expecting to see yearning on his face, but he’s not looking at the children. He has eyes only for Deven.

  I slide between the two of them, taking Mani’s hand. I can’t let Mani get attached. Deven gives me a puzzled look, but he doesn’t comment.

  After a few minutes he says, “So how long have you been working with Japa?”

  “Not long,” I say. “A few months.”

  Deven doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make one of those little noises to show he’s listening. He just lets the silence stretch between us until it grows so uncomfortable that I’ll say anything to fill it, even if it means violating tradecraft by asking a question. “How long have you known Japa?” I ask.

  “Longer than a few months.” I’m working up my courage to ask him to be more specific when he says, “I’ve never seen you at the bookshop before.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen you there either.” My tone comes out with more bite than I intended. Both Mani and Deven look at me with identical quizzical expressions. I sigh. “I’m not there that often.”

  “And what do you do when you’re not at the bookshop?”

  Mani stiffens at my side. “You ask a lot of questions,” I say, and this time the tone is deliberate.

  He laughs and it sounds warm and rich like chocolate sauce. “I only asked two questions.”

  I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Deven can’t be seen with us. It’s too dangerous. For us. For him. Maybe I can tell him that we have plans. It’s been so long since Mani and I did anything for fun. We could stop for flatbread and take it to the park to feed the birds. Mani used to love to do that. He would rip the bread into tiny pieces to stretch it as far as he could. The memory makes me smile.

  Mani lets out a chain of barky coughs and stops to put both hands on his knees. The park is an impossible fantasy; I need to get him home. I rub small circles on Mani’s back until the coughing subsides and then look up to see Deven watching us, his eyebrows pulled together in concern.

  “How long has he been like this?” Deven is staring at Mani’s white shirt sucked against his ribs. More questions.

  “A couple of years,” I tell him, because this question is answerable. This question isn’t about how I kill men in my spare time.

  Deven emits a low whistle and rakes a hand through his hair. “That’s a long time,” he says, and then narrows his eyes at me. “Do you know what’s wrong?” His tone is all wrong, more a challenge than an inquiry.

  “He almost drowned when he was five,” I say softly so that Mani can’t hear. “His lungs haven’t ever fully recovered.” An image of Mani lying blue and lifeless on the bank of the Kinjal River rises in my mind, but I quickly slam a door on the memory.

  Mani starts coughing again. His lips are white, his expression panicked from lack of air.

  “Breathe, monkey,” I tell him. “You’ll be fine in a minute. Just breathe.” I keep pressing circles on his back with the heel of my hand. His coughing calms and he manages to suck in a lungful of air. “Good, Mani. That’s good.”

  Deven is still watching me. “It seems to get better for a while and then worse again,” I tell him.

  He gives me a curt nod and then turns toward Mani. “It doesn’t seem like you’re up for walking today, pal.” He scoops Mani up and lifts
him onto his shoulders. Mani gives a startled little yelp and then flashes me a huge grin from high above the ground. It looks all out of place on his face, still drawn tight and pale from coughing. The sleeve of Deven’s shirt has bunched up under Mani’s knee, revealing a small tattoo. At first I think it’s the Raksaka, but it’s not. It’s just the bird by herself, her blue-and-green wings stretched in flight.

  “Lead the way,” Deven tells me, and now I have no choice but to let him follow us home. I am praying to all the gods I know that Gita isn’t there when we arrive.

  Mani leans his upper body on top of Deven’s head and is soon asleep. Deven carries him like he weighs nothing. We walk in silence for a while, and then Deven clears his throat and starts talking. “I’ve known Japa for years,” he says. “He’s like family. I work for him running errands, delivering messages. He’s a good man—loyal to the kingdom and to the Raja.” He glances over at me like he’s measuring my response. I wish I could tell him that I’m loyal to the kingdom too, that I work for the Raja delivering messages of a different sort.

  But admitting that I’m an assassin—even for a kingdom Deven obviously loves—would put him in more danger than he’s already in by walking through the streets of Bala City with me, so I try to change the subject.

  “Garuda is my favorite too,” I tell him. His eyebrows rise in a question. “Your tattoo,” I say. “I like it.”

  When I was a little girl, I once told Gopal that of all the Raksaka, the bird was my favorite. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Garuda is no songbird, rajakumari. The legends say she is big enough to fly away with an elephant clutched in her claws like it weighs no more than a mouse.” He meant to scare me, but I only felt encouraged. I knew Garuda was only a myth. Still, if she could lift an elephant, maybe there was a force strong enough to carry me away from Gopal someday.

  But now Deven is studying me with the same calculating kind of look Gopal gave me all those years ago, and I’m not sure why. He glances at his arm and then back up at my face. He doesn’t speak for a few moments and finally says, “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.” But then he tugs on his sleeve so that the bird is covered again.