“Are you always this charming?”
“No,” I say, because I’m not. It’s Iyla’s job to be charming. I only know how to be likeable for a moment. A moment is all I ever need. All I ever get.
My vision is blurry with unshed tears, but I refuse to cry. I start taking books off the shelves, stacking them in a pile on the floor.
“What are you doing?” Deven asks.
I don’t look at him. “I need to dust.”
“You dusted the shelves yesterday.”
“Not underneath the books.”
He sighs, but he starts helping me. We make a waist-high stack, and then I wipe each shelf, moving in small circles, wedging the cloth into the corners to get every bit of dust. Then we replace the books and start on the next bookcase. The door bells jingle and I jump.
It’s a man.
My mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of dirt. I don’t say anything to Deven. I just hand him the cloth and make my way to the front of the shop. I hope this will be quick. I hope Deven isn’t paying attention. I watch the man walk up and down the rows of books, trailing a thin finger over each spine, like he might know the volume he’s looking for by touch alone.
My vision is filled with those same fingers trembling later, wiping beaded sweat from his high forehead and his bushy eyebrows before finally falling still as he takes his last breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture something else. Anything else.
“Are you okay?”
My eyes fly open. The man is standing in front of me, holding his book. He has a look of concern on his face. I couldn’t mess this up any more if I tried.
I give him a smile, as genuine as I can make it. “I’m fine. Just a little headache.”
“Ah,” he says. “I’m sorry. My wife gets headaches too. Horrible stuff.”
A wife. He has a wife. My knees feel shaky and I’m sure that I have the wrong expression on my face. “It is,” I say, and my voice sounds foreign and wrong. “Horrible.”
He rubs the top of his head right where his hair is thinning, like it’s a nervous habit, and I find myself wondering if you can handle your hair so much that it falls out.
“You should try yarrow root,” he tells me. “Works great for headaches.”
“Sure,” I say, “I will.”
Our eyes meet, and he smiles and sets the book on the counter. I feel like I’m going to be sick. He pulls coins from his pocket and bounces them in his palm while he waits for me to give him a total. I won’t be able to reach him from where I’m standing. I’ll have to wrap his book and walk around the counter to give it to him, to embrace him. To kiss him.
It’s going to take some effort to end his life.
My hands shake as I pull out the paper wrapping and slide the book toward me. Then all the air whooshes out of my lungs. The title is Dreams and Their Meanings. A little half sob escapes my lips and the man looks at me, alarmed. “Sorry,” I say as I take his coins.
He pats my hand and then picks up his book. “Yarrow root,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the shop.
My whole body starts to shake. The sun is high in the sky, morning is gone. Was this Gopal’s twisted idea of a punishment? To give me a target that never materializes? To make me suffer all day for nothing?
“Marinda?” Deven’s hand drops on my shoulder, and I yank away so fast that the coins in my palm go flying, skittering across the floor like startled insects.
A crease appears between his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
I ignore the question and kneel to gather the coins, but I’m trembling so much that they keep slipping through my fingers.
“Here,” Deven says. “Give them to me.”
I drop the money into his open palm and climb to my feet. Deven’s gaze roams over my face, searching, questioning. I turn away from him so he won’t find whatever he’s looking for. He goes around the counter and pulls the wooden box from where it’s stashed on a low shelf. As he deposits the coins inside, I take deep breaths and try to will my heart to slow and my hands to still.
It’s just another of Gopal’s games, I remind myself. Only dangerous if I don’t understand the rules. But my body isn’t so easily convinced. Chills race over my skin and heat licks at the back of my neck until I’m not sure if I’m hot or cold.
“Marinda?” The tender note in Deven’s voice rips something loose inside of me, and my carefully cultivated self-control slides from my shoulders like a shawl. I risk a glance at him, and his eyes are soft and liquid. He reaches for my wrists, but I think of the scars hiding under my bracelets and yank my hands back. Deven’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but instead of retreating, he steps toward me and pulls me to his chest.
Every muscle in my body freezes.
I start to pull away, but Deven doesn’t let go. His arms—both of them—are wrapped tightly around me, and I’ve never been held like this. Not ever. Slowly my tension unwinds, and against my better judgment, I let myself relax against him. I can feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, thudding against my cheek.
Japa emerges from the storeroom. “What happened?” he asks.
Deven waves him away. “She’ll be okay,” he says, and I hope he’s right. I rest my head on his shoulder and he strokes my hair until I stop trembling.
The pressure in my chest recedes a little, and suddenly I feel like I need to put space between us. I pull away and busy myself smoothing out invisible wrinkles in my sari.
“What did that man say to you?” Deven asks.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. But of course that’s what it would have looked like—that the customer said something so awful to me that I melted into a puddle of nerves. “It’s not—he didn’t—it wasn’t like that. He was kind.” Even to my own ears I sound ridiculous.
Deven doesn’t speak right away. It’s one of the things I like about him, how he takes his time to respond, how he treats the conversation carefully, like it matters. “The kindness upset you?” he asks finally.
“A little.”
“But why?”
It’s a loaded question and I’m not sure I can answer. I’m not sure I want to. I finger the edge of my sleeve while I think about it. “I don’t deserve it,” I tell him, and it’s maybe the most honest thing I’ve ever said.
He brushes a lock of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “How could you possibly think that?”
If he knew me at all, he would know that there is no other reasonable conclusion to draw. Of all people, I don’t deserve kindness. This conversation has gone too far and now I feel exposed. I don’t even know Deven, not really. I shake my head. “Can we talk about something else?”
Disappointment flits over his face, but he erases it almost instantly. “Sure. What would you like to talk about?”
I shrug. I’m no good at conversation and my mind is busy trying to puzzle out what kind of game Gopal is playing.
“You could tell me something about yourself,” Deven says.
“There’s nothing to tell.” What I really mean is that there is nothing I could tell him that wouldn’t make him hate me.
He sighs. “If you’re going to be difficult, then I’ll go first. I love wood carving.”
“Wood carving?” It’s the last thing I was expecting him to say. It’s something that belongs in a real conversation, and I’m not good at those.
“Yup,” he says. “I’d live with a knife in my hand if I could.”
“What do you carve?”
“All kinds of things. Animals, spoons, chairs, face masks. I’ve been itching to carve patterns in Japa’s bookshelves for months, but I don’t think he’d appreciate it. Now your turn. What do you do for fun?”
I come here for fun—or I did before Gopal stole it from me—but I can’t tell him that. “I like to read,” I say, which is almost the same thing.
Deven motions toward the bookshelves. “Obviously,” he says.
“Not obviously. I could just enjoy shelving books and never read at all. Or
I could just need the money.”
“Do you?”
My cheeks heat. “No, but that isn’t the point.”
“Yes, it is,” he says. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I’m an assassin. I was supposed to kill someone today, but he never showed. My brother might be dying. My throat feels thick. Is that all there is to me? I slide down to the floor and rest my head on the wall. Deven sits beside me, still waiting for an answer. “I like sunsets,” I tell him, “and the sound of crickets chirping and looking up at the stars.”
“You like nighttime,” he says after a moment, and this strikes me as incredibly insightful to understand so quickly from so little. Night has always been safer than daylight.
“And I have a cat,” I tell him just for good measure, just to make me seem more like a normal person. Normal people have pets, I think.
He laughs. “I saw the cat when I walked you home the other day.” That’s right, he did. It seems like forever ago. He leans his head back against the wall next to mine, and we both just sit there in companionable silence staring at the ceiling. Deven glances outside. “I was supposed to leave hours ago,” he says. “I’d better get going.” He stands up and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. “I think we scared Japa away,” he tells me. “I’ll go tell him goodbye.”
He walks away, and suddenly I feel sheepish that I’ve made Japa feel awkward about being in the main room of his own shop. I’m mortified that he saw me break down like that. I press a hand to my forehead. This has been such a long day and I can’t wait to crawl into bed and go to sleep.
Deven comes out of the storeroom with his bag slung over one shoulder. “It was nice talking to you, Marinda,” he says.
I nod. “Thank you for…well, you know, for everything.”
He grins at me, with both sides of his mouth, and it feels like standing in a patch of sunlight on a chilly day. “Anytime,” he says, plunking several coins down on the countertop.
I raise my eyebrows. “What’s this for?”
He slips a book out of his bag. “I’m taking this one,” he says. It’s several inches thick and bound in jade-green leather. The cover illustration is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. A majestic bird flying through the air with an enormous snake dangling from its beak. Below that are dozens of people, their faces tipped toward the heavens in awe. But it’s the top of the book that makes my heart stop.
Because there, in big block print, are the words I’ve been dreading all day: The History of Sundari.
All the heat drains from my face. The room feels like it’s spinning and I hold on to the edge of the countertop for support. Not him! my mind screams. Please, not him!
“Marinda,” Deven says. “It’s okay. Japa knows I’m taking the book.”
Someone else knows he’s taking the book too. Someone else thought he’d leave with it hours ago. I still haven’t spoken. My mind is scrambling for what to say, for what to do.
“What’s wrong?”
I try to pull myself together, to arrange my expression into something less horrified. “Nothing,” I say, waving my hand in front of my face. “Just a long day.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
Three steps. It will take me three steps to get to him and only a moment to put my arms around his neck, only a moment more to kiss him. It could all be over in a few seconds.
I don’t move.
Gopal told me the men we were targeting were evil, a threat to the kingdom, enemies of the Raja. These small truths have been my only solace for years. But Deven—I think of the way he carried Mani on his shoulders all the way back to our flat, the way he held me while I trembled. I can’t do this. I won’t.
Deven squeezes my hand. “I’ll see you soon,” he says. He pushes the door open and is swallowed up by the crowd.
The relief that washes over me lasts only a moment. Deven is safe for now, but if Gopal wants him dead, he’ll be dead. I’m not Gopal’s only option.
I stay in the bookshop until closing, and Japa’s face is lined with concern as he hugs me goodbye. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?” he asks me for what must be the fourth time.
“I’m fine, Japa,” I tell him. “Really I am.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not a very good liar,” he says. His tone is playful, but a chill runs through me. I’m a better liar than he knows. “But if you need anything, Marinda…if things are bad at home…well, know that I’m here.”
Tears prickle at the backs of my eyes. He sounds so sincere, and for a moment I’m tempted to tell him everything and beg him for help. Help to hide, help to run, help to escape. But I know that if I don’t show up at the flat soon, I’ll never see Mani again, so I just nod. “Thank you,” I tell him, and then I leave before he can say anything else. Before he can tempt me to trust him with the truth.
All the shops on Gali Street are closing and the crowds have thinned out. I walk as fast as I dare without drawing attention to myself. Suddenly I’m desperate to see Mani and make sure he is okay. I feel like I can sense Gopal’s anger already, and I want to shield Mani from his wrath. I have never disobeyed a kill-order before. Not ever. Gopal knows I hate what he makes me do, but I’ve never refused to do it.
I arrive at our red door and rap three times. The door swings open. Gita has fire in her eyes. “Where have you been?” Gopal is standing behind her. He’s almost never here when I return from an assignment. This one must be important to him. Suddenly I know what I have to do.
“The mark never showed,” I say. I hope I sound annoyed.
“What do you mean he never showed?” Gopal asks. There’s a challenge in his voice, but I try to keep my face passive. I kick my sandals off and sink down into a chair. At least I don’t have to fake the exhaustion.
“He never showed. I waited all day and nothing.” Smudge circles my ankles and I pet her in careful strokes with steady hands. She purrs contentedly.
Gita is looking anxiously between me and Gopal. “Maybe we had the wrong day?” she offers. “Or the wrong place.”
His eyes narrow. “Or the wrong girl,” he says softly.
My stomach is swimming with panic, but I hope my face is calm. I think it is. Gopal is nobody, I tell myself. Just another man I must make trust me. It’s a lie, but it’s a good one and I feel steady.
I shrug. “Unless the mark was a mother with small children or a balding man with bad dreams, then he didn’t show. I can’t kiss someone who isn’t there. Even I’m not that good.”
Gita’s face smooths out and I know I have convinced her, but Gopal just continues staring at me. “Are you playing games with me?” he asks. I look straight into his eyes.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing about you all day,” I say. This part is true and I know that Gopal can see it in my face.
He looks away first and I feel like I’ve won a small victory. He makes it to the door in two strides. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and then slams the door behind him.
Gita puts a hand to her chest and lets out a long sigh. She stands like that for a while before she meets my gaze. “I made some rice,” she says, gesturing toward the table. Mani is sitting in front of an untouched bowl. He hasn’t said a word since I arrived.
“Thank you, Gita,” I say. “I can take it from here.” A hurt look flits across her face, and I almost laugh that she thinks she has the right to be wounded. As if, after today, I should want the pleasure of her company.
Mani doesn’t look up until she leaves, but then he hops off his chair and flings himself into my arms. “That was the longest day ever,” he says.
I pull him close to me. “Did they hurt you?”
It’s a senseless question, because their very existence hurts him, but he knows what I mean. Did they use my tardiness to punish you?
He shakes his head, but his eyes are shiny with the memory of two years ago, when we thought we could escape. I’d been pla
nning it for months—squirreling away money beneath the floorboards under my bed, mapping the fastest route out of the city, gathering supplies in two small packs until we were finally ready.
We left under cover of darkness—the fear clutched around my heart like a fist. My breath hitched at every shadow and Mani startled at every noise, but the farther we got, the more the seed of hope in my chest grew—expanding my rib cage and making it easier to breathe. We just had to make it to the Kinjal River and the edge of the city, where freedom waited for us.
Instead we found Gopal.
All my hope bled away and I scrambled for an explanation that would stay Gopal’s rage, but he didn’t ask for one. He reached us in three steps, yanked Mani from my arms and hauled him to the edge of the river.
“Stop!” I shouted, chasing after him. “Leave him alone.”
I grabbed Gopal’s arm and tried to wrench Mani away, but my strength was no match for his. He grabbed Mani by the hair and plunged his face into the water. Panic choked my throat.
“No, Gopal, please.” Mani’s small feet kicked in a frantic attempt for escape. I tried to reach for him, but Gopal kicked me hard in the stomach, sending me flying backward. He lifted Mani from the water, and the sight of my brother’s face sputtering and gasping for air broke something loose inside me.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, let him go.”
Gopal thrust Mani back into the water. “You know better than to try to leave me,” he said. Mani thrashed in Gopal’s grip.
“Yes,” I said. “I know better.” Mani’s movements were slowing and I was desperate. “Please, Gopal. I’m sorry.” Those were the magic words, and Gopal’s face broke into a wide smile.
“That’s a good girl,” he said. He lifted Mani from the water and tossed his body onto the shore. Mani was blue and lifeless. “Never again, rajakumari. I can find you anywhere. And next time the boy dies.” Gopal strode away without another word.
I knelt beside Mani and lowered my cheek to his nose, praying to feel his breath stir across my face, but there was nothing. His chest was motionless. If he didn’t get air soon, he was going to die. Without thinking, I lowered my mouth toward his and then, at the last moment, caught myself and pulled away, horrified. What was I thinking? My lungs were full of the air he needed, but I couldn’t give him any. I couldn’t try to save him without killing him. I put my hands against his breastbone and pressed with all my strength. “Please, Mani,” I said. “Please don’t die.” I pounded on his small chest until, finally, a huge amount of water gurgled from his mouth and he sucked in a lungful of air. I held him close to me and rocked him back and forth. “I’m so sorry,” I said over and over. “So, so sorry.”
Poison's Kiss Page 5
