Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(2)

“Go away,” he says. The knot in my stomach loosens and I am flooded with relief. I don’t have to feel guilty for walking away. I turn my attention to the little girl, who has backed off, her expression a mixture of fear and disappointment.

“Come, janu,” I tell her. She takes a step toward me, and I drop three fat coins into her palm along with a mango I have plucked from the top of the heap. Her face lights up in a smile.

I turn back toward the boy, his lip still curled in disgust. “I do have something for you,” I tell him. And then I do what I came for.

I kiss him.

He tenses up at first—they always do—but then he relaxes into me, his lips soft and welcoming. Ripe. And that’s when I put my hands on his shoulders and push him away. It was a brief kiss, but a fatal one. His eyes are wide and he puts two fingers to his mouth as if he’s not sure what just happened.

“Did you have something for me?” he asks again.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t.”

His face twists in confusion and his gaze sweeps across the market. “Oh,” he says. “I guess you’re not who I thought you were.”

No, I’m not. I’m not who he thought I was at all.

I turn and walk away, and though it takes all the self-restraint I have, I don’t look back.

It won’t happen right away. The poison will take some time to absorb into his skin where my lips brushed against his, to find its way into his bloodstream. To destroy him.

In one hour, his skin will heat. I can picture him taking off his black jacket, tugging at his yellow shirt, fanning himself with a newspaper. In two hours his nose will begin to run and his stomach will roil. In three hours his chest will tighten, his pupils will constrict, he will feel like he is being squeezed in the jaws of a giant snake. He won’t be entirely wrong. In four hours he will have lost control of most of his bodily functions. He will drool. He will soil himself. He will lose his dignity. In five hours he will stop breathing.

I hope whatever he did to deserve this fate was truly horrible. Because in six hours my guilt will be almost too much to bear.



When I return to the flat, I knock on the door—three sharp raps, which means I am safe and alone. Two knocks means I might have been followed. Four tells Gita she should open the door with a weapon in her hand.

The door swings wide and Gita’s face is drawn, worried.

“Marinda,” she says with a catch in her voice, “you’re late.” She’s holding a dish towel that her hands have shaped into a rope. The gray at her temples seems more pronounced tonight, as if she has aged in the waiting.

“Am I?” I ask, though I know it’s true. The walk back always feels heavy, like a chore.

I move past her and step inside. Our flat is small, just one room with beds on one side and something that passes for a kitchen on the other. A tiny bathroom is tucked in the corner with only a faded yellow curtain for a door. It isn’t grand, but at least I don’t have to live at the home with Gopal and the other girls.

Mani is curled up on one of the beds, already asleep, though the sun isn’t fully set. His small body is curved around Smudge, who lifts her head to look at me, licks a paw and then presses her face against Mani’s chest.

“How long has he been out?” I sit on the side of the bed and smooth the hair from Mani’s forehead. His face is warm and the bitter-smelling vapors of his breathing treatments cling to his clothing.

“Not long,” Gita says. She stops tormenting the dish towel, uncurls it and smooths it with her palms. “He had more energy today.” I can hear the effort in her voice and I know she’s stretching the truth. He is less exhausted some days than others, but he never has energy.

She yanks on a chair, its legs scraping loudly against the wood floor as she drags it toward me. She plunks it down beside the bed and sits. Mani doesn’t stir.

I lean down and kiss the crown of Mani’s head—far away from his eyes or mouth and separated from my lips by a dark mop of messy curls. It’s the most I dare, and for a moment I am angry that I am deprived of even this small privilege, to be able to kiss my tiny brother on his sticky forehead. Gita must see the flash of emotion on my face, because she clears her throat.

“I gave him his medicine earlier this evening,” she says. “So he should be all set for a few days.” It didn’t need to be said—the acrid smell clings to the inside of my nostrils. I can practically taste it. So I take the statement for the reminder it is: Mani’s medicine for my work today. One life for another.

I pull the blanket up around his chin. “Thank you,” I say, though the words cut like glass as they leave my throat.

“So how did it go?” Gita asks, and the question makes me hate her a little. I know it is part of her job to find out, to report back to Gopal, to keep the operation running smoothly. But sometimes she stays for dinner before she reminds me that I’m just a task on her list.

And really, how does she think it went? I just killed someone based on nothing more than the fact that Gopal told me to. But it isn’t her burden to bear and so she never feels its weight. “It went fine,” I tell her. “No problems.”

“Good,” she says, nodding. “Good. And was he alone?”

My mind flashes to the boy shifting nervously on the balls of his feet, and my stomach clenches. “Yes,” I say, “he was all alone.” I want to ask her more, want her to tell me why he had to die, but I don’t say anything. Questions are against tradecraft. But I know I won’t sleep tonight, that I will see that boy over and over and wonder what he did, wonder what I did, and wonder which is worse.