Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(27)

Mani sleeps for hours, waking only briefly to eat a light dinner and then promptly falling back asleep. He says just four words to me while he’s awake: “A little,” when I ask if he’s hungry, and “I’m full,” when I ask if he wants more soup.

I have so few people in my life and nearly all of them are mad at me: Mani, Iyla, Gita, Gopal. The only one who isn’t angry is Deven, and he would no doubt be furious if he knew what I’ve done, what I am. I think about the days before I had a brother—how lonely it was, how all I thought about was finding a way to run. And that’s exactly how I feel now, like running away and never looking back. I watch Mani’s chest rise and fall. His hands are tucked beneath his cheek, and dark curls fall over his forehead. He looks even smaller in sleep, even more vulnerable. He would never make it if we tried to leave. But if I can find a way to make Mani well again, I’ll do a better job of escaping. I’ll take him and run so long and so far that Gopal will never be able to find us again.





I drift off curled in a chair by Mani’s bedside, but my sleep is choppy, plagued with nightmares of huge snakes, dying boys and snapping whips. But when I wake gasping, reality is no comfort. Remembering the previous evening sweeps me up in a wave of regret. Why didn’t I ask Iyla where Deven lives? Gopal wants him dead by the end of the week, and that gives me only six days to slip him two more doses of toxin, and I have no idea where to find him. Why didn’t I ask Kadru how far apart the doses need to be? I don’t know if one day is enough or if I need to move more slowly. And it may all be a moot point if Gopal sends another kind of assassin after Deven—he must have them, other assassins who kill people in more traditional ways. But there is one question that haunts me the most: What did Deven do that the Raja wants him dead?

At some point during the night the sky grows angry and a torrent of rain pelts against the metal roof of our flat in an unrelenting rhythm. The sound is so loud it drowns out my thoughts, and sleep finally finds me.

When I open my eyes, the room is dark. It could be midnight or morning—it’s impossible to tell.

“Marinda?” I can tell it isn’t the first time Mani has said my name. It must have been his voice that woke me.

“Hmm?”

“Someone is at the door.”

I bolt upright. At first I think Mani’s wrong, that it’s only the rain, but then I hear it. Tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap. It’s not a pattern that I recognize—not Iyla or Gita or Gopal. I look over at Mani and hold a finger to my lips. His eyes are wide and he’s trembling, but he nods. He can be quiet. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and creep to the window. My heart is thudding against my rib cage and I’m half expecting Gopal to be on the other side of the door with a whip in his hand to finish with me what he started with Iyla. I push back the edge of the drapery, just a fraction, just enough to see who is there.

It’s not Gopal.

Deven stands outside, a bag in one hand and a bouquet of marigolds in the other. He’s dripping wet. His dark hair is pasted to his forehead, and tiny droplets cling to his lashes. He wears a hopeful expression, like it’s a holiday and he’s just been handed a present. It’s a strange kind of pleasure to watch him without his knowing. He looks younger without an audience, less confident somehow. Warmth spreads through my chest. I spent the whole night worrying about how to find him again, and here he is on my doorstep.

“Marinda?” Mani asks. His voice is colored with worry.

“Everything is fine,” I tell him, dropping the drapery. I open the door and Deven’s face breaks into a smile.

“Good morning,” he says. Then he looks me over and frowns. “Oh, no. I woke you.”

“No.” I run my fingers through my hair, suddenly self-conscious. And then I remember my bare wrists and drop my hands to my sides. “You didn’t. I just…” I’m still surprised to see him here and I have no words.

He laughs and steps through the threshold into the flat. “Yes, I did.” He holds up the bag. “But I brought a surprise, so hopefully you’ll forgive me?”

Mani bounds off the bed. “What did you bring?” The excitement in his voice stings a little after he gave me the silent treatment yesterday, but I’m glad to see him smiling again.

“This is for you,” Deven says, handing the bag to Mani. “And I brought your sister some flowers.” He presents me with the bouquet of golden blossoms held together with a white ribbon. Careful to keep the insides of my wrists facing me, I take the marigolds and press them to my nose. They smell sharp and woodsy, more like a boy than a flower. I close my eyes and try to capture this moment, and suddenly I feel apart from myself—like I’m standing to the side and watching a different girl’s story. Because this isn’t my life, not really, and this moment belongs only to the Marinda that Deven thinks he knows, not the real me. The boys in my life don’t have flowers and sweet words. They have headaches, and tremors, and death.

“Thank you,” I say past the lump in my throat. Thank you for making me feel like a normal girl and not a poisoned one.

Deven’s eyes are soft. “You’re welcome.”

Mani tugs on my arm. “Look what Deven brought me,” he says, holding up the same pale fruit he ate at the bookshop. “Maraka fruit. Can I eat it now?”