Poison's Kiss (Poison's Kiss #1)(32)

“We want our money back,” I tell him. The boy studies me for a moment before responding, his eyes roaming over my face as if searching for something.

“Certainly,” he says finally. “But you will need to return what you’ve purchased.”

I toss the parchment at him and it drifts to a stop near his inkpot. He glances at it but doesn’t pick it up. “That isn’t what I sold you.”

“Yes,” I say through a clenched jaw, “it is.”

“Did you read it?”

“Of course I read it.”

“Do you remember what it said?”

“Yes.”

“Then you still possess the wisdom. If you can return that, then I will happily give you a refund.”

“You know I can’t do that,” I say.

He picks up the parchment and holds it out to me. “Then I’m afraid I can’t return your money.” The hairs on the back of my neck prickle to life. This child talks as if he is a hundred years old. It’s just a trick, I remind myself. I have seen it dozens of times at the market. Fortune-tellers, snake charmers, palm readers, each of them playing on the things that all of us have in common—love, loss, heartbreak. Their proclamations are so generalized that they seem personalized. But they are all charlatans who lie for money, and this boy is no different. Still, as I walk back to Mani, I can’t help wondering: Am I the betrayer or am I the betrayed?

Mani takes my hand and we don’t say anything as we leave Gali Street and cross into the wooded area nearby. We walk under the shade of the devil trees until we get to a small pond occupied by dozens of swans. Mani snatches the parchment from my fingers and drops it into the water. And we watch as the ink bleeds away, leaving just a blank page without any wisdom at all.



“We could try Iyla’s house,” Mani says after we’ve spent an hour watching the swans swim in circles. The suggestion sends a shock of pain through me—to imagine Iyla and Deven together, to think that she might be the reason that I haven’t seen him. But as unbearable as it is picturing him in Iyla’s arms, it’s better than the alternative, better than finding out I’ve given him too much venom and he’s dead. The thought of killing him by accident is so much worse than the prospect of killing someone else on purpose. And thinking so makes me feel like a horrible person.

“It’s worth a try,” I say. I try to keep my voice steady, but I don’t fool Mani. He squeezes my fingers.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Deven likes you better.”

But that’s not the point. The pang of sadness comes from imagining that he cares for anyone else at all.

Mani and I don’t speak on the walk to Iyla’s house, and the silence that hangs between us is heavy and anxious. When we get to her neighborhood, my shoulders are tight with dread that we will come upon the same scene as before, that we’ll have to crouch behind a hedge and watch Iyla and Deven embrace. But we don’t see them, and oddly this worries me too. By the time we climb the steep steps to the front door, Mani’s breathing is coming in small gasps. The cords in his neck are bulging and taut. I pat him on the back. “Breathe,” I tell him. He puts his hands on his knees and sucks air slowly through his nose. Before I have a chance to knock, the door swings open to reveal Iyla, her face a mask of rage.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Her gaze darts from side to side. “You’re causing a spectacle.”

Anger flares in my chest. “He can’t breathe, Iyla.” She looks at Mani and her face softens.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Come in.” She ushers us through the door and quickly closes it behind us. I forgot how beautiful Iyla’s home is. Plush white carpet stretches from wall to wall, and all the furniture is oversized and covered in brightly colored luxurious fabrics. A mosaic of the Raksaka made entirely of gemstones hangs on the wall—an amber tiger stalks through a jade meadow, the emerald head of a crocodile peeks from a sea of blue topaz, a sapphire Garuda flies against pearly clouds, and an onyx snake gleams from the ground, a ruby tongue flicking from its mouth.

Dozens of small candles nestled in glass jars are scattered on tabletops, and I’m forcefully reminded why Iyla lives in more lavish circumstances than Mani and I do. Our flat is meant to be functional. Her home is meant for seduction. A wave of nausea overtakes me as I picture Deven here with Iyla, her face bathed in candlelight.

She motions toward Mani. “What does he need?” she asks. He needs a breathing treatment, though I have a feeling Gopal will withhold one until either Deven is dead or he’s convinced Deven can’t be killed. Mani’s breathing is calming, although it’s still strained.

“He’ll be fine,” I tell her. “He just needs a moment.”

Iyla’s arms are crossed over her stomach. Her face is completely scrubbed clean and her hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of her head. The bruise on her jaw has turned a sickly green color. She doesn’t look like she’s working today, and it makes me breathe a little easier. Iyla sees me studying her and narrows her eyes.

“What on earth would possess you to come here?” she asks.

“I can’t find Deven.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it comes out more like a supplication than a statement.

Her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “You came here for that? Do you have any idea how bad it will be if Gopal finds out you’re here?”