Poison Tongue (13 page)

Monroe gave me an odd look. “Dreams are never real.”

“They’re real to me.” It came out more defensively than I’d meant it to. “My dreams mean things. Usually they try to tell me something but are rarely based on worldly facts. That’s why I said it might not have been someone from town who lit your garage on fire. It could’ve been something supernatural, something relating to your curse.”

I didn’t like the way Monroe looked at me. He wore the same expression most of the townsfolk wore on their faces when I was around. Skepticism, unease, pity.

“Forget it,” I snapped. I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and spun me back around.

“Wait. I didn’t mean anything, Levi. It’s just hard for me to wrap my mind around. You have dreams that tell you of things otherworldly, and can look into a person’s eyes and see their soul. No one else sees the world the way you do. You gotta understand, it’s all a bit much for me to take in.”

“I wasn’t asking you to take me in.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“And I definitely didn’t ask you to try to understand me.”

“Christ, Levi.” Monroe threw his arms up. “I’ve known rattlesnakes friendlier than you.”

“And I’ve met rodents with kinder souls than yours.”

“Is that right?” He took a step closer toward me. “Did you stare at them as much as you stare at me?”

“Fuc—”

Just then, Silvi squealed. When I turned to look at her, I immediately thawed. She was crouched down on the ground, the bottom of her long dark coat lined in mud. Coin sat next to her, wagging his tail furiously as she patted his head.

“I love him,” she proclaimed. Coin’s long, pink tongue ran over her face. Puffs of dried dirt and muck covered his tail from where it thumped against the ground.

“He sure likes you,” Monroe said softly. “And Coin here is a real good judge of character.”

Silvi looked up at him. “All dogs are.”

The crowd outside the Poirier house was dying. People left to go back to their warm beds and dark rooms. Barely any part of the structure still stood. Charred scraps of wood and piles of ash littered the area the garage had once been.

Most of the people left were the volunteer firemen who watched the few remaining coals on the ground. A few men were tossing buckets of water over the still-warm embers, causing them to sizzle and smoke.

“I hear you saved my boy’s life,” my mama said to Monroe. He frowned, so she continued. “Weeks ago when he was sleepwalking. Said he almost drowned himself out in the swamp.”

“Yeah,” Monroe said awkwardly. “Scared me half to death. Saw something glide right by my window in the dead of night. Thought I was going crazy or seeing ghosts.”

“I see ghosts,” Silvi said matter-of-factly.

When I looked at the expression on Monroe’s face, I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monroe turn toward me, stare at me silently.

“Well, best we be getting home,” Mama said. “Would you like to stay at our house for a few nights, Monroe? We can only offer you a couch to sleep on, but it might be better than staying home tonight. You look a little pale.”

Something sparked in his eyes. “Thank you, Alta. That would be… nice.”

She nodded. “You’re welcome.”

I gave her a sideways look. I had no idea why she was suddenly being so kind to him—not that she was an unkind person. But I knew the stigma that Monroe carried around, and I remembered what my mother said about staying away from him.

When Monroe was done talking with the volunteer fire marshal and the sheriff, we left the Poirier house at our backs.

Silvi took that opportunity to tell Monroe and Coin about her favorite kinds of ghosts. She told them that she loved the ghosts from the eighteenth century, especially the ladies in big dresses who carried around parasols. One time, she told him, she met a ghost of a little boy who wouldn’t stop crying. When Monroe asked her if she’d been afraid, she giggled as she scratched Coin’s ear.

When we reached the front porch of our house, Monroe stopped. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and looked up at the second-story windows.

“You coming?” I asked him, standing on the second step of the porch.

“You sure about this?”

“About what?”

“Letting me into your house.”

I frowned. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Monroe took a step toward me. In a quiet voice, he said, “After what happened tonight? The fire? The—” He paused to glance at my throat. “What I did to you? What if it happens again?”

“It won’t.”

“I don’t even remember doing it, Levi. I don’t remember falling asleep. I woke up and I was on top of you, my hands around your neck. Your eyes were closed. You weren’t moving. You looked… happy. I was so damn afraid I’d killed you.”

“Well, you didn’t.” My throat had throbbed since the moment his hands left it.

“You boys coming?” my mama hollered from inside the house. She, Silvi, and Ward had already gone inside. I could tell that Ward was wary of Monroe coming home with us but said nothing. Alta stood in the doorway looking out somewhere above Monroe’s head.

“We’ll be in,” I said. “I’ll get the blankets out. You and Silvi should try to get some sleep.”

She paused for a moment to stare where she knew I was standing. I didn’t need her eyes to focus directly on me to know what the look meant.

We came inside and shut the door behind us. “This way.”

I led Monroe down the hallway and into the small living room. Unlike his own stark, barely furnished living room, ours was full to the brim. The old plaid sofa sat pushed against the main wall. Above it hung an old painting of a crow that my gran had bought off a local artist in New Orleans. A huge rug sat in the middle of the room, the worn, chipped coffee table on top of it.

In each corner were shelves and cases covered in things that my gran had found in her travels around the world: little boats in glass bottles, vintage cookbooks, good-luck charms. Our house sometimes felt like a museum of Gran’s things. We all preferred it that way.

I walked over to the hall closet and pulled out a spare pillow and blanket. Monroe took them from me with an uneasy smile and set them down on the sofa.

“You have a nice home,” he said.

“Thanks.”

I liked our small house. It wasn’t anything fancy or new, but it was a home and felt that way. Everything we owned had a story to go along with it.

“Where’d you get all this stuff?” he asked, his eyes glued to a faux bearskin rug folded inside a basket against the wall.

“My gran, mostly. She traveled a lot. Met a lot of people, brought back a lot of junk.”

“She must’ve led a really interesting life.”

I smiled sadly. “She did.”

“Sorry.”

I shrugged. “No one can cheat death.”

“Not even you?”

“Probably not. I haven’t ever tried.”

Monroe thought this over for a moment. I watched him tasting my words, letting them sit on his tongue like a man might sample scotch. “Do you believe in luck?” he asked me.

“Not really, no.”

“A man who can see souls but doesn’t believe in luck.”

“I can see souls. I can’t see luck.”

“So you only believe in things you can see?”

I grimaced. “Not exactly.”

“You’re an odd person, Levi Bell.”

“Because you’re the walking personification of normality.”

He tossed his head back and laughed. And I watched him, because when a man who looked like Monroe laughed, everyone watched.

The couch springs made a squeaking noise when he sat down and put one of his arms along the back. “You’re always so serious, Levi. Tell me something unserious. Tell me something silly or fun.”

Barely noticing I was doing so, I sat in the chair opposite, curling my legs under me. “Something silly?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what do you like to do for fun?”

I blinked at him. Realizing how pathetic it sounded, I didn’t want to tell him there weren’t a lot of things I did in my life for fun. I constantly found myself busy working, taking care of Silvi, helping my mama out around the house. Fun was one of those things that seemed to have slipped away with me when life got in the way.

I like to see and watch people and things. Listen to stories, look into the sky and wonder if Gran was watching over me then. But sitting and watching people wasn’t a hobby. “I don’t really know.” I stared down at the frayed edge of the rug under my chair.

Seeming to notice how uncomfortable I was, Monroe sat farther back into the sofa and sighed heavily. “I’m pretty boring, myself. I could spend all day, every day, under the hood of a car. Prefer it if I’m working on something vintage, but doesn’t every man on the planet say that?”

“I don’t know the first thing about cars.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at me as if I’d just sprouted wings. “For real?” he asked. “Do you know how to drive?”

I shifted in my chair. “I have my license, but I’ll admit that I’m not the best driver. We have a car, but we don’t use it much. I can walk pretty much anywhere in Malcome that I need to go.”

“Damn. Well, if you ever want another lesson, I’m your man. Driving is probably one of my favorite things to do. Cliché, ain’t it? But it’s true. Wind through my hair, roar of an engine, all that power. Not many things in life better than an open road and a sunset.”

That was when I saw it again—that flicker of gold in his soul. It was like a padlock being removed from a chain around my heart. I hadn’t been wrong when I’d thought there was still something good buried deep inside this troubled man. Even through all the darkness that was his soul, there was still a glimmer of hope.

I rested my head in my hands and leaned against the arm of the chair, watching, smiling, listening to Monroe rant about how cars ain’t made like they used to be, how some idiot once filled his diesel car with regular gasoline and then brought it in his shop, and how to really clean a car properly.

I didn’t remember closing my eyes, or the sound of his voice fading away. The only thing I could think of as I drifted away was that beautiful sparkle of something gold.

Chapter 8

SOMETHING WET
touched my face.

I blinked. A huge, wet nose was right in front of my face, and two blue, blue eyes stared at me.

“Hey, Coin.” I reached my arm out and scratched behind his ear. He barked once and then scrambled out of the room.

I sat up groggily, surprised to find myself on the sofa with the blanket I’d given Monroe to sleep with pulled on top of me. The sunlight was peeking in through the orange, sun-faded curtains. It coated the room in gentle, warm light.

The room was empty except for me. I looked around, wondering how I’d wound up sleeping on the sofa. The last thing I remembered from the night before was talking with Monroe in the living room.

And then I remembered the fire.

Soft voices echoed through the hallway at the other end of the room. I tossed back the blanket and stood, stretching, before heading in that direction.

At the end of the hallway, Ward leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The moment I came into view, he looked up at me. His unease with Monroe in the house was palpable. I could practically feel his wariness radiating off him.

Things hadn’t been the same lately between Ward and me. We usually never fought or argued about much. Most of the time we were on the same page about everything. But since Monroe had moved into town, things were strained. We were strained. I hated it.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, Levi,” Ward replied.

The voices came from the room my mama did her readings in. I looked toward the door, then back at Ward. “What’s going on?”

“Alta wanted to talk to him,” Ward replied.

I cocked an eyebrow. “And you’re standing guard outside of the room because….”

“I am not sure I trust him.”

“But you do like him.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I cannot help it. You like him. Your heart likes him.”

“If it’s any consolation, I wish I didn’t.”

“It is not.” Ward looked away from me.

“Ward—”

The door opened. Monroe stood in the doorway, head down, looking defeated. My mama stood behind him. They both wore matching frowns and forlorn expressions on their faces.

When Monroe saw me standing out of the room, he smiled weakly. “Hey.”

“You all right?” The tone of my voice seemed to surprise him.

Monroe nodded, avoided eye contact. “I gotta go.” He reached out to touch me, realized after a moment what he was doing, and immediately dropped his hand.

Without another word he made his way down the hall. Me, Ward, and my mama stood there silent, listening to the sound of Monroe walking through our old house with pattering, small footsteps behind him.

When I heard the front door close, I turned to my mama. “What was that about?”

She sighed heavily, rubbed her temples. “Come on in, sweetheart. Let’s talk.”

I followed her inside. She left the door open, but Ward maintained his post in the hallway. Candles were lit all around the room, even though daylight attempted to sneak through the fabric of the curtains. The shadowed cloak of darkness helped Mama focus when she wanted to do a reading. She’d always said that the light was too distracting—too beautiful.

Tarot cards lay scattered across the surface of the table. All of them had been flipped with the faces down.

When Mama sat down across from me in the chair, she said, “Your voice sounds different.”

My hands went up to my throat. I’d forgotten that it was still sore from the night before. I wondered if I was wearing a necklace of finger-shaped bruises. It was the one time I was almost thankful that my mama’s sight was nearly gone. If there were bruises on me, I thought it might break her heart. “It’s nothing. Dry air.”

After a short pause, she said, “He does take a lot without asking, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t think he means to.”

“Even being in the same room as him drains me,” Mama said. “That curse he has on him is so dark, so powerful. It’s such a drain. If he’d have been a weaker man, it would’ve killed him by now.”