Poison Tongue (6 page)

He said nothing, only turned and walked away from me, Coin following close behind. As he weaved through the tall sunflowers, the puzzle pieces of the world began to fix themselves back together.

“Who’s that?” Silvi asked as she came to stand next to me.

“No one you are to go near,” Ward answered. His gaze was still locked on the dot in the distance that was the back of Monroe’s head.

“It’s time to go home,” Silvi stated. She began walking toward our house.

Ward and I followed in her silence for a few steps before Ward said, “He makes you feel afraid. That curse of his, it brings you pain.”

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” I admitted, my shoulders slumping.

“I do not like him.”

“You don’t like anyone, Ward.”

Ward immediately stepped in front of me. His dark eyes looked down at my face as he placed his hands on my shoulders.

“I like you enough to make up for all the dislike I have for others,” he said.

I smiled then.

Whatever darkness Monroe brought with him into the sunflower field, Ward brushed it all away. He was sunshine and glee, an ease in my bones, lightness in my mind. He would always be able to take away my darkness, turn my nightmares into daydreams.

Chapter 5

A CRY
sounded in the distance—a voice that called my name.

I couldn’t tell if it was a whimper or a scream, but it rang and echoed and felt like lips speaking against my ear. I reached out to touch it, but there was nothing there. The impression of dry, cracked lips pressed against the side of my neck. Rough wisps of hair brushed against my cheek, while the smell of burning meat filled my nostrils. The toxic, acrid smell stung my eyes, making them water.

It laughed as it toyed with me. Wrapping its thick, blue spirals of smoke around my neck, it cloaked me, leaving slick traces of swamp behind. My skin beneath the swamp water sizzled, ablaze from the wetness. The vapor squeezed tightly, and I began coughing and choking. My hands were useless against the blue tendrils. They slid right through it like a diver into a pool of water.

Everything was dark. My eyes were closed. How could I see the neon blue smoke, swirling and wrapping in front of my face? Had it been neon blue all along, or had it been another color? Or thicker?

When I opened my eyes, I stood in the middle of the swamp. The thick bog water came up to my waist and began rising, rising, rising. Vines from the tall trees dipped into the water, petting the surface. No ripples formed from their touch, like the press against warm glass. But they were moving, sliding, coiling around the trees, in through the water, moving, snaking….

A vine wrapped around my ankle. It snapped—hard—yanking me until I began falling backward, slowly. As if time itself slowed, I tumbled backward.

In the distance someone screamed my name. A howl, a shriek, a laugh.

As I fell, far in the distance between two trees stood a woman covered in moss. She wore a ragged, grayed nightdress and had twigs and branches weaved through the dark, matted tuffs of her wet hair.

She screamed again—this time another name. Not mine, but one I knew. One I’d heard before.

I fell, back, back, back, slowly, the wetness of the swamp waters beginning to engulf me.

And then a flicker of movement and the woman began to run toward me as she screamed.

Her flesh fell from her bones, dripping into the black swamp waters. Long hair covered her face and chest, but her arms, all bone and rotting flesh and maggots outstretched in front of her. She ran to me, impossibly fast, as though the water were nothing but an illusion to her.

Her scream burned my ears.

She was gaining on me, and I wasn’t falling fast enough.

I couldn’t move. I was a rock eroding from a cliffside and waiting to plunge into the ocean below. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew her eyes were locked on me as well.

She was close. So close. Too close. Close enough that I could see the snapped veins dangling from her wrists, the curve of the white bone in her shin, the clots of dark moss tangled in her hair.

She reached out, her bony, rotting hand mere inches from my face. And just as the tip of her finger brushed against my cheek, I plunged into the deep, dark waters of the swamp.

I BREACHED
the surface, gasping for air. Immediately I stumbled to my feet, only to have my legs tangle in thick, slippery vines. Muck from where my bare feet met the bottom of the swamp impaired me from finding my footing. When I was finally able to stand, I wrapped my arms around myself and began to shake. A cold, not only from the cool waters, enveloped my body.

Grime, mud, and dirty swamp water drenched my clothes. There was nothing but darkness all around me, and I couldn’t stop shaking. My heart raced, and my breathing came heavy.

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I looked around and tried to focus bleary eyes on my surroundings.

Trees in the distance, thick, dark vines hanging from their low branches. Behind me lay a pier, wooden, but rotting from decay. I stood up to my thighs in water, impossibly cold water. When I spun, a dark, battered house came into view.

The Poirier house.

Had I sleepwalked all the way to the Poirier house? The thought alone sent me into another fit of shivers. I’d never sleepwalked this frequently in my life, let alone anywhere near this far from home.

I’d ignored the call of the swamp for most of my life. I’d pretended it didn’t exist, acted like this edge of our small town was nothing but a big, empty space.

But now that Monroe Poirier was back in town, it was all I could dream of, and even in my sleep, I couldn’t seem to stay away.

In the distance someone yelled.

No—it wasn’t a yell. A bark. A dog’s bark.

I spun, realizing only then that I’d turned to face the darkness of the swamp without noticing. Standing on the edge of the rickety pier stood a man with a flashlight in his hand. He waved it back and forth over the swamp waters before finally letting the light land on me. The dog barked, and I squinted against the light as I held my hand up to shield my eyes.

“What the hell?” he said. In the next moment, he’d hopped off the wooden pier and waded through the water. When I dropped my hand from my face, I saw that the man was Monroe.

“What are you doing out here?” he snapped.

Instinctively I wrapped my arms around myself. My body continued to shake violently, the coldness of the water seeping deep into my bones. Water dripped down my face and neck, pooling in the small divot of my collarbone.

Monroe reached out, but I stumbled back. He sighed heavily when he looked at me, wiping his hand over his face. He waited a moment before putting his hands up, palms open, in front of his chest.

“I won’t touch you, all right?” he said slowly, as if talking to a spooked animal. “But you gotta get out of this swamp. You’re soaked through and shaking.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes locked on his face.

“Come on,” he said with a flick of his head toward the house.

I followed him through the swamp to the edge of the water. He climbed up onto the bank, went to reach out to help me up, but thought better of it. Coin stood next to him, barking and wagging his tail. Without another word, Monroe walked to the back door of the old house, Coin and I close behind him.

The closer I got to the Poirier house, the slight prickle in my stomach turned more and more violent with each step I took. I stared up at the second-story windows, the rusted hinges of the dangling blinds. The outside of the house had once been painted navy and white but had long since faded to the color of rotten wood and chipped flecks of blue. The once-white windowsills still had a few old clay pots sitting on them, no life inside. Inside there was nothing but darkness. There was nothing—no one—but the fine hairs on my arms stood on end. I kept staring at the black depths inside the second-story windows, expecting to see something—someone.

Monroe opened the back door and stood to the side, motioning for me to go first. I hesitated for a moment.

I was afraid. I was afraid, and more curious than I’d been in a long time. I wondered what the inside of the house would look like—if ghosts played with white drapes that covered old pianos, or if glass chandeliers creaked on high hinges as if prepared to crash into the wooden floorboards below. I imagined there would be ancient, moth-ridden floral rugs, different in each room, and a massive oak wardrobe in the foyer with etchings of wizards and butterflies carved into the sides. Maybe an endless staircase into the basement abyss, a tunnel that led to a cellar full of cherry-colored wine bottles.

I wondered what he was doing living in a place like this. I wondered what I was doing following him inside. But most of all, I was just curious about the person holding the door open for me, the man with the crystal-blue eyes who looked like he was trying to hold back a floodgate when his eyes met mine.

The moment the door closed behind us, I felt warmer. There was a heat throughout the house I hadn’t expected—hadn’t wanted.

Monroe walked down the hall toward a flickering light, and I followed him.

The wooden floorboards were cracking and splintered in places. Around the edge of the hallway, against the walls, thick dust sat layered like a cake, tiny footprints on top of its surface. Empty picture frames hung against flaking, wood-paneled walls, crooked on their nails.

In the living room, flames from a fireplace flickered, its heat and light too inviting for me to do anything but walk over to it. I sat down on the wooden floorboards as I warmed my hands and pleaded with my body to stop shaking and my eyes to stop stinging.

“What were you doing back there?”

“Just going for a swim,” I snapped.

After a moment of silence, Monroe said, “You can be real nasty, you know that?”

I glanced at him over my shoulder. I’d never been accused of being nasty, but I knew I had a temper and a sharp tongue. The combination hadn’t exactly made it easy for me to form solid friendships.

The old floorboards creaked as Monroe sat down on the floor next to me. The fire crackled and swirled. As I stared at it intently, I tried my best not to watch him out of the corner of my eye.

The lights from the flame swam across his skin, reflecting against his eyes. When he noticed me looking, I forced my gaze back toward the fire. “I sleepwalk.”

“You try to drown yourself in your sleep often?” His Southern accent peeked through in his voice.

“Only since you’ve come back to town.”

A few moments of silence passed between us. They were loaded moments, full of something thick and uneasy. As quiet as they were, I felt like I could hear someone stocking the barrel of a gun. I almost wished I hadn’t said them at all.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Monroe whispered.

There was something more than wrong with him. There was something broken inside him, inside his very being, inside his soul.

But I couldn’t say that now. I couldn’t tell a man who’d pulled me out of the swamp that he was damned and there was nothing short of a miracle that could fix him. Instead I said, “There’s something wrong with me too.”

He turned his head toward me. The fire cast long, dark shadows across his cheeks. His gaze slid over my drenched T-shirt, my neck, my face.

“How could there be anything wrong with you?” he asked quietly.

The unease in my stomach began bubbling. I immediately stood. “I should go.”

He shot up. “I didn’t mean anything by that.” He began running his fingers through his hair.

“I know, it’s just—”

“Fuck, you’re shaking.”

I couldn’t tell if it was from the dampness of my clothes or the coolness of his eyes, but I felt like my bones were chilled from the inside out.

Monroe walked to his sofa, pulled a thick fleece blanket from it, and came over to me. Carefully he tossed it over my shoulders, wrapping it around me. I couldn’t help but watch as he did. He was so careful, so gentle, as though he might shatter me if he touched me one wrong way.

“Better?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Sit back down in front of the fire. I can’t let you leave when you’re like this. As soon as you warm up, I’ll walk you home. Okay?”

Again I nodded. “Okay.”

I sat back down in front of the fire and scooted close, the thick, warm blanket wrapped tightly. Monroe sat down next to me again, farther away this time.

We watched the fire in silence, unsure of what to say to one another.

“Your blanket is probably ruined now,” I said. “From the swamp water and the mud.”

“It’s just a blanket.”

“So, not your favorite blanket from childhood that you sleep with every night?” I joked.

He smiled. “Just a blanket. What would you do if it was my favorite blanket and I did sleep with it every night?”

“Well, I’d take it home and ask my mama to wash it for me. She always seems to know how to get stains out of things.”

“They’re always good at things like that. Mothers, I mean.”

I nodded. “It’s like magic. Once, when I was young, I had a charm bracelet that I loved. Well, over time it came completely unraveled. Strings pulling, broken, the ends frayed. I was heartbroken. Practically thought my life was over. I remember my mama asking to see it for one night. Next morning, I woke up to find it almost like new. Magic.”

“You live at home?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t bear to leave her and Silvi alone after my mama’s sight began to dim.”

He leaned back and stretched his legs out. “That must’ve been hard.”

“Still is. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my sight. I think I’d go crazy.”

“I lost my sight once. Well, temporarily. Got decked so hard in the side of my head during a fight, blood vessels in my eyes popped. Doc said I had to keep my eyes covered for two days. I ain’t scared of the dark or anything, but that was a thousand tiny cuts at a man’s sanity.”

“How long did you last?”

Monroe snorted. “The whole fight, of course. That idiot was out cold after the second punch I laid on him.”