A Fierce and Subtle Poison

by Samantha Mabry

  My first concern was where the ghost would go.

  “You can’t destroy the St. Lucia. It’s five hundred years old.”

  My dad plucked a grape from its stem and shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. For whatever reason the municipality never added this place to the historical registry, and the new owners want a building that doesn’t require so much upkeep. You saw the damage Hurricane Irene caused. This storm could add to it. Buildings come and go,” he said with a laugh. “I think this one’s had a pretty good run. Besides, I thought you’d be more excited about spending more time on that beach.”

  That beach. That perfect beach captured by a painting that hung in Dr. Ford’s entryway.

  Isabel told me she was sick. Isabel . . .

  Marisol is dead.

  As if waiting for the most ironically well-timed moment, the lights in the room flickered and faded. The classical music cut out mid-crescendo. My dad cursed under his breath.

  “You want to stay in here?” he asked. “Or ride the storm out in your room? Either’s fine, though I wouldn’t mind your company. And maybe you’d like to talk about what happened last night.”

  “I’ll go back to my room,” I replied, silently blessing the outage for giving me good cover for leaving. “I haven’t slept very well in the last couple of days.” I stood and felt my way through the darkness to the door. When I reached out to the handle I stopped.

  “You know that old high-rise hotel on Condado Beach? La Andalusia?”

  I heard leather squeak as my dad shifted in his chair. “The abandoned one, yes.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone tear that place down?”

  “I don’t know, Lucas. But I do know that demo for a job that big wouldn’t be cheap. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” I opened the door just a crack, but that was enough for the wind to blow it wide. Spray shot into the room, and the plates shook against the table. What must have been my dad’s wineglass shattered with a pop against the tile floor. From the far side of the room, I could hear a whoosh as the heavy fabric of the curtains billowed up, followed by the slaps of those curtains beating against the thick glass of the patio doors. Once I’d stepped over the threshold, I dug in my heels, latched onto the doorknob with both my hands, and pulled.

  “Stay safe!” my dad yelled over the wind. He rushed up and began pushing the door from the inside. Our combined effort resulted in getting it shut.

  Back in my room, I stared at the dark ceiling, and listened to the storm attack the building. I knocked around the criss-crossing mental images of two tragic girls, one out of myth, the other dead. My forearms still tingled and gave off residual warmth from the rash. Isabel had been right. Isabel, the witch who grants wishes. The blisters had disappeared; the itch was fading. I took out the notes from my pocket. I traced the girls’ handwriting, so different from one another’s. More than once, I found myself looking at the base of the door, hoping another note would be there.

  From Marisol: It was all a mistake, Lucas. I’m here. Running through the storm. Come find me.

  Or from Isabel: I’m here, too. Just down the street. Come back.

  I only knew where one girl was, and I went to find her.

  On the mezzanine, the porters and housekeepers were shouting in Spanish, asking one another where the stock of candles was so that they could pass them out to all the panicking guests. Here and there a flashlight clicked on. Since I was the last person any of them cared about, no one noticed as I slipped past them and down the stairs.

  At the front desk, some of the porters were huddled around a small rabbit-eared television that ran on reserve power, tracking the path of the storm with only mild interest. Others played cards. Clara had finally been the one to find a cardboard box full of votive candles, and I watched as she carried them through the lobby, taking her time and humming a little tune to herself.

  I stepped out the front door and stopped. The rain fell diagonally, in swirls and in circles, every way except for down. I couldn’t see the street in front of me. The water had risen to the tops of the tires of the cars unfortunate enough to have been left out, and the current was racing toward the sea. A palm frond shot across my field of vision, followed by a twisted mass, maybe a shirt that had been left out on a line. Wind as strong as underwater tides tugged sideways at my clothes. Again, I was completely soaked. Not just soaked: waterlogged. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt truly dry.

  Hurricanes sound like horror movies. Even when you’re outside, it feels like you’re shut up in a closet, listening to the wail of sirens and the shrieking sound that wind makes when it’s forced through narrow slits. Those sounds would make most people want to hide under their beds and cover their heads to protect their senses while waiting for the chorus of needy spirits to forget about them and move past.

  Those sounds do not make most people want to try and run down the middle of Calle Sol, where power lines can spark and snap and land in water, or where heavy limbs can fall from trees and smash in skulls.

  The three minutes it would’ve usually taken to reach Isabel’s house dragged out into what felt like an hour. Once I reached the gate, weather-beaten and with thigh muscles screaming from kicking through two feet of water, I shouted her name and banged on the wood. Wiping my wet hair from my forehead, I tasted bits of salt water carried from the ocean by the wind. Glancing at the courtyard wall, I knew that in this rain and with my legs completely shot, I’d never be able to jump it.

  I slammed my fist against the wood again. When there still wasn’t any response, I beat against the gate with the heel of my right hand. Splinters tore into wet skin. Rain trailed down my arm and poured from my elbow to the ground.

  Finally, the gate flew open. Isabel had me by the front of my shirt. She pulled me through the courtyard and into her house where the rain pelted the glass ceiling above our heads. With her free hand, she slammed the door shut behind us. By the light of several candles throughout the entrance, study, and dining room, I could see that she was wearing the same patchwork pair of jeans from yesterday and a black short-sleeved shirt. Both were soaked.

  Isabel’s bruise-rimmed eyes flickered across my face. Without her sweatshirt on, she had lost her armor and much of her confidence; she was caught off guard, a poorly prepared antagonist.

  “Did anyone see you come in?” she demanded, releasing my shirt and backing away.

  “No.” I raked my fingers through my wet hair and peered into the darkened corners of the house. “Is your dad back?”

  “No. It’s just me.”

  Isabel took another step back and studied me more intently. I could only imagine what a mess I was: wheezing, soaking wet, anxiously cracking the knuckles of one of my hands, eyes bloodshot from several nights of strange dreams and little rest.

  “Listen,” I began, catching my breath. “I know I shot out of here yesterday, but I need to know what happened with that wasp.”

  “You came here during a hurricane so that we could talk about a wasp?”

  “I want to know what’s going on inside this house. You said you were sick. Maybe I can help you.”

  Isabel tensed; her dark eyes pinched together, and the offer I thought would be met with gratitude was instead met with fury.

  “Help me?” Isabel asked. “Is that what you just said—that you want to help me?”

  “Whoa.” I put my hands up and took a step back. “I just thought that maybe—”

  “Save it. You know what you suffer from, Lucas?” Isabel paused for a moment, searching for the right ammunition. “Hero syndrome. You see every situation as an opportunity for you to come save the day. You think that because I’m sick and there’s a storm that I’m here huddled in a corner waiting for Lucas Knight to come knock on my door and ask if he can help me? I’m not some imprisoned princess who’s desperate for your rescue. I can take care of myself.”

  I cringed as her words hit their mark. My recent attempts to “save the day” had all failed.
My search for Celia had ended before it even began, and my hunt for the phantom Marisol had been in vain. The thing that had sent me over the edge—and straight to Isabel—was knowing that the young nun I’d always hoped haunted my room would never find her love letters and would soon have nowhere to roam. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it.

  I wasn’t, however, going to give Isabel Ford the satisfaction of knowing how well she had me pegged. I’d found my ammunition, too, and was ready to use it.

  “Don’t talk like you know me. You were a fiction to me until three days ago, when you started doing everything you could to get my attention. Now that you’ve gotten what you wanted and I’ve landed in your house three times, you’re pissed off about it.”

  “You coming here has nothing to do with me,” Isabel snapped. “It has to do with you wanting to satisfy your burning curiosity.”

  “You sent the letters! You asked me to come!”

  Isabel turned away, dragging her hand through the tangles of her wet hair.

  “It was a mistake coming here even once,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

  My hand was already on the door when something massive slammed into the ceiling above me. I ducked, expecting an explosion of glass and debris, but the ceiling held. I peered up, but it was far too dark to see what had fallen.

  “Guabancex is mad,” Isabel said.

  “What?”

  “Not what. Who. Guabancex is the goddess that makes the storms. The Taíno say she gets angry when people upset the balance of her island. She punishes them with storms. She caused the hurricanes that wrecked the Spanish conquistadors’ ships. Don’t worry, though. The glass will hold.”

  I swallowed. “Who’s upsetting the balance of her island now?”

  Isabel shrugged away my question. “Does it matter? You shouldn’t go back out there, though. Your skull won’t fare as well as this ceiling.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I replied, yanking open the door. The entryway was instantly doused with rain. Isabel dashed forward, slammed the door shut, and bolted it.

  “You know I’m right about you,” Isabel said, turning to face me. She was just inches away, closer than she’d ever been. I could feel her breath—her breath that kills—hot against the cold wet skin of my neck. It was just one exhale, and then she backed away.

  “But you’re also right about me,” she said more softly. “Just stay. It’s dangerous out. I’m sorry I overreacted.”

  Without giving me the chance to respond, Isabel ducked through the dining room toward the twisting iron staircase on the other end.

  “I’ll just be a second,” she called out over her shoulder. “I’m going to fetch you a towel and a dry shirt.”

  My hand was still on the doorknob. It stayed there as the rain and wind continued to buffet the walls of the house. It stayed there as I peered into the study that, aside from being entirely candle-lit, looked almost exactly like the same—in a state of gentlemanly disarray—as it did when I was here last. One thing was different, though. Near the coffee table was a terra-cotta pot holding a thin-stemmed plant about a foot and a half tall. It had delicate green leaves and small purple flowers that resembled orchids, though those leaves and flowers were crisp and half wilted, as if the plant hadn’t been watered in several days. I released the doorknob to go over and kneel down near the plant. It gave off that same alcohol reek as the others in the garden.

  Isabel was right—my curiosity always got the best of me. I kept barging into her house. I ran after ghosts in the rain even though I knew it made no sense, but sometimes I had no use for sense. I collected insults because I thought the more I had, the closer I would get to invincibility. I was developing a habit of reaching out to touch things—like strange girls and strange-smelling plants with purple petals—that I was sure would hurt me because no matter how severe, the resulting pain was always worth the attempt.

  Twelve

  “THAT’S POISONOUS.”

  I spun around to see Isabel standing in the entrance to the study. She’d changed into a new pair of jeans and an over-sized flannel button-up shirt. Her long wet hair hung down loose, shining like fresh tar.

  It was there, cast in that particular light, when I noticed that she was not quite beautiful. Everything that I could think to compare her to was bleak. Mostly, it had to do with those eyes of hers: dark on dark. Raven black ringed with deep purple. Hard like bricks. There was no getting past them. I wondered if she wanted anyone to even try.

  “This is the largest one I have.” She held up a dark gray button-up shirt before gathering it together with a towel and tossing them both to me. Turning around, she cleared her throat. It took me a second to realize she was trying to give me some privacy to change. I stood, stripped off my shirt, pulled on the new one, noticing a tear near the collar that had been expertly mended with red thread. My jeans would just have to stay wet.

  “I’m sorry about Celia,” Isabel said, which caused my fingers to momentarily freeze on one of the buttons. “I really hope someone’s found her.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I hear things when I’m in the courtyard. Some of the ladies were talking about it earlier. They said she’s Marisol’s little sister.” Isabel paused. “Did you know her well?”

  “Not really. I gave her a charm last night. In the shape of a wolf. I told her to keep it as reminder to be brave. I didn’t think it’d make her so brave that she’d go out looking for her sister in the middle of the night on the eve of a hurricane.”

  “It’s not your fault, Lucas. You didn’t drive her out into that storm.”

  “I’m done,” I said, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt and desperate to change the subject.

  She turned and gestured to the blotches on my arms. “Those look better.”

  I rubbed my skin absently.

  “It’s columbine.” Isabel pointed to the plant I’d just been hovering over. “Usually they’re only found in dry climates, but my dad crossbred a couple of species to get this one that survives in the tropics. I know his personality can be prickly sometimes, but the work he does is remarkable.”

  “Are there any plants in this place that aren’t poisonous?”

  Isabel smiled wanly and went over to take a seat at her dad’s cluttered desk. “I’m guessing that’s just one of your many burning questions, young Michael Knight.”

  “And I’m guessing your dad’s not the only one around here with a prickly personality.”

  Isabel put her hand over her heart in mock offense. “I thought we’d called a truce.”

  “You called it. Not me.”

  I waited, watching as Isabel looked down to the papers strewn across her dad’s desk and started running her fingers—her thin, capable fingers like those of her dad—across them.

  “Most of them are poisonous,” she said, finally looking up. “Some aren’t. Most are.”

  “Why so many?”

  “Because that’s what he studies.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  Isabel frowned—just like I would’ve. Just like I did whenever someone asked me the same question. “That’s abrupt.”

  “They say he loved his plants more than he loved her.”

  “Is that what they say?” The chair Isabel was sitting in squeaked as she leaned forward. “They being old señoras with too much time on their hands?”

  I never thought I’d be recounting the stories I’d heard about the house at the end of Calle Sol to a person who lived in the house at the end of Calle Sol—it was like telling a ghost story to a ghost—but once the stories started pouring past my lips, they wouldn’t stop. I told Isabel about the señoras, how they said her father neglected her mother to the point that she grew so sad she would play her harpsichord while her husband’s great bird croaked along, and how Isabel’s mother eventually cursed the house, destroyed the bird, then disappeared.

  “She wasn’t his prisoner,” Isabel said.r />
  “The señoras said he loved his macaw and his plants more than he loved her.”

  Isabel shook her head. “It was a gray. Not a macaw. An African gray. His name was Rios. Papá would teach him to mimic, say things like ‘hello’ and ‘jolly good.’ But forget about the bird. What did your friends think about my mother? Did they believe the old ladies?”

  “We made up our own stories. Rico said she died in childbirth. Ruben said she jumped off the walls of El Morro.”

  “And what was your story?”

  “I didn’t want to believe she was dead. I thought maybe she’d stolen a boat and rowed over to St. Croix or Barbados.”

  Several seconds went by, punctuated by howls from the storm.

  Then Isabel said, “I’m sorry to say that none of your stories are true, but, if I had to choose, yours is definitely the best.”

  “What’s the truth, then?”

  “Do you really want to know? Do I even have to ask if you really want to know?”

  “I think you know the answer to that,” I replied.

  Isabel was still for a moment. Eventually, she rose from her chair and came to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of the columbine.

  “Come sit,” she commanded. “And promise you won’t run away again.”

  “I promise. Of course.”

  “Of course,” Isabel softly repeated.

  She began to roll the dry purple petals of the columbine between her fingers. The edge of her sleeve slipped back, and in the dim light, I could see a dark bruise on the tender skin between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. It made me think of how, when I was a boy and had a nasty bruise, my mom would rub her thumb over it three times in a circle and then give it a kiss. She told me that made them fade more quickly, and I could have sworn it worked.

  “Looks can be deceiving, you know,” Isabel mused. “In many ways, these plants seem harmless, but they’re good at hiding their true nature. Some have distinctive markings; others you can cut into and tell their toxicity by the color of the sap. With columbine, you’re looking for five petals in certain shades of blue or violet, all of which have this particular shape. It’s lovely, isn’t it?” My eyes were locked on Isabel’s fingers as they stroked those small poison petals, so delicately, with such care.