A Wish Made of Poison

Chapter One

Asha

A girl made of poison raging against a world drenched in venom.

With a touch, I can wither a man like an apple left to dry in the sun. My blood can burn right through the skin, down to the bone. And my tears? Just one drop will have you laid up in bed, vomiting for the better part of a week. A few more will land you on the coroner’s table without a pulse.

Blood, skin, sweat. Even my saliva—­it’s all poison. My body screams at anyone who draws near, Danger, stay back!—­just the way I prefer it. People are best kept at a distance, especially inconsiderate partners who don’t show up on time.

Gods damnit, Walter. Just the thought burns with irritation. Already the sun lifts in the sky, a smear of silver on the horizon, struggling to pierce the thick clouds.

Irritating, to say the least.

If Walter hadn’t been so delayed, I would’ve been just another whisper beneath a star-­speckled sky. Now I’m forced to travel in daylight, a fresh batch of smuggled contraband in my pack, gods-­blessed goods Walter snuck in from distant countries, who all refuse to trade with us since the war. It’s been ten years now since they fell beneath our magic.

If only that magic weren’t killing us, too.

The decay is obvious in the West End, the grisly underbelly of our capital city, Cirrendel, and I wrinkle my nose as I scurry along the dawn-­soaked streets, the scent of raw sewage piercing even in the winter chill. My feet are numb, boots soaked through with slushy mud from the unpaved roads, and I wince as I pass an entire block filled with nothing but patchy tents and run-­down people.

A canvas camp. One of three in Cirrendel alone.

The entire place is stiff with cold and caked in grime, save for the desperate offerings to slumbering gods. A crudely carved star­blossom for Malthea, goddess of the earth, fertility, magic. A sun-­bleached rabbit’s skull for Kelseth—­fitting, as they rule over death. For Illiette and her wisdom, a book, probably fished from the trash, wiped clean and splayed open. All of them surrounded by frozen candles, their fire long since claimed by the frigid breeze. Efforts for goodwill, anything to end the suffering of those who placed them.

I should walk on by—­I have somewhere to be—­but as I pass, a young boy emerges from his tent. He can’t be much older than six, though it’s hard to tell with his too-­thin limbs and drawn face. As I watch, he shivers, no coat to protect him.

This is how it happens. It’s what King Vincent wants, why he indirectly feeds that suffering. Because without pain there’s no magic. Trauma creates power. For some, like me, it’s a big, horrible event that sparks our abilities. For others, it’s this. A steady collection of small horrors, adding up to deep wells of anguish.

It’s why I do what I do. Because for all the adversity I ease, I hurt him. The king. It’s all magic he can’t have, power that never gets the chance to fester.

And so, with a sigh, I rifle through my pack until I find what I’m looking for. A few blackened roots (appropriately named ­Kuriel’s marrow, after the god of suffering), and a flicker, the never-­ending flame trapped in a bottle, a source of permanent warmth.

I approach the boy, lifting my goods for him to see.

“Hey, you. Child.”

He flinches but doesn’t scamper off.

“Here.” I shove the gifts toward him with carefully gloved hands. My magic isn’t currently activated, but I don’t want to risk hurting him. “The roots are repugnant, but one will keep you fed for days, and this”—­I hold the flicker higher—­“will keep you warm. Understand?”

He nods, chapped lips hung in a perfect little O.

“Good.” I place the items in his waiting arms. They traveled far, from both Elvanest and Roseland. Hopefully they stave off his suffering, and magic along with it.

“Now get out of here,” I tell him. “And if anyone asks, you found these on the road.”

As he scuttles off, I bite back anger.

This world is venomous. It’s written in every block and corner of the West End. That boy is but a mere stroke in a vast painting.



The sun has fully risen by the time I reach my destination—­a sleepy little neighborhood off Verity Street. My breath curls in front of me, hazy puffs of humidity fading into the gray winter air. The houses here are small and squat, paint peeling off the boards in various shades of blue and green. Somewhere down the road, a radio croons with a man’s deep voice, a song of heartbreak edged in static.

I fend off a shiver as an icy breeze sweeps the hair off my neck, my eyes never leaving the house I’m set to visit.

The Anderson family. Nine days ago they approached one of my listeners. A bad run-­in with the guard left their nine-­year-­old daughter with power, and now they need to escape the country and the mandatory military service that comes with magic. They passed along the necessary identification photos, and my associate, Bunny, forged their documents. Now I’m here to take care of the rest.

I steady myself, pulling in a deep breath, the chill coating my lungs in frost. It’s good, though. There’s something peaceful in the silence only a winter day can bring, and I enjoy the quiet as I complete a now-­familiar ritual.

First, with a series of taps: my ankle, then my thigh, both hips, and finally my left bicep—­each area a dagger’s strapped to my body, all laced with different brands of poison.

Next, I slide off my gloves and flex my fingers, stiff with cold. It’s better they’re free, in case something goes wrong.

And finally, I slip on my mask.

It’s nothing extravagant, unassuming in its plainness. An expanse of smooth wood, painted nude, so from a distance you couldn’t even tell I was wearing it at all. The only part it doesn’t hide are my eyes, which is unfortunate, because they’re rather dramatic. Starbursts of aquamarine rimmed in green and flecked with copper. Beautiful, people would comment when I was a child.

Bunny thinks it’s ironic. She likes to say I’m a true creature of poison, just like the vibrant frogs of faraway jungles, or a too-­bright mushroom that promises danger.

I see them more as an inconvenience—­a notable feature someone could describe to a guard. It’s why I tinted them earlier this morning, with magic-­infused drops from the local apothe­cary. The result is a deep ochre, far less distinctive. Combined with my mask, it’s an effective disguise, and the only true part of me still visible is my hair, long and brown as a chestnut, flowing down my back in an effort to preserve a little warmth.

Ritual complete, I approach the Anderson house, breath clouding as I go. My pace is calm, steady, and my knock’s nothing more than a few quick raps. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long for a woman to answer. Rose Anderson, if my information is correct.

She’s older than me, at least double my eighteen years. Her cheeks pale when she notices my mask, and she beckons me inside, the door closing behind me with a click. Only then does she speak.

“Viper?”

She uses my alias. The girl all the guards are after but can never seem to catch.

“I’ve brought what you requested.” I pat my satchel. “Where do you want me to leave it?”

Her eyes flick nervously to the windows. The house is small but homey, and I’ve entered a sitting room, the furniture patchy and overstuffed, though the hearth brings welcome warmth.

“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “No one was watching. I kept an eye out.”

That seems to calm her, and her shoulders sag.

“Come on.” She gestures behind her. “This way. My husband should be a part of this too.”

I follow her down a narrow hall to a tiny kitchen, the cabinets crushed together, eggs and bacon frying over a gas burner. Gods, it smells good. My stomach nearly grumbles, and I distract myself by studying Rose’s family. Her husband, Henry, is a large man, his cheeks coated in a generous layer of dark stubble. He stands at the stovetop while their daughter, ­Evelyn, sits at the table, a book of fairy tales spread out before her. Her red hair brushes the pages, but her gaze snaps to me, curious.

My fingers flex. I don’t know what sort of magic she possesses, and I’d never want to hurt a child, but I’ll defend myself if I must. It’s not that she’d intend to harm me, but young, untrained magic is deadly. I would know. I’ve left my fair share of bodies in my wake, and only some were intentional.

I grimace, a shard of memory slicing through my carefully fortified barricades. There’s an echo of a long-­ago scream, a flash of glassy eyes before I shut the vision down with a swift reminder: That was then, this is now. It’s been a long time since I accidentally killed anyone.

I realize I’ve been staring, and I face Rose and Henry, my gaze settling on the latter. “I’m assuming you know why I’m here?”

“Yes.” He nods, eyes shifting nervously before he adds, “Viper.”

That gets Evelyn’s attention. “You’re the Viper? My parents said you were going to help us!” She gasps. “Are we leaving now?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m not your guide. I just give you the tools you need to escape.”

She looks dejected, and her mom jumps in. “Evelyn, dear, why don’t you read in the living room? We’ll just be a few minutes.”

Apparently I’m more interesting than her fairy tale, because Evelyn faces me.