“They’ve asked me about you. I told them you like large men. Smooth skin. Soft voices.”
Stell grabbed Kanai’s hair, pulling his face before her. “Do you also have a big dick?”
Nancy’s voice was low but sharp. “We don’t have sex with you. We don’t get put under. You feed from us and we leave. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that, huh?” Stell moved past Kanai and stepped into a crumpled pair of jeans. She pulled a sweater over her head, slipped on boots, and hissed at Tomas in Nahan. “First we have to obey your parents. Then the Council. Now we take orders from our food?”
Tomas said nothing as she stomped out the door. Nancy shifted uncomfortably.
“It seems we’ve upset you. I apologize. We’ll go.”
“No.” Tomas held her arm. “Sit down, Nancy. You too, Kanai. I’m hungry.”
Stell pounded her fists on the walls of the elevator. Rage and hunger and frustration threatened to burst out of her and she felt as if she would scorch anything that crossed her path. In the hushed lobby of the elegant hotel, Stell stomped across the marble floor, glaring at the Nahan woman pretending to read a newspaper in the lounge. The woman moved to rise but Stell waved her down. Past the reception desk, Stell was stopped by a muscular Nahan man.
“Ma’am, did you hire a car?”
Stell stared at him. She had never seen a Nahan with tattoos before. Not much taller than she, his muscular arms and broad chest conveyed a power that made her pause.
“I’m going out for a walk.” She tried to move past him but he blocked her way.
“I’ll go with you.”
She spoke in clipped Nahan. “I don’t want company.”
He glanced over his shoulder to be sure they weren’t drawing the attention of the common working at the reception desk. “We don’t speak in Nahan in public.”
“Let me work on my English then. Fuck off. How’s that?”
She heard him laugh when she pushed past him and stepped through the revolving door into the night. He followed close behind as she strode down the sidewalk. Stell didn’t know where she was going. She only wanted fresh air and freedom, not another shadow. She spun around to confront him.
“Why don’t you leave me alone?”
“I was told to stay with you if you left the hotel.” He stood before her, relaxed. “There somewhere you wanna go, I’ll take you.”
“Don’t you have to check with your Council first?”
“Yeah, I don’t check with the Council too much.”
His smirk irritated her. “And yet they tell you to watch me and here you are.”
He shrugged. “I got a few errands to run so I volunteered. You wanna come?”
“And run errands for the Council?” She clutched her chest. “My big day!”
He laughed again. “I thought you True Family types were supposed to be little sheep.”
Stell stepped back. “How did you know I was True Family?”
“The Almighty Council told me.” He gestured over his shoulder to the front of the hotel. “Ever ridden a motorcycle? No? Let’s go.” It didn’t sound like a request. Stell followed him to the bike more out of curiosity than from fear of defying him.
“By the way, my name’s Adlai. Anton Adlai.”
“I’m Stell,” she said, climbing on.
“I know.” Before she could ask him another question the bike roared to life and pulled out into the nighttime traffic.
Stell watched the city pass by, the cold air bringing tears to her eyes and a flush to her cheeks. He pulled onto the expressway, uncongested in the late hour, and opened the bike up. Stell felt her heart race as the world sped by. She could feel the power of the machine beneath her and let her head fall back to watch the halogen lights blur above her.
The neighborhoods deteriorated as they drove. Office buildings gave way to warehouses, run-down apartment buildings, and shabby homes. Graffiti covered every surface and even over the rush of the wind Stell could hear the bumping of car stereos. Adlai pulled up in front of a dilapidated house with a large porch and every interior light lit. On the porch, a half dozen young, heavily tattooed men lounged, while several slim, hard-eyed girls moved among them. Inside the house, salsa music made the glass rattle. All eyes turned to the motorcycle and one tall man with a scarred face stepped off the porch to greet them.
Adlai spoke under his breath. “You hungry? You can get something here.” He added, without a touch of sarcasm, “Don’t kill anyone.”
Adlai and the scarred man engaged in a complicated handshake that was part greeting, part frisking. When both were satisfied, they began speaking in a rapid language Stell couldn’t understand. Adlai looked at her, let loose another torrent of sound and both men laughed.
“You don’t speak Spanish?” The scarred man asked with a heavy accent. Stell shook her head as Adlai headed her toward the house. The group on the porch rose and cleared out, except for one man who looked Stell over with relish.
“Hey, babe, we got some business to discuss.” Adlai slapped her on the butt and settled into a rusty lounge chair next to the scarred man. “Go inside with Esai. He’s got a little something that’ll keep you busy.”
Esai pulled a twisted baggie from his pants pocket, showed her a small white rock and leered at her. With a quick look to Adlai, who offered her no help, Stell nodded and followed Esai into the house. She was glad she didn’t speak the language because she had no idea what she was supposed to say about the bag with the rock or how Esai thought that would keep her busy. She had plans of her own, however, that involved Esai in ways he would never foresee.
He led her through the living room, where the crowd from the porch was packed in around a large screen TV, then down the hall. Esai said something to her in Spanish and she followed him into a tiny laundry room packed with piles of rumpled clothes. He pulled the curtain closed behind them, pulled out the baggie and a small glass pipe. More unintelligible words and more leering revealed the black roots of Esai’s teeth.
Stell pushed down her revulsion and leaned in close to him. A warm breath on his face and soft fingers on his eyes and Esai swooned. She caught him and the pipe easily with one arm. With her free hand, she pulled her knife from her pocket and made a small cut under his chin.
She couldn’t stand the smell of him for more than a few deep swallows. Closing the wound, she pocketed the white rock and put the pipe back in his hand. A sharp whistle brought Esai back to his senses.
He shook his head and mumbled something guttural at her. It was a sound that would be an insult in any language, but Stell feigned ignorance. When he realized the pipe he was about to offer was empty, his insolence turned to surprise that bordered on panic. Esai patted down his pockets, checked the floor around him, and glared at Stell. She went on the offensive, gesturing toward Esai for the pipe. She almost laughed at his helpless bewilderment and was a little sorry to hear Adlai calling to her from the porch. With a disgusted scoff, Stell pushed past the confused man and headed back outside.
“There’s my girl. You get what you needed?” Stell smiled and slipped under his protective arm. “Then we’re done here.” He slapped palms with the scarred man and led Stell off the porch. “See you next week, Tito.”
“Yo, man, see you in a week. Feel free to bring your puta by anytime.”
Stell could feel Adlai stiffen. Motioning for her to stay put, he turned back to the house.
“What did you say?”
Tito grinned and stepped closer with a swagger. “I said feel free to bring your puta by anytime. The boys like her.”
Adlai nodded, as if listening to voices only he could hear. Then, faster than a whip, he pulled the taller man down in a headlock. From the waistband of his jeans, he pulled a pistol that he shoved into Tito’s eye. The trapped man struggled for only a moment then began whimpering rapidly in Spanish.
“Don’t apologize to me, you fuckwad. Apologize to her.”
Red-faced and gasping for air, Tito he
ld out a desperate hand to Stell. “I’m sorry, lady. I don’t mean nothing by it.”
“Now tell her you’re a pig.” Adlai shoved the gun harder into his eye socket.
“I’m a pig! I’m a pig, man. Let me go!”
“Now, tell me one more thing.” Adlai’s voice was low and soft. “Who’s the puta now?”
His answer was a squeak. “I am.”
“Who?”
“I am! I’m the puta. All right?”
Adlai whipped Tito out of his grip, nearly breaking his neck. “Don’t forget that.”
He started the bike and as she climbed on, Stell could hear a volley of Spanish hurled at their backs. She wrapped her arms around Adlai as the bike sped up and felt his even heartbeat and easy breathing.
“How’d you like your first Spanish lesson?”
“Don’t call me puta, that’s for sure.”
He laughed and opened the bike up even more. “You get something to eat?”
Stell licked her lips and grimaced. “Yes. It tasted funny. And it’s making me feel dizzy.”
“Yeah, Esai’s a tweaker. Just don’t have any caffeine tomorrow, you’ll be fine.”
“I took that rock he had in his pocket.”
Adlai pulled the bike off to the side of the road and turned around. “You did what?”
She pulled the small, white crystal from her pocket. “I took it. I don’t know why. Just thought it would be funny. He was so confused.”
“Damn, Stell.” He took the rock from her and started to laugh in earnest. “You took Esai’s crack? He’s going to have some serious ’splaining to do to Tito. Damn . . .” He laughed again then pitched the rock into the gravel beside the road. “You are one crazy girl, Stell. C-R-A-Z-Y.”
As he pulled back onto the highway, Stell smiled and leaned back to watch the streetlights fly by.
Tomas showered and dressed without waking Stell. He hadn’t heard her come in last night. He smelled blood on her skin and from her deep breathing he gathered her feeding had been more satisfactory than his. Tomas stood at the foot of the bed watching her sleep. One smooth leg poked out from under the sheet, her toes pointing lazily off the bed. He resisted the urge to stroke her foot, to feel her warmth before he left for another long day.
His driver, a fair-haired Kott named Carlson, let Tomas out at the far end of the parking lot of the sprawling industrial complex. It had taken Tomas three days and a sharp tone to finally convince Carlson that he didn’t want to be dropped off directly at the door. Carlson had his orders, which he took very seriously, but Tomas won out. For Tomas the act of opening the door was a gesture of intent, a physical way of saying “I’m doing this.” The walk across the parking lot was a brief moment of fresh air before disappearing into his training.
The complex was enormous, made up of dozens of rectangular metal buildings, some with shipping bay doors, some with banks of windows, some sealed off from any outside view. The units were connected by a series of carpeted hallways that only some of the occupants knew were color-coded. Red carpet signified a public zone. To the west end of the complex, yellow carpets led to businesses run only by the common. If the carpets were green, the businesses were Nahan-owned and common-run. On the far east end of the complex, where Tomas was headed, the carpets were blue, the buildings windowless, and security thorough.
Security guards, a registration desk, fingerprint identification panels—Tomas passed through them on autopilot, knowing every step was being videotaped. Reinforced steel doors bearing the sign PITTINGER RESEARCH INDUSTRIES: RESTRICTED AREA opened onto a sterile white hallway lined with metal racks of boxes and odd-looking instruments. They were only for show, on the off chance that anyone uninvited should happen to peek through the open door. The hallway ended in a T, and turning left or right, the building took on a decidedly different feel.
From this point on rich cobalt wool carpeting replaced tile; fluorescent lighting disappeared. Soft, incandescent lamps made golden Venetian plaster glow. The plaster, he’d learned, hid layers of lead and soundproofing material. It was all designed to relax those working within its confines, to keep out the electronic whine of the outside world that so often gave the Storytellers a ringing headache, particularly when meditating. Rooms with electronic systems, like televisions and computers, were kept closed, their doors heavily lined with insulation. Tomas stepped past these rooms and into the reading room marked VEHN, the Nahan word for listen.
The furniture was ornate but tasteful; the stained glass windows (that he learned were false windows, opening to nothing) colored the room with rich shades of red and purple and blue. Oak shelves lined two walls of the room, filled with thick, leather volumes and carved boxes. At first he had been impressed, shocked by the transition from urban Chicago to regal drawing room in the space of only a few yards, but he’d grown accustomed to the texture of the place. This morning, with a dull headache behind his eyes, he began to question if the books on the shelves were as fake and empty as the artificial light behind the windows. He settled into a leather chair and awaited his instructor.
Even with his frustration and fatigue, this was one part of his day that he did enjoy. It was true Storytelling. For the past two weeks, he had spent at least two hours a day listening to the legends of the Nahan, the stories told in their entirety in the ancient oral tradition by the Storytellers themselves. Some of the stories he knew; some he thought he knew but learned had been altered for his childhood; some were wondrously unknown. He was expected to learn all of these tales, all of this history, by heart, verbatim, so that he too could carry along the story of the Nahan, the tales and truths that could never be written down.
Tomas was glad to see Dalle, one of the three Storytellers he had met at the confab, come through the door. Dalle had stepped forward as his mentor and Tomas enjoyed the melodic sound of his voice.
“Good morning, Desara. As you see you are stuck with me again.”
Tomas rose and gave a small bow as the tall, slender man settled into the matching leather chair across from him. “Please, Mentor Dalle, you can call me Tomas.”
Dalle stared at Tomas, a shadow over his gray-blue eyes. “First off, don’t call me Mentor. Just Dalle. You’re not a kid anymore. This isn’t Heritage School.”
“I’m sorry.” Tomas felt his face redden at Dalle’s suddenly harsh tone. Everything about this place made him feel eleven years old.
Dalle scratched his forehead, a habitual gesture. “And don’t tell anyone to call you Tomas. In here, you are simply Desara.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Because if you complete your training, you will belong to everybody. You will have the world laid open in ways you could never imagine. You will know tragedies and furies and atrocities. You will carry burdens that should never be yours and know secrets about others you would never even reveal to yourself.
“Listen to me, Desara.” The command was unnecessary. Tomas was enrapt by the low, urgent tone. “Your mother will die. Your father will die. The people closest to you will fear you because they will see in your face their darkest nights and everyone who has ever called you by your name will turn away from you. From this point forward, never tell another soul your given name so that decades from now, when your story is no longer your story but the story of Ourselves, if you find someone who can call you by your name, you will remember what it is to be held in another’s heart. And if it is never uttered again, you will at least go to the fire knowing there is still one thing, one small piece, that is yours and yours alone.”
Tomas couldn’t swallow. His hands had turned to ice and he had been nailed to the seat beneath him. Dalle didn’t smile or try to comfort him. He met his gaze openly and patiently. The moment stretched before them, from Storyteller to apprentice as it had for centuries. Finally closing his eyes and breaking the connection, Dalle shifted in his seat and began to speak in a melodic tone.
“So, why don’t I tell you the story of Icus
, the woman who gave birth to fire.”
Stell awoke with a headache and a bitter taste in her mouth. Tweaker. That’s what Adlai had called Esai. She had to find out what that meant and avoid it in the future.
She could smell Adlai on her hands. Had Tomas smelled him as well? A hook of guilt nicked at her stomach as her mind roamed over the memory of Adlai’s body. He was so different from Tomas. Where Tomas was tall and angular, Adlai was solid, his muscles thick and well-defined. His movements were controlled and contained, like a dangerous animal in a cage. He held an air of disdain that Stell found compelling, especially as he had brought Tito to submission without so much as raising his pulse rate. She wondered what his business had been in that shabby neighborhood with those disreputable common.
Maybe she would get to find out.
Maybe he would be her bodyguard again this evening.
“Feel the warmth of the coin in your palm.”
Tomas breathed in deeply, trying to feel the penny that lay in his right hand. It was an isolation meditation, something he had excelled at, but today he could no more distinguish the warmth of the penny against his skin than he could tell one hair on his head apart from another. Mentor Sylva tapped him on the shoulder.
“Where are you, Desara?” Her voice was gentle.
“I’m back in the Mountains of Ur watching Icus grit her teeth.”
Sylva smiled and nodded. “It’s quite a story. ‘And Baush was so fierce a child, his labor pains tore into Icus’s heart and she gnashed her teeth such that sparks flew and set fire to the gore of his birth.’ Pretty image. I hate the part about the hyenas.”
“Maybe you should tell the stories and I’ll lead the meditations. Not that I’m any good at that either.”
Sylva settled down on the carpeted floor beside Tomas. “Discouragement already? You’ve only been here a month.” There were flecks of gray in her black hair and the slightest touch of a wrinkle in her forehead. Tomas wondered how old she was.
“Somewhere around two-fifty.” She laughed at the startled look on his face. “What? You didn’t think I saw you checking out my face? You don’t think I know about these wrinkles?”
Ourselves Page 12
