Blood Colony

by Tananarive Due

  “I could go with you,” he said. “To help your family.”

  “No,” Fana said. “You can’t.”

  Charlie looked at her over his shoulder again, and in the glow as they passed beneath the sole overhead light, she saw a wounded gleam in his eye. She had hurt him already. Charlie looked away from her.

  “I see…,” Charlie said. “At home, they depend only on you.”

  Charlie’s casual intimacy startled her again.

  “Are you a telepath?” she said. She had never met a mortal with the ability, but, then again, she hadn’t met many mortals. Teka credited the Blood for the gift, but he might be wrong.

  Charlie chuckled. “A mind reader? Maybe I am. Or…maybe I’m the strongest one in my family, too, and everyone I know has relied on me since I was young. So…I know that burden.”

  Fana couldn’t remember a day without burden. Teka’s expectations were the biggest burden, next to her mother’s fear. Children weren’t supposed to start out stronger than their parents, and Mom had always been bracing for her next storm. But now Fana knew that Mom had been right to be wary, no matter how much it hurt them both.

  “How do you know me so well?” Fana said. Her heart pounded, but not with the sickening dread she had felt since waking in the Rolfsons’ house. Instead, she felt wonder; maybe for the first time since she was three. “We just met.”

  “I don’t know you yet, Fana,” Charlie said, “but my soul does. As soon as I saw you.”

  Fana’s chest floated, a starburst. Then, quiet tears came, invisible in the tunnel’s darkness. Her stomach ached in rhythm with her tears.

  Why had she chosen such a horrible day to fall in love?

  I will never hurt you, dear Fana. Li amerò per sempre. I cherish your every breath.

  Each moment Michel spent with Fana, he loved her more. Papa had told him that Fana’s presence would feel like no other, that no forgettable tryst could compare to his predetermined mate. But how could he have guessed how quickly, and how deeply, she would move him?

  She was unlike anyone he had ever known! Selfless. Merciful. Humble. Fana’s beliefs were misguided because of her ignorance, but she was remarkably unspoiled for one with the Blood. Would he have been as gentle-hearted as she if he had been born in her place?

  He wanted her to know him. His desire to merge his thoughts and memories with Fana’s was so strong that his skin felt hot, just as his loins had burned for her while they’d kissed in the car. With Fana’s kisses, he sank into a state of bliss, forgetting himself. Remembering himself.

  He knew Fana’s heart. He remembered Papa keeping him locked away for weeks at a time, hidden from human contact after he’d accidentally killed his nanny during a toddler’s rage. He surely would have killed his parents, too, if not for their Blood. He knew what it was like to be feared by one’s parents. He knew a child’s horror at unintended killing. Michel had been little more than a prisoner when he was young, just like his mother.

  But such was the burden of powerful children. Hadn’t as much been written about Jesus? The Infancy Gospel of Thomas claimed that when Jesus was a boy, he’d killed his Greek teacher in a rage over his alphabet lesson. Shriveled a playmate into a withered husk. Terrorized his village. Papa gave little credibility to Thomas and the other Apocrypha—only the Letter of the Witness carried the Blood as proof of its validity—but as a boy, Michel had been thrilled to learn that even his blessed ancestor might have traversed the valleys of terror before he’d ascended to spread Joy.

  So it would be with him and Fana. Together, he and Fana could cleanse the world with only their thoughts: The false prophets. Unbelievers. Adulterers. Thieves. Gluttons. Let he who stands over the Blood take every worldly measure to wrest the Blood from the hands of the wicked. Once wickedness was flushed from the world, the killing would end—and the killers would become the saviors. After the Cleansing, only the true worshipers would remain, and the Witness’s prophecy would be realized.

  The world, at last, would be ready for the Blood. Death would touch mankind no more.

  Michel’s heart shook his body as he realized how close he walked to the New Days.

  “You see?” Michel said to Fana, his voice unsteady. “The light is just ahead of us now.”

  The tunnel was so suffused with light that he could finally see Fana’s face. Her tears.

  “Please don’t cry, negra,” he said. “We’re safe now. We’re home.”

  “Home?” Fana said, then she shook her head. She missed her family. She was desperate to reach Teka, her teacher. Thoughts flowed from Fana toward Teka, and for an instant, Michel could see her teacher in meditation: Teka looked like a boy, as he did. The Blood had come to him when he was young.

  But Fana had no more use for Teka. He would be Fana’s teacher now, both in mind and body. Teka’s plodding methods had retarded poor Fana’s development. Teka had steered her away from the very source Michel had discovered in his dreams when he was young, the source that would empower her the fastest. But Fana would learn. She was only frightened now.

  “This is home for now, Fana,” Caitlin said suddenly. “Home is wherever you can rest.”

  Caitlin was a brilliant conduit! Her grief and rage over her murdered lover and her father’s fate made her so vulnerable that he did not have to steer her often. Sometimes Caitlin spoke his mind as well as he did. Caitlin and Johnny were useful, or he would have left them dead at the house in Arizona, too.

  But Johnny was more work. He had no deep losses to lay his soul bare. His life had been too sheltered for such easy manipulation. Michel had not intended to give Johnny so much freedom while he’d kissed Fana in the car—in truth, Johnny’s sudden lunge for the gun had surprised him—but the shooting had worked in Michel’s favor, just as he had expected it would.

  Through Johnny’s suffering, Michel had demonstrated his compassion. Loyalty. Love. And he had allowed Fana to touch Johnny with the Blood despite his unworthiness. One day, Fana would understand what a generous gift he had offered them both.

  How soon could he reveal himself to her without fear that he would be reviled? Was Papa right to believe that Fana would be joined to him permanently once she lay in his bed? Would Fana bond to him like no woman had ever bonded to her mate? If that was true, Michel could reveal himself tonight.

  Suddenly, Fana gasped. The sound of her fear stabbed him.

  Michel reached for the gun in his jeans. “What is it?” he said, but he knew: Fana had sensed Romero and Bocelli waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel.

  Foolish oversight! Romero and Bocelli had been granted the Blood to better serve him, but they had not learned the nuances of the mind. After decades of training, even Papa was often clumsy at telepathy; otherwise, Fana’s father never would have spied on his thoughts in Seattle. He must remember to cloak them all, or Fana would know too much before he was ready. A glimpse into the minds of Romero and Bocelli would be more than enough to drive Fana away.

  Fana clung to his hand atop the wheelchair he steered. She pressed close to him, and he nearly drowned in her lovely scent. Her proximity made him light-headed.

  “Someone’s here,” Fana said.

  “Monks from the church,” he said. “The safe house. They’re waiting for us.”

  “Maritza knew them,” Caitlin said, unprompted.

  True enough, Michel thought. Romero and Bocelli had killed Maritza, after all.

  Growing sunlight beckoned from the end of the tunnel. Here, the debris was more visible; food wrappers, bottles, diapers, empty prescription bottles. In the new light, graffiti spray-painted on the tunnel walls from travelers was clear. GIVE ME YOUR SICK, one message read. As if a passing traveler already knew what awaited.

  Movement ahead. Bocelli was waving to him with a flashlight. Michel’s two servants ran toward them, breathless and overjoyed.

  Romero and Bocelli wore frayed brown monk’s robes. Unlike the doorkeepers’ at the church, they kept their guns concealed. None of th
em were Catholic, certainly, but Papa imitated the Catholic church because he enjoyed its taste for pomp and costumes. Catholics were no less ignorant than the rest, but they looked more pious in their grand vestments.

  Romero was dark-haired and handsome, with an actor’s face. Bocelli was not so lucky; he was wiry and sharp-featured, with a misshapen nose. Almost insectile. Bocelli might have frightened Fana, but Romero’s attractiveness made him look kind. Neither was a true monk, but Bocelli was more akin to one. Bocelli accepted his uglier duties only grudgingly, but Romero enjoyed his violent deeds. Without Sanctus Cruor, Romero would have been a sociopath without purpose. Sometimes Michel wondered if that could be said of Papa, too.

  “Welcome, dear son!” Romero said and kissed his cheeks. If not for Fana’s presence, Romero would have fallen to his knees to greet the Most High. “We were worried about you.”

  Their eyes rested on Fana, who was shielding her face from the sunlight.

  Do not be so impolite to Fana, Michel chided them. Greet her, but do not touch her. I alone may touch her. Romero and Bocelli obeyed, giving Fana their warmest smiles and words of welcome in counterfeit Mexican accents. Slowly, they urged a smile from her lips. Michel was relieved, but he would be much happier when cloaking his servants was no longer necessary.

  “What’s happened to this poor child?” said Bocelli, examining Johnny. In the light, they could see how much Johnny’s blood soaked his shirt. Bocelli’s softheartedness made his inquiry convincing. Romero might have choked on those words.

  “He was shot,” Michel said.

  Romero turned on his heels, beckoning with two fingers. “Then, come. You three climb out first. We’ll carry the boy.”

  “Be careful,” Fana said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Of course,” Bocelli said. “Está bien, señorita. We have a doctor at the church.”

  A sturdy ladder awaited, and a ten-foot climb to the surface. Unlike the tunnel opening in Arizona, the opening in Mexico was outdoors. Romero and Bocelli had pushed aside the Dumpster that concealed the manhole from the street.

  Climbing out, Michel found himself in the alleyway. The smell of garbage awaited, but it was a vast improvement over the tunnel. It grieved Michel that his charade had forced Fana into such an unpleasant passage. He reached for Fana behind him, guiding her up. Next, Caitlin.

  The mud-painted white van waited only a few steps from the tunnel. Still clasping Fana’s warm palm, Michel led her to the van and slid open the rear door. The van had been baking in the sun, so the interior was hot and musty. But in the New Days, Fana would travel like a queen!

  Fana sat down in the far corner of the seat, hugging herself, eyes squinting. The nattering thoughts of the city’s population were hurting her head. Michel had had the same problem as a boy. That was only one of many things he would teach her to control.

  “What about the phone?” Fana said, her voice small. “You said there’s a sat phone.”

  Her eyes were so wide and anxious that Michel hated to deny her. But he must.

  “Brother Tómas!” Michel called toward the tunnel. “Where’s the telephone?”

  Tell her you do not have it, Michel directed his servants.

  Romero’s head popped out of the manhole. “Lo siento, my son. It is at the church.”

  Fana’s face seemed to break into pieces. The sight of her tears nearly made Michel cry, too.

  “Shhhhh,” he said, sliding beside her. “You’ll talk to your family, Fana. I promise.”

  Fana’s head sank against his chest. Papa had advised him to gain her trust, but the ruse was breaking Michel’s heart. Caitlin took the seat behind them. She leaned forward, gently massaging Fana’s shoulders.

  “Soon, hon,” he whispered to her through Caitlin’s mouth. “This will all be over soon.”

  Romero and Bocelli worked quickly. In less than five minutes, Johnny lay in the seat beside Caitlin while she held him in place. The engine rattled when it started, but the vehicle sped away with ease, turning onto the street from the alley.

  Nogales, as always, was a city of contradictions—part tourist haven, part barrio. Sunny-faced Americans crowded narrow stone streets lined with colorfully painted shops, bargaining for baskets, rugs, beads, pottery and other pieces of the nation’s culture to appoint their homes while homeless brown-skinned children begged around them. Cafés and money changers abounded on the main streets, alongside the requisite strip clubs and brothels.

  But pharmacies ruled the streets of Nogales. In every direction, Michel saw signs painted in red, blue, green and yellow to catch shoppers’ eyes, advertising the Viagra, Flonase, Lipitor, Albuterol, Retin A, Vioxx and countless other medications that Americans were addicted to. Smugglers used the tunnels, but tourists drove over the border in herds, searching for relief from their symptoms, real or imaginary. Fleeing home for better prices.

  No matter. After the Cleansing, illness would be only a memory. Those who remained would be the healthiest people in the history of the world.

  Gentle Fana gazed out her window with eyes made pitiless by her own grief as she stifled her sobs. She hardly noticed the seekers mingling on the streets around her, deaf to their ailments and fears. In this instant, she thought only of home.

  So be it, Michel decided. He could not permit Fana to leave or try to call home.

  But he would bring his bride’s family to her.

  Twenty-seven

  Nogales, Arizona

  2:15 p.m.

  Dawit saw the blood smeared on the car’s passenger side door as soon as he peeked around the corner of the clinic on Nelson Avenue. The gray Toyota RAV4 parked behind the building wasn’t the same make and model and as the one being trumpeted on police radios nationwide, but Dawit knew the car. Fana had been here. He could almost see her plaintive eyes staring at him from the glimmering ball of sunlight in the car’s passenger window.

  Police had cordoned off an area of Nelson Avenue farther west, investigating a report of gunshots that had sent local law enforcement into a frenzy, but Teferi had insisted that they stop at the darkened Clinica de Esperanza instead. Again, Teferi’s gift had proven true.

  Dawit froze, ducking back against the wall. He clasped Teferi’s arm tightly to halt his eager progress. Mahmoud fell to a crouch beside them, his gun ready. Long before either of them had learned any grasp of telepathy, he and Mahmoud had known the unspoken language of warriors who faced battles as one.

  I see their car, Dawit told Teferi. Teferi gasped and tried to pull toward the car, but Dawit held him: Are we alone?

  Teferi blinked rapidly, then squeezed his eyes closed. Teferi’s gifts had led them here from Casa Grande, so patience with Teferi was always rewarded.

  I SENSE NO ONE. FANA’S PRESENCE IS FRESH. PERHAPS NOT AN HOUR.

  Still, an hour was an eternity. Dawit sighed. I warn you—there is blood.

  Teferi nodded with vacant, unhappy eyes, prepared for Caitlin’s death.

  “Warn us if anyone approaches,” Dawit told Teferi.

  Mahmoud ran ahead, quick as a cheetah, and Dawit followed cautiously. He could not rely on Teferi’s gifts entirely; even Teka could be surprised.

  Closer inspection revealed a broken window—from a gunshot, Dawit guessed—and enough blood in the front passenger seat for a fatal wound. The blood was drying, so it was not Fana’s. When Teferi saw the volume of blood puddled on the vehicle’s upholstered seat, his face went slack with sadness. In the backseat, evidence of another gunshot through the fabric.

  “One of them is lost,” Mahmoud said.

  “How many were there, Teferi?” Dawit said.

  “I would say…four,” Teferi said. “Fana, certainly. Caitlin. Johnny Wright, we can assume. I do not know the fourth.”

  Dawit examined the broken window. No corresponding entry point. “The gun was fired inside the car,” he said. “The fourth is their captor. Perhaps…he lost his patience.”

  Dawit imagined Fana huddled inside, fright
ened. As hard as he and Jessica had worked to shield Fana from violence, his daughter’s psyche had been stained yet again. When he and Jessica had had that last personal audience with Khaldun in Lalibela, Khaldun had warned them of dire consequences if Fana was traumatized. Now, this. Dawit’s rage made his fingers tremble.

  “The trail ends here,” Teferi said. “They might be inside.”

  Dawit’s heart stirred with combined joy and dread. “She could be masking now.”

  Dawit was not one to pray, but he came the closest he could remember to prayer as he left the bloodied vehicle: Let us find her. Let us bring her to safety and spare her from Sanctus Cruor. If they lost Fana’s trail now, they might not find her for years, just as it had taken Sanctus Cruor years to find Fana. After years in that sect’s hands, he would no longer recognize his child.

  There were bloody fingerprints on the door and droplets on the ground beside it. One near-silent Pfffffffft from Mahmoud’s air pistol blew a neat hole where the doorknob had been, and mangled metal clattered to the asphalt. The door fell open. In a careful V formation a few strides apart, they searched the storeroom that awaited.

  More blood on the floor, a trail, but no one was in the room. Dawit tried to flick on a light switch, but it didn’t work. No electricity. This clinic might have had visitors today, but no one else had walked here for weeks or months. The clinic smelled forsaken.

  The clinic was small—only the rear storeroom, a bathroom, tiny examination rooms and the front lobby, which had the receptionist’s cubicle and six folding chairs in disarray, one overturned. The clinic was a shambles, but no corpses had been left behind.

  “Here,” Mahmoud said, pointing to the floor. “More blood.”

  The dribbling trail of blood led to a smallish examination room, also nearly empty. Upon second glance, Dawit noticed a pile of bloodied bandages discarded on the sink. Fresh.

  Teferi scoured the room with him. “Perhaps the fourth isn’t a captor,” he said, hope ringing in his voice. “One of them was injured, and they stopped here for treatment.”