Blood Colony

by Tananarive Due

  Fana was about to ask when she noticed that one of the paintings was in glass, too.

  As Fana stepped closer, her eyes widened. A da Vinci?

  The painting was only twenty inches high, but it radiated as if it filled the wall. The portrait of the pensive Madonna and playful child looked familiar: The baby Jesus, in his mother’s lap, gazed up toward a spindle that looked like a cross in his pudgy fingers, staring into his future. A breathtaking portrait of innocence. So young, and his destiny was waiting.

  Fana heard a swish from the glass balcony door, and Charlie was gone. Outside, the moonlight made his skin look like polished bronze.

  Charlie brought back a bowl and a fork. Fresh-cut mango! Fana had forgotten how hungry she was until her stomach growled. Charlie raised a sliver of the fruit, and Fana’s teeth sank into the perfectly ripened sweetness. Fana gazed at Charlie’s long, slender fingers as he stabbed another slice. Then her eyes went back to the painting.

  “This reproduction is incredible,” Fana said. The canvas had cracks and age lines.

  “It’s an original. They all are,” Charlie said. “This church has many friends.”

  Originals! Fana’s eyes traveled over the masterworks again. Priceless! She would only expect to find treasures like these in a museum, or in the Vatican itself.

  A burst of color cried out from behind her, so Fana whirled around. The piece she’d seen from the corner of her eye was by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. She recognized the artist’s signature self-portrait in the middle: her unswept dark hair, pronounced single eyebrow and piercing gaze. Fana had never seen a painting by Frida except in books or online, and it was so fertile that Fana’s eyes sat to feast. Lush greens, reds and browns.

  Frida wore a bright red dress, cradling a nude, childlike man who clasped orange flames between his hands. A massive third eye marked the man’s forehead. He sees everything, even what he doesn’t want to see. A giant figure behind them looked like Mother Earth, made of clay or mud, nestling him with a larger, darker arm. Mother Earth’s hair was ropy dreadlocks, and a droplet of milk dangled from her breast. She looks like me! Behind Mother Earth, in a sky that was half in light, half in shadow, floated a giant mask. A woman? The face behind the mask is God. God’s strong arms encircled everything; one, light for day, the other, dark for night.

  Fana might have painted it herself, except that she would have been the one with the all-seeing eye. She was the one who yearned to be cradled, infantlike, in a lover’s arms. Just once. How long would she have to wait?

  “This one’s called The Love Embrace of the Universe,” Charlie said. “Frida’s husband was another artist, Diego Rivera. She and Diego had a stormy love, but it was forever. In this painting, she’s showing how she is his salvation.”

  Fana’s head floated. When she was with Charlie, a new eye blinked open inside of her, just like in the painting. Colors were brighter. Her ears heard better. Like the music! The Spanish-style guitar music flowing from the speakers in the wall was as magical as the painting, so crisp that she heard the guitarist’s fingertips slide across the strings.

  The song was heartbreaking. The lead singer was a priestess; Fana could tell from her voice’s pleas that she was talking to her gods. The song sounded like death.

  There had been enough death, Fana realized. She was endangering Charlie, but how could she say good-bye? The singer’s wail spoke Fana’s fears: With you I’ll go my saintly one / Though it may cause me to die.

  “That’s called ‘Lágrimas Negras,’” Charlie said. “Black Tears.”

  “I’m fluent in Spanish,” Fana said. “My parents taught me.”

  Charlie smiled. “That’s one thing.”

  “One thing what?”

  “One thing you’ve told me about yourself,” he said. “I’ve been waiting.”

  Fana swallowed back the instant lie that tried to climb to her mouth. “I don’t talk about myself much,” she said. “But…that could change.”

  Why had she said that last part? Were false promises in her blood?

  Charlie lowered his head to meet her at eye level. “Promise?” he said.

  Charlie’s lips were a rosy pink. “Promise,” she told his lips.

  Charlie’s sweet breath warmed her. “Me, too,” he said. “We’ll tell each other everything. No matter how bad.”

  “What makes you think it’s bad?” Fana said. Could he really see through her?

  “People don’t mind talking about happy things,” Charlie said.

  “You haven’t told me anything happy.”

  “I love you,” he said. “That’s happy.”

  I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

  Those words were an incantation.

  “Te quiero tambíén,” Fana said. I love you, too.

  Charlie’s lips fell against hers, and she bathed in his flavors; clove and mango-sweetened seawater spilling inside of her. Fana drank him, and he drank her.

  Suddenly, the robe on top of Fana’s clothes felt sweltering. Her shoulders wriggled, and the heavy terry cloth fell to the floor. Gently, Charlie nudged the robe aside with his foot and moved closer. His skin’s heat raged through his clothes. Or was the heat from her?

  Charlie’s palms slipped beneath her T-shirt, across her waist, and Fana’s stomach flipped. Her belly shivered, calming only when she pressed herself closer to his hands. Charlie’s skin was magnetic, beckoning.

  “Is the door locked?” Fana said. She would hate for Father Garcia to walk in and be reminded of what he had sacrificed for his calling.

  Fana felt Charlie’s heart kick against her chest. A haze of desire passed across Charlie’s face, tugging his lips so that he looked like he was in pain. “No one will dare,” he said. “This room belongs to you now, Fana. It’s yours.”

  Could they be safe here? It felt more possible with every throb of Charlie’s heart.

  “I’ve never…,” she began, and sighed. “I mean, I don’t know why…”

  Fana forgot what she wanted to say when she saw her reflection in Charlie’s staring eyes. Charlie’s thick, dark eyelashes made her think of the artist cradling her husband in her arms. She wanted to seek out Charlie’s heartaches and pluck them away.

  Fana felt her mind spilling into Charlie’s. She couldn’t help herself—she probed.

  AND BLOOD TOUCHETH BLOOD.

  I know, sweet Charlie. Those words haunt me, too.

  The kiss stolen from Charlie’s mind skated up and down her spine, intensifying her skin’s fever. Was she masking at all? Fana didn’t know. Her body’s clamor drowned out everything. Fana had never felt so rooted to her flesh, and her mind was grateful to rest. Skin was wonderful. Exquisite distraction.

  Gentle drums, a clave and a cowbell moved her hips slowly from side to side, and Charlie’s hips mirrored hers. One step closer, and he kissed her. His tongue darted across her teeth, then peeked into her mouth, brushing her tongue. His flavors were endless!

  Charlie nudged his hips closer, and his rigidness nestled across her stomach and pelvis, unabashed. Fana’s knees nearly buckled when Charlie’s mouth nibbled her neck, leaving sweet chaos. Nerves fluttered and knotted as her throat spit fire, and Charlie’s tongue licked the flames. When her muscles sagged, Charlie held her so she would not fall.

  A wounded cry from the music’s trumpet brought tears to Fana’s eyes. Grief. Pleasure.

  The room was so hot it was unbearable. Fana felt herself fumbling for her T-shirt.

  Again, Michel was her mirror: He snapped his shirt over his head, and his chest was bare in front of her, almost hairless, sculpted with lean muscle.

  In a blink, the room went from hot to cold. No man had seen her this naked, in only jeans and her bra. Fana’s arms slowly folded across her chest, blocking her skin from his sight.

  Charlie’s head listed, practically resting on his shoulder as he gazed at her. “How can someone so beautiful be so shy?” he said. “I’m honored
you would show yourself to me.”

  Fana’s face tingled. Was this what blushing felt like?

  With one gentle hand, Charlie took her wrist and guided one arm away from her chest, then the other. Fana felt herself shrinking under his eyes, or trying to. Her heart pounded, flooding her thoughts with blood. What am I doing?

  “Are you a virgin?” Charlie said.

  Fana tried to make a joke but couldn’t think of one. She only nodded, silent.

  Charlie looked like he was holding his breath. “My eyes…are the first?”

  Fana nodded.

  Charlie blinked twice. “May I see?”

  Fana remembered her mouth. “Yes,” she said.

  Charlie’s hand slid across her shoulder blade. Snap. Her bra fell open, unbinding her breasts. The straps slipped from her arms, and the bra dropped to the floor. Almost by itself.

  “I wish I was a painter,” he said, blinking again. “I would immortalize you, Fana. I will.”

  He pulled her close to him, and his broad chest swallowed hers. Skin on skin. Shoulder on chest. Breasts pressed against fiery flesh. He held her more tightly, hugging her still. His arms were warm around her back. Their own private Love Embrace.

  “‘Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.’” Charlie whispered Adam’s words about Eve in her ear. “I’ve found you, Fana. At last.”

  Like the words I love you, a lover’s hot embrace was a revelation. They stood a long time enjoying the feeling of each other; feeling the joy of each other. The drumming grew faster, or else time slowed. Three snappy rings of the cowbell commanded Fana’s hips closer to Charlie’s.

  Fana’s eyes fell closed. She had no need for them.

  Careful not to move an inch from Charlie’s impossibly broad chest, Fana kicked off her sneakers, one by one. Curled toes pulled off her socks. The floor was bare wood, as cool and smooth as marble. She felt a vibration beneath her feet. Humming tickled her veins, like the humming she had heard on the mountain road—but deeper now. Inside of her.

  Charlie stood so still that Fana forgot he was separate from her. Charlie’s fingertips fanned across her back with the clave’s one-two-three rhythm. He dipped her slightly, and her hipbone nudged against his erection. His arousal fascinated her. How did longing feel to a boy? The humming vibrated up her legs, her calves. Behind her knees.

  Fana moaned.

  Charlie’s hair brushed across her face as he leaned toward her chest. His hair was a perfume of warm, damp scalp and soap. Charlie’s hand slid to her breast. When his hot mouth touched her nipple, Fana’s world became all rippling sensation. Charlie sucked, a hungry babe, and Fana writhed beneath his tongue. Droplets of perspiration between her legs electrified, sending shocks up and down her body.

  Fana whimpered.

  Charlie’s free hand traveled across her hip, toward her thigh.

  Gently sliding, burrowing, he pressed his hand across the denim that separated his skin from hers. Fana squeezed her legs tight against him. Her body wanted to swallow him whole. Charlie’s tongue flicked across her nipple, and a river dampened Fana’s thighs.

  Yes. She would give herself to him. Today. Now.

  Fana’s body and mind fell against Charlie, and he met her in the place no one except them could see. Naked. Luxuriating. Were her feet still touching the floor, or were they both floating, buoyed by the humming beneath their feet? Her toes dangled, tingling. Weightless.

  Michel.

  The name came first, unadorned.

  Michel. Fana nudged, probing, and washed her mind in his.

  The sensation was like flash-fire.

  Fana’s lungs howled when she gasped. She heard a thump as her feet landed on the floor, and she swayed. The room spun, lurched, and spun again.

  A dagger must have pierced her. The pain was astonishing, like everything about him.

  The songstress had warned that death was easier than heartbreak: At least she could visit the dead. Her wondrous Charlie was simply gone.

  “Johnny, wake up!”

  Someone was calling him. Caitlin?

  Johnny blinked, stirring. A wall of light swallowed him when he opened his eyes. Whiteness, as far as he could see. Was he dead?

  “Yes, that’s it!” Caitlin sobbed. “Johnny, p-please—wake up. Oh, God…please…”

  He was staring at a ceiling, he realized. From a bed. Johnny’s head seemed too heavy to move, but he forced himself to look toward Caitlin’s voice. Movement ignited pain in his stomach, and he gasped. Pain made him forget everything else. His vision doubled.

  “Johnny, they’re coming to kill us,” Caitlin’s voice said, a hissed whisper.

  Johnny blinked again, and this time he saw Caitlin standing about twenty yards from him, facing a closed door. Her back was turned to him, her arms pinned to her sides like a wooden toy soldier. Caitlin looked back toward him, straining to see over her shoulder. Her pose was odd, as if she was fighting against her own body. Where are we?

  Caitlin’s face was bright red. She must have been calling him a long time.

  “J-Johnny…,” she said, her jaw shaking. “They’re coming. T-two of them. They have guns. Close your eyes and pretend you’re sleeping. They’re g-gonna pump you with poison…You have to fight them. I c-can’t move.”

  Unwanted memories flooded Johnny, and the room whirled. He hadn’t been able to move either! Johnny remembered Charlie’s grinning face, covered in bees. The Other. A gun. Shocking pain. Johnny’s brain rejected the memories before they could fully surface. I was shot. I should be dead. She healed me. He felt himself slipping away, back to the calming darkness.

  “Johnny, we’re both gonna’ die if you don’t stop them,” Caitlin whimpered. “P-please.”

  Alertness returned, sharp. Caitlin and Bea-Bea needed him.

  “Where’s Bea-Bea?…” Johnny said, his voice hoarse. His mouth felt coated with sand.

  “Shhhhhh,” Caitlin said. “Pretend you’re sleeping. They’re coming. I hear them.”

  Johnny lay still, his eyes closed, but he was sure his heartbeat was shaking the walls. Fear and confusion tangled his mind. Who’s coming? Stop them how? Sweat drenched Johnny’s legs and arms, and his pores wept with panic.

  He was breathing too fast. Anyone would know he was awake right away.

  The door opened with the squeal of a tight hinge. At first, Johnny couldn’t tell if the sound was real or just his waking nightmare. His breath caught in his lungs.

  The voices came, two men chatting casually in Spanish. One of the men cooed at Caitlin in the doorway, and they both laughed. “Hai dormito bene, bella?” one said.

  Not Spanish. Italian? The men chatted cheerfully, but Caitlin was so quiet that Johnny had to fight to keep his eyes closed. Was she all right? His heart knocked the base of his throat.

  Johnny dared a fluttering glimpse through his eyelashes. Two monks stood near Caitlin, one in front of her and one pressed behind her, playing with her clothes. The shorter monk pulled up Caitlin’s shirt and murmured something that made the other laugh. The taller monk’s hairy arm snaked inside Caitlin’s shirt, and he closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip with mock rapture. The sight shocked Johnny almost as much as the blood in Casa Grande; a glimpse of Hell.

  Johnny remembered to close his eyes just as the shorter monk turned his way. Footsteps in his direction. The other monk grunted, and Johnny heard Caitlin’s legs dragging across the floor. The bedroom door swung shut, penning them inside. Rage soured Johnny’s mouth.

  Footsteps, closer to him. Adrenaline turned Johnny’s limbs rigid. Johnny heard Caitlin cry out across the room, a sob, but his ears were riveted to the sound of a stranger breathing above him. Johnny could smell his sweat.

  The monk clucked, speaking gently, as if to soothe him. Does he know I’m awake?

  Johnny felt the stranger’s hand graze across his cheek with a stink of cigarettes. Johnny’s teeth gritted tight, but he lay still. When the monk moved his hand away, Johnny couldn’t help slitting
his eyes open again.

  The monk’s deep-set eyes were focused on a hypodermic needle. He tested the needle; a spurt of clear liquid. The large golden cross that hung past the monk’s waist was swinging slowly in front of Johnny’s nose. Last daylight from the window made the cross gleam like fire.

  Seeing God so close by changed everything.

  The monk pulled Johnny’s arm, stretching it out to find a vein, the needle poised above Johnny’s skin. I surrender, Lord. Show me. Johnny felt his pulse slow.

  Caitlin cried out again; this time, in pain. The monk with the hypodermic turned over his shoulder to call to his friend. “Rallenta, Romero!” he said. An admonition?

  His companion only laughed raucously, drowning Caitlin’s cries.

  Teeth still gritted, Johnny swiped at the needle, snatching it away. While time crawled around him, Johnny’s mind and body had never felt so quick. The man above him didn’t have time to speak or turn. Johnny plunged the needle into his exposed carotid artery, and pushed the plunger. Moving so quickly made him dizzy.

  The monk looked at him in openmouthed silence—part surprise, part admiration. Loose skin on his face trembled, and he sank to the floor without a sound.

  Bless me as you blessed David against Goliath, Lord.

  Johnny ripped the IV out of his arm, ignoring the sting.

  As he sat up, dizziness rocked him, and he planted his palms on the mattress to keep from falling over. Caitlin lay across the bed on the other side of the room, her legs folded at the knees. The monk lay astride her, his hand exploring her freely while he tried to trap her face beneath his mouth. Caitlin was as still as a rag doll; all she could do was sob and try to turn her face away.

  Bless me as you blessed Moses against the Pharaoh, Lord.

  Johnny looked down at the dead monk at his feet. His frayed robe had fallen away, revealing a black shoulder holster. Johnny slid from the bed, his soles silent against the floor. His fingers shook, but he commanded his body to unsnap the holster and dig out the unfamiliar nickel-plated pistol. It was heavier than the gun he’d held in the car.