“Why didn’t you just say that, you fucking asshole?” I inhaled deep on my smoke and exhaled while he laughed. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this so much.”
“There are few good things in this life, my dear Dutch,” Avery replied. “Watching you in love is in my top five.”
I grumbled something under my breath that made him laugh again, then asked, “You coming tonight for Shema’s pep talk?”
“The rally of the masses?” he asked. “Nah. Got my excused absence. You’re on your own for this one, chap. Be safe.”
“Always.” And we hung up.
My usual hyperaware self would have asked Avery what he meant by Be safe, but this version of me, the one caught up in Juma’s hows wheres whats and whys, thought nothing of it. Instead, this version of me lit another smoke and answered the knock at my door.
“Gross.” Veda swept past me, the water-like whisper of her silk skirt and a whiff of patchouli left in her wake. “Don’t you know those things kill, Dutch?” She reclined on the couch, bare legs for miles. “Oh, but you’re already dead, aren’t you? Dark, dead Dutch.”
I smoked and poured myself a drink and made no effort to fill the empty space between us with meaningless conversation. Instead I studied her reflection in the window and wondered how those full lips and big eyes, gorgeous hair and the most perfect version of the Mathew nose came together to form something so ugly inside.
I could not recall the last time Veda and I had shared any pleasantries—had we ever?—much less shared a room. She caught me watching her and the hairs on my arms raised in response. Her mere existence was a goddamned bad omen.
So I should have known.
“Quiet today, eh?” she asked, head cocked to the side, watching me, and I felt like prey.
“Why are you here, Veda?” I lit another smoke and cut to the chase.
“My, my, my, aren’t we a bit pissy?” Veda replied.
I hadn’t even bothered turning around. She was hardly worth the effort.
“Fuck you, Veda.”
“Tsk tsk.” She laughed. “That’s no way to speak to your baby sister.”
I listened to her laughter, the sound so forced and fake and Upper East Side Manhattan and imagined thirty-seven ways I could kill my sister. She caught my eye in the reflection of the window and gave me the finger.
“Stop thinking of how you’re going to kill me and pour me a drink, asshole.”
“Shouldn’t you be lording it over some poor Keeper right about now?” I asked as I poured her a shot of the worst whiskey at the bar, knowing she would spit it out and demand another, doing it anyway. “Isn’t that what you Junta do these days in your desperate battle for relevance?”
“Shouldn’t you be wondering why Mummy spends more time with Rani Rao than she does you, her only son and heir to The Gate?” Veda laughed and the sound felt like razor blades. “Isn’t that what moody Keepers do these days in their desperate battle to save their souls?”
My sister despised being reminded of the fact she was Junta, the enforcers of the rules of The Gate, and not a Keeper, and lashed out each time I brought it up. It was admittedly childish and silly, but in this life of madness and death, there were only a handful of things that could bring me such joy. The few that existed needed to be cultivated at every opportunity.
“Oh, dear brother, did you not hear?” she began. “There’s been some exciting changes around this place you love to call home, a little reshuffling, thinking outside the box.”
I dropped the drink into her hand and wondered what treachery she and Khan had cooked up now.
“The Black Copse to be exact.” She sipped her drink and handed it back to me. “This whiskey is ass. Give me the Hibiki,” she hissed before continuing. “An elite force of Junta with the potential to become Ren, and your lovely sister is their leader.”
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed aloud at the outlandishness of her statement. As much as I detested The Gate and all it stood for, the one aspect of it I admired was its strict adherence to the founding rules and traditions. The organization was split into four parts—Ren, Junta, Keeper, and Dosha—and it remained that way today. Ren ruled, Junta legislated, Keepers killed, and Dosha guarded. The founding principle was to maintain the balance between life and death, and although the means had become completely warped and twisted under Khan’s leadership, the original ideals held fast today. Most important, the leaders were Ren, borne of the Keeper class.
At least they were.
Until The Black Copse.
Until Khan and Veda.
“Khan mentioned nothing of the sort when I was here last,” I replied, my voice calm, as if Veda had just relayed the menu for this evening’s dinner rather than a recipe for complete and utter disaster. “And Shema would have legislated such a thing into existence. She’s never once discussed any Black Copse with me. This would have to be debated and discussed. Such a significant change doesn’t just appear out of thin air.”
Veda rolled her eyes as I spoke, her voice tinkling with light laughter.
“Oh please.” She waved a manicured hand in the air. “No one has time for all of that legislating nonsense. Mummy’s too busy doing whatever it is she does all day with Rani, and Daddy’s too busy beating the life out of you for not handling. your. lover.”
And here Veda’s eyes flashed as she emphasized your and lover then waited
one
two
three beats
looking smug as fuck because she knew and now she knew I knew she knew.
Before she could react—laugh, twitch her lip, roll her eyes—I flew at her, lifting her off the couch and slamming her into the wall, my fingers around her neck as she kicked and scratched and fought for breath. I had never in my life laid a hand on my sister. Never. But I didn’t care, I wanted Veda dead just for contemplating Juma for even one second of her incredibly fucked-up existence.
“Did you think I didn’t know about her, Dutch? Miss Juma Landry?” Veda laughed and then spat in my face. I pressed my fingers harder into the thin skin of her neck, knowing the damage I could do, having torn into many a neck stronger than hers with my bare hands. “What are you going to do, Dutch, kill me?”
The way she grinned gave me pause. And brought me out of my cloud of red vengeance and back into reality. My reality, that of The Gate and Khan and Veda and violence and horror and black like no other. Of teenage killers and bloodlust and madness. Of dark souls and twisted minds and promises—promises made to Khan in return for promises made to me. Of love and light and Juma.
Juma.
Juma.
Juma.
I inhaled deeply as if to cleanse my mind of everything wretched and vile, then released Veda, watching as she slid along the wall and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Because I understood.
Khan.
“Daddy knows I’m here, you stupid fuck.” She glared at me and spat, wiping her kohl-lined eyes, smearing her makeup.
He probably sent her to talk to me, taunt me, toss Juma’s name around and make me crazy, just to remind me who was in control.
“And he is going to hear about this,” hissed Khan’s precious Veda, the Junta who should have been born Keeper, the intended carrier of the Mathew legacy.
She stood and straightened her pencil skirt, ran her hands over her high-end, immaculate clothing, and shot daggers my way. I lit another smoke to keep my hands busy and ease the desire to wrap them around her throat again and waited for her to leave. We’d interacted with each other for ten minutes and it felt enough to last the remainder of this lifetime. “You and I are not finished with one another by any means, Dutch,” she informed me with a glare, rubbing what would certainly turn into black and blue marks along her elegant neck. “The Black Copse will flourish, I will become Ren, and I will make it our mission to hunt down your beloved Poocha and end all of her lives. All of them.”
“Not if I become Ren first, Veda,” I countered, hitting her with a possibilit
y no one had considered, definitely not anyone in my family.
“You would never.” Her eyes popped open and suddenly all of her was in attack mode as she moved in my direction, a lithe and deadly tigress on the hunt.
“It is my birthright, little sister.” I moved around her and opened the door, testing out this new idea on myself, enjoying its immediate effect on her. “Should I choose to accept the mantle, no one can stop me. You are forgetting, sweet Veda, that I, too, am the offspring of Khan and Shema Mathew. The treachery and madness run deep. As good as ye give, so shall ye get.”
She stepped into the hallway. Her makeup was still a mess and some of her haughtiness was tamped down, but she was not deterred.
“You’ve always considered yourself smarter, more worthy, than Daddy and myself, as if your self-inflicted torment makes you better than us. But know this, Dutch, you simple, pathetic piece of shit, The Black Copse is only the beginning. You cannot imagine what we have in store for you, dear brother.”
Like I said, I should have known.
The pieces were so obvious: Veda and her warnings, a sudden meeting of The Gate, no torture sessions while within Khan’s reach, virtual silence on all things Juma, the four Mathews together in the same room, Shema addressing the assembled invitees. I could go on, the signs were so many and abundant.
Instead of dwelling on what I should have seen, the hints coming at me from all directions throughout the afternoon, I finally cleared my head and fucking paid attention to the events taking place right then as I stood on that stage next to my mother.
“ . . . she is a Keeper of incomparable skill and achievement and is fast making a name for herself, separate and unique from her revered family. She is smart and savvy and soon to be my daughter-in-law. It pleases me greatly to introduce you to Sevyn Suleiman, my son’s future wife.”
Future wife? the very idea nearly inspired laughter. Bitter laughter, but laughter nonetheless. I was the last fuck who was going to marry anyone—I detested damn near every motherfucker in the organization, I found the tradition of arranged marriages within The Gate to be nothing more than a power play of the elders, and there was no way I would procreate with anyone associated with Khan or Shema Mathew.
Sevyn Suleiman was tall and willowy and austere. She carried herself with the authority of one who’d grown up in the lap of wealth and power. She was beautiful, her body a lean machine, and the blade at her hip made me do a double take. But I didn’t know Sevyn Suleiman from any other two-bit Keeper in The Gate, so seriously, fuck her.
Fuck her.
Fuck her family and anyone else who helped put together this display of bullshit and insanity. I despised all of them and decided right then and there to bump her and her people, everyone she loved and adored, to the top of my hit list. They were all going to die, they would die at my hand, and it was going to be a fucking bloody mess.
A wife.
Fuck my wife.
I was going to kill that black-haired, olive-skinned, big-eyed bitch.
And then I would take care of Veda and The Black Copse.
13: DUTCH
I sat in the private dining hall reserved for the sole use of leaders of The Gate, meaning the sole use of the Mathew clan, and fumed. Ensconced in darkness, the room dimmed further by the furniture cluttering the space—heavy wood, plush velvet, thick leather everywhere the eye rested. It was apparent someone had taken much time and consideration when selecting the items, as each piece seemed to somehow fit with the others without giving the impression of being a set. But that mattered little. No amount of effort and design could hide the ugliness of this room.
The enormous table with claw-foot legs upon which I had been placed, beaten and bruised. To which I’d been tied down and my shins sliced and diced with a scalpel.
The one-of-a-kind buffet where my hands were pummeled with a meat tenderizer.
The china cabinet where a cup rested, innocently ensconced amongst the others, containing all of my teeth, each one pulled with a rusty set of pliers.
The Punjabi sideboard upon which my chest was carved open and I was left for days to heal “the slow way.”
And the chair.
That motherfucking goddamned chair.
The one with the high back and Ganesha carvings, the extra-cushioned seat and ornate armrests.
The chair at the head of the table.
The chair from which Khan orchestrated and watched it all.
I wonder what Lord Ganesha would say about the torture and madness imprinted on these walls, soaked into the thick wool carpets, breathed into the air.
I lit a smoke and settled into a comfortable chair in a far corner of the room as jasmine and sandalwood wafted in the air, and I knew they were coming. I could smell my sister and that piss-poor perfume a mile away. The table was set for service, candlelight giving the appearance of warmth and invitation, cloaking all of the death in the room with its soft golden hue.
“Once Keeper Suleiman stops looking so goddamned shell shocked”—Khan burst into the room with a growl—“we can consummate this fucking marriage and be finished with this nonsense.”
I watched Sevyn Suleiman from the cover of my dark corner, her head still held high but her eyes wild with fury and fear, for she had probably heard of the madness of the Mathew family and was now wondering what fuckery she’d bought for herself. Served her right, getting into bed with that trio of twisted black fucks. I had no sympathy for her—none whatsoever.
“Shema!” Khan turned on my mother with a snarl. “You said this was worked out, I had nothing to worry about, you’d found the perfect girl. Those were your words, wise leader of the Junta.”
Khan’s voice dripped with contempt and disrespect, his demeanor bristled with rage. Khan was a hulking mass of quivering madness and my mother found herself on the receiving end of his ire.
“Don’t you dare,” Shema warned, a long, graceful finger pointed at Khan, her handsome face an emotionless mask, her eyes like fire.
I sat mesmerized by their display, so vulgar and intriguing, barely breathing lest I be discovered. I had never before seen them on opposite sides, having grown up with a mother who always deferred to her husband, no matter how psychotic his demands and doings, so this flash of anger piqued my curiosity. I wondered how far she could push him.
“Don’t what, Shema?” Khan replied. “Don’t expect you to do your fucking job and find a woman worthy of the Mathew name? Rather than this piece of shit whore, shaking in her shoes, ready to run at the sight of your son? I should fucking kill her now and get it over with.”
Khan spun on Sevyn, his attention suddenly on the Keeper. Sevyn’s arm twitched, almost as if her muscles spasmed in fear, but I knew that twitch—she was ready to grab her blade. To do what with it, I had no idea. And unfortunately, before I could find out, Shema stepped into Khan’s line of vision, placing herself between Ren and Keeper.
“You touch her and I’ll kill you myself.”
One
two
three
four
five
six beats of time, wrapped in silence and wonder, as all assembled waited to see who was going to die tonight. Instead, the room suddenly shook with the strangest sound—Khan’s laughter. Not the usual bark of sarcasm he saved for me right before he pummeled me with something like his fists or a pipe or James’ baseball bat, but rather a genuine sound from somewhere deep in his being.
“Shema Mathew”—he wiped his eyes and shook a finger at his wife—“goddamn ñān ninne snēhikkunnu. You have bigger balls than I. But she”—and here he tossed his head in Sevyn’s direction—“is as worthless as that piece of shit you call a son. I want her handled.”
Shema turned toward Sevyn and rubbed her arm, an affectionate gesture that only my mother could make seem cold, as she gave her the once-over, that dismissive glance women seemed so good at giving other women, making them feel small and unworthy. Interestingly, Sevyn did not falter under my mother’s
gaze, and once again I was left to wonder at the woman intended to become my wife.
“I have been assured Sevyn is a most worthy and enthusiastic candidate for Dutch’s hand,” my mother said, glancing toward my corner of the room, letting me know she knew my whereabouts. Everyone’s eye’s followed hers. “And will do everything in her power to make the Mathew family proud.”
“Fuck Sevyn and her enthusiasm,” Khan spat. “Just marry Dutch and let’s be done with this shit.”
“We had a goddamned deal, you motherfucker.” I stepped from the shadows and hissed under my breath, “You got me in exchange for Juma’s safety. There was no mention of marriage or Keeper Suleiman or any of this nonsense. It was you and me and nothing else.”
“That was then, Dutch.” Khan settled into his chair at the head of the table as the meal was brought in and served. Slowly everyone pulled out their chairs and joined him at the table, everyone but me. I could tell he was hardly intrigued by the shrimp curry, Goan beans, and idlii and I couldn’t help but wonder when the idiots in the kitchen would learn he only enjoyed devouring still-beating hearts and hardly-dark souls.
“Fuck you, Khan.”
A slap to the back of my knee with the fat end of some sort of stick sent me to the floor, but I was up in seconds, hardly shaken by James and his usual antics. I was ready for that bullshit, the routine so tired and old.
“James!” my mother cried out, surprising everyone gathered, including herself. “Refrain from that rubbish.”
She waved a hand in my direction, not meeting my eye but, for the first time I could recall, coming to my defense. I didn’t trust my mother as far as I could throw her, so whatever utterances she made in my name went in one ear and out the other, but her outburst added to the surreality of the evening.
“I made that deal when I thought I needed to make that deal,” Khan drawled, his words slow and purposeful, and I knew he enjoyed watching me twist around in the wind, unsure of my next steps, incapable of predicting his next steps in this game of cat and mouse.
“You still need to make the deal. It is the only way to keep me here, to hold this power in the Mathew name. You know it and I know it,” I replied.
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