Juma

by Madhuri Pavamani

  Khan sipped his Scotch, twirling the contents of the glass with his thick finger, and laughed.

  “Since when do you have an ounce of power around these halls, Dutch?”

  “Since always, Khan. Being the only Keeper with Mathew for a last name does wonders in that regard.”

  “The Black Copse—” he began, and I swear as soon as that name rolled off his tongue, I saw red.

  “Fuck The Black Copse,” I interrupted him, “that bullshit you and Veda want to throw around as if it means something. Fuck that. It means nothing. All that matters is me. I hold the power. Not you or Veda or The Black Copse. Just me.”

  And I knew it was coming because I wanted it to come. I called it with my actions, my words, my tone. I needed it—the violence my body knew so well, the torture my mind expected, the bloodshed I endured time and again.

  James Sussex and his many tools of the trade.

  Baseball bat.

  Machete.

  Scalpel.

  Drill.

  Cattle prod.

  I craved his darkness, that sinister voice and those goddamned yellow eyes. I wanted that motherfucker all over me, everywhere, so when he stepped from the shadows with Everlee in his hand, glinting in the candlelight, her blade probably sharpened on a stone just seconds prior to this meeting, my body relaxed.

  Because I knew.

  The pain.

  It was coming.

  He was going to bring it, just like he always did.

  I felt his heat and smelled the metal of the machete, my old friend—Everlee knew my weakest points so well, knew just where to slice skin and sever tendons and destroy muscle. She and her master had mastered me many times.

  James closed in and at the last second, I glimpsed his smile and those fucking yellow eyes reflected in a wine glass.

  And then nothing but black.

  I turned and flicked the tiny blade Frist designed years ago, the one attached to my wrist—minuscule, hidden, poisoned—and dragged it across James’ throat, deep and with purpose, slicing his jugular, followed by eight rapid jabs to the body and one to the thigh. I moved so fast that by the time anyone realized what had happened, it was over.

  And all that had been black and bathed in candlelight was now red.

  Fuck that twisted motherfucker and his goddamned Everlee. For years I’d withstood his psychotic proclivities, caring little for myself or whatever damage he and that blade had in store for me, whatever twisted shit he would concoct next. But that was before her.

  Juma.

  And her honey and grass and lemons and light.

  Before anything in this fucked-up game of lives mattered to me.

  Glancing down at James’ prone body, I spied Everlee and smiled and, as Juma would say, it reached my eyes. That goddamned blade was mine now.

  I picked her up, wiped my hands on his shirt, and left the Mathews to their meal.

  14: JUMA

  I am a lover

  full of light and wonder

  able to wrap others

  in my sexy

  and make them forget

  the madness

  the fury

  the shit

  * * *

  They take me lightly

  think me soft

  like my curves

  my lips

  forgetting that within

  that which is tender

  lies bone muscle heart

  hard

  unforgiving

  * * *

  I am a killer

  blanketed in darkness

  stealth

  murder

  more wily and cunning

  dangerous and deadly

  than any

  could imagine

  * * *

  Listen up

  pay attention

  because I will

  only say this once

  don’t be fooled

  by the pretty face

  and sexy smile

  * * *

  Encased within

  these ribs

  protected

  caged

  is a heart

  full of rage

  and fury

  * * *

  You’ve been warned

  15: DUTCH

  Dutch—call me.

  Now.

  James is dead.

  And word on the street

  is you killed him.

  Fuuuuuuck.

  * * *

  I did.

  And I’ve got

  Everlee as proof.

  * * *

  Dutch.

  Call me now,

  you bastard.

  * * *

  Leave me the

  fuck alone, Avery

  * * *

  Dutch.

  It’s been eighty-three days.

  There’s a goddamned

  bounty on your head.

  * * *

  Actually eighty-four, asshole.

  * * *

  Dutch.

  It’s about Juma.

  Call me now.

  * * *

  “Avery.” I didn’t wait for a response. “Where is Juma?”

  16: JUMA

  My team entered our war room, the familiar space we had worked in since I could recall, far removed from Death and her shenanigans in a quiet corner of the realm where folks left us alone to plot and plan our magic. Each and every one of us took one look at our new job and blanched. They had no idea their next assignment would be my ma.

  I’d known for months, but for some reason had kept that information close, telling my team nothing, allowing my ma some time on her own to wander the halls revel in the magic understand her daughter in ways I never imagined possible. It was selfish and odd and rather infantile, but I needed it. I needed her, in ways I never had before. And although I never explained myself to her or Marina or Death, everyone seemed to understand I would get around to the act of reclamating her when I was ready, when I had finished wrapping myself around her, taking comfort in the fact that after thirty years, my ma finally knew me. Not Juma the New York City romance blogger, but Juma the wondrous being of other worlds and secrets and power.

  So yeah, I’d sat on her assignment and kept her for myself a little longer than the norm—fuck that, a lot longer than the norm. But so what, she was my ma. Here and there, I was allowed a few transgressions.

  This morning was the time to set everything right and back on track and on schedule. This morning was the time to start working.

  “Good morning, lovely people.” I smiled, genuinely pleased to be back in the warm embrace of my Alighters, those talented warriors who worked their asses off for me around the globe, wherever I required their skill and expertise, without a question asked or a complaint lodged. They had worked with me for years—some, like Kobe Sax, since I first started handling Deaders—and we knew each other’s quirks and tics like the backs of our hands. It was in large part due to my team that I was so successful, both at crossing Deaders and evading The Gate. We shared laughter and tears, and had more inside jokes than should be allowed. We argued and growled and shouted in each other’s faces. And then we calmed and stilled and forgave each other our transgressions because we were like family. So of course they would help me with my ma.

  “And yes, this is my ma, Mimi Landry, and as each of you can see, she is very much dead.”

  “Juma!” my ma exclaimed, as if my pronouncement shocked the conscience.

  “What?” I asked, amused and also curious as to what she found so disagreeable.

  “I prefer ‘unliving,’” she replied, stern and serious.

  “This is not The Walking Dead, Ma.” I knew exactly where she was going with this, having spent many an evening analyzing each episode of the zombie show since its inception. “You are hardly a zombie and my team and I are not soldiers in the apocalypse.”

  Chuckles erupted around the room as folks realized Ma was half serious.

  “Also, Gle
nn ain’t coming for you,” I continued with a smirk, “not now, not ever.”

  I let everyone enjoy the moment—it was rare that a team meeting with a Deader involved much levity, but when it did, it demanded a little revelry. I knew other Poochas would never allow such camaraderie to develop between themselves and their Alighters, but I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t believe in being heavy-handed and overly stern with my crew; the lines of the hierarchy did not need to be reviewed each and every time we worked together. Such behavior did nothing for morale and was even more detrimental to work ethic. My team fought so hard for me and my Deaders because I treated them as I would want someone to treat me.

  So yeah, here and there, we cut up and shit was funny.

  And just as fast, we got serious and hardcore.

  “Okay, folks.” I pointed at the map on the screen, raising my voice over the din of the room to get everyone’s attention focused back on the task at hand. “Just like sexy-ass Glenn in The Walking Dead, my ma lives in Georgia. Druid Hills to be exact. A small community off Ponce De Leon Avenue in Atlanta, in close proximity to both Emory University and the CDC. Bordered by such neighborhoods as Candler Park and Virginia Highlands, Druid Hills is exclusive, wealthy, and prone to gossip.

  “Lucky for us, Ma isn’t the friendliest individual, so she doesn’t know many folks. Unlucky for us, she isn’t the friendliest individual, so in a community just waiting for something or someone new to sink their teeth into, Ma is a perfect storm. Beauty, brains, bitchy attitude. Couple that with a friendly and charismatic husband, the famous Doc Landry, well, you see where I’m going.”

  To her credit, Ma sat quietly as I described her in detail, listening intently to my version of her pros and cons, my list of what made her case both simple and challenging. She never interjected, never squirmed, never sighed. When asked questions, she answered as thoroughly as possible, thoughtful responses full of insight and passion.

  “If I bumped into a neighbor and asked about you, what would they say?”

  “Probably that I drive like a maniac and make a mean pecan pie.”

  “Do you garden? What’s your favorite flower?”

  “Do I garden? Every damn day of my life,” and “I love freesia. The smell, the simplicity. But I’m also partial to tulips, something about them always reminds me of Juma.”

  “When were you most in love?”

  “Every time I lay eyes on that man I call my husband. It’s repetitive and mind-blowing and I tell myself one day it won’t be, I’ll control myself around him, but that one day has never shown its face around these parts.”

  The longer she spoke, the more all of us, myself included, learned about her, the woman, Mimi Landry. The more intimate of a portrait we could glean from a Deader, the better we could restore memories and fill blank spaces in a timeline.

  Five hours later I released the team with their assignments, then walked Ma to the grand ballroom for dinner, introducing her to a few people before I slipped away, but not before passing along instructions to relax and enjoy herself.

  “The days ahead will be exhausting, more brutal than today,” I warned.

  “It’s okay, sweetness.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know, Ma,” I replied as I hugged her close, her small frame fitting into mine perfectly. “I just need to say it so when you’re complaining that I’m working you too hard, I can shoot you a look that screams ‘I told you so.’”

  She laughed before turning quiet and pulling away from me.

  “He’s okay, right?”

  I wondered how long it would take her to mention Da.

  “I didn’t want to say anything, Juma, because I don’t know the rules around this place and I don’t want to piss anyone off. Because that’s what I do, I piss people off with the stuff that comes out of my mouth sometimes, so I’ve been quiet and listened and observed, and most of all, I’ve behaved,” she blurted out, as if the words had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for days. “But I need to know. It’s killing me, because what if he can’t make it without me? What if he forgets that I left the backdoor key under the stump? What if he needs to send an email but can’t remember his password? What if he needs to make gumbo but can’t get the roux just right? What is he going to do then, sweetness? I take care of him, I do little things no one knows I do because I haven’t wanted them knowing I took care of him so intimately, as if my love for him infringed on some definition I had for myself of feminism and love and how they worked together.”

  “But now, I know, who cares?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Because . . . please. Please, Juma, just tell me how he is. Even if you cannot, are not supposed to. Please. This one time.”

  “Ma, shhhhh.” I wiped her tears. “Don’t cry. Please.”

  “What if he doesn’t make it?” she finally sobbed and shook with the enormity of what I knew to be her greatest fear. And it became my turn to take care of her. All those years she picked up the phone in the middle of the night, pulled out her chair, and listened to my crazy stories. All those times she held me as I cried about some boy or some girl or both. All the moments of being my ma and caring for me as only she could.

  “Ma.” I spoke with a note of authority in my voice, sharp and sudden, and she jumped, which was my intended effect. I needed to snap her out of her panic. “He is fine. I was with Da when you passed. I spent two nights with him before leaving to come here, and he’s okay.”

  She smiled through her tears, but her eyes remained full of fear.

  “But how can you be sure?” she asked. “You don’t know him like I do. You don’t know what to look for, the small signs.”

  I cupped her face in my warm hands, momentarily shocked by the chill of death that had made a home in her skin, inhabited her person. “You’re right, Ma. I don’t know Da the way you do. But I know death and I know dying and I know the signs of both far better than you because I’ve been doing this for years and I’m one of the best. So trust when I say, he’s fine. He is not succumbing and when we’re ready to cross you back to him, he will be waiting and it will be heaven. That I promise.”

  And finally Ma relaxed. And her smile met her eyes. And she released me.

  “Thank you, sweetness.” She turned and made her way through the dinner crowd, finally heeding my advice and enjoying herself for a bit. I watched her for a second as she laughed with a tall woman sporting a French schoolgirl’s haircut and tattoos up and down her arms. She was as tall as Ma was small, and together they made a striking couple. Of course Mimi would find her, I mused to myself as I slipped from the room and walked down the dark hallway alone, my footfalls light and silent as I sought the Florentine tunnel that would deposit me exactly where I needed to be.

  It had been years since I’d used the Italian tunnels, preferring to fly first class on a regular jet airliner than suffer the inhospitability of the magical passageways leading to the secret bunker under the Duomo. But tonight I had little time for an eight-hour flight—I needed to be there immediately, so I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through the muck and filth until I felt my body lose itself, only to be spat out seconds later into a cold, dark room, my arms and legs tangled and sore, but on Italian soil, intact and unharmed, albeit a bit dirty.

  I needed to be in Florence because I needed to kill some Keepers because that was my mission now—to destroy The Gate by destroying the very body that kept it functioning, the very body that caused Dutch so much grief, the very body he and I planned to take down together. I needed to be in Florence because I needed to hunt attack decimate. I needed to be in Florence because I’d stolen information that needed to be acted upon.

  Paola Amado was a fierce Poocha with a mean streak. I took to her the second we crossed paths, and for some reason, the feeling was mutual. She didn’t like anyone, Death included, but she liked me. So when we downed a bottle of Jack one night and I asked her about her current assignment and where she was headed, she told me every dirty detail.

>   Clarinet player in a semi-famous Florentine jazz band. Obscure and yet not. Complicated but easy enough. And even though Paola was down to her last life, girlfriend had no fear.

  “Juma, that fat fuck of a Keeper assigned to my case, nothing about him leaves me worried.” She shot her whiskey and poured another. “Plus, if he gets lucky and finds me and kills me, at least I don’t have to deal with the head cunt around these parts anymore.”

  We laughed and drank and by the end of the night I knew exactly where her reclamation would take place—probably the same place I’d find the Keeper hunting my grumpy friend.

  Brushing myself off, I escaped the confines of the chamber, and slipped out the back of the ancient building into the busy morning streets of Florence. The address I needed was a short walk from the Duomo, on a quiet block with lots of grey-haired old ladies and stray cats.

  “Juma,” Paola hissed from between two buildings, pressed against the wall, hidden from view, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

  Before I could answer, I felt it—the chill—and moved, ducking down as the attack came from behind with speed and precision. But not surprise. To kill me, those motherfuckers would have to surprise me. I whipped my blade from my hip and sliced it across the neck of the shorter, darker Keeper, a man of about twenty-five, thirty years, fast and strong, but hardly expecting a counterattack.

  I shoved his body away from me while movement from the corner of my left eye shifted my focus. The charge was quick, as the woman jumped, used the wall as leverage to come around my front, and kicked me in the jaw. I shifted back slightly and she caught my shoulder instead, throwing herself off balance and providing me the chance to sideswipe her as she righted herself. I had her down on the ground and my sword through her gut before she could calculate her next move. She screamed and thrashed and tried in vain to remove the blade, but it was over. She was dead the moment she hit the ground.

  “Juma! Behind—” I turned just in time to catch the Keeper in his groin, my sword slicing his femoral artery before coming back up and lopping off his arm. But he wasn’t going down without a fight. He was tall and built like a house, solid and imposing, grim and pissed off. He was going to die—he knew it and I knew it—but he was going to try and take me down with him. He swung a fist my way, his surprising wingspan almost reaching me, then stepped forward and caught me in the side with his knee. I pitched forward and he threw his entire weight at me, landing on me from behind, knocking the air out of me and making me see stars. I lay there with that massive mountain of a man atop me, wondering if this was how I would waste my second life, taken out by this oaf landing on me with the grace of a blind bull, and that was when he came to me, all of his dark danger wrapping itself around me, and once again, I lost myself to thoughts of Dutch.