“Marina,” I said, and she smiled, “please sit back down,” and again she smiled and looked a little apologetic, but she didn’t sit back down.
“Juma, don’t be scared. You’ve got this.”
“I’ve got what?” I asked, my voice rising in slight panic as Marina waved her hands around the expanse.
“All of this. It’s yours now.”
“I don’t want it!” I shook my head and stood, my fingers pressed into the table so hard, they turned white, my legs shaking.
“Oh, but you do, baby girl,” she replied, “yes, you do.”
But she was wrong. I wanted no part of any of this.
Nothing.
Nada.
None whatsoever.
“Giselle used your—” Marina began.
“Death,” I cut her off, my voice loud clear and motherfucking determined. “Her name is Death.”
“Giselle used your deep, abiding love for your parents and then for Dutch to her advantage because that love kept you beholden to her until she knew you were ready to take over,” Marina explained in a voice so calm, you would have thought we were discussing the weather or a crossword puzzle answer or the best place to get a manicure under twelve dollars.
Anything but this.
“But what she failed to mention was that in doing so, and choosing you as her successor, and grooming you, and doing everything in her power to make sure you would be an even better Death than she,” Marina said with a smile, and her eyes filled with tears, “Giselle gave you back your life. And your loves.”
Loves.
Love.
Dutch.
It was a fact, since that night all those many nights ago, in that dark bar with that foul-mouthed beautiful tortured man, any time I heard the word “love,” my mind immediately went to Dutch. This moment was no different.
“No.” I shook my head in disbelief.
“Yes, baby girl,” Marina insisted. “You gave her freedom and she gave you love.”
“But I don’t know the first thing about any of this,” I stammered.
“Juuuuuuummmmma,” Sayyid spoke my name in that long lazy way of his, “you are making me look really bad right now.” And the Rouxs laughed in that way of theirs where you could tell they were amused, you could feel it in your toes, but their mouths never moved, and all of it was so fucking weird. “What do you think I’ve been doing all these years? Spending countless hours with you on darkened stairwells and hiding inside closets because I enjoy the company of ten-year-olds so much? And find teenage girls the epitome of pleasant?”
I didn’t respond, and quite honestly, nothing he said registered, as I was too busy watching the walls of the room transform before my eyes. Sayyid glanced around and smirked.
“You’ll have to promise me that you’ll work on controlling your moods,” he begged and almost-teased. “He’s incredibly good-looking, but I don’t think we want to spend the rest of our time working with you, staring at shots of Dutch Mathew every time we turn around.”
My face heated as a blush crept up my cheeks, but slowly the walls faded into a subtle bamboo design more fitting to the room and the mood than photos of Dutch everywhere the eye landed.
“You’re already a pro, young lady,” Grud noted with a wink, and I looked around for Marina’s approval to find her seat at the table empty.
“Where’s Marina?” I asked.
“She’s gone,” Sayyid replied, and I stared at him hard because what. the. fuck.
“Marina?” I asked as if he and I were speaking of two different women. “But she can’t leave,” I half stated, half whimpered.
“She can,” Sayyid disagreed, “and she did.”
“But she’s my chaat,” I whispered, and all of it sounded like a desperate plea for some serious help.
“Marina was Giselle’s chaat,” Sayyid explained. “You will have to find your own, for she has fulfilled her duties and I believe is headed to Eleuthera, where she hopes to spend many long nights wrapped around one Mr. Kravitz.”
And despite all my fears and trepidation, I burst out laughing.
It could not be helped.
“Do you know Mr. Kravitz?” Sayyid asked, confused by my sudden amusement.
“I do,” I replied, then added, “I mean, I don’t but I do, kind of. Oh, forget it, Sayyid.” I tossed up my hands and laughed again.
At everything.
Not just Marina and her hunt for Lenny, but also Death and her “Toodle-oo, cunts” and the walls of Dutch and leopard shag rugs and holy motherfuck of god.
My name was Juma Landry.
I died nine times.
I was never coming back.
And then I became Death.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: DUTCH
The nature of a Keeper is to plan.
Every assigned kill is plotted out with extreme precision, maps are created, cell phones are tapped, likes and dislikes are learned, random details are memorized, and only then do we make our move. It can take weeks, sometimes months, to execute an assignment.
It took three hours for Rani and me to act.
Once I managed to leave that cursed room where Juma died her final death, Frist and Rani recovered Kash’s body from one of the basement walk-in freezers where Frist had hidden him when she realized we were under attack. While they attended to Kash, I checked the grave site. True to form, Avery picked the perfect resting place for his love, on a higher elevation in the field so Kash could forever look down upon his beloved home and treasured gardens. We brought Kash out, spoke words over his body, Rani and Frist cried, I covered him with the very land he loved, and we prepared to depart.
“I need a little of the stuff,” I told Frist as I gathered my blades and Juma’s machete, and Frist tossed me a holster.
“It’s hers and it’s made for that knife,” Frist explained as she poured powder into a vial. “I went back. Figured you’d want it.”
The gesture, the holster, everything was thoughtful and kind and I should have said thanks but I couldn’t bring myself to utter a word of emotion. I grunted something or other, wrapped the holster around my waist, and left it at that.
“Don’t let anyone else touch it,” Frist said as she handed me the vial and nodded in Rani’s direction, watching the tiny Keeper sharpen her blades. “It’ll melt her in seconds flat. Just in case.”
“I heard that,” Rani mumbled as she tied her boots.
“Precisely my intent.” Frist winked at me and I almost-smiled but again, the whole emotion thing. Almosts were as good as anyone was getting from me for the time being.
“Mimi and Rufus—” I began.
“Are in town, cozied up together in a small bed-and-breakfast,” Frist cut me off. “I will retrieve them when I’m done here and we’ll head to Juma’s apartment. I’m sure they’re going to want to go through her things.”
I nodded. I couldn’t say much else.
“I’ll be kind, but I’m not going to lie to them,” Frist continued. “The sooner they know, the better.”
I finished my preparations and met Frist’s stare. “Agreed.”
“Okay then, good,” she replied, and stared at Rani and me, and her eyes filled and I shook my head no. “I’m sorry, Dutch.”
I wiped her tears, kissed her cheek, and turned to join Rani by the closet next to the front door. The portal, conveniently located so it never seemed odd when one popped in or out of the house that none of us would ever pop in or out of again. I looked around and tried to recall all the good times in this home, but knew the darker stuff, the nightmarish shit, would own my memories.
“You ready?” Rani asked.
“Dutch,” Frist called out, and I turned back one last time to take in my brilliant beautiful purple-haired scientist, “when you get back, I want to hear all about Khan’s last moments.”
“Over a Crif Dog and greasy onion rings so when I kiss you, it stinks?” I wondered, and she smiled.
“Need you ask?”
&nb
sp; I almost-laughed and Frist cried and I couldn’t bear her tears, so I turned back to Rani and instead of saying goodbye, I touched Rani’s hand and we stepped through the portal. Seconds later we were on the far side of the lake, right on the outskirts of Trivandrum in the middle of the morning.
“What’s the plan?” Rani asked as we made our way to my favorite spot to grab a chai and a smoke.
“There isn’t one,” I replied. “I know where he is every morning: sitting in that goddamned dining room, eating a late breakfast and reading reports. I’m going to go in there and kill him.”
We walked and drank and smoked as Rani considered my words and a mangy dog joined us, curious and convinced we had a snack. Rani tossed him her toast and he left us alone.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” she finally replied, and I raised a brow because I knew she was lying. “I’m serious. I like the simplicity of it. What’s the point of all kinds of carrying on and storming the barricades bullshit? Veda’s dead and now it’s his turn.”
Rani inhaled-exhaled on her smoke as her words settled around us. She glanced up at me, squinting her eyes in the morning sun, and I briefly wondered at this version of us and how two people who spent much of their lives cursing and maiming each other now existed in some sort of bizarre, yet rather fitting and almost karmic, alliance. The gods were some twisted motherfuckers.
“Kill Khan and they’re a nonissue.” Rani spoke into the morning, her statement pulling me out of my head and back into reality.
“How do you know that?” I asked the question I didn’t want answered.
“Because they didn’t disappear when you killed Veda,” Rani replied, “but from what Frist told me, I don’t get the impression their magic has evolved as much as Shema thought it would, which leads me to believe Khan and his black-magic makers are still in control. While you’re dealing with him, I will handle them.”
Rani smiled and it was all death.
“You’ll never get to them, those tunnels are impassable, Khan made sure of that,” I told her because I myself had tried years ago to explore the tunnels under the palace and find Khan’s enablers.
“Impassable for you, yes,” Rani agreed. “For me? Not so much.” And here she held up her hand. I stopped walking and considered her and that hand in the morning light.
“What did you do, Rani?”
“Let’s just say I paid a little extra to the soul collector.” She made a fist and admired her hand. “Those tunnel walls Khan thinks are impenetrable are nothing for this hand. His black-magic makers are in for a motherfucking surprise care of this hand.”
“I told you not to fuck with that Crooper.” I shook my head and we kept walking.
“Stop reminding me what a pussy you are,” she hissed, and smoked as we turned onto a small side street that ran along the back side of the palace. “Just take care of dear old dad, and I’ll do the rest.”
We stopped at the back gate, looked both ways, and then slipped inside. The side doors were open, they remained open at all times because—as Khan liked to roar to anyone willing to listen—if someone wanted to kill him, Khan welcomed the opportunity. The back side of the palace belonged to the servants and dog trainers and was quiet at this time of the day. No one saw us and even if they did, they would never say a word. Everyone around these parts detested Khan and would celebrate his death with a party like no other.
“This is where I leave you,” Rani said, and stopped in the dark hall before the carved wooden doors leading to the basement wine cellar and the tunnels she sought. I glanced at her hand again and she shadow-boxed my face and I knew that hand was her certain death.
“Why’d you do it?” I asked. “Why’d you trade your life for a wall-busting hand and a few moments alone with Khan’s dark-hearted magicians?”
“Don’t get all sappy on me, asshole,” she replied without answering my question.
“Just tell me.”
She started to say something and I figured it would be full of snark and sidestep anything remotely related to an honest answer.
Instead.
“For Shema. Plain and simple.” She shrugged and managed to look both fierce and sad at the same time. “She would have done the same for me.”
“She wouldn’t,” I replied, and Rani smiled.
“For you, definitely not. For me? Always.”
Then Rani turned on her heel, opened the doors, and headed downstairs, middle finger in the air as she departed.
“Fuck you, Rani.”
“Fuck you harder, Dutch.”
And she was gone.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time and everything stopped as I peered into the screen and upon a photo I took of Juma sleeping one morning. My screen saver. Despite the fact she’d told me never to be so corny and lovelorn, I could not help myself. With her, I was hopelessly lovelorn, awash in all things Juma, finding her perfect, flaws and all.
I had forgotten about this photo and my screen saver, and without warning I was back in her apartment, the morning light capturing her beauty, kissing her curves, rendering her impossible to resist. I’d taken that photo, then crawled back into bed with her, covering her in kisses, wrapping myself around her, and falling back to sleep.
The memory stole my breath—one long gasp and I was back in the dark hallway of the palace. I leaned against the wall, gathered myself—You got this, Dutch—and took off for the far staircase used by the servants. I reached it, cracked the door, and listened.
Silent but for the shuffle of papers, a random rustle and shift.
Khan was alone, most likely reviewing the previous evening’s reports on Keepers and their assignments, Junta proclamations, and the like. Back when James was still alive, they would do this together most mornings, but from what I could tell, James had yet to be replaced. There was no new secret lover. Yet.
I moved up the stairs like stealth death and slipped into the room unseen and unheard, the beauty of using the servants’ entrance. I could have slammed the doors and he would not have looked up, so trained was he in ignoring those he deemed less worthy.
Khan’s back was to me as he sat in his favorite chair at the head of the table and suddenly everything seemed too easy. Where was the Black Copse? Where were his trusted foot soldiers? Where was my uncle Darsh? Where was any motherfucker who could have this motherfucker’s back?
And then I breathed easy and settled and almost laughed out loud to myself—this, all of this, was the beauty of hubris on full display with Khan as the lead actor in his own Greek morality play. He was such a cocky asshole, a staunch believer in himself and his way and all things Khan Mathew, that he never once considered someone would dare enter his domain and try to kill him. And he sure as fuck did not think that someone would be me.
I pressed myself into the shadows and looked around the room. I knew the four points on the table like the back of my hand, and even though I was an inch or so taller than Khan, the difference in height was negligible. He would easily reach each leather strap. It was a matter of disabling him with enough speed, strength, and surprise that I could strap down his arms. Once that was accomplished, the rest was simple. I’d lived through it enough times to know the routine by heart: roll out the knives, select the perfect one for flaying skin, begin on the left side of the chest, and work clockwise around the body.
Collecting my darkest selves, I prayed to the gods above and below that I would not be held accountable for my actions. I knew I would probably die trying to escape this place, that there was little chance my deeds would go unnoticed. I simply hoped when I wound up in that horrific white room Juma described to me in such vivid detail, there would be no “extras” awaiting me and the white room itself would be considered punishment enough.
I began a countdown in my head—one two three—as I fisted my short blade in my right hand—four five six seven—and Juma’s machete in my left—eight nine—breathed deeply, filled my head with thoughts of Kash and Avery and Juma—ten—
and pounced. In one motion, I jabbed my short blade under his right arm while my left curled around his neck, lifted him from his chair, and slammed him onto the table, flat on his back. The air knocked from his lungs and in seconds I had him strapped down around his wrists, my blade still jutting from his side, as I moved down to strap his legs.
As I worked one strap, he came around with his free leg and kicked me in the side of the ear, clipping my ear, and for two or three seconds, I saw stars. But my adrenaline was pumping and I recovered fast, slashing Juma’s machete across his thigh and stilling him long enough to strap that leg to the table.
And then the bellowing started.
Khan raged and roared and called on every soul in his service. And I expected as much and honestly, I didn’t give a fuck. I strapped his other leg down, checked each corner to make sure they were secure, then I planted myself behind the main door and while he cursed me up and down, backwards and forward, I waited. Khan could carry on until he was blue in the face, I wanted to make sure whoever came through that door to heed his call died at the end of Juma’s blade.
Minutes ticked by of listening to his bullshit and waiting by the door to kill anything coming through it when it struck me: I could make that asshole shut up. I had been so caught up in getting him strapped down that I forgot how simple it was to also make him quiet. I walked a circle around the table, both watching him and listening for approaching footsteps, and when I reached his right side, I snatched my short blade and pulled it from his side. He bellowed and raged again, spat in my face, and tried to scare me but I saw it.
It was brief, just a flash, but I saw it. And he knew I saw it.
Fear.
“Isn’t so much fun being on this side of things, is it, Daddy?” I said, mocking his precious Veda and laughing as he tried to buck against the leather straps.
“You fucking piece of shit on the bottom of my shoe, the terror that will follow you the remainder of your days,” and he went on like that, spewing such nonsense as if he weren’t the body strapped to the table. I let him carry on as I moved around the room, studying him, watching him, and listening, always listening for someone, anyone coming to his aid. And when I made it to the left side of the table and stopped and listened to the words coming out of his mouth, the hatred and the disdain, a calm washed over me and I thought to myself, I could sit and listen to him all day and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference because I am standing and he is strapped down and that is all that matters. Until.
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