Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  The street and the sunlight and the pedestrians brought me real quick into the here and now, converging into a cautionary triumvirate, laden with the message, “Pay attention, Dutch! That motherfucker Arjun is wily.” As if I didn’t know that shit, but a reminder always helped. I checked the street, did a quick scan of every damn detail, then headed uptown and west for the apartment on Sixty-third and Columbus, and the dark-skinned girl with the mouth like a whore and an ass to match.

  Arjun was fucking her, this I knew because I smelled his special brand of shit two mornings ago when she and I passed each other in Barnes and Noble. And no, I didn’t read any goddamned books, at least not anymore, but I liked buying them, collecting them, building my library for the day I escaped this cesspool of shit I called my life and was once again able to get lost in the pages of a novel.

  Kayti Nika Raet.

  Monster.

  That was the book—the cover caught my eye on the train one day, and the next I was uptown searching the shelves for it. At least I was until she entered my peripheral vision.

  The dark-skinned goddess.

  She glanced my way and smiled.

  She knew.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her ass. Really, I couldn’t think about anything but fucking her among those stacks of books, that’s how goddamned sexy she was. She passed me, looking like sin. And smelling like shit. I coughed in surprise—how the fuck could someone so stunning carry such a stench? I then collected myself, remembered who I was and what I did for a living, and dug a little deeper.

  Something was off.

  Mingled in with the shit was something lighter, sage maybe. With a hint of grapefruit. That was her—sage and citrus. With an undertone of clean laundry drying in the sun.

  She was not fecal matter.

  She was not the shit wrapped all around her, hiding all of her headiness. And then I knew.

  Arjun.

  That morning I found my book, bought it, and followed her out of the store, downtown about twenty blocks to her high-rise building near Columbus Circle. Now I stood outside that same building, taking stock. I inhaled-exhaled on my smoke a few times, flicked it into the street, and breathed deeply through my nose.

  Shit.

  Feces.

  Excrement.

  Everywhere.

  That motherfucker was here and had probably been here for a few days, holed up with the dark goddess, and if he was anything like me, he had been fucking that gorgeous girl in every hole possible, as much as possible. I checked my blades again, scanned the street one more time, and made my way inside.

  I was a well-dressed, good-looking guy, with an air of confidence and a don’t-fuck-with-me sneer. That combo was all I needed to mingle with the crowd in the lobby and make it past building security. When the masses headed for the elevators, I slipped away to find the service elevators. I punched every floor, then began the slow ascent into the sky of ding, doors open, sniff, and keep going.

  On thirty-seven, I paused and bam! Shit hit me from every angle. I stepped out of the elevator and into the funk, following its trail of fetor to door 3718. The corner suite. No doubt large and airy, and from the likes of her, I was certain it was stunning. I jimmied the locks in silence and moved into the entryway, closing the door behind me.

  The sun had gone down, so I gave my eyes a second to adjust to the light as I studied my surroundings. Sparse, chic, and sophisticated, no surprise there. A chef’s kitchen at the far left, although I doubted she spent a second in it, a centrally located sunken living room, and a wall-size photograph of Grace Jones that stole my breath for two beats.

  I liked the dark goddess.

  Enough not to want to kill her, but not so much that I would hesitate killing her if need be. I glanced up at Grace once more, then headed toward the back of the apartment and what I suspected to be the master bedroom.

  I heard them before I saw them and I knew they were fucking. I could tell from the rhythm of skin on skin, the sighs, the whispers. I also knew he was hitting that doggy style, probably ramming his dick all up in her gorgeous pussy, so deep inside all of her wet warmth that nothing about me or my presence registered.

  I watched them from the doorway for a second because she was stunning and I couldn’t help watching him take her, couldn’t help wanting to be the one taking her. Then I moved.

  Silent.

  Deadly.

  Precise.

  And before either of them knew what happened, my poison-soaked blade tore through his throat, nearly severing his head, leaving him slumped against her perfect ass, leaving her stunned and screaming, all of that dark perfection covered in blood.

  But fuck it, at least I didn’t have to kill her.

  My name was Dutch Mathew and this was the kind of shit I did.

  This was my life as a Keeper, a deadly servant of The Gate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JUMA

  Deep within all my layers, my many selves, nestled an addict I was forever trying to tame.

  I woke this morning lying next to one of the most stunning men I had ever seen, an absolute study in perfection of the male species, from the strong set of his jaw to his broad shoulders, from his sculpted abs to his utterly fabulous dick.

  I smiled, tempted to put my mouth on it again, when the lovely thing lying between my legs stirred.

  I forgot to mention her, didn’t I?

  She was also quite pretty, just not like him. He was perfect

  blindingly so

  like the kind of perfect you got lost in because it was endless.

  But she had nice lips

  and when I saw her last night in the bar, I told him I wanted her lips all over my pussy while his dick was in my ass. His eyes flashed wild and then he made it happen

  because he was beautiful like that

  and she had a fabulous mouth

  and I was a vast pool of sensory overload, wanting to dive into everyone and anyone who caught my attention and whetted my desire. And then there we were, this threesome of touches and sucks and fucks, and as much as I would have loved to stay there all day with them, engaged in a repeat of last night because god, was that amazing, I had to bid my adieus.

  I glanced at the clock, which read 8:13, and sighed. I was already late, but some part of me—the silly, stupid part, the horny, turned-on part—hoped Isobel would not complain. I slid my fingers through the thick red locks fanned across my thigh, shifting my ass a little in an effort to begin untangling myself, and the pretty girl woke

  and smirked

  and kissed my pussy.

  I tossed my head back, closed my eyes, and smiled.

  Good morning to me.

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Shhh.” She spread my legs and parted my lips and blew warm air all over my pussy.

  Soon I was dripping wet and begging for her to devour me. And she obliged, her lips and tongue doing things to my body that should have been illegal. My hips rose to meet her mouth, she slipped two fingers inside me, and I was finished. Totally undone. A blinding light exploded behind my eyes and I came all over her tongue. She gave me a moment to settle, to gather myself, and then pressed a final kiss to my sex-swollen lips and smiled.

  “Now you can go,” she whispered.

  He never stirred.

  Which was too bad for him because I would have loved to suck that gorgeous dick while I fucked her face, but duty called. I leaned over and kissed her long and slow, tasting my sweetness on her tongue, then teased and sucked her very sexy, very hard nipples, and finally forced myself out of the bed.

  I showered, dressed, and prepared to leave, brushing a hand over the blade at my hip. This city was full of all kinds of people; not all of them were nice and not all of them were pleased to see me, so the blade on my hip was a necessity. The knife tucked safely against my back was an extravagance.

  Sighs, gasps, and a long, drawn-out moan reached my ears as I walked into the living room. He was awake and working that pretty
girl with his lovely dick. I wanted to stay and watch and I wanted to stay and join and I wanted to stay and be surrounded by lips and tongues and fingers and breasts, but I left because I was late and Isobel was out there waiting. I grabbed my keys off the counter, glanced back one more time, and then closed the door quietly behind me, leaving them to enjoy each other.

  The intense light of the morning, bright but hardly warm, shocked my eyes into full awareness, jolting the rest of my lazy, sexually sated body awake and aware. I fished around in my bag for my sunglasses.

  I actually was a morning person, I just liked to meander into situations, linger on the periphery for a bit. The sunlight wasn’t allowing for any of that.

  “Morning, Juma.”

  I turned to find Mike waiting for me with a cup of café con leche just how I liked it. Mike had made it for me just how I liked it for the last seventeen years because I was a creature of habit and constants. Those habits and constants soothed me and made it so I could breathe easy and not worry so much about the pain.

  Because it was coming. It was the fate of my kind, the Poocha, to suffer extreme pain so horrific we stopped and thought about what we were doing and whether we really wanted to continue down the path Death chose for us. The path of nine lives, each filled with crossing the dead back to the living, each filled with power and love and magic, each filled with fear and loathing and pain.

  Because to truly live, one first must die, and my kind died nine times.

  Nine times.

  At the hands of Keepers, those bastards full of evil and dread, those bastards who worked for The Gate. Those bastards I could feel sense perceive the chill of their soulless selves long before encountering them in real time, for real-time encounters meant little more than mind-numbing pain inflicted upon my body. Because Keepers believed the more twisted and sick they made my deaths, the less likely I would be to continue down the path of helping others avoid their own.

  And yes, the specter of my nine horrific and agonizing deaths hung over me like an invisible shroud, forever a reminder of my inevitable fates, but that didn’t stop me from doing what I did best, it just made me a little better at it a little quieter about it a little more hidden in the shadows and looking over my shoulder about it. And yes, it was also the reason I indulged in so much goooooood shit.

  Kissing.

  Sucking.

  Caressing.

  Licking.

  Biting.

  Fucking.

  Anything that provoked pleasure, stimulated my body, made my pussy wet and my nipples hard, I wanted it. As much as possible, as often as possible; there was never enough, certainly not enough to make up for the harrow and grotesquerie lurking in the shadows, biding its time, plotting its attack, coming for me.

  I knew my deaths were going to be brutal, mountains of demented and devastating agony, unimaginable horror and torture and cruelty. But until I was discovered and assigned, hunted and trapped, some fucked-up Keeper bringing the pain like nothing I had ever experienced, I was going to envelop myself in the bliss and joy and sheer nirvana of every

  moment

  touch

  pussy

  kiss

  ass

  dick

  lick

  breast

  fuck

  in every place possible

  in every orifice possible

  because it felt so goddamned good.

  And I needed all of that good shit to face all of the bad.

  “Thank you, Mike,” I said as I leaned in to kiss his cheek, and took the steaming cup of perfection from him, providing my body with its first, but certainly not its last, dose of caffeine for the day.

  “Have a good one, baby girl.”

  And my day officially began.

  I checked my phone and cursed—I was almost an hour late. My consistent inability to get anywhere on time had been brought to my attention a few weeks ago; it was the reason I was temporarily banned from using our system of underground, portal-like tunnels called Hubs to get anywhere fast. Some sort of bad-Poocha punishment meted out by one of Death’s minions. But I had my wand—it was compact, like a lipstick or mascara tube, and I didn’t have to hold and point it at someone to make it do what I wanted—so everything was good, I said to myself as a smug smile curved my lips and I touched my hip for its familiar form.

  Pause.

  And sigh.

  Or I’d had my wand until the other night.

  When I’d let that man whose name I could not recall, with full lips and dark eyes and a voice like honey, strip off my clothes and fuck me slow against his floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Hudson River. Somewhere between getting naked and getting him naked, I must have dropped it. I cursed myself again—How could you be so stupid, Juma?—because without my wand I was relegated to the New York City mass transit system in my effort to make my way up to Morningside Heights.

  I was going to be much more than an hour late.

  Death had spoken to me about this type of thing, a lapse she called it—in judgment or character, I had no idea. I was chastised and warned about my behavior but really didn’t care because all that mattered to me was avoiding the pain.

  Ducking into the Franklin Street subway station, I heard the train pull in and the doors slide open. I ran down the proper side of the staircase, swiped my MetroCard, and jumped in just as the doors began to shut. I hated running for the train, but damn if I did not look good making that entrance, totally smooth and certain. I laughed to myself and caught the eye of the guy seated across from me.

  He smiled. I took off my sunglasses and winked at him, probably making his morning with my quick flirt.

  I loved helping others feel good.

  I was Poocha. It was what I did.

  Just then I saw it, a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, a swish of black, so like the New York City uniform of the chic and sophisticated but of a different realm altogether. But more than what I saw was what I felt. The cold that crept into my bones, settled in my blood, and soothed me with its familiarity.

  Her.

  I knew her essence anywhere

  had known it since I was a little girl dying on an emergency room gurney as she promised me all kinds of things

  love

  power

  life

  knowing I wanted all of them more than I could say, craved them even as a tiny human, would obsess over them as a grown woman.

  Death knew all the right words to whisper in my ear and bring me to her bosom for all eternity, forever beholden to her and her whims, willing to do whatever she asked of me just to see her smile, and what did I receive in return?

  Her love,

  which was precious and given out to few.

  But not today

  today she was pissed—the chill of her glare said as much.

  “Get up.” She breezed through the doors as they opened at Fourteenth Street.

  I followed, obedient and cowed. It was coming, had been coming for months now.

  Reproof.

  Admonition.

  Punishment.

  As we reached a more deserted section of the platform, she spun on me, her dark pixie perfectly coiffed, her red lips caught in a sneer, and I prepared, my body tense and ready for whatever she was about to unload. But then some movement caught her attention, her eyes flashed to the right, and whatever anger and irritation had been directed at me dissipated.

  “Stay here, Juma,” she ordered. I stopped, and for once I didn’t say a word, I simply obeyed her command. Her tone demanded it.

  Death flew across the subway station, her eyes full of fire and fury directed somewhere distant and removed. I followed her trajectory and that’s when I saw.

  Him.

  Tall, lean, solitary.

  Calm, confident, beautiful.

  And dark. So very dark. As if light long ago stopped seeking refuge in the corners of his body, the cracks of his being. My body heated in places it should not, my b
lood pulsed a little stronger as I watched him, unable to look away, knowing I should lest he burn a hole straight through my core.

  Anyone else would have stepped away from her but he did not, unmoved by her oncoming fury, unafraid of her wrath. Death slammed into him and together they fell into the wall, tiles behind his head cracking from the impact. Minutes passed as she harangued him with her words and gestures and her power to bring the pain.

  And still he remained.

  Until she had enough, said enough, did enough and sent him on his way, watching as he disappeared into the dark of the subway tunnel, his shadowy self becoming one with the dank environs. Long seconds later, Death remained rooted to the spot and watching the tunnel, as if she expected the beautiful stranger to reappear, but he was gone, lost in the ether.

  She finally turned back my way and started, the movement slight but noticeable to my discerning eye, as if surprised by my presence, my rare acquiescence to one of her demands.

  “Juma,” she hissed as she neared, her ire piqued and ill-contained, “what are you doing?”

  “You told me to wait here,” I replied, “so I waited.”

  She raised a brow and sneered. “Fine time to start listening to a word I say,” she groused as she breezed past, her chill a balm to the strange heat inspired by the dark stranger, one that touched the tips of my fingers and kissed the depths of my soul.

  “Who was that man?” I could not help asking.

  Death spun back around, stopping so suddenly I crashed into her, our bodies pressed against each other, a position quite familiar and yet today, when she was so angry and full of unease, utterly foreign.

  “Forget you ever saw him, Juma,” she insisted as she grasped my chin in her hand and searched my eyes, probing for something I could not did not would not know, for she was in no mood to elaborate or educate further.

  “He’s from The Gate,” I continued, certain only those rotten fucks could inspire such a reaction from her.

  She stilled and it was as if all movement stilled with her and only she and I existed, the air sucked from the moment by the words falling from my lips.