But that was where James’s positives ended.
He was tall, lean, and dark, with a face that gave both men and women pause, for it was stunning, as if created for the very purpose of entering your dreams and haunting them forever. But he was a sick fuck and, soon enough, those dreams of him turned to nightmares. He carried two weapons on him at all times—a machete named Everlee and a baseball bat so bloodied it needed no name. He never hesitated using Everlee, and if for some reason she wasn’t available, he would fall back on his old beat-up bloodied aluminum bat. I’d been on the receiving end of both.
I hated them
the weapons and the Keepers
yet didn’t give two fucks about either of them. Because if they were going to kill me, they would have done it a long time ago. Should have done it a long time ago. Now I was too valuable as a Keeper, and they were too powerful within the hierarchy of The Gate. They couldn’t kill me even if they wanted to. Instead, to assuage their frustration, they came around every so often and administered their special brand of justice, the one they’d created just for me.
“You’re taking far too long with Arjun.” Rani took a seat across from me, crossing her legs, flashing me her bare pussy.
I didn’t dare break my gaze from hers because, one, I knew exactly what her pussy looked like, having been inside it quite a few times, and two, I wanted to leave this room with at least one of my eyes in working condition.
“And it’s pissing everyone off,” she growled low, “especially your mother and father, and I want to deal with neither of them.”
I leaned back in my chair and sliced my fingers through my hair, frustrated by the conversation. The same conversation we’d been having for years.
“Don’t you dare get annoyed, Dutch.” Rani narrowed her eyes. “We have protocols around here, protocols your mother spent years researching and writing, protocols you seem incapable of following.”
“And what exactly does Shema Mathew’s protocol say about lazy senior Keepers who consistently assign the toughest Poochas to their more junior colleagues,” I retorted. “Since you and Shema are so close and cozy, why don’t you give me the liner notes of her motherfucking protocol? Or better yet, how about you and James do your goddamned jobs for a change and assign me a few of the easy deaths, the dimwits. Or better yet, just fucking fire me already.”
Bam!
He hit me on my bad side, the side Rani had already attacked, so I didn’t even know he was coming. Slapped me with the flat side of his machete, splitting open the side of my skull.
Motherfucking psycho. Who did shit like that?
James Sussex did.
I sucked in a breath, took a swig from my flask, and lit another smoke as he settled on a couch across from me. I was going to be stuck there all night and it was going to get ugly. My eye was a mess, and that goddamned machete cut my head. I could feel the blood running behind my ear and soaking the collar of my T-shirt.
“Clean yourself up.” James tossed a linen handkerchief my way—perfectly crisp, monogrammed, and never used. I knew better than to mar it with my blood, and instead wiped my face with my shirt, leaving the handkerchief perfectly folded on the table between us. James watched my every move with his yellow eyes, their sickly hue the perfect companion to his less-than-compassionate feelings toward me. “And stop walking around with that fucking look on your face.”
I inhaled on my smoke and started to ask him to elaborate, but he brought a long, dark finger to his lips and demanded my silence. Fuck him and his preschool teacher antics.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, and smoked and waited. I was going to be here for a while, so I figured I might as well make it somewhat interesting. “What look?”
“That goddamned look.” James pointed his finger at me and sneered, and I couldn’t help laughing. “Keep laughing, Dutch, you stupid piece of shit, and I’ll make sure you leave this building in tears.”
“You’re going to do that anyway, James,” I groused, taunting him. Even though I knew I should shut up, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. “What difference does some goddamn laughter make? Shit, you should be pleased someone’s having a good time around here for a change.”
“This,” James hissed under his breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying me in quiet menace, staring so long and so hard, if I wasn’t me—a guy with a bit of a death wish—I would have moved out of his line of vision, so discomforting was his presence.
But I was me, and I didn’t give a fuck.
“This is the shit that gets under my skin and makes me want to do nothing but maim you,” James began, “the smirk, the attitude, the disdain for all things The Gate. As if your life is so horrible, coming from a powerful family, heir to our world. And yet, here you sit, pouting about how awful your motherfucking lot in life is.”
“Fuck you, James, no one is pouting,” I started to mouth off, only to be smacked on the side of my head, the already-bloody side, the split-open side, by Rani with what I assumed to be a rolled-up magazine.
Those two could make the most mundane of items into an arsenal of torture tools. I wiped my scalp as the blood ran anew and soaked my fingers.
“Watch your mouth, Dutch,” Rani warned. “As pretty as it is, I would hate to have to cut it off just to make you be quiet.”
“Don’t,” James declared as I opened my mouth to speak. “Do not fucking do it, Dutch. Because Rani may or may not do what she says she’ll do, but you and I both know I will. And I’ll enjoy every goddamn minute of it. So shut the fuck up before I make you.”
I contemplated him in his dark evil, the ebony of his skin a stark contrast to the pink of his mouth and the yellow of his eyes, all of it coming together to suggest stupendous peril. There had never existed a moment in the trajectory of our dealings with each other when we did not despise each other, from the moment he picked me up in that dark-tinted Mercedes to now, sitting across the table in silence.
James leaned back and pulled a thick joint from the inner pocket of his vest, his eyes never leaving my face as he lit the herb and inhaled long and slow and deep.
“All of this bullshit, me and Rani having to chase your bumbaclot ass all over the goddamned globe, could be avoided—” He took another hit of the joint. “—if you would get one thing through your motherfucking thick head.”
Here he paused again and I wondered if he expected me to interject something, add some color to what was no doubt going to be a colorful evening, or if he was simply testing me, trying to see how long I could remain quiet in the face of his silence. It didn’t matter, but when confronted with his weed-laden silences, it was the kind of shit I contemplated.
I lit another smoke and sank into the back of the couch, the picture of comfort and ease despite being trapped in a room with two people who loved nothing more than to put a hurt on me. And I waited.
“Don’t get comfortable, Dutch,” Rani warned as she settled in next to James and eyed my smoke. “Just fucking kill Arjun. It’s his last life. Be done with him.”
“And while you’re doing it, remember this is your goddamned job, you pussy,” James whisper-hissed as he exhaled sweet-smelling smoke. “No one cares about your soul or your heart or the pain you carry around knowing your mommy finds you less than worthy and your daddy spends every goddamned day wishing Veda was his firstborn.”
“That’s the shit keeping you up at night”—James pointed at me with the hand holding his joint, turning everything a little smoky—“but Rani and I could give two fucks about anything involving you and your concerns. Your concerns mean shit to us. Your soul even less. And you know why, Dutch? Because we fucking hate you. Mother. fucking. hate. you. As much as Khan hates you. Shiiiiiiiiit. Probably more.”
“Definitely more,” Rani added as she studied me, her entire being filled with disdain.
“So stop fucking around and doing all that crying about your lot in life and finish your goddamned job,” James continued, hi
s eyes yellow slits of menace, “because if I have to do it, if your daddy has to call me in to handle you one more time, there won’t be another.”
The ensuing silence curved around James’s promise as if it, too, sided with the psychotic fucks sitting across from me, smug smirks curving their lips, both of them waiting for me to say something, anything, and give them an excuse to pounce and do what they liked best: shredding my skin, crushing my bones, doing everything in their power to break my will.
Finally, Rani spoke.
“Finish your assignment, Dutch. We won’t say it again.”
“I am trying, love,” I replied, addressing her with the one word she abhorred, “but Arjun is smart and fast and has mastered the art of teleporting, so he will take some time.”
She clenched her jaw because the word love made her skin crawl and I knew it made her skin crawl. I also knew she would never acknowledge those four letters and their ability to fuck with her, and, inwardly, I smiled.
Tiny victories.
That’s what my life had been reduced to, but I didn’t care. Something had to make all of this shit worth it.
“Had you not spent damn near six years ending his lives, he would not even know what teleporting is!” Rani shot out of her seat, her irritation with me getting the better of her. “No one spends six years ending nine lives, Dutch. No one.”
“You’re wrong, Rani.” I leaned back and blew smoke in her face, hardly moved or scared by her display of temper, her simmering rage. “No one spends six years ending nine lives but me. I do that shit because you fucks keep assigning me the nearly unkillable.”
CHAPTER SIX
JUMA
Each time I completed a job and helped someone cross, I experienced a pull in my chest, a tightness that overwhelmed me. It was emotional for sure, but it was more than that, something organic, a part of me. Each of my Deaders took a tiny piece of me with them into their next journey: a sigh here, a smile there.
At least I hoped they did. God knew they were going to need it.
Returning from the dead was not simple, nor was it taken lightly. It was a process that was analyzed and studied, debated and argued, before a decision was made. Even after the return had been approved, the Deader still had to pass an interview with Death, and trust me, that woman had no problem sending folks packing.
Living the life of a Deader was hardly simple, either. There were pains and pangs, memory and knowledge. Personally, I believed that knowing what was on the other side, the second life lived after death, was what made coming back so complicated. Because that second life could be pretty damn sweet.
A Deader had to really want to return.
Isobel wanted to, and I helped her.
She wanted college and British Lit with Professor Hildebrandt and study sessions in Butler and living in her apartment on Amsterdam Avenue. She wanted Alan Yang—surgical resident, brilliant, gorgeous, wealthy, and devastated after losing the love of his life, his fiancée, one Isobel Zanotti: fiery Italian, sensual woman, irreplaceable.
The amount of “fixing” that went into reuniting Isobel and Alan exhausted me. The international relations alone took forever to repair, altering memories, making certain every person with knowledge of Isobel’s sudden death in a freak elevator accident had no memory of said accident. Then add the press that covered the story and everyone who read about the story. . . .
I worked my ass off for that girl. And yeah, I showed up late every so often, a little more often than she would like, but damn if I didn’t deserve some slack for pulling that one off.
I entered the apartment first and leaned against the wall, watching as Isobel walked in as she had done every evening after work when she had been alive. Alan was home, sleeping soundly. The evening light was low and the shades in the room were open, casting shadows over his prone figure spread across their bed.
Isobel glanced my way, tears in her eyes. Forgotten was the Deader lusting after a gorgeous Poocha, wanting nothing more than for him to fuck her to oblivion. Gone was the impassioned woman who attacked me on the sidewalk and cursed me as we walked. In her place stood a trembling, scared girl.
“Juma,” she whispered.
I smiled and stepped toward her, pulling her into my embrace and holding her for a second.
This was the moment.
I had seen the same expression on so many of my Deaders’ faces. That moment when everything they wanted was right at their fingertips, their most fervent dreams were within reach, touchable, yet they paused.
Because it terrified them.
They were crossing into a life of unknown physical pain. It could be debilitating or just a dull ache. All they knew, all we knew, was it would exist. But even scarier than the prospect of pain was the fear of rejection. Because although I made sure the return happened, that it made sense that the Deader returned to the life they so coveted, that every t was crossed and i was dotted in the story line of their existence, I was helpless when it came to love.
I could not force someone to love or another to stay in love. My hands were tied. Love had its own agenda, one that was not cowed by Death and her cronies.
I held Isobel’s face in my hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You were his everything.”
“And then I died.”
I wiped the lone tear that trickled down her face and released her. “And now you are back and your man is hot as shit, so go get him and enjoy this beautiful life. Now. Before I take him for myself.”
She swatted at me and finally smiled.
I slipped back into the shadows to watch, because the first time lovers laid eyes on each other again, touched again—that was what I cherished.
Isobel hesitated in the doorway of their bedroom. Alan shifted and the light hit him just so, and Isobel rushed into the room, a frenzied mess of desire and need and fear. I followed and watched as she ran her hands over his face and his arms and his side. He stirred and she gasped.
He opened his eyes and locked on her, his stare full of shock and question, borderline horror, and everything seemed to stop, all action and sound.
My heart lurched and my stomach clenched as my hand came up to my lips to suppress a sob. Isobel touched his face, and he widened his eyes. I quickly went back through the paces, wondering where I went wrong, what step I had skipped in the process of reclaiming his memories and enabling her return.
But he did not shy away from her, because suddenly everything clicked for him. His eyes came alive with love and recognition and wonder, and she fell into his arms. His lips found hers and they both wept.
I hit the nighttime city streets, so very pleased with myself.
Another successful Deader under my belt.
Another difficult Deader under my belt.
I was really good at what I did, which was precisely why I carried those blades. Because they were coming, those brutal motherfuckers, those psychotic killers, those unconscionable monsters—the Keepers.
I had known this since I was five years old and returned to this world as one of Death’s chosen. It was a fate I accepted and understood, but that did not mean I wasn’t going to do my best to avoid it for as long as possible. It was why I stayed under the radar, conducted myself on the periphery, did my dirty in the shadows, because for real, I did not want the spotlight.
I did not want the Keepers.
Don’t get me wrong. I always wanted to be the best. But that didn’t mean I needed the accolades. A kiss here and a caress there from Death and I was fine. It was enough and it kept me safe. But thirty years was a long time to go undetected. No one else had managed such a feat, and I sensed my run was coming to a close. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
Except dance.
To loud, in-your-blood, booty-bumping, grind-on-your-lover, this-club-is-crowded-and-sweaty-and-the-lights-are-low-as-fuck kind of music.
I knew just the spot. And I knew just the lover.
“Juma.”
He leaned close an
d whispered, his lips grazing my ear. He was beautiful and the heat of his breath was enough touch to make me wet.
“Xander.”
The music in Bob’s throbbed a steady beat through the speakers, ricocheted off the walls, and landed in my soul, in my pussy. Xander’s hand was on my hip as he pulled me close and his other hand slipped between my legs. I wound my arms around his neck as my lips found his and our tongues met, circling, tasting. And at that moment I should have been focused on Xander and his beautiful body and his wicked mouth, his hands that teased my nipples, his big dick that demanded my attention, but instead I pictured dark hair and brown skin and mystery and despair.
The stranger from the subway.
The man whose eye color I couldn’t begin to tell you, but whose everything had haunted my most random thoughts since crossing my path. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or paid attention or even bothered looking—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was his effect on me. Something about his darkness called to me and I craved him with little understanding or concern for why.
Xander may have been unzipping his jeans and sliding my panties to the side and fucking me right there in the middle of the dance floor, but he didn’t have my undivided attention. His thumb might have never stopped working my clit with the lightest of touches, just like I liked, just like I needed, but that didn’t mean he occupied my every thought.
No.
A dark stranger claimed those. His shadowy presence wrapped around me, shading what would normally be pops and explosions of blinding light with his greys and browns, coloring my orgasm with his personal hue.
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