During Vox’s last life I tested my rosemary theory, picking up a bit of it around the 79th Street entrance to Central Park, crossing the street, and slipping into the American Museum of Natural History. I wondered if she was going to make me kill her in public, knowing I would if I had to, mostly because I wanted to put her behind me and move onto my next Poocha but also because she reminded me of someone I knew.
I followed the rosemary and surprised her in the bathroom, pushing into her stall and closing the door behind us. Her eyes betrayed her shock and since I knew it was her final death and she would never, ever walk these lives again, I let her in on my secret. I told her how easy it was to track her, how I knew exactly where to look because I could fucking smell her a mile away. And it was so goddamned beautiful watching her expression as I spoke, the horror of my capability and the fact she would never be able to warn those other motherfuckers she called family. Even today, it remained one of my career highlights.
I then proceeded to cut out her tongue and slowly bleed her dry, holding her by her hair as she thrashed about, flushing her blood down the toilet, and despite the fact it was her last life and she would never return, ever, and I could have made her final death utterly pain-free
I didn’t.
Because I was a sick fuck and that was the kind of thing sick fucks did.
That was the kind of thing us Keepers did. Bastards. The whole lot of us groomed and doomed for hell.
Now I was chasing Arjun’s funk—I didn’t call it a scent because the guy literally smelled like shit. And yeah, the city had moments where it fucking stank, but not like this bastard. His was unique, a special kind of shit that belonged only to him. It reminded me of chitlins—that first bite, when my mouth kind of filled with gas and I was certain I’d just eaten a fart.
That was Arjun, fucking stinking Indian asshole. A goddamned fart that I could sniff out anywhere. Stopping in front of 433 with my hand on the door handle, I hesitated, wondering how long it would take to wipe that guy out of existence once and for all. I patted my blades and then opened the door, smacking the lightbulb in the stairwell with my elbow, cloaking the windowless first floor in inky black. The sudden shift from light to dark seemed a warning of sorts, a kind of watch the fuck out, Dutch, this guy is no joke, and I heeded it, making myself still and silent as I listened to the sounds of the building and the night. I fingered Frist’s vial in my pocket, playing with the cap, making sure I could remove it quickly if needed.
And suddenly there it was, that smell.
I turned in the darkness, my eyes not yet adjusted, and swung my short blade defensively, lashing out in an effort to buy some time. I expected a counterattack and pressed myself against the wall while glancing up to check the stairwell. Not like I could see a goddamned thing, but I checked anyway. The stairwell appeared empty and the building was quiet, as if it knew something deadly was about to take place and was just holding its breath, sitting tight until the bad shit passed and it could get back to the business of everyday living.
I sniffed and knew he was right there with me, waiting.
I also knew it was now or never, kill or be killed, because as much as I hated admitting it, Arjun was a bad son of a bitch, more ferocious than any Poocha who had crossed my path and really the only one who had me a little scared for my own life.
So without waiting any longer and because I could smell that motherfucker all over me, I did exactly what Frist told me not to do, begged me not to do. I tossed all caution and care out the window and became a fucked-up bundle of desperate self-preservation. I uncapped that vial of god-knows-what that my gorgeous pink-haired mad scientist had made me and, without looking, flung it in the direction of the smell of shit.
Silent, tense seconds passed where all I could hear was our breathing, shallow and quiet, and then a shocked hiss in that goddamned Indo-British accent.
“What the fuck?”
A little louder.
“What
the
fuck!!!”
Then the panic.
“What
the
FUCK!!!”
And finally the fear.
“WHAAAAAAT
THE
FUUUUUUUUCK!”
Arjun screamed, a sound so primal and animalistic I turned away as if to protect myself from whatever I’d just unleashed, and in that instant, I knew I’d won. Whatever battle he and I had waged against each other, Poocha versus Keeper, Death versus The Gate, had ended and I had emerged the victor. Moving toward the sound of his screams, the thrashing about on the floor toward the back of the stairwell, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, making out his supine, violently shaking figure.
“You fucking piece of shite,” he spat as I neared, his voice sounding quite blood-filled as he choked and sputtered and hissed and cursed.
And as he died.
And as I gloated.
Because he was an asshole and had made my life hell for the last six years, challenging and exciting and more thrilling than it had been in ages, but also fucking brutal because he was good at staying alive and pissing off The Gate, which only spelled problems for me.
So yeah, I loomed over him and grinned and patted myself on the back because it was a sweet victory, worth sipping some Scout and lighting a smoke over and reveling in the specter of his slow death. And that’s what it was: slow, disgusting, painful.
Whatever Frist created ate Arjun from the inside out, leaving a gaping hole in his chest, one that only seemed to grow larger as I sat on the step and smoked and drank and watched that bastard. He cursed my existence until the very end, until I got sick of hearing his fucking voice and that goddamned pompous accent and I stood, tossed my smoke into the hole in his chest, and stomped his face with the heel of my boot.
After so much carrying on and cursing me up and down and sideways, the room finally fell quiet and the world, and my soul, was forever cleansed of the shitty-smelling Arjun Overbay. I lit another smoke, swigged some more Scout, and hit the street.
CHAPTER NINE
JUMA
I stood in the middle of my living room, bathed in soothing candlelight as Coltrane played quietly on my speakers, the sounds of “In a Sentimental Mood” moving through me and within me and around me until they settled in that place my soul saved just for Mr. Coltrane. That song in particular always reminded me of rainy afternoons and my ma painting in her studio while my da cooked dinner and we all marveled at the wonder that was rhythm and sadness and majesty and magic.
That was jazz.
That was Coltrane.
Since I was small, music and beats and sound played a huge role in my life, despite the fact that neither of my parents were musicians. That didn’t stop them from loving the way notes fit together to create beautiful melodies that could soothe a weary soul or stir a body to motion.
We were a singing, dancing family and music was in our blood, thumping through our veins, charming us with her soulful sexiness and raucous beats. She was the lover we shared and revered. She was the tie that bound us to one another, through the lilt of Marley or the beauty of Vaughan, the strum of Clapton or the swagger of Prince.
Music, ma and da, love. They all fit together in a neat package that filled me with longing for my ma’s kisses and my da’s laugh. For another time when we were together.
“Hi, ma.”
“Hi, baby girl,” my ma whispered into the phone, trying to shake the sleep from her voice, “you all right, sweetness?”
“I am,” I lied, “I just missed you is all. Wanted to hear your voice.”
She chuckled, so low and raspy I had to wonder how anyone could listen to Mimi Landry and not be intrigued by the woman making that sexy sound.
But that was only part of her magic.
The rest lived in her lazy smile, her delicate grace, and her sharp wit—sometimes so biting and cruel her challengers were left to simply gawk in awe and wonder how the tiny woman with the wild hair cut them to pieces and left th
em for dead so quickly. I loved that about her but also knew to steer clear of that darker side, for ma could be brutal, even with those she held dear. Her sister, my da, our beloved dog Fifi; all victims at one time or another of her temper and all scarred by the encounter. But not me because I knew. I always knew that even those who loved us desperately could sometimes commit the ugliest of sins against us, without meaning to but doing so nonetheless, incapable of stopping themselves because it was their nature, plain and simple.
“How’s work, Juma?”
I stood in my window and watched the pedestrian traffic below, momentarily lost in the mass of humanity scurrying from place to place, wondering where they were headed, how they felt, whether they were scared.
“Ma, do you have any fears?” I blurted out suddenly, ignoring her inane question about my work, not feeling like expounding upon the lie I had been telling my parents for years: I was a writer for an arts and entertainment blog, overseeing their love and romance pieces, very Carrie Bradshaw because I was a romantic at heart and was waiting to meet my Big.
Ma sucked in her breath. “Of course, I do. I worry about you and your da and . . .”
“No, not like that,” I interrupted her, not wanting to hear that nonsense, needing something real and gritty and raw, needing some honesty to ground me in the present so I could stop focusing on the what-ifs and what-coulds and the what-were-comings. “I mean the big things, the really scary shit.”
I could hear her moving around, settling in for some real talk, probably making herself some spice tea and grabbing a couple of lemon cookies because she knew I needed words, sounds, ideas, time, love.
“There is no scary shit, Juma.”
A flash of black caught my eye and my breath hitched.
“You’re wrong, ma.” I watched the street. “Trust me, you’re wrong.”
“I lived through the scary shit when I held you in my arms after a bullet tore your throat open. That’s the scary shit. None of this other stuff means a thing.”
Violet eyes glanced up from the street and met mine and for a second or two I wanted to move away from the window and pretend I had not seen her and she had not seen me and we had never crossed paths and I was not hers. Instead I nodded and she smiled and she almost looked relieved as if I could have told her no, as if that was ever an option.
“I have to go, Ma. I love you.”
The other end of the line was quiet. All I could hear for a few seconds was her breathing.
“Are you really okay?”
“I am,” I lied again.
“Are you still spending time with that girl, what was her name? Luella? Because I was thinking.”
I cut her off, not wanting to discuss Luella or the lie I had concocted when ma caught us together, thinking we were lovers, unaware Luella was dead and I was her Poocha.
“We’re not together anymore.”
“Oh Juma, I’m sorry,” she whispered, “she was such a pretty thing and so sweet. You two had such chemistry.”
I smiled to myself, pleased to have such an open and loving ma in my corner, always, no matter what.
“It’s okay.” A knock at my door followed by familiar footsteps drew my attention. “But let me go now for real.”
“I love you, sweetness.”
“Love you, too, Ma.”
I pushed the button and ended the call. Then I watched and wondered, tracing through my steps the last few days, whether I could have raised anyone’s ire or gotten in someone’s way or set in motion things that should have remained inert. I came up with nothing, but that did not quell my fear and concern and anxiety.
Death never just called
Death never just visited.
There was always a purpose, a reason, and it usually presaged trouble.
She wore leather pants, combat boots, and a tank top and everything hugged her in all the right places and for a moment, just a moment, I was distracted by the heat she unleashed in my blood and the ache of my pussy. But I collected myself and pushed all thoughts of my desire elsewhere, forgetting it as I cleaned up some plates and glasses and headed for my kitchen sink.
“Party?” she asked as she watched me move about.
“Something like that.”
“Or an orgy?”
“You’re getting warmer,” I replied as I loaded my dishwasher with the remnants of last night’s clusterfuck.
“Who touched you. Tell me.”
Then she was in front of me so close too close.
“Let’s not do this.” I shook my head slowly as I moved around her. She reached for me as I bent to pick up some trash, but I sidestepped her, knowing one touch would be my undoing.
“But I want to do this.” She pouted as she watched my back while I dumped out the hundreds of smoked butts and rinsed out the ashtrays. “It’s my right to know who’s been sharing your bed.”
I turned off the water, dried my hands, and turned around to face her, my hands resting on the edge of the sink behind me, a curious smile curving my lips. “Who said anything about a bed?”
Her eyes heated and it was game on. She was going to stalk me and tease me and fuck me and I wanted all of that and more, regardless of what her presence in my apartment signified, in spite of the fact I knew I should leave her alone, send her on her way, make her disappear.
“Is that how you talk to me?” she asked as she studied me, her eyes mischievous, her voice my undoing. I didn’t stir, I barely breathed, so captivated was I by everything about her.
It was always like this, had always been like this since the first time our paths crossed. In my youth I had been at her mercy and whim, willing to do whatever she asked of me, and as a woman I was willing to give her all of me and more.
“Answer me, Juma.”
She stopped in front of me and leaned against the stove, her weight on one hip, a hand lightly tapping the soapstone countertop as her other toyed with her belt loop. The blue-black of her hair would have seemed harsh on anyone else, but the warm brown of her skin was its perfect complement and all I wanted was to run my hands through the loose curls but I kept them right where they were, gripping the sink, anywhere but on her body.
“I shouldn’t,” I finally admitted, the act, the words, sending a rush of heat to my pussy.
“Shouldn’t what?” she half-hissed half-purred, and every atom of my being felt afire, fueled by an unrelenting need, an all-encompassing desire that I once confused for love but now with the passage of time and the benefit of age understood to be nothing more than the comfort of the familiar.
Our eyes locked and I waited, fully aware she expected an answer to her question, just uncertain whether I felt like acquiescing.
“Juma.” She took a step closer and I wanted to move away but I couldn’t.
“Mistress,” I replied in the same tone, teasing, taunting, daring Death to do what I would not.
“Who fucked you last night?”
Her sudden shift in questioning caught me off guard, her angry tone stilled my breath and I eyed her cautiously, wondering what game she was playing with me, why she kept coming back to last night.
“Why?”
Movement, shifting, and heat.
She came so close, but refrained from touching, even though she knew it was all I craved.
“Because—” She smiled and leaned in to press her lips to my ear. “—I like to know what tickles your fancy. Is that a crime?” Her fingers worked the buttons on my shirt, painstakingly slow, while she pressed kisses along my neck, hitting every spot that made me crazy and felt so right, even though it was not.
“No,” I gasped as her tongue circled my nipple and she pushed my shirt off my shoulders.
“No what, Juma?” She nipped my lower lip and grinned.
It was then that I realized my hands still gripped the sink. As if reading my mind, she placed her own on top of mine, boxing me into a confined space of her own creation. Death smiled and my pussy quaked.
“I like your h
ands right where they are. Don’t move them.”
I glanced back at the sink’s edge. “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
“It pushes your very perfect breasts right into my face,” she explained as if I had never spoken, dipping her head and taking my nipple into her mouth, shattering any defenses I had at my disposal, igniting me, owning me. I arched into her and moaned and she sighed a sigh of total joy and smug victory.
“It’s not a crime,” I hissed, my eyes closed and my lips parted. I was totally focused on her tongue on my skin, and yet I managed to put a coherent thought together and answer her question, which by now she had forgotten even asking. She pulled back to study me with a question in her eyes and I laughed because I loved those moments when I threw her for a loop put her off-balance left her wondering. “I like that you want to know who fucked me last night.”
“Ah, yes.” She half-grinned as she traced circles around my breasts. “Last night. Was it a man or a woman? I’m guessing a woman, because you reek of pussy. And did she suck your gorgeous brown nipples like I’m doing now? Did she make them hard and your breasts heavy and your pussy wet? Did you arch into her touch and gasp her name?” She asked all of that although she wanted to know none of it.
She never wanted to know, she simply wanted to ask, to conjure all the many lewd and lascivious things she could imagine I would enjoy and roll them off her tongue and try them on me but never really know whether I tried them on someone besides her.
“I did, just like that.” Death stepped back, shocked by my words. “And she loved it. But you know what she loved more?” And now I was pressed against her and my lips were on her ear and I could feel her desire through her barely-there shirt as her nipples hardened and pressed against my skin, points of scorching heat and lust and even though I wanted nothing more than to put my mouth on them I resisted because first I wanted her to hear my words, to listen, to feel them move through her and make her jealous. And wet, and wanting nothing more than me.
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