Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  It came in the form of a burp.

  Khan punched his chest, belched, and departed without a word spoken to either Avery or myself, simply a glance in James’s direction. I slumped to my side as soon as they disappeared. Avery grabbed me and held me upright.

  “I’m going to put you on that couch over there and then get my equipment.”

  “No!” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. “You cannot leave me alone in this house in this state. Do not do that, Avery.”

  And so he pulled me up, draped my arm around his shoulder, and dragged my six-foot-four-inch frame back to his room. It was a feat of pure love, it took forever, and by the time he laid me down on his bed, I had lost so much blood I was hanging on to consciousness by a thread.

  “Stay with me, Dutch,” was all I remember hearing and then everything just kind of faded out. I woke up with no sense of time or place, just a note from Avery advising me to get the fuck out of Dodge and to call him and let him know when I had done just that. I ached everywhere and my chest was still on fire, but at least it wasn’t bleeding and the wound was closed. I unbuttoned the top of my shirt, checked Avery’s handiwork etched across my skin, and cringed. Then I glanced at my face, Khan’s handiwork everywhere, and shook my head. I had to get out of there before the permanent scars were not just of the spiritual sort.

  Slipping out of one of the many doors running along the back of the palace, I sucked my teeth as Kerala’s heat and humidity slapped me in the face, settled in my armpits, cupped my balls, and momentarily dampened my determination, slowing my pace as I headed for the gates to enter the portal. I spoke to no one, smiled at nothing, and all who passed sensed I was to be neither engaged nor questioned about my short stay and that my injuries were not to be commented upon.

  Everyone knew I was fucked and Khan owned my soul.

  But I didn’t care—I would trade anything of mine any day of the week for the safekeeping of Juma.

  I exited the New York portal, walked through the lobby of 70 Battery Place, and hit the streets. It was 9:39 p.m.—if I ran fast enough, I could be on Juma’s doorstep before ten. I weaved through the foot traffic along the West Side Highway, avoiding rollerbladers and bikes, running as fast as my chest would allow, stopping only for the cross-town lights at North Moore. I pushed into her building at ten on the nose, stopped, and breathed for what felt like the first time in days.

  Just being in her vicinity, in the structure of concrete and steel that she called home, soothed my fucked-up self.

  “Sir!” A deep voice and sharp tone caught my attention and I turned toward the front desk.

  “Juma Landry, please.”

  The security guard stood to his full height, which was that of a monster because that motherfucker was tall as shit, and studied me for a second, seeming to contemplate me and my injuries. I felt rather naked under his gaze and shifted, irritated by his analysis that felt akin to judgment, my movement reminding him of my request. Without taking his eyes off me, he pushed a button and called her place, letting it ring five times before shrugging his shoulders and hanging up.

  “Luke!” he yelled behind him, somewhere down a hall I couldn’t see, “You see Miss Landry leave tonight?”

  “Yeah,” came a faraway voice, “about an hour ago, looking real pretty.”

  “I didn’t ask all that, man.” The giant laughed and turned back to me. “Sorry, Miss Landry’s out.”

  I ran my hands through my hair, frustrated and anxious, trying to pull myself together and come up with a plan. Thankfully, Big Man had one for me, ready to put to good use. “Why don’t you leave your address and number and I’ll make sure Miss Landry gets it when she returns.”

  I took the pen he offered and nodded in agreement as I jotted down my information and slid the paper back his way. His baseball glove of a hand swallowed the note, slid it down the desk, and set it aside, presumably to pass along should she decide to breeze back through the doors. “You’re that guy from the other night. The fucked-up one.”

  It was a statement, but also an accusation. Big Man was testing me. And I fucking hated tests but I needed him on my side, so I behaved and engaged and answered. “You’re the guy from the other night.”

  One, two, three beats passed before he smirked. “You’re still looking pretty fucked up. Hope you’re not planning on bringing that shit around Miss Landry.” He smiled, but he wasn’t being friendly. And I liked that. I wanted Big Man watching her back, making sure she was okay. He didn’t have to like me, he only needed to like her. And it was evident he did so. I said my good-byes, took my leave, and headed back to my place, my chest screaming and my body feeling worse with each step, my mind racing.

  Hoping, praying that wherever she was, she wasn’t working a reclamation. She was drinking in a bar, meeting with Death, hanging with her friends, fucking some man, or woman, or both. It really didn’t matter to me what she was doing or who she was doing it with so long as she wasn’t working a Deader.

  I lit a smoke as I walked home—inhale, exhale, relax—going over the last forty-something hours in my mind, aware of the duplicative nature of Juma and me, our sick similarity to Kajal and me. I started to wonder what I had done to some god somewhere to deserve this, then remembered what I was—a Keeper, and my roots—The Gate, and from whence I came—Khan Mathew, and finally why my life repeated certain patterns—because I wasn’t worthy of much else. That, and I should have known she was a Poocha—her scent, the weapons, the way she healed my injuries—all signs she was “other”—I simply chose to ignore them and instead focus on her smile, those freckles, her laugh, her fuck-me-now thighs—everything that made her a woman. And made my insides ache and my dick hard as a rock.

  I flicked my butt and stood outside Locanda Verde, the site of our intended date that I had so royally fucked up. I thought of her in that dress and thought of her out of that dress and prayed she called me even though I knew she would not. I needed to find her and talk to her and explain myself and illuminate our very fucked-up situation and beg her forgiveness for everything—myself, my family, The Gate—but more than any of that, I simply needed to see her. Because if I could see her, even just a glimpse of her, I wouldn’t feel so wretched and done, finished, spent. I would be able to fool myself into believing I was worthy of something better, something fantastic, something epic.

  Her.

  I reached inside my jacket for my flask, needing something to numb the reality of my present situation, when I remembered I left it at her place or lost it or just never had it on me, so I said fuck it and pulled open the door of the restaurant, breezed past the pretty, young, goddamn-that-girl-has-perfect-breasts hostess, and headed for the bar. It was almost ten thirty and the place was packed but I spied a seat at the very end, near the kitchen, and made my way through the crowd, drawing some looks because I was a fucking mess, but mostly ignored because sure, I was a fucking mess, but it was New York City and really, no one cared.

  And then I saw her.

  I hadn’t yet reached the seat I’d already claimed as my own in my head when I glanced toward the back corner of the dining area—why? I couldn’t even tell you—and spied her alone, in the darkest corner, sipping a bourbon, wearing my dress.

  Part of me wanted to fly to her, crash into her, devour her. But the other part wanted to remain right where I was, unseen, and just watch her for a moment as she circled the rim of the glass with her finger and turned to watch passersby in the window, exposing that freckled spot on her throat that I loved, revealing the gentle curve of her breast as her dress shifted. I ordered a Scout from the bartender without taking my eyes off her and caught her smile as she chatted with the waiter and then her frown as he walked away and she glanced at the clock.

  I could stand there and watch her the rest of my days and it wouldn’t be long enough, there would never be enough Juma for me, this I knew. But she had already waited too long; it wasn’t fair to continue my exercise in voyeurism. I was a day late for a date
I’d planned, I wasn’t going to be a dick and make her wait a second longer. I stepped around the bar and into the dining area and as if she knew, her head shot up and our eyes locked and she was relieved and enraged and something akin to horrified, or maybe just super pissed.

  Whatever it was, she shot out of her seat and was on me in seconds, all over me, everywhere, without touching me anywhere. And I needed her to touch me, I fucking craved it, but I didn’t deserve it, so I said nothing, begged for nothing, and simply followed her lead of hands off, no touching.

  “You!” she hissed and glared and gnashed her teeth, then pivoted in frustration and returned to her seat. And I should have been feeling sheepish and guilty right then but I was too distracted by the way that dress hugged her curves and molded to her ass and she was just goddamned sensual. My death and salvation rolled up and mashed together so seamlessly it was difficult to discern where one began and the other ended and really, it didn’t fucking matter.

  She sat and I noticed a tiny vein popping out in the middle of her forehead, hinting at her ire. I wanted to reach out and run my thumb over it, ease it back into place, and calm her, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I turned my attention to our incredibly attentive waiter, realizing with a start that he was some fucked-up joke of the gods—young, broad-shouldered, perfect face, easy smile, everything I was not—and all of his attention was fixed on her.

  And why wouldn’t it be?

  Even sitting there shrouded in fury, Juma inspired all sorts of reckless, dirty thoughts. She wreaked havoc on one’s self-control, she transfixed. And add that barely-there dress, the color against her brown skin, the way the material cupped her breasts and left her back exposed, the hint of transparency, and she was a goddamned assault on the senses. So I got it, I understood why Mister Perfect Waiter couldn’t peel his eyes away from her. That didn’t mean I fucking liked it.

  He finished his speech about the specials and whatnot and she spoke: “We’re fine with just drinks,” and so did I: “We’ll have the sheep’s milk ricotta, the steak tartare, and two Scouts.”

  She glared at me and started to protest to Mister Perfect Waiter, then changed her mind and returned to me. “I don’t drink Scout.”

  “You’re constantly ordering bourbon,” I replied, the first words I’d spoken to her and they were so stupid and meaningless. I had the world on my tongue just waiting to speak my truths and bear my soul but I was so worried she no longer cared for me and my words that all I could muster was the inane and the random.

  “How would you know that?”

  “Is that really the point?” I asked and she stilled and the fury drained from her, only to be replaced by a deep sadness that, once allowed inside, consumed her, leveled her, and made her small.

  Even though she was larger than life.

  And I thought to myself, You fucking asshole, you promised you wouldn’t do this to her.

  Her eyes filled and threatened to spill over but did not, and I breathed deeply because I did not think I could watch her cry again without breaking down myself, which would be such a clusterfuck right in the middle of a busy Manhattan restaurant and we didn’t need to do that to everyone around us. No one here besides ourselves needed to witness our wretchedness. And she must have understood this because she held those tears, she owned them.

  Our drinks arrived and then our food but it was all ignored.

  “You wore my dress.”

  “I wore it yesterday, asshole, and I don’t even know why. Who does that? Who wears the same dress to the same restaurant to be left waiting for hours by the same man?” she asked and a rogue tear escaped. “Why are you so cruel with me?” she gasp-cried, the sound so low and mournful, and I couldn’t believe someone actually thought I would kill this woman. More than once. Ever. She could reclamate every Deader in waiting and I still wouldn’t end her life. Or let anyone else.

  “I need to go.” She stood and moved past me and for a second I just watched it happen, until I didn’t.

  “Juma.” I reached for her and pulled her back to me, onto my lap so I could hold her close and whisper in her ear, “Please.”

  “No.” She shook her head as she leaned into me. “Just let me go.”

  “I can’t.” I tightened my hold on her. “I won’t.”

  I caught the attention of Mister Perfect Waiter and signaled for the check, then handed him my black card, all while holding on to her, sensing that if I let her go, she would flee into the night, somewhere dark and secret and impossible to find.

  “Come home with me,” I begged.

  “You left me here last night”—she leaned back and glared at me, her eyes moving around my face, softening as she encountered my injuries, then returning to my eyes and remembering her anger—“in this fucking dress, looking like an idiot.”

  I brushed her neckline with my fingertips and felt the warmth of her skin, wishing I could slip my hand between her legs and feel the warmth of her pussy. Her nipples hardened at my touch, but her ire remained.

  “You look nothing like an idiot,” I replied as I studied her.

  “I did,” she growled, “waiting for you all night, so certain you would never leave me hanging like that. But once again, you proved that I’m such an ass when it comes to you. You’re not even that good looking, always walking around with your face black and blue. Fuck.”

  She squirmed out of my arms and wove through the tables toward the exit. I grabbed my credit card, signed the bill, and went after her, reaching for her hand as she reached for the door. She pulled out of my grasp and turned on me. “I liked you better when you couldn’t bear to touch me.”

  I faltered, her words hitting me in places nothing else could, and stopped my pursuit because she was right, what was I thinking, reaching for her as if I had the right. I watched her disappear out the door, the red of her dress reflected in the glass as she fled my presence, stepping into the night. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my fingers into my lids, and told myself I could still keep her safe. She didn’t need to know the reality of our situation, the steps already taken to ensure her safety, it was unnecessary pain and terror. I could track down Death and let her know the deal I’d struck with Khan or I could have Avery put together a team to shadow her or I could tell Frist to track her movements. I would work it out, one way or another, that much was certain.

  I pushed into my building and immediately looked around for any signs of those motherfuckers James or Rani, suspicious of their every move now that they knew where I lived. I swept the dimly lit bike locker and storage area because even though Khan and I had reached a détente, Rani, James, and I had no such agreement. Letting down my guard around them would be foolhardy. And so I searched and scoured and looked for anything untoward or out of place before heading to my apartment, trudging up the stairs instead of taking the elevator because each and every landing needed to be checked as well.

  I lit a smoke and began, up, up, and up, wondering where she was, what she was doing, and would she ever forgive me.

  She wasn’t mad about the dress or the date or being stood up, she was mad about me and the fact that she’d taken a chance and trusted me and I’d failed that trust in epic proportions. And although I had a more than reasonable excuse for last night and making her wait and never showing up and just generally being a bastard, it wasn’t the point. There were no more excuses. She didn’t want them, and quite frankly, I didn’t feel like making them.

  What would I tell her? Oh, sorry I was late, I was being beaten to a pulp by my father and sliced open by his madman of a lover? Hardly believable or worthy of repeating. I had never been one to wear the torture and brutality I suffered at the hands of Khan and his henchman on my sleeve for the world to see. I wasn’t about to start being that man now.

  Reaching my landing, I swept the space right and left before heading for my door. The door that was slightly ajar.

  Fuck.

  I stopped and leaned against the wall, running my hands over my hair, fur
iously sucking on my smoke, and gathering my wits. I needed to be all there, present and accounted for, if I had any hope of withstanding what awaited me on the other side of my trespassed-upon threshold. I checked my chest and Avery’s stitches and breathed a little easier—although the wound screamed, the stitches remained intact so an attack wouldn’t be impossible to defend. Khan had confiscated most of my weapons, but I still had a blade in my boot and another on my back. They would suffice.

  Fuck.

  I breathed deeply and unsheathed my blade, then stepped away from the wall and pushed the door open with my foot. The space was dim, the only light coming from the street, and everything looked just as it had when I left. But something was off. I tightened the grip on my weapon and closed the door behind me, the gears of the lock clicking into place, sealing me from any curious neighbors. I leaned against the wall as a few beads of sweat rolled down my back and waited.

  Fuck.

  Movement from the corner of my eye and just the hint of something familiar.

  “You’re a Keeper.” She came at me from the darkness, shocking me into eternal seconds of silence.

  “And you’re my assigned Poocha,” I finally replied, exposing our bitter truth, then listened as her breath caught and the apartment was once again still. This wasn’t how I wanted it to go down. I wanted to hold her in my arms and tell her I loved her and would never let anyone hurt her and that I’d made sure of that by selling my soul to Khan in exchange for hers. I wanted to whisper all the ways I would keep her safe from The Gate, even though I was The Gate. I wanted to assure her that so long as I was breathing, no one would ever touch her in anger, maim her beautiful body, assault her perfect soul. But like so much when it came to her, I didn’t do any of that, I didn’t speak, I didn’t move.