Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  Still bracing the wall he hissed, “Goddamn, you and your wicked mouth,” as I slid upward and forward and my hands wound all around him and I smiled and laughed and kissed him, hard, deep, mercilessly, imprinting myself on his soul with my lips my taste my sighs. “You’re killing me,” he whispered along the hollows of my throat, his lips warm and wet and full of sex and love and us.

  “No, Dutch.” I took his face in my hands and kissed his eyes and nose and mouth, so soft, ghosting my breath over his sweet spots. “This is you living, baby.” He stilled and for a second I worried he would escape my embrace and disappear into the night but instead he rushed at me, pulling me into his arms as I wrapped my legs around his hips and we fell into my apartment.

  And Death.

  “Juma.”

  Dutch let me slide down to the floor, his hand on the small of my back, so reassuring and protective, and I remember thinking he was quite charming when he got all alpha because Death was the last being I needed protecting from.

  “Mistress.” I smiled but she did not and for a second I thought it was because of him and I glanced his way and then smirked. “I would introduce you two, but something tells me that’s hardly necessary.”

  “Dutch,” she interrupted me, nodding a curt hello, “I need to speak with Juma if you don’t mind.”

  And I swear the earth shifted, my universe tilted ever so slightly, and what seconds earlier was so damn perfect now seemed just a little off.

  I knew her well enough to know that this situation—she, Dutch, and I in the same room, the perfect ménage à trois, the things we had done to one another, the things we could do to one another—was the shit she lived for, loved, thrilled to. So her simple request for privacy, seeming so innocuous—of course, Death would ask to speak to her Poocha alone—made me queasy because I knew. Suddenly I knew.

  “What happened?” I demanded, my voice low but full of panic.

  “Nothing, Juma,” she replied and I raced toward her, crashing into her with my full force, sending her flying into the floor, my hands at her throat, teeth bared.

  “Don’t you dare play coy with me, Mistress,” I hissed and cried, “you owe me that much.”

  She allowed my rage and fear to press on her throat, cut off an air supply that didn’t exist, inflict bodily harm. Years of frustration and anxiety pooled at the tips of my fingers as I wished for nothing more than to break her skin and bring forth rivers of red, certain she would not bleed and cognizant my wishes were childlike and foolish. But I didn’t care and held on to her, demanding she speak while making it impossible for her to do so, shaking her and shouting, losing myself to my most base behavior until. until. until. He wrapped his hands around mine and spoke low in my ear and held on until I calmed and shuddered and released her.

  None of us moved—Dutch and I knew that what was so right just minutes before no longer existed and whatever words Death possessed would render all we had promised each other sworn each other meaningless.

  “Your mother died an hour ago. She was crossing Peachtree Street and was hit by a drunk driver.”

  I didn’t hear another word of her explanation because all I could focus on was her lie. The reason all those years ago I agreed to her proposal, her way, her terms: come with me and your father will live. My life devoted to her in exchange for his life undisturbed. But I was young and not worldly enough to parse her words for the empty spaces unspoken truths hidden realities.

  She knew.

  She knew all along.

  That even if I saved my da, my ma would succumb.

  “How could you?” I sobbed, my voice broken my body wracked with unbearable grief. “You knew all along. When you slunk next to my little girl bedside and promised me all sorts of things, promised me my da. That whole time you knew my ma.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words.

  “Juma,” she purred.

  “Don’t you dare address me in that tone of voice,” I hissed low and deep, my eyes full of fury. “What nerve. I’m not some idiot woman you met on the street one night and took a fancy to so do not try and soothe me—I do not want to be soothed. I want to kill you, multiple times over, in the most gruesome ways, inflicting horrible pain upon your body and soul. And then I want to chase you into the pits of darkness and choke your screams smother your pleas for relief. I want to become the most sick and twisted Keeper to have graced these lives, to hunt you down the remainder of your days, committing all sorts of horrible acts against your person and even then I will not be satisfied. I will never be satisfied until you are no longer Death incarnate.”

  “You are simply upset about my news.”

  “You have no idea.” I cut her short, feeling the need to snap her head off her neck rise within me again, course through my veins, and seek release. My fingers twitched and as if he knew, Dutch touched them with the tips of his own and although he could not erase my desire to bring about her death, his touch reminded me to breathe. I glanced his way and caught him glaring at Death, his stance so fierce and protective, and whatever horrible things he was considering doing to her, I wanted him to do them all. Twice over.

  “I have to go. I have to call my da.”

  “He doesn’t know yet,” she interrupted my sudden burst of pointless activity, my need for motion animalistic in nature but with little meaningful purpose.

  I stopped and glared. “What do you mean? Why? Is she not yet dead?”

  “Not yet, but soon. It is inevitable.”

  “Nothing is inevitable when it comes to you,” I hissed. “Fix it.”

  She shook her head, her expression blank and stubborn, a certain chill emanating from her that I had never before witnessed and I wondered why. I glanced at Dutch and then to her before settling back on him and all of his dark danger and it struck me that as much as I loved him, so, too, did I love my ma.

  My beautiful, brilliant, wondrous ma. My stubborn, protective, brave ma. My no-longer-living, last-breath-taking, seconds-from-dead ma.

  A low, mournful howl made its way up my being, beginning in the furthest reaches of my toes, working its way through my soul my blood my bones until it took hold in my heart, wrapped its cold fingers around my throat and escaped my lips. Death turned at the sound, her eyes hinting at sorrow and sadness, and I knew she was not going to change her mind and save my ma. She was not going to allow my parents more time together. She was not going to spare my heart.

  I wanted to crumple to the ground and shake and beat my fists on the floor and lose myself to the horror but I did not. I would not give her the satisfaction. Instead, I gathered myself and what little control I held in the pit of my stomach, breathed deeply, and took a leap of faith.

  “Is this because of him?” I glanced at Dutch, refusing to meet his eye, barely acknowledging him. “Some sort of payback for stealing your dick? Because if that’s the case, take him. He’s all yours. I don’t want him.” I could feel his eyes on me but I refused to turn his way, knowing if I did, my resolve would falter and I would succumb to the hurt the shock the pain of my dismissal. I would pull him into my arms and take back every word uttered because I didn’t mean any of them.

  At all.

  The last thing I wanted to do was give him up, share him with another. He was mine to love forever. And yet, if it meant one more second with my ma, her laugh, her light, her love, then so be it.

  And that was why, despite wanting nothing more than his reassuring embrace, I did not turn his way or wrap my fingers around his or lean into his chest—I pretended he meant nothing to me because I prayed he meant the world to her.

  She moved into my space and smiled and wound up looking more deadly than I had ever before witnessed. She touched my hair, my jaw, my throat, and for the first time in our knowledge of each other, my body did not thrill at her nearness.

  “You do not mean that, sweet girl,” she whispered.

  “I do.” My voice sounded small and scared and she used that to her advantage.


  “Then you won’t mind if I drop to my knees, unzip his jeans, and suck his dick? Or take his hand and slip it between my legs and let him fuck me with those long, gorgeous fingers of his? Or push him to the ground and ride his face? Because you know those full lips of his are made for eating pussy.”

  “Stop,” I begged.

  “Or rub his big dick until he’s rock hard and then climb atop and ride him until we both come everywhere.” She reached to touch him as if she had any right and I drew the line.

  “No.” I stepped between her and Dutch, wanting her nowhere near him. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

  She laughed and the sound was wicked. “No? I can’t touch him? But you said I could have him, as if he is a bargaining chip in this game of lives, as if he is up for a trade—his life for your mother’s. So I’m going to do exactly as you suggested and take him, since you so carelessly tossed him to the wind with little concern for anything but her. And since Dutch matters so little to you, of course I’m going to enjoy him because he’s gorgeous and funny and smart and I have always loved his company and goddamn, that dick of his knows its way around my pussy.”

  “No more!”

  Ignoring my growing distress, she walked a circle around Dutch, studying him closely, thinking about each and every way he had touched her body, of this I was certain.

  “No more? Oh, sweet child, I am just getting started. I have plenty more.” She glared at me and growled.

  “Enough.”

  Dutch’s voice stilled my heart as he spoke that one word, simple and finite. He came from behind to stand by my side, grazing my fingertips with the briefest of touches, and I died a little. I couldn’t bear to look at him, ashamed of my offerings in my moment of desperation, devastated by my losses on too many levels.

  “But Juma said I could have you,” Death taunted.

  “Juma can say whatever she wants, Mistress.” His voice was low and calm, cool and confident. “She is desperate and destroyed by your news and willing to offer up anything or anyone that might tempt you into a different course of action. However, I am neither desperate nor destroyed, so trust when I say you cannot have me, no matter what Juma promises, because I belong to her and only her and nothing she can say will ever change that. So cut the shit, stop fucking around, and just tell Juma what she can do to help her mother.”

  Death studied us for a second, standing there side by side, one so grief-stricken and tiny and the other so determined and larger than life.

  “There is nothing Juma can do for her mother. Nothing at all. That woman’s fate was written decades ago, when she took her first breath in this new life. Her days were marked, notated, and finalized. Her death was ordained and it is happening, no matter what any of us wish to have happen otherwise.”

  “You are a liar.” I turned on her.

  “And you are a fool,” she countered, her words like a slap to my face.

  “You prevented my death, Marina’s, Kobe’s. Kajal’s! I could go on and on. And yet you claim to lack the power to prevent this one. You are positively worthless. An utter waste of space and energy. A pathetic excuse for a woman.”

  And then she was upon me, for I knew exactly how to raise her ire. She slashed my face and my neck, opening the skin, blood flying everywhere, before Dutch was upon her from behind and I had my blade pressed to her side. Death raised her arms in surrender, I lowered my knife, and Dutch released his hold on her throat.

  “Watch out for the dynamic duo—” She stepped back and chuckled as she cleaned her fingernails of my skin and blood. “—and good one, Juma. You more than anyone have always known how to piss me off and distract me with your nonsense. I respect that about you, always have. But my affection for you changes nothing. The fact remains, I saved your life and all those others because I wanted you as my Poochas, not because I’m so gracious and loving. I saw something in all of you that made you worthy of saving. Your mother doesn’t fit that bill.”

  Her words were tiny daggers all over my body and although I swore to stay strong and not let her see me crumble, I could feel my legs shake and my knees begin to buckle under the weight of my grief and the chill of her refusal. And I fought to remain upright and brave and strong just as I had done my entire life, in the face of all of that death and pain and anxiety, but thirty years of such mad living had taken its toll on my mind and soul and in that moment I realized I just couldn’t do it anymore. I was tired and beaten, sad and simply incapable of holding myself together one second longer, so I didn’t.

  My fight escaped me, my shoulders sagged, and my heart broke into millions of tiny pieces scattered at her feet. And as I started to sink into myself, Dutch came to me, soundless and silent and strong, gave me his hand, and smiled. “Come on, Juma. Let’s call your dad.”

  But I wasn’t ready for all of that just yet and even though he was my strength and support, it was she who held my full attention.

  “Why are you doing this? I have spent my life only serving you to the best of my capabilities and loving you like I have loved no other and you flip that on its head as if it was all meaningless, like I matter nothing, like I’m just some woman you liked to fuck when it fancied you.”

  “That is hardly true,” she replied. “I have always loved you, more than any other.”

  “Bullshit,” I spat, interrupting her, not wanting to hear another word from her mouth unless it was to say she could spare my ma.

  “Oh, Juma. Do grow up, sweetheart.” She cupped my chin in her firm grip and forced me to meet her stare. “I am sorry this happened, that you feel I lied to you or fed you a half-truth or whatever. But this carrying on is going to stop right now and I mean it. You are my best, my ace in the hole. I give you my toughest reclamations and you handle them, you get the job done—it is one of the reasons I came to you all those years ago, when you were so small and full of wonder, because even then I knew you would be the best. And it is why, all these years later, I love you as deeply as I do.”

  I started to protest but she gripped my chin so hard I thought my bones would snap, making it impossible for me to do much else but listen to her.

  “And it is why I am here, right now, instead of Marina. Think about that for a second, Juma.” She held my chin for a few beats longer as my mind settled, my thoughts cleared, and slowly but surely, two and two once again equaled four.

  Marina. Death’s beloved Khat. Her Girl Friday and so much more. Of course. Marina.

  She of the thick thighs and ample tits, the soothing voice and warm embrace. Marina who handled all the shit—assignments, schedules, weapons, injuries, complaints, and death. She who decided who was allowed to plead their case for reclamation in person, she who listened to the sob stories and love stories and revenge stories and filtered the unworthy from the worthy.

  “Who’s Marina?” Dutch finally broke the heavy veil of silence shrouding our threesome.

  “She holds the answers for those seeking an audience. Marina holds all the power,” I replied, never taking my eyes off Death, watching as her smile grew in sync with my understanding. “Unless Death visits you herself, because then you don’t need to plead your case to Marina because the decision was made long ago, it was noted on the file, and held in secret until the time came to offer reclamation without argument or debate.”

  “You are my best,” Death smiled, “and she is your mother. It is to be expected.”

  “What is to be expected?” Because even though I knew what she was saying without exactly saying it, I needed to hear the precise words tumble from her lips. I was desperate like that and she was a fucking liar and so there we were—two women who loved each other fiercely, knew each other’s bodies and souls, owned each other’s sighs and ecstasy and yet, I did not trust her as far as I could throw her.

  “That you shall become her Poocha, of course. You will handle your mother’s already-approved reclamation. She is all yours, to begin working with tonight.” Then she smiled brightly, as if handing me the rarest and
most valuable of gifts without asking for anything in return. But everything about Death came with a price, often one too high to quantify with mere numbers and symbols. How many times had I watched others struggle with the catch-22s she tossed around like candy, desiring all she had to offer, knowing a deal with Death was akin to a game of Russian roulette in which, more often than not, she came away the victor.

  And now it was my turn to take the loaded gun from her hand, cock the trigger, and pull.

  “Thank you, Mistress.”

  I took the gun she offered me, loaded and ready.

  “Juma.” Dutch cast his worried eyes my way, their storms borne of The Gate and what my actions would surely unleash. “You cannot take this assignment.”

  “I have no choice, Dutch.”

  “Just like I had no choice,” he replied and his voice betrayed his concern, his worry for promises made that I was on the brink of breaking. And even though I’d gone along with his sale of our souls to a living breathing devil, no one ever said that decision was written in stone.

  I cocked the trigger.

  He stepped in front of me and forced me to see him, taking my face in his hands. I closed my eyes because his touch was so warm and his hands that owned my body felt like love and time and tenderness and I had done so much in the last several moments of our lives to deserve nothing but his disdain. I wrapped my fingers around his wrists and felt his heartbeat pounding a steady rhythm in my blood that spoke to me of beauty and passion and magic despite the fact I was leading us down a road to all things horrific and dark and deadly. A lone tear escaped and rolled down my cheek and he bent low to catch it with his lips.

  “Don’t cry, Juma,” he whispered against my skin, his breath soft and sultry, and I cried harder because I felt so broken and bruised and wanted nothing more than to lie in his arms and let him comfort me with his words and his kisses and his love but that was not going to happen because I could not would not follow the path that led to such beauty. “Think about what I agreed to. Please. You and I both know someone else can handle your mother—no doubt hers will be an easy reclamation.”