by L. A. Banks
He rubbed his jaw. “That’s some gruesome shit to tell your woman. I can’t look in her face and explain that if I don’t take a body, mine will decompose back to the date of my real death.”
Carlos sucked in a hard breath, actually absorbing the information himself for the first time. “I can’t tell her how every wound I ever sustained in every battle I’ve fought will manifest, because I’m un-dead.” The wall became blurry. “Man, how do you explain shit like that to your woman, when you’ve had her in your arms, and she’s allowed you the privilege to be in her body?”
His gaze sought the floor, then went to the ceiling as he struggled against the damnable, building tears. “I don’t want her to ever look up at me one night, and flip, because she finally gets the fact that she’s been sleeping with something that’s truthfully supposed to be in Hell. Every time I drop fangs in her presence, I keep waiting for her to scream. I beat the odds, hombre. But I am what I am. I hate lying to her, keeping her in the dark, but if I go to Brazil . . . I’ma hafto eat to protect her—which will end your and my deal.”
Carlos looked at the priest, then away to the wall and swallowed hard, knowing Father Pat didn’t have an answer for this. “I know it’s fucked up what I’m saying, but you and I are rational men. So, understand that you and I are cool, and it ain’t personal . . . You’ve been good to me, man. But if it’s her or you, you know what I’ve gotta do. Protect her at all costs, even if it makes her never look at me the same way again . . . even if I have to take a throne. But I will survive to come for her in seven years—whether she wants me to, or not. That’s instinct.”
Carlos felt a warm hand touch his arm, but didn’t shrug it away like he usually did. His chest got tight and his vision blurred again. But he wasn’t no punk, wasn’t gonna start cryin’ like a pussy. Not about some real shit that he had to suck up and take like a man. Fuck it.
He heard Father Patrick swallow and it made him take another shaky breath. Hell no, he refused to have some bullshit take him there.
“It’s all right, Carlos. It’s just me and you.”
“Oh, yeah, right. I forgot. Even carrying a blade, you’re still a priest.” Carlos forced himself to laugh and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “But what are you doing sitting in here with me, alone, so close?”
“Talk to me,” Father Patrick said, his hand now on Carlos’s shoulder. “Get it all out before you go underground and try to cut another deal.”
“You know what? I’ve just decided I’m not going to Brazil,” Carlos countered all of a sudden, feeling defiant. He refused to look at Father Patrick. “When she finds out that bodies have been dropping over there I’ll try to convince her not to go—but you and I both know Damali. So, I’m just gonna go get some info from the streets, give it to her when she finds out, and then I’m out. I’m done. She’s almost got all her sight back; she should be fine. If I go with her, I might have to do some things she won’t be able to deal with. And, I don’t need this bullshit. I don’t need a relationship. Don’t need to be arguing with no woman—it’s bad enough I have to constantly argue with y’all.” He folded his arms over his chest. “That’s the whole point. I haven’t decided what I’ma do, and everybody is trying to rush me to play my hand. I need you all to back off!”
Father Patrick’s hand remained on Carlos’s shoulder. “Before you do anything permanent, and we both now know how important choices are, I want you to think about how she really makes you feel, way down deep in your soul. We agreed to let you be the one to break the news about Brazil to her—or to clean it up before she had to think about going . . . but remember that it is her job to keep innocents from harm. You can’t protect her from her destiny, no more than she could protect you from yours. So, study your heart long and hard, young man, before—”
“I don’t have one, remember? Least not one that beats. It ain’t nothing real between us,” Carlos argued, now shrugging off the priest’s hold, and then standing. “I know you wanted me to block the shot, but, hey . . . It’s just a physical thing. It’ll pass. Wasn’t supposed to get all involved, so I need to let it rest. Ain’t worth trippin’ about, and definitely ain’t worth—”
“You can lie to me, you have already lied to her, but don’t trip, as you say, on yourself.” The old man stared at him hard. “You’d give your life for that woman, already have a couple of times.” Father Patrick stood slowly and moved toward the door. “This period of atonement is very hard—we never said it would be easy But there’s nothing wrong with wanting better in life or death, Carlos. It’s all in how you go about it. You need to tell her about the bodies in Brazil, before she finds out some other way, and wheels get set in motion.”
For a long time, Father Patrick just stood there by the lair exit, as though waiting for something while Carlos stared at the blank wall. How did one explain, especially to a priest, how the tender touch of a woman could transform life itself? How could he describe the sight of sunset in her hair, her scent, or how her laughter ran through his system like a clean, hard rain? When she looked at him in the darkness and traced his face with one finger, she made him feel like he still had a soul.
So how did a man who once had everything, come to a woman, busted, destroyed, and dare love her in return? He had everything she didn’t care about . . . money, cars, villas, you name it, but he was destitute when it came to providing everything that ever mattered to her. So how did one tell an old priest that, and make him understand? How did you come to terms with the bitter reality that by chasing everything she never cared about, you’d fucked around and lost everything she’d willingly give her life for? There was no way to explain how helpless and powerless that felt. Especially when your woman deserved so much, had lost so much, had done for so many and all you wanted to do was give her the world in return . . . And her way, time would rob him, and he would most likely die on the spot at the end of seven years of hard time.
Carlos chanced looking at Father Patrick, and was met by a gaze of compassion that held him hostage. This priest was a decent man. But he couldn’t understand pain like this, or the rational decisions that needed to be made.
“Every time I hold her, and she rests her head against my chest . . .” The confession got trapped in his throat. Carlos breathed hard and slow. “I pray each time that just once she’ll hear my heart beat for her. But I don’t even have that to give her. Like I said, hombre, I’m just trippin.”
“Stay in tonight,” Father Patrick said quietly. “And, in a few nights go with Asula, Lin, and Manuel to Brazil. Don’t raise an army from Hell that will sway your path. Take ours. We’ll be your backup. I’ll prepare your transport and supplies. I’ll man the safe house until the four of you get back. We’ll ship blood over there for you, Carlos. Like you told me, you and I are rational men . . . You want her more than anything else in the world. Take a few nights to think about that, and don’t allow the dark side to rush your decision. Make them wait, just like you’re making us wait for your decision. That’s a fair compromise. In the meantime, I’ll keep the faith for both of us.”
“I can’t promise—”
“I may be an old man, but I’m also a seer.” Father Patrick’s eyes held compassion, but not pity, as he stared at Carlos. “The beat of your heart is in your caring for her. She can feel that because it’s real.”
“It ain’t the same.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then why try? If I mess up over there—”
“Have faith. I think you’re ready.”
Carlos paused, clearly struggling. Father Pat waited.
“If she calls, I don’t . . . I won’t speak to her until I’m ready.”
“Then don’t. Go to Brazil when you can handle it.”
After a while Carlos sat down slowly and just nodded.
Hot water from the shower mixed with soap and made her shudder. What had she been thinking? She’d come in, hit the hallway, and hadn’t even said hello to anyone in the compound—jus
t went right for the shower. Her short dagger went in the shower with her; it needed to be hosed down, too. Madness, craziness, she had to get this man out of her system and get back on the job.
Annoyed at herself, Damali snatched a towel, paced across the room, and tossed the dagger on the bed. If she ever allowed herself to do anything so foolish again, she’d slit her own wrists with it.
Tugging on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, she searched for her Tims and laced them up hard, then looked at the cell phone on her dresser. For ten days she’d been in a trance. For ten hot nights she’d been out of her mind. She’d been caught up so hard in a love jones that she’d been disconnected from the world . . . hadn’t even watched the news—and her team had let her. Shit.
She went to the dresser and found a leather thong to tie her wet hair back, and searched for her favorite silver earrings, then sighed. Oh, yeah, she’d flung them across a priest’s floor in a moment of passion that first night.
Total shame filled her. She’d been lax, to say the least, and it was more than obvious what she’d been doing every night. Group housing sucked. She reached for her cell phone and turned it on and let out an annoyed breath. Well, the fellas had their nights like this, too . . . so . . .
But the digital display on her telephone stopped her rambling thoughts. Inez had blown up her phone over several days, and her repeated calls had gone unanswered. Damali cringed. Inez never called her like that, unless it was a 911.
Immediately she hit speed dial and waited, her heart racing. The moment Inez’s voice came over the receiver, she didn’t even say hello before launching into her discussion.
“Girl, I was all tied up,” Damali said. “What’s wrong? You okay?”
“Damali,” Inez said, her voice sounding tense, “have you seen the news?”
“No. What’s happened?”
“Put on CNN. I’m scared.”
Damali paced to the large unit across the room, too jangled to even bother looking for the remote to turn it on. “A war, girl?”
Inez didn’t say anything for a moment. “No, maybe I’m crazy . . . superstitious, but . . . I shouldn’t have called for something like this. You’re busy, and this is stupid.”
Damali watched the crawl on the bottom of the screen. Nothing odd was coming up, just general world chaos. “Talk to me, girl.” She closed her eyes and focused on Inez. It had been almost two months since she could bring a person into her focus and actually see them inside her head. She hadn’t even dreamt about anyone else but Carlos. When her sight came back, she couldn’t even lock with Marlene in the same house, let alone someone miles away . . . all she’d been able to see was Carlos. Under any other circumstance, she’d always been able to pick up a vibe. Guilt stabbed her. She’d been off the job and insanely love-blinded.
The hair stood up on her arms as she quieted her inner being, then she saw Inez clear as day and locked with her. She watched in her head, like a slow-motion reel, as Inez suddenly shot out of her chair and turned the volume up on the television.
“You hear this?” she shrieked, watching the TV. “That happened right outside the town where my mom worked! Oh, my God, D . . . what could have eaten those people like that? We still have family over there!”
Damali opened her eyes, keeping Inez in her mental sight and the television in her normal sight, watching in horror as the media descended upon a sleepy little town, far, far away, circling the bewildered inhabitants like sharks, sucking the lifeblood out of their pain, and presenting it to faceless spectators who could watch from the comfort of their safe homes. This . . . she had been blind to this.
She stared in horror, barely hearing the reporter on the television or Inez on the phone. Reality slammed into her like a sledgehammer. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t put her head in the sand, couldn’t lose herself in a lover’s arms, couldn’t pretend she wasn’t who she was. She was the Neteru.
She thought of Inez’s precious little girl, asleep down the hall from her frantic mother. No more.
She closed her eyes and opened them again. It was clear to her now. Carlos had lied, had blocked this from her. Her guardian squad knew—but hadn’t trusted her to be ready to fight. The truth stabbed her. They had been right.
“Inez,” she said slowly, “I’m going to send you a large check. I want you to put whatever family you have over there on a plane and bring them stateside for a few weeks—on me. Don’t argue. I’ve got their food and hotel; just bring them here. When I get back from tour, I’ll come see you. It’s gonna be all right.”
Fuck all this. It was time to go to Brazil.
In the dark, where you do what you do what you do to me, baby . . .
in the dark . . . blood running through my deep rivers, baby
—“In the Dark,” Damali Richards
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SUN was so bright, Damali squinted as she tried to peer out the plane’s window. She gave up and lowered the shade. She blinked and finally closed her eyes, the sun’s golden glow permanently affixed to the insides of her eyelids. Carlos hadn’t answered her calls. After the incident in the woods, had he just walked? Even when she’d left word with Father Patrick that it was urgent, and had told him that she was heading to Rio on tour, Carlos had actually gone AWOL knowing she was going to Brazil—when they both knew that something serious was lurking there?
It was over, big time. She didn’t care what Marlene had said about the man being worried for her safety. That was bullshit. Marlene didn’t understand that she’d opened herself up fully, had let Carlos into every section of her mind, her being, her very essence. She’d had nothing to hide, no fantasy or secret that she had been ashamed to share with him. But his brain had dark corridors, entire compartments blocked to hers. Now she knew why.
His shutting her out, keeping critical information from her, keeping her from a hunt, maybe even costing a few innocents their lives, was a betrayal to everything she was as a Neteru. Before she’d become his lover, she was the Neteru! Still was, and she’d let the team know how much she seriously didn’t appreciate them not pulling her coat. Yeah, Marlene had said that she’d divined that no innocents would be harmed if Damali came to these conclusions before the next full moon. But the simple fact was, all of them still thought of her as a child to be led in baby steps, not as the Neteru who must lead. And the truth was, she had been acting like a child, a silly young girl, blind to everything except the boy she loved. They should have called her on it, as they would have for any other member of the team.
But it was Carlos’s lies that hurt the most. Her team had waited for her to wake up and trusted she would do the right thing when she did. Carlos had deliberately kept the knowledge from her, taking advantage of her feelings for him because he didn’t believe in her abilities as the Neteru. He didn’t believe in her ability to handle what was going on in Brazil, and he didn’t believe in her ability to handle whatever burdens he was carrying. How could she be with a man like that? Shabazz’s philosophical rhetoric about every man having some things better left in the dark had truly pissed her off. The fact that the team’s rock had come to her, quietly trying to fix what was too broken to glue back together had unnerved her. Every damned body was all in her business. She was just thankful that Dan had played a hunch and played it right, and had booked this venue first . . . then, again, Dan was probably already hip and following Mar’s lead, which really irked her. The most junior member on the squad even had insight for a while that she didn’t!
It was time to regain control of her title, her mission, her life, and her private mental sanctuary. That was the only thing Marlene had been right about.
Hurt and anger shared the same space within her. They took up inseparable residence within her soul. No, she didn’t care what Father Patrick said about having faith, and it still burned her up that he refused to say more, regardless of his vow to honor any confessions. If he wanted her to have faith, then he needed to tell her where Carlos was, if h
e knew. Period. She needed closure, needed to tongue-lash that bastard.
Damali willed away the tears. They were useless anyway. She’d never let some man take her there again; she had things to do.
Damali listened distantly to the airplane captain announce their pending arrival into Rio de Janeiro, his Portuguese phrases dipping and turning, being translated into English by a stewardess, while their jumbo jet descended into Aeroporto Santos Dumont.
She opened her eyes and took in the spectacular view of mountains carpeted with lush, emerald green, valleys with inlaid ribbons of white sand beaches, and jewel-toned waters below her. The cariocas—what they called the ten million citizens of Rio she’d been told—were right. This was “the marvelous city,” the cidade maravilhosa. But Carlos would never see it by day, and perhaps never by night. So be it. It didn’t have to happen like this.
She had to shake this feeling of dread as the plane touched down. She’d been over it all a thousand times in her mind. He had never come back. He left no message and no trace. Not even Father Patrick knew where he had gone, supposedly. Just like before, Carlos had vanished into the darkness. But this time was different; she didn’t care.
Answering only perfunctory questions, she remained quiet as her team disembarked and entered into a hot, not-so-scenic urban chaos that shamed Manhattan in terms of its utter crush of humanity. It was only a matter of minutes before her natural, Egyptian white linen slacks and matching sleeveless duster were clinging to her skin. Her sunglasses kept sliding down the bridge of her nose, and her sleek, gold-toned shoe-boots felt like they were asphyxiating her ankles. She adjusted the spaghetti strap of her white silk camisole and lifted her chin, resigned to the long internment of heightened airport security exit protocols.
