by L. A. Banks
“You are gonna make me open this bottle of Jack and pull out a butt, if you keep traveling down this particular road, partner. Not tonight, okay?”
Jose leaned over, reached around Rider’s stone posture, and gathered up the booze and cigarettes to place them neatly by his side. “You told me I couldn’t die from this shit, and you know what? You were right.”
“I lied,” Rider said in a flat tone, and began polishing the barrel of his gun.
“Nah, you didn’t lie. I lived, made my peace; I see her with who she’s supposed to be with, found somebody else. We cool. It’s all good.”
For the first time since Jose had sat down, Rider offered him a sidelong glance. “Yeah, you do see her every day, don’t you?”
“With him, too,” Jose said, opening the Jack Daniel’s and taking a swig. “First time they went into a hotel room together, was about to put a nine to my skull … And hearing that shit down the hall?” Jose shook his head. “Wasn’t right for weeks. But, like you told me, I had to suck it up. That’s where she was supposed to be. The two of them are a matched pair; they have the same energy, same lifestyle and mission. The sooner you let it go and realize that it wasn’t because she didn’t care, wasn’t like she didn’t ever love you …” Jose held out the bottle, but Rider held up his hand and closed his eyes as he took in a deep whiff of its fragrance.
“I still got that shit in my nose,” Rider said. “Cap it up for me, would ya?”
Jose quickly complied. “My bad.”
“One day I’ll be able to smell it, be around it, and it won’t give me the shakes, but tonight, while I’m trying to go cold turkey, I can’t tolerate it.”
“You’re gonna feel like shit for a while,” Jose said, nodding and hiding the bottle behind him. “If you need a coach, you call me. Sheeit, I still need a coach myself.”
Rider smiled a half smile. “Once an addict, always an addict.”
Jose pounded his fist. “No relapse, brother.”
“No relapse, brother.” Rider stared at the horizon. “Yeah. Time to shake this and move on. Might even go buy me a brand-new Harley—red seat this time. Maybe flaming-fucking-yellow. Who knows?”
“New people, places, and things,” Jose said, standing and collecting the bottle and smokes.
Rider stood and stretched. “You think Mar is serious about going to Tibet? I can see it now, going on another Marlene-inspired, spiritual, monastic quest to no-man’s-land.”
“Marlene has more reason to go to Tibet than any of us are talking about, man,” Jose said quietly. “How’s your nose?”
Rider absently pounded Jose’s fist and kept his eyes on the horizon. “Were-jag all in it. How’s our brother Shabazz holding up under the pressure?”
“Like me and you—fucked up one minute, cool the next. Sometimes when I get too deep into my own drama, I forget I got brothers dealing with the same pain. But, hey, I’m human. At least I am for the next thirty days.”
Rider nodded and sighed. “Yeah … Tibet might be a good change of scene.”
“Mar already called Chief Quiet Eagle. We’re leaving the computers and ammo for them to fend off whatever, like we always do when we leave civilians. Can’t ship it no way. Shabazz already made contact in L.A. for whatever ammo we’ll need there on a temporary basis. All we gotta do is get our individual gear packed. Everything else gets donated back here for families in need, and we’ll argue about the money we outlaid to build, later, Dan said. So, I’d take that as a readiness call to move out. Marlene wants to get back to L.A., find real estate fast on the fly so we’ll have something to come back to.”
Rider chuckled. “Just like Mar to try to put a positive spin on things and act like this is a normal, run-of-the-mill job.”
“Keep hope alive, man,” Jose said, but carefully unscrewed the bottle and took another swig of Jack Daniel’s. “She’s got J.L. sending plans to Covenant-referred contractors by e-mail; we get our travel shots as soon as we get into L.A. Marlene wants the necessary renovations on whatever we buy done by the time we come home. You know Mar—efficient.”
Rider leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “The woman is insane. Tibet is yak country!” Rider lifted his head, opened his eyes, and sighed as he stared at Jose, not at all amused to find Jose smiling. “Dude, it’s worse than Arizona. This is not how a man is supposed to go to war or live out his possible last thirty days of life. We are not going to a bachelor’s paradise of Far-East exploration. There will be no Japanese geishas, no Thai cottages, or Philippine oasis, or even a good brothel in Nepal along the way. This isn’t even the red-light district in Communist China, Jose. Are you hearing me?”
Jose laughed. “I think Marlene is one step ahead of you on the changing of people, places, and things. No packaged-goods stores, no—”
“See, you don’t understand my angst. I need at least one vice left to cling to so that I know I’m human—a red-blooded American male.”
“Like ’Bazz always says, there’s a reason for everything. There are no coincidences in the universe.”
“Kiss my ass,” Rider said, chuckling, although peeved. “I’d prefer to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“Assuming we live, Bobby and Dan gotta learn to focus, get the job done, and tough it out from watching a master tough it out … just like our male Neteru might have to get some sage advice about kicking his old drinking addiction from a temporarily celibate male in that last crucial month, hombre. That’s why we’re heading off to Confucius country.”
“Why me? Why not the goddamned Covenant!” Rider closed his eyes. “I’m almost fifty. I can’t tolerate—”
“Last round it was me, remember? And what did you tell me?” Jose asked, laughing.
Rider snorted and rubbed his palms down his face, shutting his eyes tighter, grimacing.
“Think about this, then,” Jose said, teasing him and making him open his eyes with a poke in the ribs. “Bobby is in his teens. Dan is in his twenties. They are in pain. This contagion ain’t helping.”
“Well, since you put it that way,” Rider said, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck.
“You need to talk to our boy, J.L., too. Now if anyone ever needed a Zen master to get through this mission, it’s him. Brother can’t even concentrate on wiring tubes or designing radar, much less sending a basic e-mail. Every time Krissy flits by and flops in a chair beside him …”
“I know, I know, his circuits blow.”
“See, that’s why you have a purpose,” Jose said with a broad smile, and elbowing Rider in the ribs again as he passed him.
Rider flipped Jose the bird and then smiled. “Since you and Mike don’t do nights out with the boys anymore, I guess you won’t mind if I take Bobby and Dan to go watch the girls dance the poles in L.A. before we head out?”
“With my blessings,” Jose said, bowing like a martial arts instructor with the bottle balanced between both palms. “I cannot go watch the girls without severe consequences, but I can help you pick out a Harley once we return home, oh enlightened one.”
Both men chuckled as Jose stood up straight. But slowly, Rider’s expression became serious.
“I’m cutting back on the Jack and giving up the smokes.”
“Good,” Jose said, looking at Rider’s grave expression.
“Let me ask you something, though.”
Jose nodded as he continued to stare at Rider, new worry lacing through him and sobering his mood.
“Is my nose off, or did you smell metallic substance when we were all out there?”
Jose hesitated, and took in a deep inhale. He walked over to the rail, hocked and spat. “Yeah, man. Ain’t nothing wrong with your snoz.”
“Then why didn’t you back up my position in the yard?”
Jose paused and stared at Rider confused. “What are you talking about, man?”
Brilliant morning sun chased the last of the shadows that clung to the living room furniture. Carlos stroked Damali’s hair as she
finally slid into heavy REM, the nightmares only ceasing their torture at dawn. He stared at the coffee table, where two wineglasses stood near a depleted bottle of wine. Her glass was filled; his was not. Damali hadn’t even taken a sip in his presence, but had snuggled against him once they’d sat down and was immediately out.
Despite her conscious confusion, her subconscious spirit apparently guided her not to share a drink of anything with him, not even water, while in the house … just as it seemed to block his advances by conveniently making her fall fast asleep and light up internally with protective inner silver. He could have attempted to physically violate her while she slept, but her will was strong even in her unnatural slumber, presenting an impenetrable barrier. She hadn’t dropped that, even though he’d fucked her brain real good.
Carlos paused. What was he thinking? It sounded so crude even in his mind. He had never fucked Damali. He gently extricated himself from her embrace and stood, needing space to really call it what it was.
He hadn’t just violated her mind last night; he’d raped it. He wiped his hands over his face and began to pace, not sure what to do. It didn’t matter that, at the moment, she’d never know. The fact remained, he knew. What had happened to him last night? All he did was accidentally sit in the Chairman’s throne—but he’d gone to Hell and had been forced into one of those before, yet never lost his true self. Why was this time so different? Could the contagion have altered his ability to cope? What if …?
Carlos became still for a moment. He’d violated a direct angelic command to not sit in the throne. Was he insane? They had said wait for a sign, and he hadn’t. He rubbed his palms down his face. His judgment was all fucked up.
The reality frightened him. It was as though there were two entities constantly warring within him. He could practically feel it beneath the surface of his skin. Every decision was an acute struggle to do the right thing. By day, he felt different. By night, he had something within his psyche that was too terrible to name.
New fear covered him in a sheen of cold sweat. What if, with this contagion in him and whatever else he’d picked up on Level Six, he didn’t have a line? Just like he’d pried open Damali’s brain and licked her gray matter until it trembled and shrieked and begged for mercy, one night he might brutally pry open her thighs to do the same to the sacred orifice between them. It would most assuredly not be his tongue that battered her…. What if he totally flipped dark, kept her on her knees, and sodomized her—some twisted shit like that?
Last night he’d just come into the throne power, didn’t know how to wield it, but like all things, he’d be able to in time, and her barriers would come crashing down. Carlos backed away from her shaking his head. No! What? His brain was flipping back and forth between right and wrong even in pure daylight! He needed to purge his system, and do it fast—but how!
He had to get out of there. He was losing touch with any mission he’d clung to, losing touch with who he had been before he fell into the dark throne and came back as something that now, in the cold light of day, truly scared him.
First her mind, then her body, and ultimately that might break her spirit. It was the way of that realm. Pure darkness knew no limits. Level Seven had no delimiters, no boundaries. Such an assault coming from him, a known, trusted source, might be more soul-scarring than from a stranger, an unknown predator that she could fight to the death before ever submitting.
“Give her back her blade,” he whispered to himself as he glanced at her, retrieved and covered her with Jose’s blanket, then made his way out the back door. He crossed the deck with purpose. He needed the sun, the Light, to explain.
Stopping abruptly as he made his way to stand twenty-five yards away from the house, Carlos lowered his head in shame, bent his knees, and dropped, not caring that small rocks and sand stones cut into his flesh.
“Please forgive me,” he said, clasping his hands. “Don’t let this thing take hold in me. Preserve my spirit. Get it out of me. I’m clinging to the thin thread of silver lining. I disobeyed, I know, but we’re all infected…. Don’t leave me. Don’t let me hurt her or the family.”
She woke up with what felt like a horrible hangover. Damali sat up slowly and glanced down at the blanket that covered her. Vaguely, she remembered that Carlos had been there last night. In slow increments the accident and burning his clothes came back to her, but as she gathered the blanket closer to her, guilt stabbed at her. He’d wrapped Jose’s blanket around her?
When she attempted to stand, she was forced to hold her head with both hands. She looked at the small coffee table and the remnants of dirty wineglasses and groaned. “No more, never again,” she said with a wince. “How much of this crap did I drink?”
She allowed the rhetorical question to follow her to the bathroom, and then into the bedroom. Catching her profile in a mirror, she looked like pure hell in the disheveled clothes that she’d obviously slept in.
Blurred memories of insane, terror-filled dreams flitted through her brain like snatches of dark confetti, but she couldn’t string together anything that made sense. All that remained was the sensation of pure horror and a throbbing headache that culminated at the base of her skull. Did Carlos leave already?
Then she remembered his potential relapse and began walking through the house with urgency. Her gaze tore through every room, half afraid of what she might see. God forbid that anything might have happened to him. If a pile of ash greeted her somewhere, she’d die on the spot of a heart attack.
But when she ran out onto the deck, bright sunlight made her shield her eyes. Relief dropped her shoulders and slowed her frantic pace.
She stood in awe, slowly lowering her hand from her eyes. He was on his knees with a lemon yellow towel wrapped around his waist, consumed in silent prayer near the cactus that had transformed into her long blade in the earlier vision. The way the new day’s light played across his bare shoulders and sent a prism of color between him and the desert plant, made her squint.
Immobilized by the spectacle of watching him send his inner thoughts skyward, she added her own fervent message in silent refrain: Please let him be all right. Watch over him.
As though sensing her presence, Carlos lifted his head, stood, and turned to face her. When he stepped before the cactus, Damali stopped breathing. He was in the same position as he was in her vision, his brown eyes begging her with a question that she didn’t understand. Pained, worried, glassy eyes filled with unshed tears stared back at her. He was shadowed, and outlined in a luminous frame of sunlight.
Suddenly, she flinched, mentally hearing the wind catch her blade, followed by the inevitable thud.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Are you okay?” Damali asked as Carlos came up the deck stairs.
He almost couldn’t speak as he stared at her sad eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said quietly. “You okay?”
She smiled. “Must have drank too much wine on an empty stomach last night,” she said with a weary sigh. “Guess that’s what I get for giving you the blues about going out with Yonnie.” She chuckled and opened the screen door. “What’s that old saying? Judge not lest ye be judged, or People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
“I like the first one,” he said, his voice distant. “The biblical version.”
She turned and stared at him in the kitchen.
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Carlos closed his eyes, gathered up her hands and pressed them to his mouth. “Damali, forgive me…. I am so sorry, I’ll never, ever, betray you like that again. Just don’t give up on me.”
She slid her hands away from his grasp to wrap her arms around him and pull him in close to her. She found herself stroking his back and beginning to gently sway him in a comforting hug. This was not Carlos. This didn’t even sound like him. His ragged breaths were thick like he was trying not to sob. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
He shook his head no, and swallowed hard.
“Don’t you think bet
ray is an awfully strong word?” she said, trying to reach whatever was torturing his mind.
“Oh, baby, I swear I love you.”
Now she was worried. She tried not to stiffen, but every female instinct in her whispered, a man breaking down like this just because he got read for going out with his boy, meant …
Again, he shook his head no. “It’s not like that. I should have never gone out with Yonnie, and then things got crazy.”
She sighed and rubbed his back harder. “You relapsed, didn’t you? Be honest.”
He nodded quickly with his head buried against her shoulder. “It was a sip … some of it got in my mouth. It was an accident. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that. Girl, I swear to you, I don’t want to go back to that life.”
“I know, I know,” she whispered as he began to sob. “It’ll be all right. You came home, your system purged, it’s broad daylight and you’re still standing, okay?”
“You think … I mean, I can get this out of me, right?”
She held him away from her, summoning an inner strength that came from her very DNA. “You have choices. You had a slip, but you didn’t fall.” She wiped the dampness away from his face. “Unless it becomes a problem, I’ll keep this between me and you; you have to have someone you can trust. Especially now, with every Guardian’s judgment impaired. It’s me and you, one unit.”
He covered her hand with his and stared at her through wet lashes. “Damali, get this out of me. Baby, I’m scared.”
For a moment, she didn’t know what to say to him. True terror filled his eyes, and it was the first time in her life that she’d heard Carlos Rivera tell her anything like that.
“I got your back,” she said firmly. “No more slips, you feel shaky, you come to me and we’ll ride it out together. Cool?”
Again, he nodded quickly, and blew out a long breath. “I was afraid that I might not even be able to pray after …” his voice trailed off and he sighed again. “After things went down.”