But my ma was no joke.
Yes, she might have appreciated the perfectly timed distraction from the ticking time bomb about to explode between us, yes she might have been temporarily awed by Death’s sex appeal, but she did not appreciate anyone talking shit about her daughter. Only Mimi Landry could talk shit about her daughter.
“I am her mother, she is supposed to provoke me.” My ma smiled but it did not reach her eyes. “Perhaps if you weren’t so busy fucking up Juma’s life, she wouldn’t be so busy fucking up yours.”
“Ma!”
“Mrs. Landry!”
Marina and I shouted in unison, the former fearful of her Mistress’ wrath, and I fearful for my ma.
“What?” My ma flashed her most innocent smile as an uneasy hush fell over the room. I watched Death’s back as she picked over some papers scattered on the desk, the contents of a potential Deader’s file seeking her final decision. I waited for any sign of attack, ready to kill or be killed should she make a move on my ma. Seconds ticked by and she kept doing whatever it was she was doing, as if my ma’s profane outburst had taken place on another plane of reality, one where Death never flew off the handle, lost her shit, brought the pain.
“Everyone calm the fuck down.” Death finally broke the silence, pushing some papers back into a file before twirling a curl behind her ear, turning back to us, and smiling. “Mimi”—and here she turned to my ma—“I can call you Mimi, right? You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, it’s fine,” my ma replied, caught off guard by the sudden attention.
“As I was saying,” Death continued, “Mimi is entitled to her opinions and is even allowed to voice them. Here and there. With necessary restraint, taking into account all that I have done for her family over the years . . .”
And here her voice trailed off and although she was discussing my ma her eyes were on me and they were hard and cold and I knew right then and there that if my ma had been anyone but my ma she would be dead ripped in half never crossing over. But my ma knew none of this because she did not know Death, and from the corner of my eye I saw her mouth open to add some of her own words to the ether despite the fact that now was neither the time nor the place for any more of her words, she had said enough. Rather than allow even a syllable to escape her lips I spoke up and around and over her and maybe my ma would read me the riot act later for being disrespectful but thanks to me at least she’d be able to.
“And she is truly thankful for any kindnesses you have provided over the years and especially now, allowing me to handle her reclamation.” And here I shot my ma a look that screamed, Shut the fuck up. “I was just about to explain the details of what she and I need to work on over the next few weeks.”
“Interesting,” Death cut me off, “because when I walked in, I did not get that impression at all. Did you Marina?”
Death glanced toward her Khat, her Girl Friday, and waited for a reply as Marina shifted and twisted and turned in the uncomfortable space Death created for her, the box within which she did not want to be placed, the space between her beloved Mistress and her favorite Poocha.
She eyed both of us, and I sensed Marina felt the fingers of the power struggle that was growing between us begin to snake up her legs and over her ample hips and wrap around her waist and over her tits until both of us were woven around her neck something tight, wanting her to choose one of us. Pick me pick me pick me you love me more than you love her we implored with our silence and it was unfair and obnoxious and I didn’t even know I was doing it or why I was doing it but I was. I wanted her to pick me and my side of righteous indignation and to say fuck the dark Mistress and all of her sadistic bullshit. But Marina was smart and sharp and had been dealing with all sorts of nonsense and personality conflicts and downright danger since forever—she wasn’t about to be manipulated by either of us.
“Screw both of you.” She moved through the room and back behind her desk, taking the file Death had been reviewing and moving it to a different stack, shooting both of us murderous glances. “Mrs. Landry, please excuse my language, but these two butt heads constantly and a girl can only take so much.”
My ma nodded her head in compassionate understanding, falling for Marina and her no-nonsense, take-charge attitude.
“It’s quite all right. These ears have heard far worse.”
“You”—Marina pointed at Death—“need to stop fucking around and handle these cases. Those Deaders have been waiting three hours for you.”
“And you”—she turned her sights on me—“need to deal with your mother. And both you and the Mistress, all due respect, better leave me alone for a little while. I need a drink and a good hard fuck and then maybe I’ll be in more of a mood to deal with the petty nonsense brewing between the two of you. And if there’s a god anywhere out there, by that point, after some fine young man has spanked my ass and made me come five times, both of you will have moved on and we can get back at it.”
She then lowered herself into the chair behind her desk and began putting away files and messing with tablets and generally occupying herself as if we were invisible, were not standing in front of her breathing the same air taking up the same space. Death reached for something in a small black box on the corner of the desk, but before she could grab it, Marina leaned forward and swatted her away.
I had never seen anyone swat the Mistress. Ever.
And although I’d always known it, sensed it, felt it in my gut, that swat confirmed each and every one of my suspicions: Marina was far more powerful than I ever imagined. She was hardly the simple errand girl some took her to be. Marina was respected and adored and the relationship between her and Death was intimate and intense, built upon an unspoken understanding that I was only somewhat privy to.
Marina was the one voice Death obeyed, and I used the word obey intentionally because Marina had no problem ordering Death around, telling her what to do much the same way she did all of us Poochas and Alighters and anyone else wandering the halls of Death.
“Leave the box alone, Mistress.” Marina opened her drawer and placed the box inside as Death laughed low, took two steps backward, bowed slightly in my ma’s direction, then departed.
It was one of the most bizarre interactions I had ever witnessed and my face betrayed every ounce of my shock.
“Pick your jaw off the ground, Juma, and handle your mother.” Marina spoke to me but never took her eyes off her iPad, typing furiously as I stood before her dumbfounded. “Now, Juma.”
“You realize you just swatted her, right?” I couldn’t help but ask because that shit needed to be verbalized otherwise I would have a difficult time believing it happened at all.
“Juma,” my ma called to me, “let’s go, sweetness.”
I held a hand up to my ma, hardly aware of her because I was focused on Marina and all of her badassery. “I mean, you literally pushed her away like she was annoying you.”
“Because she was annoying me, much the same way you are right now,” Marina replied, finally looking up from her tablet to meet my gaze and even though she was irritated and I was doing everything I could think to do to get under her skin, she couldn’t help but crack a slight smile.
I had that effect on her. I’d always had that effect on her, since the day I crossed over into this life of the Poocha.
“See?” I pointed at her as I backed out of the room. “That right there. That smirk. I knew you liked me better.”
She wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at me, but she didn’t disagree. As I led my ma out of Marina’s office and down the hall so we could go over the necessary steps to begin her reclamation, I could hear Marina laughing.
At me.
Because she loved me.
More than her.
10: DUTCH
The itch on the part of your back, right in the middle, the one that’s too low and too high to reach on your own, that’s under the skin but maybe also on the surface and it’s difficult to know whether scratchin
g it will hurt or help and it makes no difference anyway because you can’t reach the fucking thing and it’s making you. goddamned. crazy. That was Juma.
She was under my skin and spread all over my surfaces and I couldn’t touch her but wanted to desperately and all of it—the need, the hunger, the ache—left me out of my fucking mind, incapable of putting together two coherent thoughts that didn’t have her sitting right between them. Her broad smile, her soft skin, her laughter distracting me and making me wish we could go back to some other time or leap forward or just disappear to another plane of existence altogether, made just for the two of us, me and her, not Keeper and Poocha, stripped of all the trappings that made me Dutch and her Juma, left to our most basic elements, to do with each other what we would for all of our ever evers.
I left her in that apartment and fled to Florence. I left her with that broken look on her beautiful face. I left her believing I couldn’t bear her fingertips dragged all over my skin when all I thought about, day in and day out, twenty-four seven, was her all over me, everywhere, forever. I left her without a second glance, no sly wink, no reassuring smirk, nothing to suggest I wasn’t serious, nothing to let her know I just needed to make sure both of us escaped Death with our lives intact, hence my Don’t touch me, Juma.
That’s what I did all those months ago. And I’d regretted every second of my existence since.
Frist was right—fucking Frist and her goddamned purple hair. I should have let Juma in on the plan, but acknowledging my fuck-up didn’t mean I could do a damned thing about it. As soon as I uttered the very words I knew would kill Juma—Don’t touch me—as soon as I left her apartment and walked out those doors, tossing up a nonchalant wave to that mountain of a doorman—fucking asshole—I was in too deep. There was no turning back, and no matter what Frist said or I knew, the plan—my plan—was in play and I had to go with it: Maintain a vigilant watch over Juma while I go about the business of Keeping and The Gate and making sure Khan cannot find her.
Everyone helped. Avery, Frist, Kash, the Dosha—everyone played their part, keeping me apprised of Juma’s whereabouts so I could focus on Khan and his fuckboys without worrying about her.
That didn’t mean I could stay away.
Don’t get me wrong—I did stay away.
For one hundred and fifty-two days, eight hours, and forty-seven minutes I resisted the urge to be near her, the urge that settled in the pit of my gut, took up residence, and built a luxury hotel for itself and its friends, Crave and Desire. I blocked out any and all thoughts of soft brown freckled skin, low laughter, and a pussy made for fucking. I pushed down memories of honey and lemons, soft lips pressed to my throat, tenderness for all of my harsh angles. I pretended my body hadn’t learned hers the second we touched that night in that bar.
Until I couldn’t.
This morning I woke up. Dutch Mathew, thirty-eight years old, Keeper for The Gate, heir to a throne of blood and hatred and deception. Same as every morning, I went through my routine: half an hour of yoga, splash some water on my face, light a smoke, swig some Scout. The morning yoga justified the morning whiskey. The morning yoga justified every fucked-up thing I did to my body the remainder of the day.
This evening I was still Dutch Mathew, still thirty-eight years old, still a Keeper for The Gate, still an heir to a throne of blood and hatred and deception. Only this evening I was Dutch Mathew on Washington Street in Tribeca instead of a resort town in Normandy. I should have hauled my ass to Normandy the second I touched the pavement of New York City. I should have found Rani Rao—one half of the James & Rani Torture Tour, the Keeper who loved to devise new means of making my life a darker hell—in her lover’s beachfront villa and sliced her from neck to gut. I should have done anything except for what I did.
Because what I did was wrong and selfish and so. fucked. up.
I don’t know what I’d been thinking.
Actually, that was the problem—I wasn’t thinking. If I had been thinking, I would have used the portal on the Via delle Oche and landed myself in the seaside town of Étretat. Instead, my feet found their way to the Via dei Leoni, I chatted with the Dosha about his new promotion overseeing the portals in and out of Italy, France, and Spain, then he opened the doors and sent me hurtling toward the dark back corner of the Franklin Street station on the 1 line. I dusted myself off, climbed onto the platform, and joined the late evening foot traffic like it was no big thing. Like my ass was supposed to be in New York. Like I had any right to push into her building of steel and concrete, slip past security, and head to the tenth floor.
I knew I didn’t.
It was why I stood outside her door—1003—for what felt like an eternity, my hands pressed into either side of the doorway, head down, submerged in her essence, lost in her scent, telling myself to leave, my feet planted and unmoving. Because the fact of the matter was that once I was this close to her, I became a goddamned idiot and fucking forgot everything else but her.
And she was everywhere—lemons and honey and grass and light—without being anywhere on the premises. There was no life force in her apartment, nothing moved, and without another moment’s hesitation, and before someone walked into the hall and saw me standing in her doorway like a lunatic, I worked around the complexities of her lock, pushed inside, and closed the door behind me. I stood in the hallway as my eyes adjusted to the low light and familiar items silhouetted themselves around the open space: her farmer’s table, the cluttered desk full of old photos, her bra tossed carelessly onto the back of a chair.
I moved into the room and fingered the delicate lingerie, wondering where she was so late, was she working her mother’s case, doing everything in her power to bring her parents back together for whatever remaining years they had to share? Was she moving through another realm as I stood here, flat-footed and earthbound? Was she doing the very thing I promised she would not and pushing Deaders across that line between life and death?
Thoughts of her filtered through my mind’s eye, wrapped themselves around her scent, and left me lost and scattered and crippled with longing as I wandered the room, my fingers moving over the small things in her life, the tiny details that fit together to make the whole woman.
Until.
“Shhhh.”
My head snapped to attention at the familiar, husky sound of Juma on the other side of the door, fumbling with her key, laughing low.
“Oh, god,” she sighed. “Jesus, don’t stop.”
And just like that I knew exactly why I shouldn’t be in her city, on her block, within her building, lost in the shadows of her apartment.
I knew.
And yet there was no place else I wanted to be, needed to be.
Yes, needed.
Because if there was one thing I had to do, no matter the cost to my soul, it was bear witness to the reality of my unilateral decision-making, the repercussions and ramifications of not letting Juma in on my thought processes, of not including her in the plan. And this, her sighs of lust and need, her sexual beast, that animal I loved, being attended to by another, her low whisper meant for someone else’s ears, that was all because of what I set in motion with my Don’t touch me, Juma all those nights ago.
So yeah, I needed to be here.
I deserved to be here.
This was my penance for that bullshit move.
The bastard with her just needed to hope I could keep my fucking cool and not kill him for doing whatever he was about to do to her, touching her the way I wanted to touch her, being in her presence at all.
The door opened and I moved further into the dark recesses of her apartment, watching her toss her keys into a dish by the door and smile to herself. Not one, but two stunning men followed her into the apartment, kissing her in passing as I listened to the cool swish of a removed blazer, the clink of a watch on the coffee table—the masculine music of undress. They both studied her with a hunger I recognized all too well, having lived with that same craving ever since that first tim
e I spied her in the West 4th Street subway station, so far away and yet I would know her anywhere.
Juma.
She was so beautiful in that low light, the darkness kissing her cheekbones and hugging her hips, her lips downturned. And her eyes. God, her eyes. I paused and nearly breathed aloud as I got lost in their sadness, the depth of loss and despair in those pools of brown, brown that used to dance with laughter and mischief before getting caught up with me and my dark fuckery, brown that used to hunger for me and my body and my soul before learning of all the ways I could destroy her with a few choice words: don’t touch me, Juma.
I took stock of her entertainment for the evening and wondered whether they sensed her blues, picked up on the hint of wretchedness kissing her edges, or if they were so consumed with lust that nothing else registered. I gathered it was the latter and I felt worse because what she needed at that moment, more than sex and passion and desire, was tenderness, some awareness, and comfort. She would get none of that from those two.
“Juma,” the taller one with darker features, fuller lips, and apparently the bigger dick from the size of the rock hard bulge in his pants—Mr. Footballer—called to her in his British accent. “Come here, love.”
Fuck him and his pretty-boy Chelsea lilt, I thought to myself and I wanted to leave but I couldn’t—I had to face my punishment like a man and witness two men fuck the woman I loved.
I watched as they undressed her, pulling and tossing and unsnapping whatever stood between them and her skin, hardly taking time or care, just wanting her naked. And part of me got it, that burning need to see her perfect tits and swollen pussy and all of that goddamned brown and freckles, but another part of me could not understand how they didn’t take their time and cover her body in touches and sucks—didn’t they know that was what she liked—and treat her with the reverence she demanded.
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