“He was worse.”
“Much.” An Indian man with kind eyes and a Keeper’s chill offered his hand and a smile, the same Keeper I’d been seeing lingering on the outskirts of all of my kills, watching but never interfering, letting me do my thing, so I had let him do his. “Miss Landry, it’s a pleasure after all these months to finally meet you. I’m Kash Kalish.”
And now I knew his name.
“Trust me, Kash, the pleasure is all mine,” I replied and shot Dutch a look because I could tell he was on the verge of grumbling and grousing about Kash exposing things he would rather keep quiet, but it mattered little. He was in a funk. He wasn’t paying attention to much of anything but his own foul mood.
“Jesus fuck, Kash,” Dutch growled as he lit a smoke and began pacing the room, thoroughly agitated, “you and your goddamned mouth.”
“Enough out of you.”
Avery stood and pointed at Dutch and from his body language it was apparent he was livid but it was a contained rage, quite unlike Dutch, who forever wore his darkness on his sleeve like a badge of despair. I liked Avery already, the way he commanded the room with a low voice and a harsh stare and little more—it suggested he never partook in any of the torture games played at Dutch’s expense. More significantly, it meant I wouldn’t have to kill him.
“Not another fucking word out of either of you, but especially you, Dutch,” Avery warned, watching Dutch as he smoked and seethed in the corner. “Make yourself and Juma a plate, then sit down and eat so we can all get down to business.”
Dutch piled some rice and curry on two plates, handed one to me, and nodded toward the table and even though he sat down with me in front of a ton of food, I knew he wouldn’t touch any of it. I could see his mind racing, his corded arms taut, his neck tense as he smoked drank pushed food around his plate.
“Fuck this shit.” He set his fork down. “Let’s talk about her.”
“I should make something clear,” the woman I took to be Sevyn began.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Dutch cut her off.
“But you will listen to what Sevyn has to say,” Avery interrupted and I couldn’t help but smile inside, careful not to let Dutch see my amusement at watching the two Keepers interact, their roles in each others’ lives quite obvious and on display, Dutch forever the pupil, Avery the stern and ever-loving taskmaster.
“Let’s get something straight, Dutch. What’s happening around all of us—the uptick in violence, hunting Juma, your marriage to Sevyn, The Black Copse, James’ death—it’s no joke,” Avery explained.
“How about you get something straight, Avery? I’m not married to that conniving bitch”—Dutch pointed his fork at the Keeper—“and if there’s anything that fucking Black Copse is, it’s a goddamned joke.”
“Hey!” A red-haired Keeper with eyes like fire moved to Sevyn’s side and shot Dutch a murderous glare while she leaned close and whispered something.
“It’s funny, Gaël, I had you pegged all wrong. Never took you for a slutfucker and sure as hell never expected to find you in bed with someone already sucking my father’s dick.” Dutch’s horrible words landed at everyone’s feet and for a second the room held its breath before exploding in a mess of shouting and posturing, grievances and stress seeming to take their toll on everyone in Dutch’s circle. I slipped from the table and moved to the outer reaches of the madness, picking up bits and pieces of battered souls and relations, learning too much of the underbelly of their small world too fast as words and voices and harsh angry malevolent sounds accosted my senses and I wanted nothing more than to curl in on myself and make it all disappear but I knew I could not would not do anything of the sort.
Instead I listened.
* * *
“This has everything to do with things out of my control.”
“I never asked to be brought into your inner circle. I never wanted anything to do with anyone named Mathew.”
“Don’t point at me, I’m a scientist. This is not my fight. I’m here for Dutch.”
“It is hardly her fault your family of fucking psychos came out of nowhere and pulled her into their web of deceit.”
“Perhaps if you spent less time worrying about me and more on your own life and that of your boyfriend, you wouldn’t be so goddamned wound up.”
“I’ve met Khan once.”
“None of this is getting us anywhere. It doesn’t matter and yelling isn’t going to solve a thing.”
“Mind your own fucking business, asshole.”
“You should have thought about your boyfriend over here before you got in bed with Khan and Shema.”
“You lying cunt.”
* * *
Old hurts and lingering ire, familial abuse and secret love, everything awash in a pool of bitterness and resentment and all things unspoken and it was then I realized they needed this. I just wondered what they expected from it.
“What is the point of all of this noise?” Kash raised his voice above the din and for a second they stopped and stared and I figured that the tall, thin, crooked-nosed, kind-eyed, strangely handsome, fifty-something Indian gentleman—because seriously, the way he dressed and carried himself, you could only call him a gentleman—rarely shouted. “Why are we yelling at each other when this meeting was called to come together, talk, and strategize our next steps?”
Apparently he and I were of a similar mindset.
Everyone considered the question and danced along the edge of cooperation and creating a unified front and I thought Kash got through to them.
* * *
“Why is she even here?”
And then they were off again.
“Fuck you, Dutch!”
“I want no part of any of this—it’s complete bullshit.”
“It’s not my problem, none of this is, so leave me out of it.”
“You can’t blame everyone else all the time, what about you?!”
* * *
This group of cold-hearted killers trained to commit whatever bad acts needed to be committed to get the job done no matter the toll on the body or the cost to the soul, they needed this moment to vent and let loose all the pent-up buried denied pain, give it voice, make it known so they could move on to the next life, the better one. And they could do so together. So I let them, despite the fact that all of the noise was shredding my insides, leaving all of me feeling run over by a dump truck then worked over by a meat tenderizer.
But I understood pain and the toll it took on the soul the longer it remained contained within the mind instead of being released into the world and set free. Which is why I stayed calm and breathed deeply as their voices bounced around the room, crashed off the walls, slammed into the ceiling, and floated in the air around us—this drawn-out, very loud moment mattered.
And I let them have it.
I let them own the moment, shape it, experiment with it and try and turn it into something worthwhile and of value. And when I realized they probably could do nothing of the sort because they were stubborn, too-smart, emotionally charged killers letting off too many years of pent-up steam, I stepped in like any good southern girl would and handled things my way.
“Miss Suleiman!” I crossed my arms and spoke above the din, my twang more pronounced whenever I raised my voice, a kind of double-whammy for catching folks off guard and stealing their attention. “That’s your name, right? Sevyn Suleiman?”
And it worked.
The room stilled, the bodies settled, the voices quieted, and for the first time since arriving downstairs to grab some food, I could hear myself think, my head didn’t feel like exploding, my ears weren’t on fire.
“Juma.” Dutch calmed and returned to himself, and I knew he felt bad about the scene in the kitchen and leaving me all those months ago and his darkness that enveloped me the second we crossed paths in that bar all those nights ago and his everything, but it mattered little—I didn’t need his apologies because I loved him something stupid and forgave him h
is transgressions before he even committed them. But what I did need was for him to shut up. I needed all of them to shut up.
I held up my hand and our eyes met for a second as I hushed him. He and his crew had had their chance, I’d listened to them rant and rage and get nowhere amongst themselves, so now it was my turn.
“Miss Suleiman,” I continued even though she still hadn’t acknowledged the first time I spoke her name, probably because she couldn’t read the tone of my voice or maybe because someone like me—a Poocha—had never addressed her in such a manner. “Am I correct to assume you’ve never wanted to cause any harm or held any ill will toward Dutch?”
She opened her mouth as if to respond while her eyes flashed in confusion and she glanced at the shorter man next to her, the red-haired Keeper Gaël, who didn’t appreciate the way Dutch spoke of her and in all honesty, I couldn’t blame him because the way Dutch addressed Sevyn was some bullshit. I didn’t know her at all, had never seen her in my life, but even I knew she didn’t want any part of Dutch and that being married to him caused serious strife to her body and soul because her body and soul belonged to that red-haired spirited man standing at her side, not the dark dangerous stranger growling at her every chance he got.
Dutch was so smart but could be so stupid at times.
Sevyn started to say something, then hesitated and looked around the room at the other faces, perhaps for some help or support or for someone besides me to speak up and take control of the room and put me in my proper place. What she failed to realize was this right here—me owning the room and all of them—was my proper place, and I wanted some answers and at that point in time the answers needed to come from her lips.
Or else.
“Miss Suleiman,” I continued as I began a slow circle of the room, headed in her direction but taking the scenic route so she had some time to study me feel me out perhaps decide whether or not she could take me, “it’s a simple yes or no question. Have you ever committed any bad acts against Mr. Mathew? And in case you don’t know who Mr. Mathew is, despite the fact every last person in this room knows he is now your husband, this is him,” and I stopped next to Dutch’s chair and rested my hand on his shoulder, his heat reaching my fingertips and making my blood race, “this gorgeous dark and dangerous piece of work is Dutch Mathew.”
I felt a low chuckle rumble through his being and I squeezed him hard as he palmed my ass and we waited for her to find her voice and give us her truths. She studied both of us with slit eyes and a quiet disdain for me and my otherness and for Dutch and his everything. I cleared my throat and fingered the blade at my hip—the same blade I’d been using to kill scores of her kind—and shot her a look that told her she had all of five seconds to answer me as I continued on my way around the room.
“No,” she finally replied as I came to stop in front of her and looked up slightly to meet her gaze, needing to bore into her soul and determine the veracity of her simple statement. “No, I have never done any such thing against Mr. Mathew. I don’t even know him.”
“What about loverboy over there?” I nodded in the direction of her red-haired hero.
“Gaël,” he answered, his Irish coming right up to his skin’s surface and boiling over a bit in irritation and something close to confusion yet not quite. He was annoyed but whether it was with me or Dutch or the circumstances in general was difficult to discern. Either way, I respected the fact he didn’t want her answering for him when he was perfectly capable.
“Gaël Ryan, Keeper of The Gate, of the family Ryan, caste of Ren, and no, I have never once conspired or colluded against Dutch. In fact, I have always considered Dutch a friend and myself one of his allies in the bullshit they call The Gate. I have never participated in the atrocities doled out to Dutch, nor would I ever. I am a killer by birth and calling, yes, but I am no torturer and most definitely not some sick underhanded fuck.”
I liked him already but refused to let on and instead gave him a long cold stare, letting the room fall into silence again for a few seconds as his last words left their mark.
“And what about you?” I turned to the purple-haired woman standing next to Avery, the tall thin beautiful being I knew to be Frist, and watched as her eyes kind of bulged and every ounce of her self wanted me to stay very far from her.
“My name?” she asked.
“Juma, come on,” Dutch interceded, probably wondering where I was headed with Frist, fearful what I might do to her should she trip over her words and give me an answer I didn’t really like.
“No, not your name, gorgeous”—I smiled but it didn’t meet my eyes—“I know your name, Frist. Or should I call you Penelope?”
She blanched slightly and the vein in her neck popped out a bit but otherwise she hid whatever feelings that name evoked.
“I prefer Frist, thank you very much,” she whisper-growled, and again I found myself liking Dutch’s people, “but if you insist on Penelope, so be it. I hardly look the part of a Penelope.”
“Agreed,” I cut her off, “so Frist it is. Answer my question—have you ever hurt Dutch?” and here I purposely used the vaguest of terms because I wanted to make her squirm because I wanted her to know I knew she fucked Dutch again and again and probably did so after she knew Dutch was fucking me. Even though I didn’t care because in her shoes, I would fuck Dutch again and again, too, no matter who he was fucking. I just liked messing with her.
“Not purposefully.”
Good answer.
“Have you participated in any bad acts against Dutch?”
“Fuck no.”
“Interesting choice of words,” I replied, and she and I both knew exactly what I meant.
“Seriously, I would never work with anyone with an agenda against Dutch. Never,” she added and I waited a few beats to see whether she would say more and when she remained silent I glanced at Avery and Kash but didn’t bother because I knew their story because without them there would be no Dutch. I didn’t need their truths as Dutch wore their truths on his sleeve.
“Brilliant”—I shot everyone my most charming smile—“because this meeting is a serious waste of my time. I care very little for any of your secrets and grudges against one another, for the hurt and anger you walk around with every day, for any of the bullshit cacophony you all accosted my ears with. You kill my kind for a living and since I’m sure you’ve never once stopped to wonder what it must be like to come back to this world, I’m going to tell you: It’s brutal and some of the scariest shit ever and when all of you do all of that yelling, it’s murder on my senses. My ears are very new right now and every time you raise your voice to air some decades-old pain you should have discussed years ago but are only doing so now because now is crisis time, now is when the shit really hits the fan and it’s fucking messy and we’re all going to come out stinking, you’re killing me. You are killing my ears and in turn my body as the sound waves thrown about with such force and violence reverberate through each and every cell making up Juma Landry.
“And yeah, I know you don’t care.” I continued with my diatribe, putting my words and frustration out there into the shocked and silent ether. “But I do. And since I’ve spent the last year killing your kind and doing it with precision and ease, as Kash can attest since he’s been following my every move, I would highly recommend all of you shut. the. fuck. up.”
And for five, maybe six seconds, they listened to me.
“Juma,” Dutch cut through the silence of the room.
“You, too, Dutch.” I shook my head at him. “I love you but please, be quiet.” I broke our stare and continued. “I don’t care how any of you feel about each other. I’m just glad I got to meet you so, should our paths ever again cross, I know to let you live. Everything else you’re discussing and shouting about and almost-crying over is nonsense. I don’t know about y’all and what your plans were, but I’m here to tell you right now, at this moment, there is only one agenda that matters: to kill each and every person who has ever
hurt Dutch or fucked with Death.”
That final phrase caught their attention.
“Oh yeah,” I said, “you thought this was all about Dutch? My evolution into some grotesque killing machine, who functions purely on entrails and visceral matter, creating masterworks of blood splatter and brains, you thought all that was based solely on my love for that man? Please. I am a much more complex girl. Yes, I love Dutch, so much that I will kill all of you if I ever learn you’ve wronged him, and I will make it hurt and I will enjoy doing it, but I also love my friends and colleagues, my Deaders, and most of all, my dark Mistress. And if The Gate has made an agenda of wronging anyone, it is her.”
23: DUTCH
Every Great Love has that moment where just when you think you know everything about your lover and you couldn’t crave them more, they expose another layer of themselves, they lift the veil and allow you to peek underneath, delve a little deeper into their most personal self, that piece they hold on to for as long as possible, almost afraid to share it with you lest they lose sight of themselves completely.
It’s a must-happen thing, without it you cannot define your love as Great. Sure, what you share might be wondrous or amazing, you might be wrapped around each other for eternity, you might fuck each other backward and forward and upside down, but the two of you and your love are not Great.
Juma told me I was the Great Love of her life but it was only then, during that moment in the kitchen when she took control of that room, threatened to kill everyone—and the hard set of her stare let them know she was not fucking around—when she commanded strict attention and inspired a little fear as she smirked and fingered her machete, that I understood what she meant. It was only then that the depth of her words shook me to my core. It was that moment she and her fucking brilliance took hold of me on a deeper, more fundamental level and she stopped being the woman I wanted to be around and under and inside all the time and became my Great Love.
And this is not to suggest all the other moments of her being Juma Landry and wrapping herself around all of my bullshit did not move me, did not strip me down to the most basic elements of my manhood and make me want more of her everything, did not leave me speechless and stupid and wondering what she saw in an asshole like me. Nah. Not at all. I’d walked around in that state twenty-four seven since that night at Frank’s when she took off her clothes and dared me to love her.
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