Juma

by Madhuri Pavamani

  Then for some reason I reconsidered.

  “Especially since I’ve gone and fallen hopelessly in love with my assigned Keeper, Dutch Mathew.”

  My admission hung in the air for a second before Kobe snatched it to him and put it in his pocket for safekeeping. He shrugged his shoulders like it was no big thing and laughed.

  “Juma, who’s making you feel like that’s such a bad thing? Her?”—and again he rolled his eyes to the sky before continuing—“because if so, fuck her.”

  I laughed because I knew he meant it. Despite the fact she was his dark Mistress, his boss for lack of a better word, Death had never been a favorite of Kobe’s.

  “Easy, cowboy.” I grinned and stepped away from his embrace. “The walls have ears around here.”

  He watched me finger my blade, a nervous habit of mine, one of the many he had picked up over the years, and he raised a brow.

  “Who is Dutch?” He crossed his arms and waited. “And why are you so fucking nervous?”

  “She’s so nervous, Mr. Sax, because unlike you, Juma still has some smarts about her.” Death entered our space and everything went cold, the air stilled, and sound and time felt off, as if she manipulated the entire environment to her preference to set us off balance. Anything to give herself the upper hand. “You’re lucky she likes you so much and somewhere in my dead heart I continue to hold a tiny speck of love and respect for her because otherwise I would have ended your existence a long time ago.”

  “Lucky me,” Kobe muttered before falling to one knee as if injured. His face turned a horrible shade of red, veins bulged along the sides of his forehead, and he mouthed something nonsensical. He was the picture of extreme pain and suffering and it was all because of her. Or because of me.

  Death walked a large circle around Kobe, her arms crossed, the click-clack of her boots the only sound in the space around us, and I thought to myself the one thing missing from her outfit was a whip with which to torture us.

  “Mistress, please,” I pleaded under my breath as she passed me.

  Death held up her hand and glared at me, then continued her circle.

  “I believe you asked “who is Dutch,” Mr. Sax.” She spoke to him but I knew she was really speaking to me. “Isn’t that correct?”

  Kobe was in no position to respond, as it seemed she had stolen his voice. I hoped this was not one of those moments where she would wait until she received an answer to her question because one, she wasn’t getting an answer since she’d taken the very means for him to do so, and two, if this was one of those moments then what this moment really represented was the first of many of Kobe’s long and painful deaths.

  I had witnessed such power plays many times before, had even been party to a few and they were horrific and never-ending and so bloody and gruesome simply because she was Death and could do whatever the fuck she wanted, whenever the fuck she wanted. And so I did something I had never done all those other times I had watched this scene play out before my eyes: I lent him my voice.

  “It is correct. Yes, Mistress, that is exactly what Kobe asked of me—he wanted to know who Dutch is.” I spoke clearly, stopping her in her tracks and drawing all of her menacing attention away from Kobe and onto me. He caught my eye and seemed to beg me to stay out of it, but I could not let this happen to him, his final act was not going to take place in this hallway, in this space carved out by her bad intentions and bullshit. He was not going to become a casualty of whatever war she and I were waging against each other.

  “I’m a bit disappointed in you, Mr. Sax. I believe Juma has given your smarts far too much credit over the years, as you made no connection between the name Dutch Mathew and the leading family of The Gate.” Death was speaking as if I had never spoken. “That is who Dutch Mathew is—scion of The Gate. Son of its leader, Khan, and heir to the throne, should he ever decide he wants to take up the mantle and maintain the family’s stranglehold.

  “Of course, those details are not what makes him of significance to our most lovely and beloved Poocha, Miss Landry, over here,” she hissed. Again Kobe caught my eye and quietly pleaded with me to leave. “She of the ample hips, perfect tits, and pussy which both you and I know very well and very intimately is made of pure gold. Oh no, those details matter little when one has gone and fallen in love with one’s assigned Keeper.”

  She growled those last words and Kobe collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain, soundless screams escaping his parted lips.

  “Stop it, Mistress!” I shouted, my voice full of ire and not a trace of remorse. “NOW!”

  I fell on Kobe and pulled him into my arms as his body shook in agony, fully aware my touch did little to ease his pain, but needing to feel useful somehow.

  “Or what, Juma?” Death looked down at me with an empty expression, unaffected by the man suffering in my arms or my demand for his relief. I released him and stood, meeting her dead expression with one of my own, already so tired of this unholy tug-of-war I had going with her, yet unwilling to throw in the towel and allow her a victory dance just yet. Not with Kobe’s life on the line.

  “I’ll kill myself. Again and again and again, until there’s no more of me left to kill.”

  She waited two beats then tossed her head back and laughed before grabbing me around the neck as I pulled my blade and sliced into her ribcage, all the while Kobe’s moans playing like some sick and twisted background music to our deadly tango.

  “You will do no such thing.” She winced, but did not let me go.

  “I will and you know I will.” I ticked my wrist upward slightly and she breathed out a painful gasp.

  “You would never leave Dutch within my reach,” she countered with a smug look on her face.

  “Ahhhh, once upon a time, you would have been right to conclude that”—I retrieved my blade the most painful way possible, wrenching it sloppily from her gut—“but I have since learned Dutch knows horrors far worse than you killing him and in fact, were I to die, he would welcome your black kiss if it meant he would no longer have to walk this life.”

  “You think far too highly of yourself and that magic pussy,” she sneered, “for I have known Dutch much longer than you and can tell you, he will have two hundred women to replace you in under five seconds.”

  I laughed at her silly logic, so infantile and unsophisticated.

  “And he won’t love any of them,” I replied, “just as he never loved anyone before me.”

  “Except Kajal.” And here she spoke the name as if she had me, like she had been waiting to throw Kajal in my face, and I had to stop and wonder why women did this to each other all the time. Why did she feel the need to fight me using a man as bait when the real fight was about us and what she had done to me for years. When her real issue was the fact that I had finally stood up to her and held my ground and was no longer willing to accept her bullshit on its face. When I let her see my feral side.

  “Yes. Kajal,” I agreed with a smile and she blanched, realizing her little power play hadn’t had its intended effect and I wasn’t to be so easily cowed.

  “So, you decide. Me or him?” And here I slanted my eyes in Kobe’s direction and the air went quiet and whatever she had done to play with sound and time seemed to desist and movement and life reentered our space. Slowly Kobe relaxed and I could hear his breaths and his sighs and his gasps, and yes, for the first time in our togetherness, she relented.

  And yes, I won.

  And yes, it felt good.

  “You, Juma.” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Always you.”

  “Sarcasm hardly suits you,” I noted before turning my attention to my number-one Alighter.

  “You should have left,” he whispered as I leaned close.

  “And miss all the fun?” I whispered back. “Fuck that.”

  I helped Kobe off the floor and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, then punched out a text to his assistant, Jeronimo. No sooner had I hit send, Jeronimo rushed down the hallway to help Kobe to his
suite.

  “You’re going to need one of the doctors to check him out,” I instructed the young man, “and make sure he lies down until then.”

  I glared at Kobe, knowing if I said nothing, he would never relax.

  “I’m fine, Juma,” he insisted. “Jeronimo, let’s go—I’ve got some work to do.”

  I stepped into their path and made Kobe look at me.

  “I mean it, no work. Lie down at least until the doc has taken a peek,” I implored him, adding, “if not for you, then for me.”

  Kobe’s eyes flashed irritation then settled and he almost smiled, but he didn’t because he was Kobe and he was serious and he pretty much never smiled. Except for those moments he almost smiled at me.

  “Fuck you, Juma.” He pulled me into a one-armed hug then whispered in my ear, “be safe,” and allowed Jeronimo to help him limp down the hall.

  “Isn’t that sweet?”

  Those words sent a chill down my spine like no other.

  Veda had spoken the same phrase to me several minutes before she killed me. And even though I knew Death wouldn’t kill me, I sensed whatever she was going to do next would feel somewhat like dying.

  “You adore him so,” she observed, jotting down another name to add to her Ways To Get Back At Juma list.

  “A fact you’ve known since you introduced us.”

  She ran her finger along her lower lip as if in deep thought, though I knew she was just teasing out the melodrama.

  “Yes, but this feeling right here, whatever transpired between the two of you just now”—she waved her finger at me and what would have been Kobe had he still been dying on the floor—“that was much deeper than a simple we like fucking each other.”

  “Mostly because he and I haven’t fucked each other in years,” I replied, my voice flat and dry as I refused to betray any of my concern with her line of thought.

  She turned to me and smiled and it lit up her face and for a second I was blinded by her beauty. I couldn’t tell if she’d manipulated something to make me feel so warm toward her or if she simply was that stunning. It mattered little, because either way, I was slightly speechless in her presence. And then she smiled again and this time it wasn’t so pretty and I knew she was fucking with me and it made me feel like I was five and dying on that hospital gurney.

  And I wanted her dead.

  All over again.

  Just like that.

  “Ah, there’s the Juma I’ve become so used to seeing around these parts as of late.” She snickered.

  I imagined my hands around her throat as I ripped into her cheek with my teeth and listened to her screams of pain and shock and disgust and as quickly as the thoughts entered my head, I made them stop.

  What was wrong with me?

  I breathed long and low, searched my deepest selves, and calmed.

  “I hate this, Juma.”

  She stepped into my space so close too close and I stilled all of me ceased the slightest motion as she ran her warm breath over my lips and ear and her fingers trailed around my nipple until it hardened to her touch and my breath caught as she lingered down between my thighs and rubbed my pussy just hard enough I could feel her through my pants and even though she couldn’t tell how wet she made me I knew she could smell my desire.

  And I remained still.

  “But all I think about is fucking this Juma. Dutch’s Juma. Dutch’s Juma that died another death tonight.”

  She unbuttoned my pants, slid down the zipper, and pushed them over my thighs as her lips grazed mine and she didn’t kiss me but kind of she did as she tugged on my panties and licked her finger then touched my clit soft and barely there and she knew to touch me as her tongue teased my nipple then sucked hard until I couldn’t help but gasp and she smiled against my skin and I hated myself and I hated her but I especially hated us.

  “Juma whose lives are being wasted on Dutch instead of being spent doing the deeds of her Mistress.”

  She slipped two fingers inside my pussy as her third fingered my ass and her thumb worked my clit because she knew I liked to be penetrated everywhere and she slid down to the floor in front of me and pulled my pants down around my ankles so she could push my thighs further apart.

  And I remained still.

  “I was doing the job of my Mistress when I was killed.”

  Correction.

  My body remained still. My mouth could not help itself.

  “Apparently this Juma has the same smart mouth as the old Juma. My Juma.”

  She blew her warm breath on my pussy then tasted me as her tongue did a slow and deliberate lick up my center once twice three times and I dripped onto her tongue because even though I wasn’t turned on by anything about her my body reacted to all the many ways she knew to touch me and it wasn’t fair and it was gross and it was violative but it also felt so goddamned good and I knew I was black and dark for keeping a little part of myself that liked her mouth on me and her fingers inside me and her everything wrapped around me but it could not be helped. We had years of doing this to one another.

  “This Juma also has the same delicious pussy as my Juma.”

  She kissed my pussy and licked it and sucked my clit and I don’t remember how it happened or when I moved but my hands found themselves tangled in her hair and I spread my legs farther apart and she fucked me with her hand as she tongued my clit until I came hard in her mouth and she sucked and kissed another orgasm out of me before pulling up my panties as I settled and then bringing my pants over my hips so she could zip and button me up before standing in front of me, her lips curved in a smile, wet with my juice.

  I considered everything I needed from her—Dutch, his friends, my parents, Kobe, my team, my aunts—and for the first time in my life, I spoke with consideration and thoughtfulness and premeditation.

  “Mistress, I need your help protecting my parents from The Gate.”

  I licked my lips and waited, my pussy still quaking from her attention, her mouth still covered in my sweetness, and I wondered if she knew how painful and difficult it was to allow her to touch me in exchange for requesting assistance and I wondered if she knew how desperate I was to contemplate such behavior, much less endure it, and I wondered when did I become the woman who exchanged sex for favors and I wondered if I even gave a fuck anymore and most of all, I wondered if she cared. About any of it. And I hoped somewhere in that fucked-up beautiful brilliant mind of hers she held onto some remnant of a conscience.

  She smiled and kissed me, lingering long and deep.

  Then she pulled me close and hissed, “Fuck your parents.”

  34: DUTCH

  where are you?

  * * *

  where are you?

  * * *

  fuck you

  just tell me

  where you are

  * * *

  fuck you

  harder

  * * *

  sorry

  * * *

  c’mon man

  I said

  I’m sorry

  * * *

  Ave???

  * * *

  I’m in Étretat

  asshole

  I stood in the middle of the Via delle Oche and skimmed through my text messages. Frist was back in New York and all was quiet. A Dosha in Tokyo reported a sighting of Veda while another in New Orleans texted in Black Copse activity. Kash was headed to the Palace for a meeting called by my mother, and Khan still had his team of fuckboys determined to find me and avenge James’ death.

  In a nutshell, it was the same shit, different day.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  I pocketed my phone, checked my weapons, and hit the portal, landing in Étretat, the seaside French town of cliffs and arches. Avery’s address found me standing in front of a modest-looking three-story home near the waterfront, on a quiet street populated by old French women and even older dogs. I knocked and waited, glancing up and down the street to make sure I hadn’t been followed.

>   “She’s in New York.” Avery opened the door for me then turned on his heel without a word of hello. “Because I know that’s what you’re wondering. You needn’t have come here, I could have texted you the same.”

  “Bonjour to you, too,” I called after him as I walked the hall and took in the space, vast and airy and beautiful and not decorated at all. “I’m not here about Juma, but thanks for the update. And since when do you not have one painting or photograph or book anywhere in your home?”

  “Who said this is my home?” Avery asked from the kitchen as he fiddled with something on the stove.

  “I assumed.”

  “Don’t fucking assume shit, Dutch,” he retorted in a tone that suggested I not reply with any bullshit.

  “This is owned by The Gate?” I asked, unable to hide the amazement in my voice. The property was far too simple in its beauty for anyone in Khan’s employ to ever consider purchasing.

  “I don’t know who owns this place,” Avery turned to me and replied, “nor do I care.”

  Fuck, I thought to myself as I watched him return to whatever he was cooking, hardly interested in me or my appearance on his doorstep. I had known Avery longer than anyone else in my life, including my family—I hadn’t known those motherfuckers at all after I walked through the doors of the world of The Gate—and he had always cared for me, even when he didn’t know I needed caring for.

  “Mathew,” he’d called out in a stern, booming voice my first day at The Gate, when everything was new and horrific and so fucking impossible to make sense of and I was floundering around in a cesspool of confusion and fear and despair. “Over here. Now.”

  I had already undergone two hours of torture at the hands of James Sussex by then, my first taste of the twisted Keeper’s carving technique on my calves and thighs under the guise of teaching me how quickly my body could heal. Little did I know he and I were just getting started with one another—we had years ahead of us of Everlee and his technique.

  I glanced at Avery that day and decided that if he was anything like the Chinese storeowner at the end of the street I grew up on, he could well be far worse than James. Of course, he looked nothing like the Chinese storeowner on the end of my street because that man wouldn’t know a bespoke suit if it bit him on his skinny ass, but I was sixteen and up to that point they were the only Chinese people I knew.