The Gate: Organization created to maintain a healthy balance between the living and dead and to keep Death in check. Divided into Ren, Junta, Dosha, and Keepers. One is born into The Gate and into one’s class within it.
Points: Portals around the world used by The Gate to teleport. Points are guarded by Dosha.
Read on for a preview of Death!
Once upon a time a girl and a boy raced in a yellow taxi through the streets of New York City, up the curves of Broadway, hugging the outer lane of traffic, whizzing through perfectly timed green lights, to find themselves before a tall pre-war building full of solitude-seeking celebrities and sunglasses-wearing billionaires. They stepped into the elevator and when the doors opened, they knew they’d landed in the sky. The room was white and beautiful and they looked around in hushed silence, slow smiles curving their lips as Frida Kahlo watched it all.
I needed that white room, that penthouse apartment of vast and airy openness high above the cacophony of the New York City streets, the last place I’d laughed and lived and loved. The last place I’d recalled him laughing and living and loving.
Dutch.
I screamed his name, bellowed it for the gods and monsters of this world and all the others to hear and know and remember. And yet, not a sound escaped my lips. Nothing. Not even the slightest vibration of air moving past my lips in a sigh. I could do nothing more than lie there on that cold harsh slab of marble, alone in that windowless room of madness.
Because that’s what this was, right?
Madness?
It had to be.
At least according to Jack Nicholson and the quiet brooding American Indian and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Ken Kesey, this was madness. Nothing but quiet and white and hard slabs of marble upon which I lay perfectly still and I wondered what Mr. Kesey would say about murderous fathers and twisted sisters and an army of mute killers. What would he think of nine lives and Death and watching your lover succumb? Was that enough to warrant a gentle but firm pillow to the face until every last bit of oxygen stored in the lungs and blood expired and all that was left was was the body and the bones?
Or would Ken tell me to get over myself, drop some LSD, and get back at it?
I turned my head to the right, the movement slow and deliberate and full of bone-crushing anguish, and studied the white of the walls and the muted nickel of the doorknob and the button of the lock and the worn wood of the solitary chair and as my eyes moved around the space, thoughts and feelings and words and sounds bounced around my skull, demanding attention and action, as if to say “let’s do this, gorgeous.” And just like that, I saw him.
Dutch.
All brown skin and full lips and tatted arms. A cigarette dangled from his gorgeous mouth as he smiled and it was a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes and let me know he was happy and light and for a brief moment in his existence, the darkness was not swallowing him whole, chewing him up and spitting him out wherever it pleased. For a brief moment he knew joy.
I sat up and dangled my legs in the air—point flex point flex—as my blood pushed to the outermost parts of my body and my skin heated and, bit by bit, I felt more alive and aware. I pushed my butt off the marble and inched my body down the table to finally stand, learning the cold floor with each of my toes my heels the balls of my feet, until I was certain and steady and able to bear my weight. And just like that the thought fluttered across my brain cells—brief but demanding some sort of testament—that I never stood this soon upon return because I never woke alone because I always woke in his arms, he always kissed me back to this life.
Dutch.
I stilled and closed my eyes and let him sweep through me fill me with his everything. I felt love and tenderness and devotion, I heard his bark of a laugh, I tasted his bourbon-sweet tongue, I smelled the musk of his sweat. My dark love, my twisted heart, my death and salvation. My soul shook as I tried to gather myself while enveloped by him. The cool of the room cocooned me and still I remained rooted to the spot, deep in rumination and remembrance. And when it seemed I might cross back to the non-living, that perhaps I’d never really revived, my blood and breath so inert, my heart so shrouded in dark and despair, I gasped.
“Ahhh.”
The sound bounced along the walls, danced on the floors, kissed the ceiling as it reached my ears and my eyes flew open and all of me became one thousand percent present in the here and now, the death and destruction, the loss and pain, the quiet and solitude. I moved toward the lone chair in the room, pushed under a desk as if waiting for someone to sit down and write a letter. The bones in my feet cracked in revolt as I walked the slow gait of the elderly or injured, my body relearning its motor functions faster than ever. The desk, a mere ten feet from where I began, was a walk from hell and when I reached its wooden respite, I grasped the edges with both hands and leaned into it with a grateful sigh.
I breathed in and out in and out, deep and full, my lungs wanting more more more but my mind focused on the one thing in the room that caught my eye as I lay on that marble slab, distraught and defeated: Dutch.
In a picture on the desk.
As if someone knew I would need him when I woke. As if someone knew I would need a reason to rise.
It was one of the photos I’d taken with my phone all those months ago after the night he came to me all bloodied and battered, when he’d leaned against my kitchen table that morning and smoked and smiled and charmed and all of it was beautiful. I touched the edge of the print, traced my finger along the white of the frame and smiled.
Then, without thinking, I pulled the frame apart, flipped the clips, and removed the back. I worked my fingers under the photo, between the image and the glass, until he was in my hands, all of his dark and deadly mine and mine alone. Just as we were supposed to be: Dutch and Juma, dark and light, forever and ever. I brought the picture to my lips, pressed them to his, then slipped it into my back pocket—this was how I would remember Dutch, alive and full of love, touched by the morning sun, a whisper of smoke from his cigarette, his smirk a dirty dare made up of mischief and fun.
That piss-poor excuse for a father, Khan, and the even more psychotic sister, Veda, had darkened and dimmed so much of his life, I would not allow them to do the same to his memory. Fuck them. I knew they’d killed him, I’d seen saw the murderous rage in Khan’s eyes as he came up behind Dutch and caught him unawares, and I saw the resignation on Dutch’s face when he realized the folly of his ways, that he should have finished his father when he had the chance, that he should have never paid a second of attention to Veda and her twisted theatrics, that he should have never looked my way.
But he was Dutch and if there was one thing I knew about him, it was that he loved me, so it made perfect sense that he stopped and watched as both of our lives ended. Similar to the sense it made for me to gather my strongest selves, those beings of fire and death and destruction, and push him into the furthest reaches of my consciousness, all of his warmth and tenderness and love, his wicked mouth and perfect hands, every atom of Dutch needed to fade into the black of my memory banks so I could move forward.
Just as we planned.
Just as I’d promised him I would.
No matter what.
Acknowledgments
This book was written during one of the most tumultuous years of my adult life. My blood, sweat, and tears are on these pages and Dutch and Juma pretty much kept me afloat and allowed me an escape when I needed it most. Being a romance writer with a dark heart, I’ve always believed grief produces some of the best work. I now know this to be true—Juma is proof that devastating heartbreak can make you do some wondrous things with words.
So my first thank-you is to my own open and loving heart—I’m so happy you took that chance and jumped and even though you landed flat on your face, splat on the floor, scattered everywhere, this book is proof that it was so fucking worth it.
Dash, for being such an amazing kid and a stellar human. I was never
the woman who clamored to have a kid, and then I turned around and had the best kid ever. Thank you for letting me be your mom.
Syd the Kid, thank you for piercings and sleepovers, boy talk and laughter. And for letting me be your “other” mom.
My parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my sister and brother-in-law . . . who knew I would become the misfit of the family?! Thank you all for having my back, keeping me afloat, and even though I doubt any of you will read these books—Mom and Dad, please do not—a huge thanks for supporting my art.
My Girl Gang, listed in alphabetical order: Alana, Alessandra, Bekah, Corey, Danica, Destiny, Dina, Emily, Jen, Jena, Jess, Kaveri, Kayti, Kimberly, Laura, Leslie, Mei, Meisha, Michele H., Michele K., Mikki, Nora, Pallavi, Patty, Priya, Preeya, Stacy, and Sydney. And Frank. Without your support, your words, your smiles and laughter, I would not have been able to do this. All of this. ALL OF THIS. Thank you for the magic.
Monique, my editor, who takes my words and ideas and shows me ways to make them better, but always always preserves my voice. Thank you. So much. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the glee I felt as I read the notes you sent to the copy editor working on Dutch—you get me. And you love a sexy blade. What more could a writer girl ask for?
And finally, Kimberly. A writer could not ask for a better person in their corner—you are my advocate, my teacher, my sounding board, my common sense. Editing my first drafts with you is a joy because not only do you know me, you know Dutch and Juma, and you love them almost as much as I do. This journey is so much fun and I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else. Thank you for everything, the laughter, the please-stop-being-so-political texts in the middle of the night, the dinners, the movies, the belief in me, the lets-calm-down chats, the boy talk, and the support. I love you, girl.
About the Author
Author photograph © Robert Hite
Madhuri Pavamani is the author of the paranormal romance trilogy The Sanctum. A Southern girl with Northern sensibilities and a slight twang, who still uses the word “y’all” but never “fixin’,” she has an affinity for writing twisted love stories and dark poetry. A graduate of Barnard College, and incapable of leaving the bright lights of New York City, Madhuri works in Manhattan, but rests her head in New Jersey. She loves whiskey, tattoos, Bukowski, and yoga.
To learn more about her, you can follow her blog at madhuripavamani.wordpress.com, follow her on Twitter at @madhuriwrites, on Instagram at @madhuriwrites or like her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/madhuriwrites/.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
1: JUMA
2: JUMA
3: JUMA
4: DUTCH
5: DUTCH
6: JUMA
7: JUMA
8: DUTCH
9: JUMA
10: DUTCH
11: JUMA
12: DUTCH
13: DUTCH
14: JUMA
15: DUTCH
16: JUMA
17: DUTCH
18: DUTCH
19: JUMA
20: JUMA
21: DUTCH
22: JUMA
23: DUTCH
24: JUMA
25: DUTCH
26: JUMA
27: JUMA
28: DUTCH
29: JUMA
30: DUTCH
31: JUMA
32: DUTCH
33: JUMA
34: DUTCH
35: JUMA
36: JUMA
37: DUTCH
38: JUMA
39: DUTCH
40: JUMA
41: DUTCH
GLOSSARY
Excerpt: Death
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
JUMA. Copyright © 2017 by Madhuri Pavamani . All rights reserved. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photographs: woman © Mayer George/Shutterstock.com; background © ilolab/Shutterstock.com; texture © Fotohunt/Shutterstock.com; wall © Lumena/Shutterstock.com
ISBN 978-1-250-12720-4 (e-book)
First Edition: June 2017
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