Death

by Madhuri Pavamani

  But I was not kind.

  I was dark and more fucked up than anyone could imagine, so I didn’t feel shit for either of them. Instead, I simply watched as Khan paced like an enraged lion trapped in a glass cage in some small-town, dusty-as-fuck zoo that no one visited anymore. And Veda mimicked his every move like a well-trained cub. And the Black Copse. Everywhere. Those no-tongued, muted motherfuckers poured into the room and awaited word from their psychotic queen like a wall of silent death.

  I watched it all in quiet stupefaction until Khan moved in my direction. Only then did I realize my motor skills were less than stellar because only then did I try to walk. In rapid succession my brain synapses popped and sizzled and cursed as it became clear whatever ice ran through Shema’s magic was still working on me. I might have looked and felt better, but my range of movement was unimproved. Almost nonexistent.

  I couldn’t get out of Khan’s way if I’d wanted to.

  And then it happened.

  Shema stepped between us. Between her son and her husband. And I swear time stopped for three seconds—one Mississippi two Mississippi three Mississippi—as Khan registered shock and disbelief and all kinds of what-the-fuck because nowhere in the trajectory of his existence had Shema’s coming to my defense ever occurred. I knew this because nowhere in my existence had Shema’s coming to my defense ever occurred.

  The room stilled and all of us waited for the inevitable explosion because it was coming, it just remained to be seen whom it would be directed toward: Shema or me.

  My money was on the tall brown guy with an affinity for bourbon and cigarettes who was currently rendered immobile.

  Khan always did love an unfair fight.

  CHAPTER SIX: DUTCH

  “That magic in your hands,” Khan erupted, and pointed a long finger in Shema’s face, his voice a mixture of anger and disgust, a tone I’d never heard him take with her, “you swore never to use it on him!”

  “And you promised never to take it this far,” Shema replied.

  “I should have cut your hands off long ago,” Khan said. Oblivious to Shema or me or anyone else for that matter, he was too caught up in his disbelief and rage to consider much else. “The second I discovered your powers, I should have disabled you. Instead, you beguiled me with your beautiful face and dreams of wealth and power.”

  “My beautiful face,” Shema scoffed. “You’ve spent a lifetime wrapped around your Jamaican Keeper—don’t you dare speak of my beautiful face, you bastard.”

  My parents were two of the most vile creatures placed on the face of this earth, forever supporting each other in the most cruel and inhuman behavior. They were made for each other, as if the gods set aside a day to design the yin and yang of fuckery and from that madness spewed forth Khan and Shema Mathew. And although I was quite fascinated by the possibility that a serious rift existed between the two, I was much more invested in my life. And Juma’s.

  Juma.

  I lowered my eyes and glanced to my left, where she remained unseen, hidden in the shadows. But I could feel her attention shift away from the spectacle of Shema and Khan and toward me, as if she knew I sought her. She touched the hilt of her machete—the move so slight, it hardly seemed she moved at all, but I knew she was ready. The problem was—unlike at her parents’ house in Atlanta, when we fought the Black Copse and Khan and Veda together—this time she would be flying solo because, try as I might, I remained goddamned immobile.

  I cursed the ground Shema trod, no matter that she stood between my useless body and the man who, more than any other, wanted me dead. I didn’t give a fuck. Because how typical was this shit—even when doing me a favor and saving my life, she left me a goddamned worthless mess.

  “This has nothing to do with you, Shema.” Khan’s voice ricocheted off the walls. “What happens in this room is between Dutch and me and no one else. Why the fuck is Rani here?” He spun on the Keeper, and although she didn’t flinch, there was a hint of fear in her eyes.

  “To stop me, of course.” Shema’s lie rolled off her tongue like sweet water. “Stupid child. I’ve watched her blindly support you and James and your agenda all these years, and now what? She seeks some sort of revenge against Dutch for killing her partner? She intends to stay in your good graces and fill James’ shoes?”

  Shema glanced at Rani for a moment and cocked her brow before turning back to Khan, a twisted grin curving her lips. “Well, we both know Rani could never truly fill James’ shoes, could she, Khan?”

  Those words and my mother’s laughter—cold, accusatory, full of ridicule—were the only sounds to fill the room for long drawn-out seconds, as they bounced off the walls and through everyone’s blood and bones until they settled somewhere unholy and unforgivable. Khan’s eyes flashed with rage, and I wondered if he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the many mirrors around the room because as quickly as that emotion crossed his face, it disappeared. And where he’d seemed on the brink of implosion, he now appeared the epitome of cool detachedness. He then raised a weapon none of us had noticed because it was small and hidden and nothing that bastard ever did was small or hidden, and slashed once twice thrice and again.

  Four times across Shema’s chest.

  Blood splattered everywhere and my mother crumpled to the ground. I watched her fall—her chest open and her life spilling onto the carpet and seeping into the floor—and thought to myself how strange that only in death did I regard her in a filial sense.

  Only in death did I consider her my mother.

  “Rani!” Shema shouted as her mouth filled with blood and she lay dying on the floor. “Get out of here!”

  But it was too late.

  Rani charged Khan, a blade raised high, her eyes full of death, and slashed his face, splitting open his cheek and jaw. Juma sprang from the shadows and followed Rani’s lead, machete in one hand, killing any Black Copse in her way as she felled others with what appeared to be small Chinese stars in endless supply from a small bag I’d never seen before on her hip. And somewhere above it all I could hear Veda, cursing and screaming orders full of murder and death as I contemplated the size of the palace and how many tongueless killers could fill this space.

  We were fucked.

  This would not be like Atlanta, there would be no influx of reinforcements, no balancing of the playing field. This would be our deaths, in that goddamned cursed dining room with that blasted table.

  “Dutch!” Juma shouted above the fray, and threw me a blade she pulled from her thigh. It reached my hand as Veda came at me from behind, and even though one side of my brain was like, What the fuck, Juma? You know Shema’s black magic immobilized me, the other side, the one that functioned on pure instinct and adrenaline, reached out, caught the weapon, and slashed.

  Veda screamed as the steel sank into her side, deep and hard, and when I pulled away in surprise, both at my mobility and my good luck, she cursed and lunged and I caught her again with an elbow under the chin, followed by a right hook to the jaw. I sent her flying into the wall, dazed and confused but only for a moment, of that I was certain.

  The insane always revived, their crazy forever a shield from the cruelties of this life.

  I wanted to finish Veda off once and for all, gut her and leave her for dead, but as if reading my mind, Black Copse emerged from every direction and formed a protective wall around her. I glanced to my left as Juma continued her slaughter while in the far corner of the room, Rani had Khan trapped and bloody, her attack fueled by what I could only imagine to be both rage and great despair. She slashed and stabbed with such speed and precision that not even Black Copse could help Khan. It was beautiful to watch, and my only regret was not standing by her side to witness firsthand the fear in Khan’s eyes as Rani stepped in for the kill.

  “No more!” Veda shouted at Rani. Heeding some silent command from their demented queen, Black Copse slipped from the room. Their muted movements were fluid and ethereal, a quiet blanket of death pulled back to reveal w
hat remained of the battle.

  Us.

  “Leave him!” Veda demanded, and Rani turned to probably tell her to go fuck herself and in that second, Khan made his move. He slipped out a side door, and when Rani turned to try to catch him, Veda moved past Juma and out another door, and before any of us could react, they were gone.

  We stood in stunned silence, staring at each other in shock, incapable of processing what had just happened. Or what to do next. Then Shema pushed herself upright, bloodied and gored and gutted, and with her last breath, saved us from ourselves.

  “Run, you fools!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN: JUMA

  We escaped the palace and raced through the streets of India’s Trivandrum without speaking a word to one another as a shock-induced silence befell our bizarre threesome. I had so many questions, so much anger on the tip of my tongue, but knew it was neither the time nor the place because what mattered most was our survival—me making it to my hub, Dutch and Rani reaching their portal, and all of us getting as far away from that palace as swiftly as possible.

  We moved deeper into the city and slowed our pace, and I thanked the gods for the darkness of the night because the streets were packed with all kinds of life and yet no one stopped to take note of our blood-splattered bodies or haunted expressions, no one wondered at the horrors performed within those palace walls. I wondered how many times in his thirty-eight years of hell on this earth Dutch had made this same journey, bloodied and battered and full of terror, and the same city folk pretending the brutal sight of him was nothing out of the ordinary.

  But I kept my thoughts locked inside because I knew once I gave them voice and made them real, I would have to kill someone for allowing Dutch to be Dutch all this time, for never once stepping into his path and wondering whether he needed help.

  So I made eye contact with no one and just kept moving.

  In what felt like circles to my untrained eyes but I assumed to be purposeful on the part of Dutch and Rani—this was their town and they knew what they were doing.

  “Enough, Rani,” Dutch finally called out after another trip around the city, stopping near a river just as it fed into a lake of such expanse, it took my breath away. It was quiet and still, and although removed from the lights and activity and life of town, our trio remained hushed and tense.

  “No, we must keep going.” Rani’s voice was tense and tight and not at all inviting. I could tell she hated Dutch.

  “They’re not coming,” I said, as if involving myself in the conversation blocked her ill will from touching Dutch. “Whoever we’re running from—the Black Copse, Veda, Khan—not this time. Not right now.”

  “You don’t know that, Poocha,” Rani spat at my feet, and as much as I wanted to pick up her words with the toe of my boot and shove them down her throat with my foot, I did not.

  Instead.

  “I do,” I said, my voice low and calm and quite the opposite of the ire bouncing around my brain. “I can feel them and they’re not coming.”

  At that admission, Dutch turned my way, and I knew a million questions coursed through his being because I knew him as well as I knew myself. I also knew he would ask not a single one of them but instead would wait until I was ready to tell him everything because he was Dutch and he loved me and I loved him and part of that love was the promise we’d made to each other of no more secrets: all the ugliness and bizarre out on the table, no holds barred. And he believed in that love and me and us more than anything, so he also believed I would tell him my truths.

  All of them.

  Admitting I could feel the Black Copse was only the beginning.

  Rani rolled her eyes in the darkness and I felt a tingle in my fingertips, a burning desire to to wrap my fingers around her throat and slowly squeeze the life out of her tiny, birdlike body.

  She had no idea how close she was to dying tonight.

  “It’s difficult to describe,” I said, more to Dutch than to Rani because, as Dutch would say, fuck her. “It’s almost like if you could feel a shimmer, that’s how it feels when those muted bastards are close by. It happened at Frist’s apartment the first time they attacked us, but I didn’t understand it then, because I didn’t even know it was happening. I’ve since noticed the same sensation every time they’re nearby, it’s almost as if I’m becoming more attuned to them because the sensations are happening sooner, sometimes giving me as much warning as when a Keeper is close.”

  Rani laughed upon hearing those words, but the sound was mocking and cruel and I sensed Dutch knew it well, had probably heard the same a million times over based upon the way he watched her—with eyes full of darkness and death. And I was about to tell her to shut the fuck up, no one wanted to hear that noise—when he pounced. No warning, no nothing. Just one second he was still and the next he was on her and she was on the ground with his hand at her throat.

  I stood rooted to the spot as I wondered at his speed and strength—I never watched him fight but he was a thing of beauty, all sinew and lean muscle and unadulterated death. It was the sexiest shit I’d ever witnessed and because I hated Rani almost as much as I hated Khan and Veda, I allowed Dutch a few moments of making her feel as though she might succumb to his unreal power and murderous ire. I wanted her to know that he could do it—the possibility existed that when she least expected it, he would kill her. I needed that fear to become part of Rani’s day-to-day existence.

  So I waited and I watched as she struggled under his weight and anger. And as sick as it sounded, I enjoyed myself.

  Because again.

  Fuck her.

  “Hey.” I touched Dutch’s back, hoping to shift his attention away a bit. “If you kill her, we’ll never know what she and your mother were up to, all that information will die with her.”

  “Back off, Juma.” Dutch growled his response without turning my way or hearing a word I said, and I knew it was going to take a little more effort on my part to convince him to spare Rani’s life. Not that I gave a damn about her. At all. But I didn’t want to stand in the middle of the backwaters of Kerala all night, locked in some battle of life and death and years of bad Keeper history. I wanted to get them to their portal and me to my hub and all of us as far away as possible from Khan and Veda and that palace. I wanted to regroup and recharge and then he and I could decide whether or not to kill Rani.

  I crouched low to the ground across from Dutch and wove my fingers with his so we both held on to Rani for a moment and I saw fear flash across her face as my eyes met hers and it felt good helping Dutch drive a little terror into her blood. I hoped it settled into her bones and small spaces and lived with her the rest of her days and I imagined as much while I loosened his grip on her throat, and he locked eyes with me as I worked his fingers but Dutch didn’t stop me.

  He knew I was doing the right thing by preventing him from killing her, he might even have wanted to do the same himself but time and history and all kinds of bad shit made such sound decisions impossible.

  That was why he had me.

  When he needed a little sanity in his crazy world, I was there with offerings of safe spaces and quiet moments and do-the-right-things.

  I maneuvered his last finger off Rani’s throat, released her from certain death, and watched as she struggled to suck in as much air as her desperate lungs could swallow. Dutch and I stood in silence, almost touching each other but not, as she writhed and gasped and kicked life back into herself. I sneaked a glance at him as we waited for her to calm and sensed both of us probably wished her dead.

  “Fuck the theatrics, Rani.” Dutch kicked her foot, his lack of patience getting the better of him. “Get up.”

  “Where is your portal?” I asked as the Keeper struggled to her feet, neither Dutch nor I paying her a bit of mind.

  “On the other side of the lake. Why?”

  I backed away from the two of them and pointed in the direction of the palace. “Because my hub is that way—I’m going to head there and we’ll meet at t
he safe house.”

  “Wait,” he called to me, but I was already in motion, my back to him and headed toward my destination and I knew if I stopped and turned in his direction, then I would be sucked in by his haunted eyes and weary soul, and right now he didn’t need me to wrap him in my arms and hold him close or beg him to touch me or let me touch him. He needed me to get us out of here.

  “No, Dutch. Get her moving and let’s do this already,” I said, and kept walking.

  Away from him.

  Back turned.

  So he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  I didn’t know why I was crying, but I was—full-on tears streaming down my face—and it was bizarre and so not me to cry as I walked away from a man, and at any other moment of my life I would have laughed and told myself to get over him, he was a dime a dozen and not worth a second of my time, but Dutch was none of those things. There was no one like him, and he was worth every second of every minute of every hour of my time. So when he made me cry—even inexplicably—I went with the emotion and let my soul play out whatever it needed to play out because that was how I worked when it came to that dark and dangerous man.

  “Juma,” Dutch called again, and when I didn’t stop or turn back, he chased after me. “JUMA!” He caught my arm and made me stop. I wiped my eyes, turned at the same time, and smiled, and I knew my smile was too big and too bright and looked all kinds of forced. And I knew he would see that in less time than it took me to think it, and I should have done a better job of hiding it but it was too late.

  He saw.

  All of it.

  The glassy eyes and damp face and too-forced smile.

  And because he was Dutch and knew me better than I knew myself, he didn’t say a word. He watched me in silence and looked worried and I got the sense he wanted to wrap me in his arms and hold me close and tell me sweet lies that sounded like It’s going to be okay and We’re going to make it but he didn’t, because he knew I hated mendacity. And he knew I was crying because of goodbyes and partings and separate ways and how we swore never to say goodbye or part or go our separate ways, and yet they seemed to be our persistent state of being.