“ . . . your fucking whore, that Poocha piece of ass Juma Landry, cunt-faced bitch died like the animal she is.”
And faster than I knew I was capable of moving, I jerked open Khan’s mouth and cut out his tongue. I’d done it many times to verbose Poochas well versed in the art of driving me nuts, hopeful they would carry the pain of the dismemberment into their next life, so when we crossed paths again, they would make sure to be less chatty in my presence.
But Khan had no more lives, so in case he wondered whether he was ever getting up from this table, I pretty much answered that question for him right then and there. I tossed his tongue into the fireplace, rested my hip against the table, and listened while he screamed and shouted and cursed and choked on his own blood, all with the smug satisfaction of knowing he would never ever again utter her name.
“My god!”
The dining room doors flung open and there stood my uncle Darsh, short fat bastard. Before he could make any sort of move one way or the other—escape or attack—I was up and standing next to him, my eyes on the hallway and his on the dining room table. I stuck my head outside to make sure no one else was headed our way, then closed and locked the doors behind us.
“What the hell have you done?” Darsh turned to me and shouted, his eyes wild with panic and rage.
“First, I came up the servants’ staircase and sneaked into the room directly behind him—” I nodded in Khan’s direction before returning my attention to Darsh. “—which was fucking brilliant—this asshole didn’t even look up, that’s how used to ignoring the servants he is. Then I stabbed him under the right arm while placing him in a choke hold with my left, slammed him into the table, and locked him up.”
“You piece of shit,” Darsh growled, and I pointed my bloody knife in his direction.
“That’s what your big brother said, too,” I replied. “Of course, before I cut out his tongue. Ever since, it’s been this kind of noise nonstop.”
Darsh shot me a look and said something in Malayalam to Khan that I only kind of understood, then started unfastening the leather straps nearest him. I fisted Juma’s blade in my left hand and gave him a chance. “Don’t do that, Darsh.”
“Fuck you, Dutch,” he spat back at me, and continued working the straps, his hands shaking with rage. I watched him struggle for a few seconds more, then I lifted Juma’s machete and dropped it right on his wrist. His hand fell to the floor with a thud, and blood shot out of the stump and he watched it in horror before he, too, started shouting and cursing and carrying on, much like his elder brother.
“You Mathew brothers need to get a goddamned grip,” I replied as I cleaned Juma’s blade on my jeans and sidestepped Darsh’s oncoming, easily avoidable, blatantly obvious attack. He lunged and missed and lunged again and just to amuse myself, I swung Juma’s machete and slashed his kneecaps.
Both of them.
One after the other.
And I must say, it felt really fucking good using her weapon to carve up that asshole.
“Stay where you are, Darsh—” I pointed the blade in his direction. “—or this is going to get really ugly really fucking fast.”
Darsh looked stricken and unsure of what to do next, glancing in his elder brother’s direction for some advice before remembering his elder brother was in worse condition than himself.
“What is it you want, Dutch?” Darsh finally asked.
“Want?” I asked because I couldn’t believe he was serious, that he really thought I wanted something from them and that’s why I was here. Knock, knock, just thought I’d stop in and say hello to the fam. Get the fuck out of here.
“Yes,” Darsh replied, and all of him was so goddamned earnest I wanted to kill him on the spot, “what do you want? Maybe there’s something I can do for you.”
I leaned against the buffet where Khan liked to unroll his set of knives and listen to them clink against each other, rubbed my chin as though I were contemplating Darsh’s question, and watched that asshole study my every move. Because he really thought I was considering his request. He really believed there was a chance he would survive this tête-a-tête.
Fuck him and his tongue-less brother.
“Well, up until yesterday, I just wanted to be left alone,” I said, my voice low and conversational. “I wanted Khan to back the fuck off, I wanted Veda to stop harassing my friends, and I wanted the Black Copse to go back to whatever pit of hell they emerged from. Now I want Juma.”
“Juma?” he asked, and it took every atom in my being not to fly across that table and cut out his tongue as well for saying her name aloud.
“Yes, Juma,” I replied through gritted teeth, “the woman you tied to the wall at your big brother’s request and then stood by as he killed her. Ring a bell?” I asked, and his very dark brown skin turned a much sicklier shade. “Yeah, her. The Poocha who died her last death at Khan’s hand.”
Darsh gulped and it was loud.
“I also want you dead,” I added, and this time I did exactly what I wanted and flew across that table, crashing into him, knocking the fat fuck right on his back.
“Dutch, please.” He held up his remaining hand and I slashed through it, hacking at him right and left and he begged for his life and I ignored every word until there were no more words coming from his mouth and he was reduced to a bloody, unrecognizable mess on the floor. I was covered in entrails and brains, and all of it belonged to that bastard. And even though I knew he was dead, I kicked him in the side a few times because I could.
I then bent over and rested my hands on my knees, closed my eyes, and caught my breath. And everywhere I saw her.
Juma.
Laughing, talking, singing, looking over her shoulder and winking at me.
But when I opened my eyes, it was just me and the Mathew brothers. And even though one of them was dead and the other was headed that way, I felt no better because the fact remained, she was still gone. Khan watched me from the table and I got the sense he was putting together some sort of plan, maybe calling the Black Copse using the powers his black-magic artisans entrusted him, I had no idea. Whatever he was up to, it irked me, and as I passed him to get to the buffet and his special set of knives, I jabbed my own short blade into one of his eyeballs.
“Don’t fucking stare at me, Daddy,” I sneered, and imitated dearly departed Veda.
Khan kicked and bucked and cried out and all of it sounded guttural and bloody because when your tongue is unceremoniously chopped off and thrown into a fireplace, everything sounds a little guttural and bloody. And I noted how similar he was to me when I was strapped to that table and desperate to escape the hell of his knives and oh, the fucking irony.
“Khan—” I found the knives and began unrolling their velvet casing as my hands shook and started to sweat. “—I believe yesterday when we were all gathered at Château de Lunas, you started a discourse on the circular nature of life.”
I glanced back at him and he refused to look my way, but I knew he was scared. I could see the pulse in his throat, throbbing like mad, and even though looking at those knives made my stomach turn, I knew I had to do this. I picked up one with a mother-of-pearl handle and held it up to the light so he could see it, too, then returned to his side at the table. He eyed the knife and glanced at me, and when we made eye contact, he spat.
It didn’t go anywhere because he had no tongue, and from what I could tell, without a tongue, spitting seemed pretty difficult, but that was hardly the point. The point was his intent. The point was that even strapped to that table, thighs sliced and diced, tongue cut out, and an eyeball missing, that bastard still wanted me dead and thought he could very likely kill me himself. Despite the fact that I was the one holding the knives.
My hands shook and I didn’t know if it was with rage or fear, but he saw it and he assumed the latter. And he laughed. As I stood over him with a flaying knife at the ready, he laughed, and that sound forced me to act because I knew I could not live with myself if I allo
wed that sound to fill my ears for years to come. My mouth filled with bile as the stench of death flooded my senses and found a resting place in my darkest selves. I took the blade and cut into his shoulder with the skill of a surgeon, the skin delicate and easy to pull away from the muscle. So long as one worked with the right tools.
I paused, caught my breath, and afforded Khan a few extra moments of terror. The knife dripped with his blood and the steel glinted when I moved it just so, and all of it was sharp and meant for this kind of work.
The sickest.
The most twisted.
The horrific.
I glanced at him once more, strapped to that table, his shoulder flayed and all of him belonging to me to do with as I pleased. Then I smiled at the irony of this game of lives and got back to work.
My name was Dutch Mathew.
I killed my sister.
I planned to kill my father.
I was my own worst monster.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: JUMA
I pressed my head to the closed door, squeezed my eyes shut, and turned the knob. The air felt warm, like a summer night, and a hint of New York City drifted through the air.
My New York City.
Tribeca.
Bubby’s pancakes and sheep’s milk ricotta from Locanda Verde. Bike messengers and yapping dogs, chubby babies with delicious cheeks and bright smiles. And coffee. I could smell coffee. From the doorway I could see my farmer’s table and the kitchen window with views into the apartments across the street and downtown and the Freedom Tower.
My photos.
Clothes.
The pack of smokes I stole from Dutch and hid inside the drawer in my table that only I knew existed because, as I said, every girl needs a few secrets. All of it was home. My home. And now my office.
I strode into the room, reached under the table, and pushed on the drawer just so. It slid open and there sat the yellow box with blue letters.
I closed my eyes and saw him.
Dutch.
And when I opened them again, my walls were covered with him.
“Juma.” Sayyid came up behind me, his voice slightly raised with a touch of admonition. “And here I was just about to say I liked what you did with the space.”
I rolled my eyes, and the walls reverted to their original design and Sayyid smiled.
“That’s my girl,” he said, and looked around. “This space makes you happy.”
“It’s my kitchen,” I replied, “from my apartment in the city.”
“And those?” He eyed the smokes in the drawer.
“Belonged to Dutch.”
“Ahhhh,” was all he said, and the old me would probably have poked and prodded him until he explained the many layers of meaning in his “ahhhh,” but this me—DEATH—didn’t really care. I had bigger things bumping around in my brain.
“Sayyid?” I asked as I closed the drawer and shut away Dutch for a bit.
“Yes, Juma,” he replied as he walked around the room, picking up my things, running his fingers over them, feeling their energy, as I’d known he would say if I asked.
“I need to see the white room,” I stated, leaving unspoken how I knew it existed and the fact it was filled with Keepers suspended in some kind of hell fabricated by her for reasons unbeknownst to anyone but her. Because once upon a time, this was her domain to do with as she pleased. But now it was mine, and I wanted to see that white room.
Sayyid stopped messing with my stuff and turned back to face me, his too-white face bunched into a question, his glittery brows moving in confusion.
“What white room?” he asked, and those three words made my blood boil.
I’d handled all of this—Giselle’s abrupt departure, Marina’s disappearance, my new status—so well up to this moment. But I could bear no more bullshit.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Sayyid.”
The Rouxs cocked his head to the side and looked at me funny. “I would never.”
“You spent the last twenty-something years lying to my ass!” I yelled, and he stepped back as if my words reached out and slapped him. My walls turned red and dripped and I was transfixed by my rage visualized. Until I wasn’t. “So let’s not pretend you’re suddenly Honest Abe.”
“Honest Abe?” he asked, and the walls shimmered with images of President Lincoln and the back of his head blown off and Jesus, I needed to get my emotions together. I closed my eyes, pressed my fingers into them, and breathed deep. And literally told myself to calm, imagined myself stepping back from the edge and inhaling long and hard, clean fresh air into my lungs, and by and by, the room returned to itself.
“Sayyid,” I whispered. “Please.”
“Juma,” he said as he came and stood in front of me, ducking down and forcing me to see his eyes, “I do not know this white room of which you speak.”
Despite the fact I’d promised myself to hold it together, my eyes filled. I bit my trembling lip and over and over told myself not to cry, suck back those tears. And somewhere a hint of Dutch drifted into the room, his soap, that clean smell I loved when I tucked my head into the crook of his neck and inhaled, and I succumbed.
My shoulders shook and the tears spilled over, but I didn’t make a sound. Sayyid watched me, allowing me the moment to sink into my grief and my newness, and when I was finished and my eyes seemed dry, he wiped my cheeks and asked, “Why don’t you tell me about this room?”
And he looked so sincere, like the Sayyid of my youth, my strange friend in this realm of few friends at all, and so I did.
“The Mistress—” I began, and he corrected me right away.
“You are the Mistress now.”
“You know what I mean, Sayyid.”
“I don’t, Mistress,” he replied. “You’re confusing me further.”
“Oh my fucking god, are we really going to do this?” I asked.
“We are really going to do this,” he replied, and his lips curved into a slight smirk and if I were able, I would have punched him. Instead.
“Giselle,” I stated with emphasis and he smiled and I continued, “told me there is a room of white, that feels both endless and cramped, bright and so very dark, teeming with Keepers. I need to find that room.”
“She told you that?” he asked. “Why?”
“She wanted me to know what would happen to Dutch when he died,” I replied, and shuddered to think of him suffering so deeply in death, when he had already done so much suffering while alive.
“Of course she did,” Sayyid replied, and his eyes looked hard and serious. “There is no such room of anyone’s creation, especially Giselle’s. She lied to you.”
“But she said—” I started to explain.
“I’m sure I can imagine all the lovely things she said, but the fact of the matter is no such room exists. Keepers are treated like any of the dead who are not granted reclamation, with some limitations on their afterlife. But nothing like the eternal damnation you’ve described. Dying is enough, there is little need or purpose to make it much worse.”
“That conniving . . .” I let the rest of my thoughts remain confined to my brain—Sayyid didn’t need to hear such maledictions fall from my lips.
“‘Conniving brilliant bitch,’ I believe I’ve heard many call her,” Sayyid offered with a laugh, and something about his tone and his understanding allowed me to move past my anger and focus on what mattered.
“So then you could find a Keeper for me, right?”
“I can find anyone for you, Mistress.”
“Anyone?” I asked.
“Anyone.”
I pulled out a chair and took a seat at the head of my table and rested my forearms on the table, fingers flat and splayed wide. I studied the brown of my hands and the tattoo on my forearm and bit by bit I eased into the realization that I could do damn near anything. I stood and grabbed a pen and piece of paper off my desk in the far corner of the room, scribbled two names, and handed them to Sayyid. He read my notes and nodded.
“Bring them to me,” I stated. “I have some business to handle.”
Sayyid folded the paper and nodded once more.
“Yes, Mistress.”
He left and while he was gone, I leaned back in my chair, shed all pretense, and indulged in what felt like my most magical ability: the conjuring of Dutch. I made my office transform from prints of jazz masters and a gorgeous photo of Ma and Da, white walls and a painting of Zora Neale Hurston, to my beautiful dark-hearted lover and memories of us.
“Ahem.”
I sat up and blinked hard and Dutch disappeared. I caught Sayyid’s eye and blushed.
“Thank you, Sayyid,” I finally spoke, and he nodded, then stepped aside so I could see for myself the two names on that paper. My eyes rested on one, then the other, and although my pulse raced with emotion, my face betrayed nothing.
“Veda Mathew,” I called out, and she rolled her eyes and I didn’t even care, because she was terrified. And she was fucked. “Step forward. And wipe that look off your face.”
“Fuck you, Juma,” she shot back, and started to say something else, then collapsed to her knees instead, writhing in agony, screaming without making a sound. And all because I wished it so. Because I was Death and this was now my domain.
I rose from my seat and walked in her direction, crossed my arms, and leaned against the table in front of her.
“I like this vantage point,” I stated, “me looking down on you. It feels quite karmic.” Then I leaned close and grasped her chin and she stopped writhing in pain as I held her in place. “Because you have learned nothing from any of your experiences in life or death, and are as horrible as I recall, I am stealing your tongue and with it that annoying voice of yours. You should never have called me Juma. You do not know me and we are not friends.
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