Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  Instead she came to me, snaked her arms around my neck, curled her fingers in my hair, and pressed herself into my chest, enveloping me in her scent, her warmth, her gentle presence, so garishly opposite from how I’d spent the last two days, caught up in madness and fuckery, agony and despair. I stiffened in her arms, suddenly uncertain of myself and her and everything, mostly because I had spent so much of my life in such a state of disrepair, mostly because I had spent so much of my life without any sort of affection.

  “Dutch,” she whispered and held me close, “it’s okay, it’ll be okay. I promise. Shhhh.” And only then, when I fell to my knees and she pulled me into her arms and wrapped herself all around me, real tight and fierce-like, did I realize I was crying. Sobbing, making sounds I did not recognize because I had never before heard them. The room, the darkness, the night reverberated in an endless wail of despair and hopelessness and all things ugly.

  Anyone else would have run. She should have run. I wanted her to run, leave me to fight my demons alone, and yet, I didn’t.

  And of course, she wouldn’t.

  Because she was Juma and somewhere along the trajectory of my very fucked-up life I had the good fortune of crossing paths with her and all of her beauty and goodness and even though I was horrible to her at almost every turn, for some unknown reason she chose me as her person, broken, fractured, scattered me, and took it upon herself to methodically piece me back together and teach me to be loved.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped when I finally found my tongue again and spoke the only words I could think to offer her.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered and touched my face, wiping my tears. “What happened to you? Who did this?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, wanting to discuss anything but my physical state of being.

  Juma leaned back and shot me a look of such incredulity that, had the situation not been so dire, I would have laughed. She pushed me in the chest and insisted, “You’re hardly fine,” then realized just how not fine I really was when I reacted so violently to her touch. The slight pressure of her fingertips felt like whatever fire simmered right beneath the surface of my wounds, still waiting to dissipate, was suddenly stirred by her push and came roaring back to life. It ripped into me with one final, poisonous hurrah. It was as if James stood in the darkness with us, sawing me open once more.

  I shook with pain, sweat rolling off me in buckets as I tried mightily not to open my mouth and release an agony like no other. That sick fuck had most certainly dipped his blade in Lagaan, there was no other way to explain the lingering effects of the black magic. Juma watched me in horror for a few seconds before her eyes flashed with rage and she began working the buttons of my shirt. I fought her as best I could, knowing there was no coming back from the anger carved into my chest, black and raw and gruesome, but she was on her A game, at full strength, and I was barely limping onto the field.

  She opened one, two, three buttons, and smacked my hand away. “Stop it, Dutch!” Then, forsaking all proprieties, she ripped. Her eyes scanned my chest, up and down, left and right, as I tried closing my shirt, just to have her twine our fingers and move my arms to my sides, exposing my gruesome realities. Even in the darkness, it was plainly apparent I’d suffered something nightmarish, and she gasped aloud as her eyes took in every jagged detail.

  “Dutch,” she whisper-cried as tears rolled down her face and hit my stomach, the damp a balm of sorts, “good god.” She traced the black across my body, watching me the entire time as I flinched and squirmed and did everything to get away from her hands, despite wanting nothing more than her hands all over me. But wherever she touched, I felt aflame, so much so I wished to rip my chest from my body, ribs, muscle, sinew, and all. Finally, when I could stand no more, I grabbed her hands, my fingers desperate around her delicate wrists, and wrenched her away from me.

  “Please, Juma,” I begged as I held her in place, “no more. It hurts.” The meaning of my words was many layered and she knew this. She relaxed in my grip and the storm in her eyes calmed and everything about her became soft, so different from the murderous Valkyrie that had stood before me just seconds earlier. Neither of us spoke because there was too much to say and no words worthy of the moment. Instead she stepped into me and I tensed, not because of my past but because of my present, and she touched my face gentle and light then followed with her lips, until the tension I’d held for too many lifetimes to count began to ease.

  “When I saw you sitting in Frank’s that night, I knew I was done.” Words and lips and fingers, tender and caring, eyelashes and breath, tickling and light, her on me, patience and time. “Your eyes and words and countenance screamed for healing and love.”

  “No—” I started to disagree, but she pressed her fingers to my lips and quieted me with her touch.

  “You don’t have to tell me what happened or who did this to you,” she whispered as her lips traced the line of my jaw, “just know that I will find them and when I do, all of this you’ve endured, for however long you’ve endured it, will pale in comparison to the hell I will rain down on their heads.”

  She kissed my throat and came around to the other side of my jaw, almost finding my lips but not and moving past. “I might be tasked with granting life to those from whom it’s been stolen, but trust that power also works in reverse, and those who try and steal life, yours especially, will now have to deal with me.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No fucking way.”

  “Shhhhh.” She pressed a whisper against my mouth and despite the trauma my body suffered, the screaming in my chest, the touch of her lips shot straight to my dick and for a second nothing existed but the warmth of her mouth on mine. “Relax, Dutch,” and I almost did because her lips were doing things and her hands were doing other things and her body, fuck, her body. And just when I thought I might get lost for a bit and peel that perfect dress off her very perfect body and fuck her blind, she trailed her fingertips across my chest and I goddamned died.

  The pain felled me, unleashing a roar of epic proportions, so loud and gut-wrenching it surely roused not only my neighbors but all of Tribeca. I clawed at my chest, ripping at the skin, breaking open some of the stitches, seeking some relief, unaware I was doing such damage because I was fucking out of my mind. Somewhere amidst all my thrashing and cutting and screaming, I felt Juma on me. I pushed at her, wanting nothing more than to get at my skin and ease the burn, but she was unmoved, the calm to my fucking insanity, and really, had it ever been any other way?

  She grabbed my wrists and pinned me to the floor, using her thighs to keep me from kicking at her. I cried and tried to bite her and just totally fucking lost it, begging her to help me, kill me, cut me to pieces, shred my body and soul, anything to ease my suffering.

  And I knew she was watching me and crying and even though I’d sworn never again to upset her, I was too fucked to help it. I couldn’t not upset her. It was impossible mostly because I was no longer in control of anything. I was functioning on pure animal instinct and each and every instinct told me to rip myself open and bleed out everywhere.

  “Dutch.”

  She leaned close and whispered.

  “Please.”

  She begged.

  “Try and relax.”

  She implored.

  “I will help you.”

  She promised.

  “No!”

  I could not.

  “No!”

  Would not.

  “No!”

  I bit her hand and drew blood, the rich metallic taste sickening me, causing me to cry out for hurting her so but I still could not relax. And then, just when I thought I would kill her to get to myself, inside my skin, the part that was dying for my attention, she dipped her head close to my chest and her tongue touched one of the stitches, traced around it, and her lips sucked and the fire in that tiny spot ceased to exist.

  I almost relaxed, but I couldn’t really because I still wanted to smash in her skull to get at my
chest, my murderous rage building up again, then quelling when she licked and sucked and worked her magic on another stitch and another and another until I could almost think clearly and focus on something besides fire and blood and death. She didn’t stop her healing of my body until she worked her mouth over every slash and stitch carved into my chest, until there was no more fire, until I was settled and quiet and myself again.

  “Thank you.” My body shook slightly as I cried, my tears of relief soaking the floor beneath me. “Thank you, Juma.”

  She smiled down at me and in her eyes I saw all sorts of things I didn’t deserve and couldn’t dream of repaying because they were so deep and intense and impossible to quantify and she kissed me and I felt love and hope and wonder and I knew I was a lucky bastard, too lucky in fact.

  And then, as if to prove my point, she collapsed on my chest, exhaled long and deep, and died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  JUMA

  “Mistress!”

  I waited all of two seconds.

  “MISTRESS!”

  I ran down the halls, wreaking all mighty terror with the boom of my voice, banging on doors, demanding her immediate attention.

  “Mistress!” And then, in utter desperation, “PLEASE!”

  Since I was a small child, when we struck our deal, my da’s life spared for my eternal service, I had never once said please to her, at least not in the truest sense of the word. Certainly I had begged for her touch, her kiss, her fingers, and tongue, but never for her attention, never for her help, for that was presumed and expected. She would always do for me as I needed because of what I’d done for her when so small. And forced into an agreement of which I had little understanding except that I did not want my da to die.

  Death slipped into the hallway and, in the face of my urgent shouts, shot me a look of total ennui.

  “Juma,” she purred, “please. You’ll startle the kiddos.”

  I glanced into the room from whence she’d slipped, watching for a moment as it writhed in orgasmic pleasure. Arms, legs, dicks, tits, everywhere. So many, too many to count and impossible to discern where bodies began and ended, everything slipping into an undulating mass of hedonistic pleasure.

  “Feel free to join us.” She arched an eyebrow as she watched me watch them before turning on her and begging for the exact opposite.

  “Send me back now. Please.”

  She paused as the full meaning of my words took hold, then quickly recovered, grabbing my hand and dragging me into her office. Shooing out two Alighters working a case, she closed the door and turned her attention on me. I usually fidgeted at such moments, finding her scrutiny both interminable and scintillating, wishing she wouldn’t take so long but enjoying every moment her eyes raked my body and studied my soul.

  Today I was in no mood for any such introspection.

  I needed action and motion and decision making and I needed it immediately without question no explanation. Unfortunately, she and I were hardly on the same wavelength. She stepped toward me, took my chin in her hand, and turned me toward her as she studied me, probed, analyzed. It was so intense, I could feel her inside me, wandering my veins, my organs, my essence.

  “Why?”

  I rolled my eyes in frustration. “Must you ask? Is it not obvious?”

  She ignored my tone and continued, as dispassionately and unhurried as before, “I must, as I would rather hear the words tumble from your very luscious lips than presume anything on my part.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I hissed, wrenching myself out of her grasp, furious with her games.

  “JUMA LANDRY! There will be none of that in this room.” Death glared at me and I calmed because I needed her on my side.

  “Sorry.” I lowered my eyes. “I didn’t mean a thing by it.”

  She waited for what seemed like forever and god only knows what she was thinking that whole time, her eyes roaming me up and down sideways and straight until she finally smiled and seemed accepting of my apology. But “Juma, what has happened to you?” suggested she needed details and I had no time for such extraneous activity.

  I paced and pivoted and shouted, “What does it look like happened to me? I’m fucking dead.” And that was about all I managed to spew at her before she was upon me, her ire piqued and pushed and tested. She slammed into me, knocking me to the ground and bashing my head into the floor, and not for the first time I wondered at the sometimes violent nature of our relationship. I screamed out in pain and irritation and fury, but I was dead and she was pissed and even though I had seven more lives under my belt, it meant shit if she refused to help me return as quickly as I desired.

  I knew this and yet couldn’t bring myself to behave. I thrashed and fought her and bit and swore until I calmed because I knew I could never win. Not against her.

  “Why, Juma?” she spat as her fingers pressed against my throat, tightening their hold until it was practically impossible to inhale or exhale. “Why must you forever do this shit? Act up like a lunatic? Like you have no self-control?”

  “Please,” I finally gasped and cried.

  And maybe something in my eyes or my voice or my being called to her, because she softened and her grip lessened and she, too, settled. And after what felt like an eternity, she calmed and finally spoke. “What happened?”

  “He was hurt and dying and I could not bear to lose him.” I closed my eyes to the memory of his suffering.

  “Who?” she asked, although she knew the answer. She simply wanted to hear me say it.

  “Dutch,” I whispered after some time, then added, as the memory assaulted me, “and I am his assigned Poocha.” I cried, the reality of our wretched existence creeping into my toes and working its way up my body until finding a place to settle in my heart.

  “Good grief.” Death wiped my tears and laughed, forever unable to stand my crying even when it was over a new love. “Is this what you’re like once you’ve fallen in love? Baby girl, you can’t begin to tell me you’re surprised by that fact. I knew that nonsense was going to happen the second his name rolled off your tongue. He’s a Keeper, you’re a Poocha, the universe is loving this. The gods are laughing and throwing a raucous party, celebrating your very fucked-up plight.”

  I cried harder in the face of her amusement, feeling trivialized by her words. “Shhhh.” She kissed my mouth and trailed her hands over all the places I loved being touched, and bit by bit I calmed. “Where did you get this gorgeous dress?” she wondered as she sat back and admired me.

  I touched the neckline just as he had earlier that evening. “He bought it for me.” Her shocked expression let me know how deeply he felt for me—that it wasn’t all in my head that I mattered.

  “And then he killed you?”

  Her eyes flashed and I tensed. “He did no such thing,” I countered, and she replied, “And yet, here you lie.”

  “He has already suffered so much, I cannot also make him suffer my death.” I said so much without saying enough.

  “And yet, here you lie,” she repeated.

  “Because I so chose!” I shouted, my barely existent patience vanishing altogether. Again. And so I continued, “He would rather die than kill me, and that was precisely what was happening before my very eyes. He had been poisoned by whoever it is that does those horrible things to him and he would have never told me, he would have simply succumbed and I could not allow his passing. I would not survive such a loss.”

  Death smirked at my proclamation, probably finding me melodramatic and overwrought, but she remained silent and allowed me to continue pleading my case.

  “But now I am here and he is there with me lying lifeless in his arms and Mistress, please, I do not know the damage my death will cause him, so if you love me, if you love him”—it was an admittedly low blow but I was desperate; her eyes softened and my suspicions were answered, emboldening me—“then let me return. Now.”

  Death pushed away from me to stand, patting her clothes into place and sha
king out her hair before offering her hand to pull me up and join her. She watched me closely, circling like I was her prey, then stopped in front of me and glared. “You are my best, Juma, my heart, so I will give you this one chance. But you and Dutch better have some sort of fucking epic plan hatched between the two of you to handle those bastards at The Gate, because yes, I might love Dutch Mathew, but I love you more and if I am forced to pick, I will choose you every time. And just so we’re clear, there is no way in hell I will allow him or anyone else from The Fucking Gate to kill you again.”

  “I know.”

  She stepped away and shook her head, sitting on the edge of her desk and watching me. “No, you don’t know. You don’t know a goddamned thing. Not even I know all there is to know about the road we’re going to tread, but you should remember that if it becomes necessary, I will kill him and ask questions later. I care little for his life when viewed in the prism of Keeper versus Poocha, of you versus him. And yes, I know Dutch is different and his soul is full of dark beauty and somewhere deep inside is a capacity for tremendous love. I also know those very aspects of him make him a target of his elders and fuel the torture directed at him. And even though my heart aches for him, all of that becomes white noise if you are in danger. Understand that.”

  I watched her only seconds before I moved into her space and took her beautiful face in my hands and kissed her long and hard and deep, parting her lips and slashing my tongue against hers, tasting her chill, because she was my first love and she was letting me go and this was our final good-bye. And we weren’t going to fuck because we were so beyond the point of closure fucks and because it was foolish to think she and I would ever have closure or that I wanted it. I simply wanted to kiss her and let her know I loved her always and I wanted us to feel it everywhere—our teeth, fingertips, tits, hips, pussies, toenails.

  I traced her peaked nipple and kissed her throat and pulled her close. “I love you.”