Blood Colony (19 page)

“A lot of people would be offended, maybe. But it takes more than that to offend me.”

Nate’s ears blushed red. “You’re pretty, Bea-Bea,” he said, his eyes darting away. Before Fana was sure she had heard him right, Nate Rolfson slipped into the house.

Inside, the others were taking their places at the table with a hum of familial chatter that made Fana think of home. Her eyes stung as she looked for her seat at a new table. Fana didn’t have to wonder where to sit: The empty chair between Charlie and Caitlin beckoned.

Charlie leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Can I touch your hair too,
negra
?”

Her parents had taught Fana enough regional Spanish to know that
negra
was a term of affection in the Caribbean that had nothing to do with skin color. But Charlie’s tone seemed to give it a layered meaning, embracing all of her in a single word.

Fana’s fledgling tears vanished. She usually couldn’t stand the smell of cigarettes, but Charlie’s breath perfumed the cloves. Pursing her lips to keep from smiling, Fana gave Charlie a scolding pat on the knee.

Quick as lightning, Charlie’s palm trapped hers and held it there. Was his skin electrified? Fana felt lava flowing from his large palm. Moisture drenched her hand. As her heart inflated with warm air, Fana did not pull away. She gazed at their hands; her darker one, and the subtle contrast of bronzed skin and fine dark hairs atop hers. A man’s hand.

Maybe Charlie would kiss her tonight. Her first kiss! Would he have the chance?

Sheila Rolfson beamed at everyone at the table. “Well,” their hostess said, sounding breathless. She met Fana’s eyes, knowing. “Can we all hold hands?”

Charlie locked the web of his fingers against Fana’s, more electricity. Fana glanced toward Caitlin on the other side of her and squeezed her hand with meaning:
Your father is fine
.

Caitlin nodded, knowing Fana’s message even if she couldn’t hear it. Caitlin laid her head on Fana’s shoulder; part resting place, part apology. Then Caitlin reached for Johnny’s hand on her other side and gave his wrist a tiny kiss. Johnny looked taken aback. Then he smiled, too.

Was the good feeling Charlie had given Fana contagious?

“I’ll try not to be long-winded, but I’m a minister,” Sheila Rolfson said, and everyone laughed. “This is a special night. I think we can all feel it.”

Everyone at the table nodded, agreeing.

Sheila went on. “There’s a lot of bad stuff going on in the world right now—some of it not so far away—so I’m just glad my family is safe. And we’ve made new friends in a time of pain. Dr. King said, ‘I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. That is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.’ With that, I’m done. You want a sermon, come to First Unitarian at eleven on Sunday.”

Nate pretended to choke. “Oh my God. Less than a minute. A record, Mom!”

Mitchell Rolfson nodded, ignoring Nate. “Ditto what she said. I’ve known Cat forever, but we just met Charlie, Johnny and Bea-Bea. You kids…” He stopped suddenly, and a tear slipped from one eye. He rubbed it away with a brush of his shoulder. “I taught high school for fifteen years. You remind me of the kids in Birmingham. And Soweto. And last year in Beijing. History wouldn’t be the same without you. It’s a privilege to know you all.”

“Even me?” Nate said.

“You most of all, kid,” Mitchell said and leaned over to kiss the top of his son’s head. “Although I didn’t recognize you without your GamePort. Your turn.”

Nate grinned. “Well, first of all, I’m thankful I’m holding my dad’s hand right now, so I won’t get in trouble for giving him the finger.” Laughter. “And I’m glad my parents give a damn about the rest of the world and not just themselves like my friends’ yuppie loser parents.”

Sheila and Mitchell Rolfson shared a painful glance. Fana suddenly knew what they had been discussing with Caitlin in the kitchen: They were closing their doors to the Underground Railroad. Between Maritza’s death and Justin O’Neal’s capture, they thought it was too dangerous for Nate. They hadn’t told Nate yet, and they weren’t looking forward to it. Fana cast her eyes down at the table, embarrassed to have learned so much about people she hardly knew. She would have to learn how to filter better!

Charlie lifted his wine glass skyward. “
Muchas gracias, Dios, por el Glow,
” he said quietly. “Thank you for helping me make sure Ethan didn’t die in vain. Thank you for returning what was stolen from us.” Charlie’s easy eloquence brought a tear to Fana’s eye.

The rest took their turns: Johnny was thankful he would be able to help his Little Brother get rid of his pain. Caitlin was thankful because she believed her father was all right. “Don’t ask me how I know,” Caitlin said, gazing at Fana. “Just faith, I guess.”

“What about you, Bea-Bea?” Sheila Rolfson said. “What are you thankful for?”

“For meals prepared with love and a place to sleep,” Fana said. “You’ve given us the world in one day and a night, and I’ll never forget you.”

Mitchell and Sheila Rolfson nodded. Their decision to quit had been hard.

“Damn right,” Charlie said, clinging to Fana more tightly. “Let’s eat.”

The homemade French bread was so soft that it nearly fell apart in Fana’s hands. The gumbo teemed with okra, bell peppers and mushrooms, and no one complained about the missing meat. Sheila Rolfson served white wine with the meal; even Nate was allowed to have a few sips. While they ate, Mitchell Rolfson showed off his sound system with old-school music that veered between Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Prince and Funkadelic.

After dinner, Charlie tugged on Fana’s hand and invited her to dance on the family room floor, as if he knew how much she loved “1999.” Grudgingly, Caitlin allowed Johnny to pull her out of her seat for a dance, too. When Mitchell and Sheila Rolfson joined them, they forced Nate to get up with them so he wouldn’t be left alone at the table. Prince’s irresistible beat called to Fana, shutting off her mind while she watched Charlie. He was a fluid, practiced dancer, hips, waist and shoulders all alive at once. Fana could have watched him dance all night.

The Temptations’ “Just My Imagination” came on, a slow song, and Caitlin peeled away from Johnny as fast as she could, making up an excuse.

Charlie tried to hold Fana’s hands and bring her closer, but she pulled away, too. Fana could feel Nate’s eyes on the back of her neck, and she couldn’t torment him by slow-dancing with Charlie before his eyes, no matter how much she wanted to. Even if this was their one and only chance before Charlie was gone.

Instead, she let Charlie carve her a piece of pound cake, and they watched Mitchell and Sheila sway to the ballad, both of them mouthing the lyrics as Sheila gazed up high into her husband’s eyes. Fana had never seen her parents dance that way. Not once.

“Sorry you have to witness this,” Nate said. “They get ridiculous sometimes.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Fana said. “It’s beautiful.”

Since the next day promised to be trying, the evening lingered; no one was ready to end a pleasant night. But Fana couldn’t forget her worries about Aunt Alex or the missing priest.

She noticed Nate’s GamePort goggles on the coffee table. Fana knew more about GamePorts than she wanted to. All players had user names, and they could communicate with any other players in the GamePort network to invite each other into games. Hank Duhart had a GamePort back at home, so Fana could ask Nate to send a message to HANKTHEKING. If Hank was playing—and Hank was
always
playing—he would see it right away. She wanted to do it so badly that she nearly reached for the goggles half a dozen times.

But she didn’t. It might bring trouble to Nate. It might bring trouble to the colony. She didn’t know who was monitoring the networks. She couldn’t take the chance.

“
Psssssst,
” a husky voice said.

Charlie was beckoning from just beyond the open patio door.

Fana glanced around the room: No one was looking her way. Fana slipped outside, and Charlie silently rolled the glass door closed behind her. Outside, she heard only crickets and lizards’ throaty mating songs, with no light other than the full moon. At last, stillness.

Charlie sat down beyond the far end of the pool table, and Fana sat beside him. Close. The patio’s tiles were still warm from the sun, although the sky was dark.

Even if someone glanced outside, they would have had to open the door to see them. Charlie gently slipped his palm into hers, playing with her fingers one by one. Her fingers seemed to expand beneath his touch, her nerves thrilling.

“I understand,” he said.

“What?”

“Why you didn’t want to dance close to me. Because of Johnny?”

Fana shook her head, smiling. “No. Nate, actually.”

Charlie chuckled, leaning his head back against the table. She watched his Adams’ apple dance in his throat. “That’s
so
sweet.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“No, really. That’s what I like about you. Never a bad word about anybody. Eyes always watching to see how people are feeling. Like…a hall monitor at school.”

Playfully, Fana tried to pull her hand away. “It would have made him feel bad.”

That was when it happened: Charlie’s lips were on hers, impossibly soft flesh barely touching her mouth. His sweet breath washed through her. He sank against her with moisture and resolve, and Fana’s mouth responded as if she had been craving him for years, yielding wide. The tip of his tongue darted against hers, and Fana felt something pop open at the pit of her stomach, flooding her abdomen until it shook. His tongue tasted a bit like tobacco, but mostly like juice from raw sugar cane. She saw cane fields and modest cement block homes with windows open wide to let out the music, and lush, gorgeous countryside.
Boricua
.

His kiss showed her his home.

Both of them forgot to breathe, absorbed in kissing. Charlie’s hand rested across her ribs, a few conspicuous inches beneath her left breast. He did not move to touch her further, and Fana wasn’t sure what she would do if he did. Her heart churned with possibilities that had never occurred to her before tonight. But she was glad he didn’t pressure her.

Charlie pulled away, studying her face in the moonlight. He captured one of her dreadlocks and wound it slowly around two fingers, until his wrist lay against the side of her face.

How could she feel so sad saying good-bye to someone she had just met?

“Come to Vancouver sometime,” Charlie said. “Caitlin knows how to find me.”

Fana nodded.
Hell, yes,
she would go to Canada. Maybe tomorrow, if he asked her to.

“There’s bad things happening,” Charlie said. “You stay safe, Bea-Bea.”

“You too,” she said. “Motorcycles are dangerous.”

Charlie smiled, and his teeth looked brilliant in the night. “If I crash, I’ll have Glow. Nothing can hurt me.” And he kissed her again.

To Fana, his kiss never ended.

That night, as she lay on a thin mattress beside Caitlin’s cot in the basement and tried to sleep, Fana used her gifts to replay her kisses with Charlie in her imagination. Felt his lips on hers. Tasted the ridges of his sweet tongue. The knowledge that Charlie was just on the other side of the wall made it impossible to close her eyes. Was he thinking about her, too? She wanted to visit his mind, but she wouldn’t allow herself to.

When the tingling between her thighs became unbearable, Fana rested her fingers atop the warmth there with just enough pressure to quiet the clamor. A gentle pulsing answered her.

Then Fana gave herself over to sleep.

The smile on her lips wilted, until she was grimacing instead. She twitched in her sleep. Howling, churning winds clogged her ears.

That night, Fana dreamed of a hurricane.

Buckeye, Arizona
90 miles northwest
12:02 a.m.

W
hat’s a…patty melt?” Teferi said, staring at his menu.

Dawit sighed. He would starve waiting for Teferi to choose a meal! Teferi had insisted on stopping when he’d seen the diner on the 60.
Hunger impedes my abilities, Dawit
. At every turn, a new excuse: Hunger. Ill temper. The time of day.

They must have lost the girls’ trail by now, if indeed Teferi had ever found it. Teferi was slow to admit failure, but he would have no choice by morning. They should have followed Berhanu to Los Angeles. The theory that Teferi’s tracking might be improved because of his blood ties to Caitlin seemed preposterous now. Those genetic ties went back more than two hundred years, altered many times over. Berhanu was much more likely to find the girls.

And Berhanu would never stop his search for a leisurely meal at a diner. The diner was boxy, like a train car, the walls crammed with bric-a-brac that looked like trash.

“There’s hardly a hair’s difference between these dishes,” Dawit said. “Meat. Bread. Cheese. Grease. Close your eyes and point.”

“You make poor company, I hope you’ve been told.” Teferi closed his menu. “A patty melt it is, then. Your thought projection is improving, so our time together may not be as wasted as you fear.”

Dawit sipped from his glass of nearly melted ice cubes and water that tasted like silt. “After we eat, we turn back,” he said.

“No.” Teferi’s face tightened. “Not yet. I had them before. But they may be asleep.”

“Why should that matter?”

“I don’t know, but perhaps it does.”
FANA MAY BE MASKING THEM IN SLEEP. TEKA SAID IT MAY COME NATURALLY TO HER.
Teferi explained the rest in silence.

Another of Teferi’s excuses; each was more novel than the last. Dawit raised his hand to get the attention of the female server behind the counter, the evening’s sole employee except for the man tending the grill. The woman wore a ponytail too young for her sun-beaten face, her hair swinging from side to side as she pivoted between passing notes to the cook and ringing up the cash register. She tried to keep pace with the steady flow of customers jangling through the cheerful glass door despite the late hour.

What would he give for his daughter to walk through the door next?

“And if you’re wrong,” Dawit said, “someone else might find them first.”

“You might imagine, then, that finding them is more important to me,” Teferi said.

OUR BROTHERS WOULD NEVER HARM FANA. BUT CAITLIN?

Teferi’s projection was clear and elegant. Dawit could not yet lapse in and out of thought language without great effort, so he only lowered his voice. “I’m sorry I treated Caitlin as I did,” he sighed. “There is no plan to harm her. How often must I say it?”

“Ah, yes,” Teferi said. “And plans never veer astray.”

A voice spoke from above their table: “One has veered astray this very moment.”

Arabic. A voice Dawit knew like his own.

Dawit’s finger tightened around the trigger of the weapon hidden in his lap, and he instinctively curled his wrist beneath the table, aiming at groin’s height left of him. Teferi made a similar motion, his eyes iron. They snapped to look at the man standing over them.

Dawit saw the bump of a nozzle beneath Mahmoud’s white sheepskin and denim jacket, It was aimed at his head. Their Brother wore a beard and a white skullcap, like home.

“Yes,” Mahmoud said softly. “All three Brothers have weapons, it seems.”

How could Mahmoud have surprised them without Teferi feeling his presence? Had Mahmoud learned to mask himself too?

Dawit had left Mahmoud in Lalibela fourteen years ago, when Mahmoud had tried to bar his family’s escape from the Ethiopian colony after Khaldun had disappeared into his meditations. When Khaldun had relinquished control of the Brotherhood, Dawit had been left to fend for himself. The entire Brotherhood had been enraged at Dawit for breaking their Covenant and siring a child Mahmoud called a mutant: born with the Living Blood. Fana had driven Mahmoud away with the miraculous mind arts she’d had as a child, besetting him with a swarm of bees. Fana had been better able to defend herself then. Now she was more a child, virtually helpless.

“Where is she?” Dawit said, rage shaking his jaw. He returned Mahmoud’s Arabic, since their conversation was unfit for the ears of strangers. Mahmoud had cost him one daughter, in Miami. “If you have touched—”

“I will kill you in pieces and see you buried forever,” Teferi finished, also in Arabic.

“
Salam,
Teferi,” Mahmoud said, not hiding his amusement. Peace. “You’ve grown brittle since last I saw you. Be careful you don’t shoot yourself in the balls, Brother.”

“There’s only one pair of balls in his sights…
Brother,
” Dawit said. “Where are they?”

“How crass you’ve become here,” Mahmoud said. “No invitation to join you?”

Suddenly, the long-absent waitress swooped to their table, stabbing Mahmoud with an openly wary look. She held her Bic pen toward him the way she might a weapon. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said to Dawit. “Is this man bothering you?”

Her lips curled over the words “
this man
.” Between Mahmoud’s olive skin, dark beard and white skullcap, he must have looked like a Wanted poster in her terrorist-addled eyes. The woman’s western twang reminded Dawit of different times. This nation’s fear of the Arab had replaced fear of American blacks indeed.

Dawit grinned at her. “This man is my best and oldest friend.” He wished it had been a lie.

The waitress didn’t seem comforted, but she was happy to let it rest, her duty done. “Y’all ready to order?”

“One patty melt, one grilled cheese,” Dawit said quickly. “And…American apple pie for my dear friend here. Not too hot. I’d hate to see him get hurt.”

Mahmoud’s eyes churned. He might kill the woman for her impudence, or to spite Dawit. Not to mention at least fifteen other diners. Dawit could not sanction endangering so many.

“Please,” Dawit said to Mahmoud with a dolphin’s friendly smile. “Sit with us.”

YOU ARE MAD!
Teferi said, squirming.

Dawit softly nudged Teferi under the table.
Be still,
he tried to say.

Mahmoud glared down at Teferi, waiting for him to make room in the narrow booth across from Dawit. Teferi finally slid aside, lips pursed, sitting far against the diner wall, where rows of absurd, elaborately carved cuckoo clocks hung above his head.

Mahmoud had been Dawit’s brother long before they had imagined a future spanning centuries. Dawit had known Mahmoud before he’d met Khaldun, when they’d been traders between Abyssinia and India. Dawit had married Mahmoud’s sister, Rana, only to watch both his new wife and his first son die during the rigors of childbirth. When he and Mahmoud had met in the 1500s, a man had lived a long life if he’d survived to thirty-five. For a soldier, life was often snuffed out by eighteen. At thirty, he and Mahmoud had been old men when they’d accepted the Living Blood.

“I feel unwelcome still,” Mahmoud told Dawit. “Tell Teferi to drop his gun to the floor.”

“You’ll not take mine,” Dawit vowed.

“I didn’t ask for yours,” Mahmoud said. “But Teferi might maim me with a sneeze.”

Teferi didn’t move.

Drop your gun, Teferi,
Dawit strained to tell him.
Don’t make him wait.

Teferi made a soft growling noise at the base of his throat. Then his gun fell to the floor with a
ping
against the iron table leg. His breathing sped out of frustration and anger.

CAITLIN IS SURELY DEAD. AND WHAT OF FANA?
came Teferi’s anguished thought.

Be calm,
Dawit answered.
I know Mahmoud’s ways. I will finish this.

Mahmoud leaned forward until his face was only inches from Dawit’s. He smelled of home, too; incense of myrrh, frankincense and a blend of other oils from the Lalibela Colony. “I’m lazy in my mind arts, Dawit, but I’m not deaf,” Mahmoud said. “I’ve been practicing, too. If you know me, you know not to antagonize me.”

Dawit did not know Mahmoud. His very presence meant Dawit had misjudged him. After the negotiations with the Lalibela Council, Dawit had thought he and his Brothers had reached an accord. He and Mahmoud were not friends, certainly. No more. But not this.

There would be bloodshed, Dawit realized. There was no avoiding it.

But he must try. “She’s the kindest child you will ever meet, Mahmoud,” Dawit said.

“She did not seem so kind to Kaleb as he died in a pool of his own blood.”

Such amnesia! Dawit might have laughed, except that laughing would inflame Mahmoud. “Kaleb burned me alive and tried to kill Fana and her mother,” he said. “Would you have her sacrifice herself on Kaleb’s wishes?”

“Nor, I imagine, did she seem kind to six hundred souls in the Caribbean on the night of a certain storm,” Mahmoud said. “Did you think Khaldun said nothing of it?”

Dawit had never understood how Teka could believe that Fana had somehow been responsible for Hurricane Beatrice, the deadly storm that had killed so many in the West Indies. How could a
child
summon a hurricane? But if Khaldun himself had said so, he had to reconsider. Jessica had always insisted that Fana had made it rain a week before the hurricane, in the midst of Botswana’s dry season. Perhaps nothing to do with Fana was impossible, and everyone knew it except him.

To him, Fana was still the girl who had sat on his knee for hours at a time, smiling at him.

Angry talk about Fana had subsided in Lalibela, according to Kelile, who had moved to the Washington colony within the past year. Kelile reported that there had been long debates about Fana in the chaos after Khaldun’s departure, but most of the Life Brothers were scattering and mating with mortals themselves. As if waking from a long nap.

But Mahmoud had tried to kill Fana twice before—once when she’d still been in Jessica’s womb, and once when she was three. If Mahmoud had been as zealous this time as he had been the last time Dawit had seen him, God only knew what horrors might have befallen Fana.

“What have you done to her, Mahmoud?” Dawit whispered.

“You think too highly of me, Dawit,” Mahmoud said. “I’ve abandoned most of my principles, and the rest are a nuisance. I would prefer to be attending my own affairs rather than counseling a Brother who has grown bafflingly incapable of protecting his own. What happened to the practical friend I knew?”

“He has a gun trained to your belly,” Dawit said. “Where is Fana? I won’t ask again.”

“Ask Sanctus Cruor,” Mahmoud said.

Teferi’s breath caught—a gasp—or Dawit would have thought he’d heard Mahmoud wrong.

“We killed them in Adwa,” Dawit said. “And in Rome. To their last man.”

Mahmoud raised an eyebrow. “Did we?”

The waitress returned. A plate of apple pie landed before Mahmoud. None of them moved as she delivered their food. No one answered when she asked if she could get them anything else. All Dawit could manage was a small shake of his head. He had never expected to hear the words
Sanctus Cruor
bound to Fana’s name.

But in Seattle, he had seen the raised image on the medallion! A cross with a large teardrop of blood at its center. He
had
seen it in the priest’s mind, not just in his own memories.

During his last call home, Teka and Jessica had told him about the vanished corpse in Seattle. If Mahmoud was telling the truth, Fana was in greater peril than he had known. And with so many Brothers away searching for Fana, the colony was exposed. Jessica and the others needed to move to the shelters or leave the colony altogether. Not tomorrow. Tonight.

AND I MOCKED YOU,
Teferi’s thought came, sorrowful.

“Apparently, they have found the Blood they seek,” Mahmoud said. “Some of them wake as we do. Look at that priest! We do not know how they obtained Blood and learned the Ceremony, and we do not know how many of their sect remain. Are they a few, or are they an army? Do they still hold sway with the Vatican? We are, you see, quite ignorant, or have been made to be. But Sanctus Cruor still lives. It never died.”

The priests who had created Sanctus Cruor believed themselves to be the only true guardians of Christ’s blood, and no act was too heinous in their mission to collect what remained of their Savior on Earth. They burned villages alive in search of immortals who might wake, to have the Blood. Their influence among Vatican officials had steered Italy toward war with Ethiopia, their search carried out in the guise of conquest.

The decisive victory in Adwa and the expulsion of the Italians had been the first time an African nation had repelled a European army, a feat unto itself. But that had not been the end.

After the war had been won on Ethiopian soil, Dawit, Mahmoud and Berhanu had traveled abroad: Istanbul. Gdansk. And Rome, of course. Dawit had been assigned to slay a Vatican official the Searchers had identified as a Sanctus Cruor collaborator hoping for power and immortality. Two others had died in Rome that day, at Mahmoud’s hand.