Blood Colony (39 page)

T
he bedroom stopped Fana in midstride. It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen, even in a photograph. A bedchamber worthy of a queen.

The twenty-five-foot ceiling and Spanish chandeliers made the room look like a cathedral. Ten-foot palms in shiny, colorful ceramic pots swathed the clay-colored walls, shading the glorious tiled Moorish arch that led to the balcony. The four-poster bed, long dining table and hand-carved bookshelves were Spanish Colonial style, striking simplicity in dark, gleaming woods. Large canvasses of resplendent paintings adorned the walls. Was this a fine museum?

But museums didn’t have music! A lively Afro-Cuban
son
was playing—her father’s favorite music, after jazz. The chamber was filled with an earthy celebration of horns and drums. A trumpet pealed as she stepped over the threshold.

“You’re letting us stay
here
?” Fana said.

“Of course,
bonita,
” Father Garcia said behind her. He had been waiting for them beside the door when they’d emerged from Caitlin’s room down the hall. “Please enjoy our meager hospitality. The bathroom is through that second archway, and food is waiting on the balcony.”

Fana blinked. “But…”

“Welcome home, my child,” Father Garcia said and bowed low. Just like a Life Brother.

Fana had heard mostly static when she’d tried to get through to her parents on the church’s secure telephone line. She hadn’t been able to connect to her father either. The kitchen phone in the Big House had finally rung and rung, but no one had answered. She’d hoped it had meant that they had fled already, but what was wrong with Dad’s phone? Uncertainty was agony.

But Johnny was healing. The portly church physician—that was how he’d introduced himself, although Fana had never heard of that title—had given Johnny a saline IV, cleaned his wound, and declared that he would be fine with a couple days’ rest. No surgery necessary, he said. The doctor was familiar with Glow, so Johnny’s rapid healing hadn’t raised his eyebrow.

An hour to rest, at last.

Fana hoped to spend her hour washing away the grime from the tunnel and enjoying Charlie’s company, but the room’s paintings held her eyes hostage. Masking bled away some of her ability to perceive vivid colors, and Fana wanted to
see
. Her mind loosened, and the room jumped into sharp focus. A musician’s cowbell rattled its seductive call, and Fana’s heart danced.

The oil paintings, some European, some Mexican, others African, were rich, colorful tapestries laden with voice and history. Impressive sculptures were mounted on tables. Artwork crafted from aged leather or parchment were spaced between the paintings; two in glass cases looked faded enough to be hundreds of years old. Could that writing be Ethiopian Ge’ez?

Fana was about to ask when she noticed that one of the paintings was in glass, too.

As Fana stepped closer, her eyes widened. A da Vinci?

The painting was only twenty inches high, but it radiated as if it filled the wall. The portrait of the pensive Madonna and playful child looked familiar: The baby Jesus, in his mother’s lap, gazed up toward a spindle that looked like a cross in his pudgy fingers, staring into his future. A breathtaking portrait of innocence.
So young, and his destiny was waiting.

Fana heard a
swish
from the glass balcony door, and Charlie was gone. Outside, the moonlight made his skin look like polished bronze.

Charlie brought back a bowl and a fork. Fresh-cut mango! Fana had forgotten how hungry she was until her stomach growled. Charlie raised a sliver of the fruit, and Fana’s teeth sank into the perfectly ripened sweetness. Fana gazed at Charlie’s long, slender fingers as he stabbed another slice. Then her eyes went back to the painting.

“This reproduction is incredible,” Fana said. The canvas had cracks and age lines.

“It’s an original. They all are,” Charlie said. “This church has many friends.”

Originals! Fana’s eyes traveled over the masterworks again. Priceless! She would only expect to find treasures like these in a museum, or in the Vatican itself.

A burst of color cried out from behind her, so Fana whirled around. The piece she’d seen from the corner of her eye was by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. She recognized the artist’s signature self-portrait in the middle: her unswept dark hair, pronounced single eyebrow and piercing gaze. Fana had never seen a painting by Frida except in books or online, and it was so fertile that Fana’s eyes sat to feast. Lush greens, reds and browns.

Frida wore a bright red dress, cradling a nude, childlike man who clasped orange flames between his hands. A massive third eye marked the man’s forehead.
He sees everything, even what he doesn’t want to see.
A giant figure behind them looked like Mother Earth, made of clay or mud, nestling him with a larger, darker arm. Mother Earth’s hair was ropy dreadlocks, and a droplet of milk dangled from her breast.
She looks like me!
Behind Mother Earth, in a sky that was half in light, half in shadow, floated a giant mask. A woman?
The face behind the mask is God.
God’s strong arms encircled everything; one, light for day, the other, dark for night.

Fana might have painted it herself, except that
she
would have been the one with the all-seeing eye.
She
was the one who yearned to be cradled, infantlike, in a lover’s arms. Just once. How long would she have to wait?

“This one’s called
The Love Embrace of the Universe,
” Charlie said. “Frida’s husband was another artist, Diego Rivera. She and Diego had a stormy love, but it was forever. In this painting, she’s showing how she is his salvation.”

Fana’s head floated. When she was with Charlie, a new eye blinked open inside of her, just like in the painting. Colors were brighter. Her ears heard better. Like the music! The Spanish-style guitar music flowing from the speakers in the wall was as magical as the painting, so crisp that she heard the guitarist’s fingertips slide across the strings.

The song was heartbreaking. The lead singer was a priestess; Fana could tell from her voice’s pleas that she was talking to her gods. The song sounded like death.

There had been enough death, Fana realized. She was endangering Charlie, but how could she say good-bye? The singer’s wail spoke Fana’s fears: With you I’ll go my saintly one / Though it may cause me to die.

“That’s called ‘
Lágrimas Negras,’”
Charlie said. “Black Tears.”

“I’m fluent in Spanish,” Fana said. “My parents taught me.”

Charlie smiled. “That’s one thing.”

“One thing what?”

“One thing you’ve told me about yourself,” he said. “I’ve been waiting.”

Fana swallowed back the instant lie that tried to climb to her mouth. “I don’t talk about myself much,” she said. “But…that could change.”

Why had she said that last part? Were false promises in her blood?

Charlie lowered his head to meet her at eye level. “Promise?” he said.

Charlie’s lips were a rosy pink. “Promise,” she told his lips.

Charlie’s sweet breath warmed her. “Me, too,” he said. “We’ll tell each other everything. No matter how bad.”

“What makes you think it’s bad?” Fana said. Could he really see through her?

“People don’t mind talking about happy things,” Charlie said.

“You haven’t told me anything happy.”

“I love you,” he said. “That’s happy.”

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

Those words were an incantation.

“
Te quiero tambíén,
” Fana said. I love you, too.

Charlie’s lips fell against hers, and she bathed in his flavors; clove and mango-sweetened seawater spilling inside of her. Fana drank him, and he drank her.

Suddenly, the robe on top of Fana’s clothes felt sweltering. Her shoulders wriggled, and the heavy terry cloth fell to the floor. Gently, Charlie nudged the robe aside with his foot and moved closer. His skin’s heat raged through his clothes. Or was the heat from her?

Charlie’s palms slipped beneath her T-shirt, across her waist, and Fana’s stomach flipped. Her belly shivered, calming only when she pressed herself closer to his hands. Charlie’s skin was magnetic, beckoning.

“Is the door locked?” Fana said. She would hate for Father Garcia to walk in and be reminded of what he had sacrificed for his calling.

Fana felt Charlie’s heart kick against her chest. A haze of desire passed across Charlie’s face, tugging his lips so that he looked like he was in pain. “No one will dare,” he said. “This room belongs to you now, Fana. It’s yours.”

Could they be safe here? It felt more possible with every throb of Charlie’s heart.

“I’ve never…,” she began, and sighed. “I mean, I don’t know why…”

Fana forgot what she wanted to say when she saw her reflection in Charlie’s staring eyes. Charlie’s thick, dark eyelashes made her think of the artist cradling her husband in her arms. She wanted to seek out Charlie’s heartaches and pluck them away.

Fana felt her mind spilling into Charlie’s. She couldn’t help herself—she probed.

AND BLOOD TOUCHETH BLOOD.

I know, sweet Charlie. Those words haunt me, too.

The kiss stolen from Charlie’s mind skated up and down her spine, intensifying her skin’s fever. Was she masking at all? Fana didn’t know. Her body’s clamor drowned out everything. Fana had never felt so rooted to her flesh, and her mind was grateful to rest. Skin was
wonderful
. Exquisite distraction.

Gentle drums, a clave and a cowbell moved her hips slowly from side to side, and Charlie’s hips mirrored hers. One step closer, and he kissed her. His tongue darted across her teeth, then peeked into her mouth, brushing her tongue. His flavors were endless!

Charlie nudged his hips closer, and his rigidness nestled across her stomach and pelvis, unabashed. Fana’s knees nearly buckled when Charlie’s mouth nibbled her neck, leaving sweet chaos. Nerves fluttered and knotted as her throat spit fire, and Charlie’s tongue licked the flames. When her muscles sagged, Charlie held her so she would not fall.

A wounded cry from the music’s trumpet brought tears to Fana’s eyes. Grief. Pleasure.

The room was so hot it was unbearable. Fana felt herself fumbling for her T-shirt.

Again, Michel was her mirror: He snapped his shirt over his head, and his chest was bare in front of her, almost hairless, sculpted with lean muscle.

In a blink, the room went from hot to cold. No man had seen her this naked, in only jeans and her bra. Fana’s arms slowly folded across her chest, blocking her skin from his sight.

Charlie’s head listed, practically resting on his shoulder as he gazed at her. “How can someone so beautiful be so shy?” he said. “I’m honored you would show yourself to me.”

Fana’s face tingled. Was this what blushing felt like?

With one gentle hand, Charlie took her wrist and guided one arm away from her chest, then the other. Fana felt herself shrinking under his eyes, or trying to. Her heart pounded, flooding her thoughts with blood.
What am I doing?

“Are you a virgin?” Charlie said.

Fana tried to make a joke but couldn’t think of one. She only nodded, silent.

Charlie looked like he was holding his breath. “My eyes…are the first?”

Fana nodded.

Charlie blinked twice. “May I see?”

Fana remembered her mouth. “Yes,” she said.

Charlie’s hand slid across her shoulder blade.
Snap.
Her bra fell open, unbinding her breasts. The straps slipped from her arms, and the bra dropped to the floor. Almost by itself.

“I wish I was a painter,” he said, blinking again. “I would immortalize you, Fana. I will.”

He pulled her close to him, and his broad chest swallowed hers. Skin on skin. Shoulder on chest. Breasts pressed against fiery flesh. He held her more tightly, hugging her still. His arms were warm around her back. Their own private
Love Embrace
.

“‘Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.’” Charlie whispered Adam’s words about Eve in her ear. “I’ve found you, Fana. At last.”

Like the words
I love you,
a lover’s hot embrace was a revelation. They stood a long time enjoying the feeling of each other; feeling the joy of each other. The drumming grew faster, or else time slowed. Three snappy rings of the cowbell commanded Fana’s hips closer to Charlie’s.

Fana’s eyes fell closed. She had no need for them.

Careful not to move an inch from Charlie’s impossibly broad chest, Fana kicked off her sneakers, one by one. Curled toes pulled off her socks. The floor was bare wood, as cool and smooth as marble. She felt a vibration beneath her feet. Humming tickled her veins, like the humming she had heard on the mountain road—but deeper now. Inside of her.