My Soul to Take (38 page)

“What?” Johnny said. It was the only word he knew. He wasn’t sure he’d said it aloud.

“They’ve been engaged for a year, Hannibal. You didn’t expect them to marry? I imagine you weren’t invited to the wedding, but they set the date right away. I’ve heard from Teka. As far as we know, he’s still an adequate source.”

Johnny blinked, trying to clear his head. Why would Fana agree to marry Michel so quickly? Would Fana
ever
agree to marry Michel? He saw Fana in bed with Michel, and his stomach tried to wring itself. Did Michel already have Fana? He must!

Johnny would have wept if not for Mahmoud. His insides were weeping.

“It takes some of the sport out of it when you look so miserable,” Mahmoud said. He glanced out the open doorway behind him, lighting a cigarette. “If my lady friend isn’t waiting for me, Hannibal, we have unsettled business. Don’t spread your misfortune to me.”

The air cleared, and Johnny smelled the fish and incense from the market.

Fana always said to remember the mission. Anything else was a distraction.

“So you do care about the monkeys,” Johnny said.

Mahmoud chuckled, not looking back at him. “Don’t presume so much. The females amuse me from time to time. When these are gone, there will be others.”

“And the Cleansing?” Johnny said.

“I’ve never seen the logic in healing the perpetually dying,” Mahmoud said, “but then again, I’m unclear about who would be left to clean up Michel’s ghastly mess.”

“You’re against it, then.”

Mahmoud’s eyes still studied the crowd outside.

“I’m against the Cleansing the way I’m against all forms of madness. I’m also against overcrowding. Look at them all. The famines!
Endless conflict! I have to admire Michel’s willingness to take a stand. If he weren’t a raving lunatic, I might shake his hand.”

“And when he’s marching you over there to join him? Like Fana?” Johnny whispered.

“Is that the version you like best?” Mahmoud said, winking over his shoulder. “He compelled her? It’s a pity you didn’t know Fana when she was a tot, Hannibal. She gave a whole new meaning to the term
enfant terrible
. They’re a perfect match.”

Johnny was too sick to argue with Mahmoud. He suddenly vomited into a metal sink beside him while kitchen workers scowled. Quicky, Johnny rinsed the mess away.

“As you can see,” Mahmoud said, “the Blood doesn’t heal maladies of the mind, like overpowering fear of the truth.” He leaned over Johnny, pointing out bloody handprints on the sink. “You’ll want to clean up. We prefer not to leave it in the open, since it never dries. It tends to leave a trail.”

“I’ll remember that,” Johnny said. He rinsed his mouth in the tepid water and spit.

“Your vision of an army is ambitious, so I admire your conviction. But before you cast your lot against Michel with druglords and other ne’er-do-wells, I offer you counsel as a new Brother …” Mahmoud said, and paused. “Make sure your damsel in distress wants rescuing.”

There was no humor in his face or voice. Johnny felt foolish for holding his breath, hoping that Mahmoud might offer him something worth hearing.

“This isn’t about Fana,” Johnny said. “Michel is about to let loose a pandemic outbreak, and nobody’s willing to stand up to him. Either that matters to you or not.”

“Point well taken,” Mahmoud said noncommittally.

“Any other advice, Mahmoud?” Johnny said, sarcastic. Before today, he hadn’t had the nerve to say more than three words to Mahmoud. “What else can I learn from your vast wisdom? We monkeys don’t usually get the chance to live hundreds of years.”

“I wouldn’t rely on that timetable, considering your circumstances,” Mahmoud said casually, leaning over him. The tobacco on
his breath reminded Johnny of Michel. “The most important thing to remember? Expect pain.”

Johnny cried out as steel fire lashed his left ear. Mahmoud had sliced his other earlobe so quickly that Johnny hadn’t seen him move. Fresh droplets of his blood had sprayed to the kitchen’s tile above the sink, a progression of small dots.

Both of Johnny’s ears flamed with pain. “You son of a—”

“Watch yourself heal,” Mahmoud said. “That’s all the fun, the first days. Earlobes might take three to five hours. After that, there’s day and night and day again. Most days and nights are exactly the same—only the faces change. Or they don’t. Now you know the secret.”

Mahmoud pivoted away, vanishing through the open doorway into the crowd.

M
ahmoud had expected to be on his way to the Qinghai region of China, following another Mystic’s dream to search for Khaldun in the mountains, but life had gotten in the way.

He had been delayed in Addis. Selam had surprised him by cooking him dinner after his impolite disappearance at the market, and he’d surprised them both by refusing Selam’s invitation to spend the night in her bed.

Instead, Mahmoud flew his prop plane back to Lalibela.

“You’re not as clever as you think,” Mahmoud told the councilmaster.

“I’m thinking the opposite: I may be too clever by far,” Yacob said.

“He’s a perfect disaster,” Mahmoud said, half to himself. “These mortal boys are like girls, with soft hands and delicate sensibilities, trained to sit at desks. He nearly pissed himself when I flicked his ears. How did he fire that gun?”

Wright was one of the remaining puzzles from their disastrous visit to Michel a year ago when Mahmoud had first understood what a hazard Michel was to them. Even Teka had not been able to wrest himself from Michel’s mental stream! But Wright had escaped bondage to shoot Michel’s guards. Or had Michel allowed it?

IT MAY BE TRUE THAT FANA DISTRACTS MICHEL
, Yacob said.
WEAKENS HIM
.

Yacob spoke silently, not wanting to be overheard. Mahmoud
wished he had the skills for refined silent discourse, but he needed his meaning to be clear.

“I want to be free of Teka,” Mahmoud said. “He is linked to me. He woke me from sleep with news of Fana’s wedding. I can’t have him so close.”

HE MAY NOT CONTACT YOU AGAIN
.

Mahmoud shook his head. “No. Nothing must escape to him. If he attempts to reach me, I might bleed. I do not want Wright’s plan known to him.”

Yacob raised his eyebrow, surprised.
YOU HAVE DECIDED A POSITION
.

“Can you sever him?” Mahmoud said, impatient.

For a moment, Yacob’s thoughts were silent as he meditated for his answer.

I CAN IMPLANT THE ILLUSION OF A MASK FOR YOU
, Yacob said finally.
TEKA WILL KNOW IT’S BEYOND YOUR CAPACITIES, BUT IT MAY GIVE YOU A BIT OF TIME
.

“A bit of time is all I need,” Mahmoud said. “If anything is to be done, it must be done quickly. That much Wright says is true. Put up the mask.”

I ALREADY HAVE, BROTHER. FOR MY OWN SELFISH REASONS
.

Another silence. Now that they were free to speak, what would they say?

“What is the council’s position on the Cleansing?” Mahmoud said.

Yacob closed his eyes and sighed. He’d dreaded the question. “Mahmoud …”

“No more debate, Yacob. Does he debate? We must learn decisiveness from Sanctus Cruor and the mortals. What is
your
position?”

HOW CAN YOU ASK? I AM AGAINST THE CLEANSING, OF COURSE
.

No surprise. Over time, Yacob had collected enough mortal offspring for his own nation. Mahmoud had brought Yacob back to the colony three times in fifty years, and each time he’d begged for
more time with his mortals. It amazed Mahmoud that it had been Dawit, not Yacob, who first broke from Khaldun over his ties to the mortal world.

“Their herd needs thinning,” Mahmoud said, testing Yacob’s rationality. “Never mind their destructiveness. If you love them, how can you watch them starve?”

THEN LET US INTERVENE. BUT MICHEL’S INTERPRETATIONS ARE MORTIFYING. WHERE DOES IT END?

“Perhaps it ends here,” Mahmoud said.

The air in the room was hot. Mahmoud realized his heartbeat was jogging, increasing his blood flow. His heart rarely stirred—not since Adwa, when Dawit had persuaded them to join the Ethiopian forces to repel Italy and Sanctus Cruor. If Khaldun had told them they had immortal cousins in Sanctus Cruor’s ranks, they might have vanquished them a century ago. And Michel would never have been born.

In last year’s skirmish against Michel’s men, he and Dawit had been cut down far too soon when they came for Fana and Dawit’s family. Michel had known they were coming.

“How was your visit to Addis?” Yacob said, as if to change the subject.

“Addis is a congested bore,” Mahmoud said. “But Selam was the new flower to take my breath away.”

Yacob’s knowing smile drove Mahmoud mad, but he couldn’t deny the reason. He had seen Selam’s shade of skin countless times, and legs that mirrored hers, and faces her ancestors could have worn—and yet his eyes feasted on her. She barely knew her own body, much less how to please his—but her nakedness excited his loins. She was ignorant of history, her mind was cluttered with trivia and politics, and she knew only three languages—and yet he was fascinated by everything she said. There was a kind of music in her voice. In her face. If he sired a son with Selam, how would he look?

Mahmoud shuddered. “Dawit has poisoned me,” he said. “Or you did, perhaps.”

“Wait until you love a child, Mahmoud.
Your
child.”

“‘The disease of attachments,’” Mahmoud said bitterly, quoting
Khaldun. “‘As the sun shuns the night, so too shall we be separate.’” He had treated them all as children.

“Will you spend all your days searching for Khaldun?” Yacob said. “To what end?”

“To tell us why!”

“Forgive him without knowing why, Mahmoud. Walk free.”

Mahmoud had often wished he could.

“There are millions of Selams upworld,” Yacob said. “Others, men or women, who would intrigue another as she intrigues you. You came for me when I was so happily married in Paris—”

“You can’t possibly call
that
happy,” Mahmoud said, remembering his cow of a wife.

Pain quivered on Yacob’s face.
RESPECT MY MEMORIES, MAHMOUD
.

When Mahmoud bowed in apology, Yacob went on. “You asked me, standing outside in my garden, ‘What do you love about them?’ I love the homes they make for themselves. So many needless kindnesses toward each other. Their cleverness—like Fana said, they learn so much so fast. Their laughter—we have too little here.”

“Laughter! We have known different mortals, Yacob.”

“I don’t deny I’m no warrior; you’ve tasted more war. I know how they destroy—”

“They would cage us, given a chance,” Mahmoud said. “Their envy alone—”

Yacob held up his hand to bat away conflicting politics. “But there’s an essence about them. Look at Wright. So frightened and ill-prepared … and such lofty goals! It’s stirring.”

And Johnny Wright might have pulled himself free of Michel once. There
was
that.

“Yes,” Mahmoud said. “Wright is a promising piece of fortune.”

Mahmoud opened himself to Yacob so he could hear the details of Johnny Wright’s plan. Yacob hadn’t realized that the rancher had already agreed to meet with Wright. The boy was silly in a dozen ways, but he had use of Fana’s network. The Glow network was effective.

“If Michel is distracted, he might be surprised,” Mahmoud said. “Overwhelmed.”

NOT BY US
, Yacob said.
HE EXPECTS IT. LALIBELA CANNOT STRIKE
.

“But an army of
vaqueros
dispatched by a druglord … at the behest of Wright,” Mahmoud said, imagining cowboys charging the mountain on horseback. The sound of the plan alone was ludicrous. “If Michel heard of it, he might only laugh. He has too much pride.”

HUBRIS SLAYS THE GODS
, Yacob said.

Mahmoud felt the strange heavy thump in his chest that he’d felt when Salem opened her door to him and the streetlamp caught her smile. He had seen that same smile hundreds or thousands of times before, he was certain, and yet …

“If we use our weapons and fail to kill him, he’ll drain all of Lalibela in his Cleansing Pool,” Mahmoud said. “You’ve heard the atrocities. Don’t tell me you think Alem suddenly woke with the idea to go to Mexico and join Sanctus Cruor!”

Yacob’s grief shone in his thoughts. Michel had chosen Alem because of their Brother’s sharp mind for viruses.

“The theft of Alem was an act of war,” Mahmoud said. “We cannot declare war on Michel. But we can help end him, Yacob.”

THERE ARE MORTAL WEAPONS ENOUGH. FROM MORTAL HANDS
.

If Wright’s attack was effective enough to disable Michel and create disarray, perhaps Mahmoud would incinerate Michel to ash. And his new bride, if he must.

Mahmoud’s racing heartbeat slowed, and dimness fell over him. Dawit might be stirred to join an attack, or would Mahmoud and his dearest Brother be poised as foes again? He might face worse than Michel in Mexico.

WHAT OF FANA?
Yacob said.

“She gave Wright our Life Gift! With her own Blood. Would Michel engineer such a comic sacrilege?
She
chose to go to Michel, and now she will marry him. The obvious speaks best for itself. With Michel, she may feel at home at last. Dawit has never seen what she is.”

AS A FATHER, I CAN TELL YOU WHAT DAWIT SEES—HIS CHILD
.

Mahmoud had faced Fana in the Lalibela tunnel with a gun when she’d been small enough to be carried in her mother’s arms. He’d seen her eyes wake with effortless power, and heard her siren song to a wall of howling, angry bees.

“Fana,” Mahmoud said, “has never been anyone’s child.”

Nogales

2:30 a.m. Wednesday

J
essica couldn’t find a flashlight. Instead, she’d resorted to the sturdy white votive candle from her night table. As the flame withered and grew, mammoth shadows frolicked along the marble walls on both sides of her. She wasn’t sure she’d slipped past the others, but it didn’t matter. Nothing they could say would change her mind.

Jessica nurtured the fragile flame with her palm, walking past darkened doorways and stairwells, some winding up, others straight down. She softened the sound of her footsteps while her eyes raced along the walls. Jessica was sure she would turn a corner and find herself in her own doorway again, or see Fasilidas striding the hallway. Or Michel.