Blood Colony

  Michel was masking, too.

  He was sitting directly across from her, six feet away, dressed in a silken white robe with the crest of his Order on his breast—a cross with a teardrop of blood. His eyes were carefully removed from hers as he talked to his father beside him. A beautiful black girl wearing an Ethiopian scarf sat on the other side of Michel.

  Michel’s mother! The eyelashes, lush like her son’s, gave her away. She barely looked eighteen. She could be her twin sister, Fana realized. No wonder he fell for me so fast. Teru had a pleasant smile fixed to her face, but her eyes were unfocused. Fana wanted to probe her, but she didn’t dare provoke Michel. She knew enough from his memories: Teru was a prisoner, trapped inside her mind.

  Teru’s eyes swept aimlessly across the room, landing on Fana’s. Her face didn’t change, but she inclined her head half an inch. Fana nodded back, low and polite, but Teru’s eyes were gone before Fana looked up again.

  Fana stared at the girl-woman’s high-cheeked profile, so much like hers. Michel was holding his mother’s hand, she noticed, twining their fingers. He really thinks he loves her.

  Michel’s eyes stayed distant, his neck craned away from Fana as he spoke to his father, who wore a crimson robe and matching skullcap. Stefan’s frigid face told her that he couldn’t wait to have everyone at her table killed—and then chain her to his son’s bed.

  Fana’s heart kicked. Her limbs drew inward as she slouched down, small. Mom squeezed her hand beneath the table in silent support. After long seconds, Fana could sit up straight again.

  Michel glanced at her while she slouched, but his eyes fled with a blink when she caught him. Good. He couldn’t help looking at her either. Maybe he was worried about her. Maybe he really was ashamed. She needed his worry and shame, or everything was lost.

  Fana ventured her first words to him.

  If there is any kindness in you, I need a real demonstration tonight—not just the singing voices of sleepy children. She wanted to take the chide back as soon as it flew out.

  Michel’s eyes slashed her, striking a blow before they drifted away again.

  Fana’s heart pounded. I’m asking for mercy, Michel. Please don’t make me like your mother. This time, Michel didn’t glance her way.

  Mahmoud and Teferi staggered to the seats directly across from Bocelli and Romero, who now wore dark tailored suits instead of monks’ robes. The dinner had been delayed so that Michel’s attendants could awaken after their encounter with Johnny. The four healing immortals were weakened but angry, trading glares. Johnny and Caitlin watched Michel’s attendants with nervousness, protecting each other as best they could by sitting close, staring daggers.

  Dad sat beside Fana, across from Michel’s father, and their history was plain on their faces, too. Dad had killed Michel’s father twice before, and he wanted a chance to get it right.

  Stefan sounded a small bell, and the angry silence in the room became a mandate. The children’s clothes rustled as they were ushered through the doors. To bed, Fana hoped.

  “Benedetto sia il Sangue,” Stefan said.

  Everyone at Michel’s table repeated the Italian words, except his mother. The language was different, but Fana recognized the words Gramma Bea had finished every mealtime grace with: Bless the Blood. They were strangers to each other, but Khaldun had made them cousins.

  Stefan stood. With careful precision, he lowered himself to his knees, at Michel’s feet. He gazed upward, arms extended in posed piety, as if he could see the sky. “And so it was written, ‘One day shall be born a child of the Blood. And he will be a male child. Of all the creatures who walk, he will be the Most High.’”

  Fear’s claw assailed Fana. The room grew cold, draping her bare arms in gooseflesh. Fana had never read the Letter of the Witness, but Michel’s memories in her head echoed Stefan’s words: “And it was also written, ‘He will wait fifty rains to meet his mate. And she will be known by the name of Light.’”

  Fana meant “light” in Amharic! She had chosen that name for herself when she was three. Even my name is in the Letter. That thought flew into Fana’s mind just as a flock of white doves was released above them, flapping toward the rafters. Specks of down floated above them.

  “‘And so a man and woman, mates immortal born, will create an eternal union at the advent of the New Days. And all of mankind shall know them as the bringers of the Blood.’ So says the Witness…and so it has come to pass.”

  Stefan prostrated himself before Michel, eyes closed. Then Stefan stood up and raised a shot glass. “To the New Days,” he said, gazing at Dawit with a sardonic gleam in his eye.

  Before Fana could send him a warning, Dad was on his feet. “Our women, children and mortals should be released,” Dad said. “Nothing to be said among us concerns them.”

  Michel kept his eyes away from Fana, but his jaw flexed hard.

  Stefan smiled a bitter smile at Dawit. “Every word spoken here concerns your entire party, mi amico,” he said. “Don’t test my hospitality.”

  Sit down, Dad.

  Fana’s private command. Reluctantly, Dawit sat.

  Stefan’s face warred between anger and phony civility. He sat, too. “I will speak for the Most High. Who speaks for Fana?”

  “We do,” Jessica said. Her voice rang in the hall. “Her parents.”

  Contempt played on Stefan’s lips as he gave Dawit a mocking gaze. “She speaks for you?”

  “No more delays,” Dad said. “This treatment is an outrage.”

  Stefan’s eyes were ice. “Be glad the Most High is kinder than his father.”

  “Be glad your son is not so easily slain,” Dawit said, and Mahmoud chuckled. Romero and Bocelli snapped warnings to Mahmoud in Italian.

  “Or so easily captured,” Stefan said.

  “Soldiers are a great advantage to the weak,” Dawit said. “With the exception of that feeble army at Adwa, as I remember.”

  “Adwa was a different time, African,” Stefan said, teeth gritted.

  “We’re all tired,” Jessica said, interrupting their volley. “It’s late. Our family is grieving. We’ve tried to respect your traditions, but you have no right to keep us here. Please let us go.” Mom was the best diplomat Fana knew.

  MARRY ME TONIGHT, Michel said to Fana. AND YOUR PEOPLE ARE FREE.

  Fana glanced at Michel, startled. Even now, Michel’s eyes stayed away while he languidly dipped his flat bread in olive oil. His smooth face stung her with Charlie’s image.

  You know I can’t do that, Fana said.

  Michel flung the bread to his plate, annoyed. His sudden movement made her jump.

  Stefan’s father bickered with her parents, but Fana only heard Michel’s breathing.

  YOU ARE VERY CARELESS WITH YOUR LOVED ONES, FANA.

  Threats are your father’s language. Try to find your own.

  AND BRAZEN! YOU SPEAK YOUR FATHER’S LANGUAGE TOO.

  “Fana will be wed to the Most High!” Stefan said, suddenly shouting as he looked at her. “This dinner is only a gesture of goodwill. What is written is what shall be!”

  Don’t let him speak for you, Michel. Talk to me.

  HAVEN’T I TRIED?

  Look at me, Michel.

  At last, his eyes rested on hers, large and brown, the color of sandalwood, swathed in his mother’s thicket of black eyelashes. Fana’s skin charged under his gaze, even now.

  I came to offer you my terms, Michel.

  He muted a condescending smile. His dismissal made her angry, but she carefully filtered anger from her thoughts before she went on: No good would come of a marriage between us tonight. The only way you can keep me here is against my will. Is that the marriage you want?

  I WANT THE UNION THAT WAS PROPHESIED.

  And I want to be a Bringer of the Blood.

  THEN YOUR FEARS ARE ANSWERED IN THE LETTER.

  I was three when I told my parents I wanted to change my name to Fana, which means “light.” During that time my first teacher, K
haldun, visited me regularly through meditation. My parents believe his visits may have awakened my gifts prematurely.

  I SAW THAT IN YOUR MEMORIES.

  Khaldun wrote that letter, Michel.

  WHAT WOULD THAT CHANGE?

  Maybe he helped his own prophecy come true. He was guiding me.

  GUIDING YOU TO ME, FANA.

  Fana sighed. Was Michel right? Had she been destined to be paired with Michel hundreds of years before she was born?

  Michel’s face softened, and he leaned forward slightly. I WILL NOT TOUCH YOUR MASK. MARRY ME TONIGHT, AND YOU WILL KEEP A SEPARATE CHAMBER.

  I would never adjust to something I didn’t choose.

  A silent server slipped beside Fana and ladled tomato soup into her bowl. Fana’s gaze with Michel never broke, even as the thick-boned woman came in and out of her vision.

  I WOULD WAIT FOR YOU TO FEEL AT HOME HERE.

  You are not patient, Michel.

  I WILL LEARN.

  Bocelli and Romero joined the chorus of arguing voices at the table. Silverware clattered when Romero slapped his palm on the table.

  She and Michel had worked it out just in time, Fana thought. She wasn’t sure how she should feel about her decision, but she was glad a decision had come.

  “Silence, please.”

  Fana spoke aloud for the first time. Her heart thundering, she pushed her chair back and stood to preside over her future. She raised her water glass. “Michel and I are to be married. As of tonight, we are engaged.”

  Michel looked stunned. ENGAGED? As if the word were foreign to him.

  Jessica tugged Fana’s elbow hard, but Fana ignored her mother’s silent plea.

  “We will marry at a future time,” Fana said. “Mutually agreed upon.”

  SIX MONTHS, Michel offered.

  Ten years, Fana told him gently. She would prefer to delay by twenty years, or fifty, but he would never agree. Even now, Michel sat ramrod straight, flushed with anger again.

  Fana went on: “During our engagement, I will be free to live and do as I please. I will conduct my blood mission without interference from Sanctus Cruor, or Sanctus Cruor’s agencies. If Sanctus Cruor hurts any parties involved in my mission, or patients who have received my blood, the engagement is called off.”

  Stefan barked a laugh. “This child is mad!”

  Fana didn’t hear the rest. Her mother whispered no in one ear, her father in the other.

  ONE YEAR, Michel said. NO MORE. YOUR MISSION CONFLICTS WITH THE LETTER. “WREST THIS BLOOD FROM THE HANDS OF THE WICKED.”

  “My guiding principle,” Fana said, ignoring Michel, “will be the words of our great teacher, Khaldun, as he wrote in the document you know as the Letter of the Witness: ‘All of mankind will know them as the Bringers of the Blood.’”

  Her recitation of the Letter brought silence to the room.

  “Our engagement will last ten years,” Fana said.

  Michel shot to his feet, and the fury in his eyes made Fana’s knees weak. She might be bleeding soon, or her parents, or she might feel Michel piloting her face toward his for a kiss. It took all of Fana’s will to hold Michel’s gaze without stammering. “At the end of that engagement, if I am in love with Michel, we will marry.”

  “You play dangerous games, child,” Stefan said.

  “It’s not a game,” Fana said. “Those are my terms. Now, you will release us.”

  All eyes were on Michel, who braced himself on closed fists on the tabletop as he leaned closer to her. Mom clung to Fana’s hand as if to protect her from a blow, and Dad coiled his fingers around his knife. If Dad twitched, Michel would happily plunge the knife into his throat to punish him for hurting Stefan.

  The world felt fragile, suddenly.

  LOVE HAS NO SAY IN THIS, Michel said. IF I ALLOW YOU TO WALK AWAY TONIGHT, IF I ALLOW ALL YOU ASK, YOU WILL RETURN TO MARRY ME.

  Fana avoided her parents’ eyes, but she glanced toward Johnny, who looked aghast, as everyone at her table did. Johnny was a good person, as strong in his way as Michel was in his. Fana would have chosen a man more like Johnny.

  I agree, she said so only Michel could hear.

  THREE YEARS. Michel still believed he had room to bargain.

  It’s ten years, Michel. You say we will rule for eternity, but you can’t wait for me a decade? This is your testament of love. If you do not love me, make me your prisoner now. But I warn you, I will destroy myself at my first chance. I can make you the happiest man who has ever lived, or the loneliest. You have seen what we can be together. The choice is yours.

  Neither of them blinked. Fana’s nervous heart squeezed a river through her veins.

  Michel’s face knitted as his red-faced father whispered harshly in his ear. But Michel’s eyes never left hers, and as long as she had his eyes, she had a chance. Let him learn her face and bright lips. Let him appreciate her carefully prepared dress. Was the promise of a future enough? Michel gently made a brushing motion against his father’s shoulder, pushing him away. Michel raised his water glass high, mirroring Fana’s toast.

  “To our engagement,” Michel said. The only three words he spoke aloud.

  Their glasses sang merrily when they touched, but neither Fana nor Michel smiled.

  Thirty-eight

  5:20 a.m.

  The chartered bus arrived in the courtyard in the pitch of night, hissing on air brakes. Dawit and his Brothers stood in a line to shield the others, and the quick boarding was conducted in a deathly hush. Abena and Sharmila passed Teferi’s sleeping boys to him, and he laid them in their seats. Hopefully, they would wake in Nogales, at dawn.

  So few lights were on inside of the massive church that it was nearly invisible.

  Sanctus Cruor’s believers—the priests, cooks, gardeners, painters and supplicants who were faithful because of the promise of healing and rumors of miracles—lined up at a distance to watch them go, whispering tales from the dining hall. Romero and Bocelli watched, too, from the church steps. Dawit didn’t see the soldiers, but he knew everyone in sight was armed.

  Dawit was glad that Stefan and Michel had not come outside. Those men’s faces were hard to look at, and Dawit did not want to shatter his daughter’s painfully brokered peace. Dawit had faced Stefan once outside of Adwa and once in Seattle, and either encounter might have prevented this day. The difference felt as thin as a blade of grass.

  “Another day, Brother,” Mahmoud said, following Dawit’s eyes to the darkened church doors. Mahmoud’s voice was a rasp. He was still weak from his sleep, but he squeezed Dawit’s shoulder with fortifying strength. “We always have another day.”

  Lucas and Jared helped Alex climb the steps to the bus, and Caitlin and Johnny Wright boarded next, dazed and sleepy, but eager to go.

  Caitlin’s gaze at Dawit was furtive. She did not trust him yet. One day, he would apologize to her about the way he had treated her father. Dawit hoped Teka could retrieve Justin’s memories as he said he could. Caitlin should decide if she still wanted her father to follow wherever their journey would take them next.

  Jessica leaned against Dawit. Her eyes were red and exhausted, heartbreaking. He held her as tightly as he dared, breathing the night’s spoiled air with her. When he rested his head atop hers, Jessica took his hand and held it to her breast.

  They hadn’t spoken about it yet. There was nothing to say.

  Their days were getting longer.

  Jima was waiting at Nogales International Airport with the colony’s plane, but Dawit trusted no one else to fly, just as he trusted no one else to drive the bus. Jima and Teka were more practiced pilots, but he would fly the jet himself. They must get far from here, and soon.

  They weren’t safe in Mexico. They might not be safe anywhere.

  For now, Lalibela. Home.

  The blood mission must belong to all of them now, not only a few. The Lalibela Council had far greater resources, and they would need a mountain of money for their undertaking. The mission was expensive
. Armies were expensive, too.

  The New Days were coming, whatever they might be.

  Fana came to the bus last, behind her friends. She had replaced her dress from dinner with her soiled jeans and Jared’s too-big Oxford sweatshirt. She looked like a freshman on her way to school. How Dawit wished she had been!

  But Khaldun had warned them from the beginning: Fana was not an ordinary child, and she would not have an ordinary life.

  I’M SORRY, DADDY. Fana’s voice whispered in his head.

  Nothing to be sorry for, Princess.

  Dawit smiled at her, and she smiled back with her face that, to him, had never changed.

  A chorus of crickets clamored from the woods, and the moon glowed bright above them.

  For an instant, it felt like an ordinary night.

  No one answered at his house, so Johnny tried calling his father’s cell phone next. The ringing stopped so abruptly that Johnny thought the call had been cut off, until he heard his father suck in his breath: “Johnny?”

  His father said he’d gotten a 3 a.m. call from the Department of Homeland Security. He was driving to the FBI office in Jacksonville, where Johnny’s mother would be released from custody. Johnny told him he was fine, promised he hadn’t killed anyone, and said he would call the next time he had a chance. It wasn’t enough to wring the worry from his father’s voice.

  “You have to trust me, Dad,” Johnny said. “I’ve seen a miracle.”

  That was all he had time to say. Fana’s mother had warned them to keep the calls short. Caitlin had only called Johannesburg long enough to hear her father’s voice, too.

  Johnny gave the satellite phone back to the tall, tired man holding his young son.

  Teferi. Teka. Mahmoud. Dawit. The names would take some getting used to.