My Soul to Take

  Fana pulsed for him, searching for his thoughtstreams, but he didn’t answer. He had told her he didn’t want to lead her. He was giving her a way to change her mind.

  Fana was as desperate to find Michel as she had once been to flee him. Now that she was ready, she didn’t want to wait. She would never be stronger, fresh from a circle with her family and the music of their voices. Fresh from dancing! She could have danced until dawn, but Fana had reached the limits of her body. The Blood link to him blotted everything.

  “Michel?” she called, knowing how much he liked to hear his name.

  But he resisted. He was going to make her come to him.

  A small shadow moving in short lurches near the floor stopped Fana’s steps. Her eyes focused in the dark: Adam was wandering the halls. He jumped to her, climbing to her shoulder. Adam immediately began grooming her, picking at her hair.

  Fana swatted at his careless tugging. “Adam, where’s Michel?”

  “The Most High is nowhere and everywhere,” the chatter monkey said, sounding more lucid than usual, more human. Already thoroughly indoctrinated.

  “Have you seen Michel?” Fana said.

  Adam shrieked laughter, leaping from her shoulder to a shelf. “There’s nobody named Michel!” he said. “Michel doesn’t live here!” Adam rounded the corner, amused by his lie.

  Chatter monkeys weren’t guides, Fana remembered.

  Fana followed a hidden memory, tracing the winding, private stairway one flight up at the far west of the building, past the collection of silent paintings on the wall, impassive eyes watching her climb. Michel’s bedchamber might be the only room on the floor, nestled in a corner away from the soaring cathedral; far from the sealed chamber that echoed its sorrows even now, the one that housed his Cleansing Pool.

  The walls seemed to tremble. He was close. The smell of the Shadows wafted gently from the floor, and Fana inhaled. Her mind sharpened.

  Michel was in his room, waiting for her, she realized. He had known that she would come.

  The wing was dark, and his door was nearly closed, open a crack to let out a sliver of light. Music floated from the room. Had he plucked the music from her recollections? It was Cuban music the way her father had taught her to love it, at its roots. La Reina, Celia Cruz, singing an old love song in her earthly, impassioned warble. Tuya y Más Que Tuya, she sang. Yours and More than Yours. She sang of dreams of her beloved lulling her to sleep.

  Michel had given her music on her first visit, she remembered, a song called “Black Tears,” as sad as their meeting; as inevitable as their parting. The sound of grief, about a connection so deep that it could cause you to die.

  Michel knew the right language for her.

  Michel’s room was large, of polished medieval brick, barely furnished except for a bed elevated ten feet from the ground, jutting from the wall, and a sofa and bookshelves on the floor for reading. Except for rugs, his room looked more like a tomb.

  Michel’s three Sanctus Cruor robes hung in a glass case across the room, suspended in a shrine to his duty. The case had rows of light bulbs, but the lights had been turned off. Fana hoped the Most High was gone for the night.

  Michel was near his tall picture window, staring outside at the waking sky as he hovered a foot above the ground. He bobbed slightly, floating in a gentle sea. Michel’s crimson silk pajamas shone in the moonlight. Without trying to, Fana noticed his open pajama shirt.

  As soon as she stepped across his threshold, one headache died, replaced by another. Her mind was falling into sections that didn’t remember how to knit together, clamoring for him.

  Michel didn’t look at her. “I hope I didn’t scare your mother,” he said.

  “Of course you scared her. But I’m glad she saw.” Fana hadn’t come to chide him. She was glad her mother had stayed, that she could hear the muffled burr of her mother’s thoughts.

  “Are you here to wake me, Fana?” Michel said. “Or to put me to sleep?”

  He had been listening to them, of course. He always listened.

  “I don’t know,” Fana said. “Is this all another lie, Michel? Your way of bringing me here? If you’re forcing me here, I can never trust you. I will kill you. Don’t doubt it.”

  “You’ll try,” he corrected her. “Just as others will try.”

  He knew why she was in his room, so he could afford to be blunt.

  “I’m not others,” Fana said.

  “Your mother’s voice …” Michel murmured.

  “This is my voice.”

  Michel floated, skating across the opposite wall as quickly as a shadow. “The truth, Fana?” he said. Her heart jumped at the endless possibilities for his lies.

  “Always.”

  “My pain is real. But did I share it with you to bring you here tonight? Non lo so. I can’t say. My abilities hide from me, yours hide from you. Teka, our teacher, recognizes our union, the call of our Blood. So does the Prophecy. I’ve taken every precaution, far too many, so I know I haven’t tried to pull you. But si, I have wondered too.”

  Michel’s intentions mattered. That was what she had told her father.

  “Teka is our teacher?” she said, surprised.

  Finally, Michel smiled at her, a hint of warmth beyond their transaction. “Of course. I will teach you the Shadows, and he will teach me the Rising. Did you think I don’t want to learn your ways? Why should you know things I don’t?” His grin was a promise.

  Michel’s smile, such a rare sight, trapped her again, his essence shining in his eyes. They were poised at the edge of themselves. The air swelled with his presence near her, along the side wall. The ache in Fana’s head made her grind her teeth together, hard.

  “Promise you won’t try to take me tonight,” she said.

  “Promise you won’t try to kill me tonight.”

  Neither of them promised, but neither of them mentioned the Cleansing.

  Could this be the only place and time for them?

  An image in the corner of Fana’s vision took her eyes to the massive mural on the wall. She had to turn to see it behind her: a perfect rendering of her engagement dinner to Michel a year ago. Hers was the only face visible. Fana had forgotten how Caitlin had dressed her dreadlocks with countless white bows, and the white dress she had worn for Michel, which made her look festive somehow. Or the bright red lipstick her mother had painted on her lips, remembering her lesson from Gramma Bea. Her grandmother was in the portrait, too.

  Now Michel was behind her. She hadn’t heard him fly to her, or his feet lighting on the floor, but her shoulder brushed against his chest. He stood only close enough to let her know he was there, so she would feel how much he wanted her. Fire roared over her as her body and mind conspired, feeding each other.

  “This is beautiful, Michel,” she said.

  “Only the woman is beautiful,” he said. “You are beautiful, Fana.”

  He slid his arm gently around her waist, but he didn’t whisper thoughts to her. Even as he touched her, his hot skin pressing to her, he kept his distance. He gave her one last chance.

  Then …

  Michel swayed with her to the music, gently changing it for her ears, his mental touch nearly soft enough not to notice. Suddenly, Celia was singing in a chorus with Benny Moré and Vicente Fernandez, while Mario Bauzá’s orchestra built a wall of sound to embrace them, an army of brass. She heard Michel’s tender words buried in the music: COME TO ME, FANA.

  A pathway opened, a sun’s worth of light. He ruptured himself for her, showing more than he’d planned, surrendering to his need to fuse with her.

  Be decisive, her father had said.

  Fana decided.

  Fana’s jump felt more like flying. First she rose only a few feet, cool air caressing her face. Yes, I’ve always wanted to fly. Far away, maybe a solar system away, his lips kissed the side of her neck, kneading her flesh into a ball of sensation. Fana smelled the paint from his mural, saw colors blending. Then Fana raced beyond sights, s
mells, and skin, tumbling and twirling, tossed in the midst of their storm.

  Then …

  She chose you tonight, but she will not choose your way.

  If you cannot prevent her suffering, honor her by enjoying it.

  Feed from her. Let it begin.

  His father’s voice chased Michel because his father’s voice, by now, was his own.

  Forgive me, Fana.

  Michel held Fana as if she were a moth, by a delicate wing. Fana was tumbling, senseless, trying to gather pieces of herself inside him. She liked the feeling of flying, so he disguised the chaos as flight to help her join with him.

  Fana was magnificent; a warm, vibrating bath. She was so clear, so crisp! Her beauty made him ache to fill himself with her, to follow her currents. Just to peek …

  But no time. Now.

  Fana had offered her gift to his door, her brave sacrifice, and so he would be kind. She would wake without remembering fear or struggle. He would preserve everything about her except her Blood mission. She was gaining strength from him, less confused with every heartbeat, so he couldn’t wait. It would never be easier.

  But …

  Fana called to Michel from the places he had not seen, so many dots of unexplored light, an undulating massage. How could he preserve what he had never known? He heard her childhood laughter, her untold mysteries.

  LET GO OF ME, MICHEL, she said. Her own voice, still preserved.

  Fana would fight, but he could hold her.

  For a rare instant, Michel didn’t know what he would do.

  Then he let her go. The moth flew free.

  He followed her wondrous blaze.

  Michel rocked through Fana, his own hurricane. Seeing the shape of him taught her to see new shapes in herself, pulling and expanding her awareness. How had he learned so much without a good teacher, only riding the Shadows? Michel was a miracle. His father had fed him the only way he had known how, but Michel might be as strong as Khaldun. Was she?

  Fana sailed through Michel’s strength, wrapping herself in it, wondering how much of it she had given him and how much he had given her, already confused about where she ended and he began. Each new space in him brought a new delight, so much to learn. He reminded her of everything she’d forgotten about how to make rain.

  Fana raced past a corner she couldn’t see, a piece of him tucked away in secrecy, but she didn’t linger. She would have time to learn him. He probed at the spaces she’d held from him, too, but he respected her barriers when he found them. The barriers tripped up their speed, but why reveal weaknesses?

  One part of them was not free to play; one part of them always had to remember.

  Still, they dived into each other, hurtling through each other’s memories, tasting every thought they could find. They were hungry for each other, so they gorged.

  Their bodies, somewhere far from them, found each other, too.

  Neither Fana nor Michel heard the tolling bells that woke the mountainside.

  Thirty-four

  Texas

  Wednesday

  The man who opened the door to room 306 of the Motel 6 off Interstate 45 southeast of Houston looked like he was sixty or sixty-five, easy; like somebody’s grandfather who complained about bad eyes and sore joints. His records said he was fifty-six, but life had ridden him hard. He had hollowed bags under his eyes, and his breathing gurgled slightly in his chest, probably from smoking.

  But a shot of Glow would get him into shape. He had to be ready tomorrow.

  Enriquez had said he was the best.

  The stranger recognized Johnny from the vidphone, so he let him in, closing the door efficiently. The room was dim, barely lighted by a weak fluorescent bulb near the bathroom and a weaker lamp between the two twin beds. The curtains were as thick as blankets, blocking even the Texas sun. No suitcase was in sight. The sniper hadn’t turned on the TV. The walls carried the smell of deep-fried dough from white food wrappers in tight balls in the trash.

  “I hate Houston,” the sniper said. “I should’ve said Fort Worth. Better food.”

  The notion of food, stopping to eat, was beyond Johnny. Houston was more than a thousand miles from Nogales, but it might be too close. That was all Johnny was thinking.

  “Just kidding.” The sniper outstretched his hand, and arm muscles flexed. “I’m Raul.”

  Johnny shook Raul’s hand. “John Jamal Wright.” He used his name from the news.

  The cross hanging from Raul’s neck reassured him; a small, sterling silver testament to faith, not fashion. He wore a plain wedding band, tightened by time on his ring finger. He knows both God and love, Johnny thought. Raul’s features might be Maya: dark brown skin and a broad forehead. His snow-white hair was tied into a long ponytail.

  When Enriquez had mentioned his hitter’s military experience, Johnny had assumed he was recommending someone who’d retired from the Mexican military. Wrong.

  Raul Puerta was a retired U.S. Marines sniper. He and Raul would be their own army.

  “An honor, Wright,” Raul said. His eyes were full of things he wanted to say. “The war on Glow is a sin. A medic brought some out in the field—it’s liquid gold. I’ve never seen anything like it. And, man, I heard ops we’re doing that turned my hair gray—civilians getting snatched, misinformation, cover-ups. That singer … what’s-her-name. The loonies are running the asylum. You guys are heroes doing God’s work. Get it to the damn people.”

  Hiring a sniper didn’t feel like God’s work, but Johnny thanked him.

  “Let’s nail this crazy son of a bitch,” Raul whispered.

  Raul turned on his cheap bedside clock radio to hide their voices from neighbors. A woman was singing a Spanish ballad so loudly that the tinny speakers rattled. Johnny almost asked Raul to turn off the music right away. He rarely ignored his hunches. Anything could be hiding an omen or a message, but Johnny let the radio play.

  Johnny sat on the bed opposite Raul’s. “Here’s what we know …” he began.

  His intelligence said that the wedding would be on Thursday morning, a window anywhere between five a.m. and noon. Raul should be in place by five a.m. at the latest, since an earlier public event seemed unlikely. In past public appearances, followers had two hours’ notice if they wanted to see him in person. News of his appearances sent Nogales into a frenzy. Raul would be alerted as soon as a time was announced.

  Johnny talked about their target as he, and Raul followed his lead: Where would he be standing? How long would he be exposed?

  Johnny had to admit how little he knew, offering satellite images of the surrounding area that weren’t enough. Michel’s unholy home always looked blurry in photos, hidden in shadows. Johnny was guessing even about the wedding’s location; he was convinced that it would be in the tower because of a stubborn memory from the time when Michel had tormented him with visions of his future with Fana. He had seen a domed tower.

  The singer on the radio captured the agony of wondering what Fana was doing at that moment. Johnny tried not to think about Michel’s face, to forget his name. The plan to kill him felt like a wish. Even with a good sniper, what were their chances?

  “You’ve left me a lot of question marks, kid,” Raul said.

  “Then we need luck,” Johnny said. “Maybe more than luck.”

  Raul shrugged. “Here’s our luck,” he said, and opened his duffel bag.

  The gun was in pieces. As a collection of thin parts painted in camo green, the gadget didn’t look like luck, or even a good omen. It looked scratched up and secondhand. It wasn’t any more impressive than Enriquez or Raul. Or Johnny.

  Raul sat on the floor like a child at playtime and began assembling it between the beds, where it would be hidden from the door. Twisting, snapping, patting, metal clicking against metal. It took him only a few breaths, about thirty seconds. Assembled, the gun was four feet long. Its oversized scope looked like it could see footprints on the moon.

  “This is the Intervention,” Raul sai
d. “No bull—that’s the name. Handheld ballistic computer. Laser range finder. This is the reason the U.S. Marine Corps has the best snipers in the world.” The room brightened in the gun’s aura.

  Johnny ran his fingers across the gun’s tiny scratches; its past life. A former marine was almost as good as an active unit, Johnny realized. They might as well have the cavalry.

  “What’s the range?” Johnny said.

  “How far you need?”

  “To be safe … half a mile?” It sounded feeble. Michel would hear Raul breathing. Their reports on Michel said he had military patrols within half a mile of the church for crowd control. “But farther’s always better.”

  “I can give you a mile, if I can get past any obstructions,” Raul said.

  A mile! Raul grinned at Johnny’s surprise, his teeth so tobacco stained they were brown. “In ’04, my guys shot a barrel three times from 1.3 miles with this baby. World record.”

  “Don’t count on a world record,” Johnny said, nervous. Raul’s psych report had looked fine after twenty-one years in the corps, but maybe he was delusional. Maybe they all were.

  “Course not,” Raul said. “I just need a mile.”

  One mile’s cushion. A mile’s protection. Johnny didn’t know if he should feel assured by the adjustment, but he did. Raul knew his capacities from practice. Johnny wondered how many men he had killed, or if Enriquez had hired him before. He was disappointed in himself when he realized that he wouldn’t ask.

  “What else do you need?” Johnny said.

  “I have a few guys, but I only need my spotter. We figger all we’ll get is the cold shot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The first one,” Raul said. “Might take the bullet three seconds to get home, but it’ll travel faster than the sound. He’ll never hear it coming.”

  Having the plan mapped out with the familiar assurance of physics made Johnny’s heart celebrate. He envied the spotter who would go to the mountain with Raul and the Intervention. He wanted to hear the crack of the gunfire with his own ears.