My Soul to Take (8 page)

The door closed, but Johnny had heard enough. Obviously, the scientist wanted his father to
move
here. Why else would Dad have brought him, too? If Dad was considering moving to a commune in the woods, there was only one answer: Dad had lost his mind.

He hoped this was only an interview for one of Dad’s books.

“Hey, what’s in the backpack?” a girl’s voice said.

When Johnny turned around, he had to squint to hold his eyes steady. A thin, athletic teenage girl with blond hair was sitting astride a mountain bicycle, sweaty from her ride. She was about sixteen, and the sight of her shut down a part of Johnny’s brain. He stared at the cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth to keep from gawking.

“Do you speak?” the girl said.

“I’ve got some comic books,” he said, wishing he could have
thought of something less babyish. “I’m … really interested in Japanese popular culture.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and shot him a look, chuckling. “Relax, anime geek. Lemme see,” she said. “You’re among friends.”

She rifled through his book bag, rejecting or accepting his choices with free-spirited laughter. “Whoa—
Death Note
!” she said, impressed. “This one rocks.”
Death Note
was Johnny’s favorite manga series, where a high school student named Light Yagami used a notebook from a sorcerer of death to cleanse the world of evil. Light could kill anyone just by writing a name in the notebook. Johnny wondered what he would do with that kind of power.

Caitlin O’Neal introduced herself and gave Johnny a tour of the colony, as she called it: three or four homes, the long schoolhouse, and a laboratory with walls made mostly of glass.

“What’s the lab for?” Johnny said. Day by day, it was slowly dawning on him that he could go to medical school.

“Research,” Caitlin said, shrugging. “That’s what Clarion does.”

She explained that the colony was part of a company called Clarion World Health, and her father was vice president. She lived on Long Island, but visited in the summers with her father and sister. She gave him the Clarion pep speech, telling him how thousands of people were being healed of AIDS in Africa, and soon Clarion would be healing people all over the world. Her claims seemed farfetched, but they were impressive if they were true.

“What kind of doctor is your dad?” Caitlin said.

“He’s not. He’s a writer,” Johnny said. “But I’ll be a doctor.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

“Damn right,” Caitlin said. “You’ll be healing people, anyway.”

Still coasting on her bike, Caitlin beckoned him across a path toward the cedar building with a domed white roof. She hopped off the bicycle to wheel it to the rear of the building, waving him to a wall shaded with ferns.

“Your dad must be a big deal, getting the red carpet,” Caitlin said, half to herself, pulling down a rolled brown tarp that
had been leaning against the wall. She offered him her cigarette. “Smoke?”

Johnny shook his head. “You’re really gonna damage your lungs like that.”

“Dude, lighten up. You’re not the surgeon general. Trust me, I’m not gonna get sick. That’s not one of my top ten worries in life.”

“Everyone gets sick,” Johnny said.

“Not here,” Caitlin said. She stepped up onto the carpet-size roll of tarp to peek into a high window near the corner. She whispered down to him, “If we’re quiet, we’ll hear what they’re saying.”

Caitlin secured for Johnny the corner of a picture window that spied on a large conference room. The oval table at the center was large enough to seat twenty or more, but only five men were huddled at the end closest to them: Johnny’s father, the scientist, a blond guy in Brooks Brothers whom Johnny guessed was Caitlin’s father … and two black men draped in white tunics and loose-fitting white slacks. Africans? Odd round torches burned in sconces on the wall.

Johnny’s heart pounded as if it had split into two, and brushing up against Caitlin made it hard to hold his thoughts together. How could Caitlin sound so sure she would never get sick? What kind of work was Clarion doing?

Johnny strained to hear the voices over his wild heartbeat.

“… From Florida A&M University …” the scientist said, explaining where Dad worked. Dad seemed nervous as he surveyed the men around him. Couldn’t he speak for himself?

The next man’s voice was clear and close. “You’ll have to excuse us, but we’re forced to take strict precautions with outsiders …
Mr. Wright
.”

Suddenly, the speaker appeared in the window, his face staring straight down at Johnny. He’d been beside the window in the corner the whole time! He was another African, dressed in white. His bottomless eyes looked like hot coals. He yanked a curtain closed.

Caitlin gasped, scrambling away. Johnny was so startled, he lost his balance on the tarp and fell against the house with a clumsy thunk. Dad was going to kill him!

Caitlin was already on her bicycle, pedaling toward the shelter of the trees on a path behind the hall, so Johnny ran to follow her. His heart pounded at him like a mallet. Johnny would see those eyes from the window in his nightmares.

“Stop!” Johnny called after Caitlin, gasping. “Who is that?”

“Fana’s father,” Caitlin said over her shoulder. “My dad’s boss. You never saw me.”

“Who’s Fana?” But Caitlin melted between the tree trunks as she sped away.

Caitlin’s dramatic disappearing act didn’t slow Johnny’s racing heartbeat, or ease the sour tightness in his stomach since the eyes had chastised him in the window. It was as if the man had known he was there, had been talking to him all along.

Dad wanted to spend the night, but Johnny was ready to go back to the airport. He couldn’t live here. And the man in the window …

“My dad’s bark is worse than his bite,” a younger girl’s voice said. It wasn’t Caitlin.

Johnny spun around to see who had spoken, facing the endless columns of tree trunks.

“Where are you?” he said to the woods.

“Right here.”

A tall, skinny black girl came to vivid sight. Dark dreadlocks hung from her scalp, wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. She was draped in the colors of foliage, browns and greens, standing stock-still, so she’d blended into the tree beside her. The way she appeared, she could have snapped her fingers to bend the sunlight.

Only her eyes moved when he walked toward her. She was trying very hard not to look at him. She smelled smoky, like incense. Her face looked younger, maybe eleven or twelve, but she was nearly as tall as he. Tall for a girl.

“You saw what happened?” he said. “At the window?”

She nodded, her eyes firmly staying away from his.

“Listen, I hope that won’t look bad for my father,” Johnny said. If she was the boss’s daughter, she might have influence. “We were just playing around.”

She grinned, and her smile brightened her face. “My father
understands curiosity,” she said. “He knows you’re not here to hurt us. Or me.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but stopped herself. She turned her face away when he stood directly in front of her. Her words sounded old for her age.

“Are you really this shy?” he said.

She smiled again, wistfully. And raised her hand to cover her teeth. “With new people.”

“Why do you care about me looking at you?” he said. “You don’t even know me.”

“Aren’t you from outside?” For the first time, the girl in the woods raised her face and brown eyes to his. Her voice echoed in his mind, a stereo effect:
YOU’RE FROM OUTSIDE?
Her eyes spoke so loudly, he swore he could hear her thoughts.

Finally, he saw what a pretty kid she was. Why was her father keeping her hidden here?

“Yeah, I’m from Florida.” He wondered if he should explain where Florida was. Or describe a neighborhood. Or a mall. The way she’d said
outside
had made it sound alien. Johnny wanted to rescue her and take her away.

“You’ve seen a lot of faces outside,” the girl said.

“Oh, so I’m at my limit?” he said. “I’m not allowed to see you now?”

She shook her head, her lips curling. “My face isn’t me.”

Johnny didn’t know how to answer that. Was she a philosopher or a mental case?

“I know,” the girl said, resigned. “I confuse people when I talk.” The girl pulled out a thin white scarf and wrapped it across her head and shoulders until only a sliver of her face showed. She outstretched her hand to him, businesslike. “I’m Bea-Bea. Everyone calls me Fana.”

Johnny reached out to shake her hand. When their palms touched, Johnny’s skin buzzed. His galloping heartbeat slowed. His scare at the window suddenly seemed funny. He noticed the scent of cooking biscuits from the house, and thought he wouldn’t mind staying for dinner.

The day finally fell into place. The trees revealed beauty he hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m Johnny Wright,” he said. “What does ‘Fana’ mean?”

Fana started to speak, but Johnny didn’t hear the answer from her lips. The knowledge bloomed in his head as he stared at the fascinating girl with the long dreadlocks.

Of course.

Fana meant Light.

Concert Night
2016

F
ire. Her skin, her mouth, was fire.

Thin wisps of steam rose as the shower’s ice-cold water massaged Fana’s naked skin. Her bare soles celebrated cold shower tiles. For a time, her vision had gone completely red, but colors were softening again. Her ears popped open, allowing sounds beyond her rushing blood.

Fana didn’t know how long the gentle knocking had played on her bathroom door. She’d thought it was her heartbeat. She’d never felt anything like the concert—floating above the audience, a butterfly knitting together what was weak or broken, flicking sparks of light. Struggling hearts. Overburdened arteries. Damaged livers. Cancer cells. She’d touched all of them, dusting ailments away like motes in the wind. Fana’s heart still raced from the pure invigoration of it. Maybe this was what sex felt like to mortals.

“Fana?” Johnny called from beyond the door. Was Johnny in her room?

If Fana hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have been angry. Johnny knew better! Her father, Teka, and Fasilidas had all been banned from her room so she could recover after the concert—even Caitlin!—so why was he taking special liberties?

Appearances mattered, whether either of them liked it. Fana wasn’t ready to use her voice, so she opened her thoughts to him:
I’m fine. Please go. You shouldn’t be here now
.

She couldn’t retract her probe in time to preserve his privacy, so
she felt him wince at the reproach. Once a mental conduit was open, it was difficult to filter out a busy head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you still want to see Phoenix? It’s been three hours, and we promised to drive them back to Paso Robles tonight.”

Fana shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. Time evaporated when she tranced.

Yes, I want to see her. Please apologize. Ask her to stay just awhile longer
.

“Fana, I really am sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He waited, hoping for her to soothe him and tell him all right. But she didn’t. It was better for Johnny if he didn’t fool himself into believing that Michel ever stopped watching him. Michel wouldn’t care about the flimsy door that separated them—Johnny was only yards from where his fiancée stood bare of clothes.

Just
go, Fana thought sharply.

Their combined pain engulfed Fana as Johnny’s footsteps scurried away.

The eyes of Fana’s father were heavy on Johnny Wright as he emerged from Phoenix’s room into the guest cottage’s narrow corridor. Barely a foot between them. To Fana’s people, whose vast underground home gave them an exaggerated sense of personal space, close proximity was an insult. In the past year, Johnny had learned that custom the hard way.

“That was childish,” Dawit said, and Johnny wasn’t sure if Dawit meant his visit to Fana’s room or the concert itself. Fana had staged the Glow concert against her father’s advice. “Her task is difficult enough without a circus tent.”

Did Dawit care about their healing mission? “She changed the lives of hundreds of people tonight, and she did it without using Glow. She manifested her thoughts.”

“Don’t be hypnotized by her gifts, Johnny,” Dawit said. “You’ll compromise her path.”

“You mean her trap.”

She’s only engaged to him because you and your people are such
cowards
, Johnny thought. He immediately wished he could take the thought back, but he couldn’t control his thoughts the way Fana could. Dawit was standing too close to have missed the insult.

Dawit’s jaw went to stone, a glimpse of a man Fana had told Johnny stories about: a cool killer he hoped never to meet up close. “Fana chose this path—I didn’t choose it for her,” Dawit said. “Diplomacy is her dearest value, which you would see if you were following
her
vision instead of yours. Whose idea was it to come to Los Angeles?”

“Mine,” Johnny said. “Phoenix wouldn’t travel.” He hadn’t let himself think about Michel’s proximity in Mexico until later; a cold tickle in his head. Johnny had frozen in place in the mansion’s empty yard, expecting Michel’s voice in the wind.

Dawit saw the memory in Johnny’s face. And in his thoughts.

“You and your kind baffle me,” Dawit said. “So careless with what little life you have.”

Johnny’s face burned, and he was mad at himself for his jackrabbit’s heartbeat. Was Dawit threatening him, or only telling a razor truth? After last year’s terror with Michel, Johnny had vowed never to fear any man.

“I don’t have time to be afraid of him,” Johnny said. “Or anyone else.”

Dawit shook his head, patting Johnny’s shoulder as if to give condolences. He moved aside to let him pass. “Enjoy your days, youngster,” he said. “Sip them slowly, like honey wine. Fana will remember you fondly.” There was no cruelty in his voice.

The immortal’s words had the disturbing ring of prophecy.

Phoenix wondered if she would sleep all night, or the next night. Her mind and skin still sizzled from the stage. Each time she heard the swelling of the audience’s voices in her memory, her stomach dropped with raw amazement.