Free My Soul to Take by Tananarive Due

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.
    The guest cottage smelled like sweet, earthy incense. Marcus had fallen asleep hours ago, curled on a love seat in a corner beneath a sheepskin blanket that looked as warm as a womb. Children could sleep anywhere, after anything.
    She and Carlos alternated between pacing the tiny living area and sitting at the round table while they waited, exchanging long gazes but few words. How could they capture it? Carlos fumbled for an explanation for his tears when Marcus asked him why he’d been crying, but he’d finally whispered his confession to Phoenix:
I saw Mami on that stage, Phoenix
. She had envied him. What would she have given to see Mom and Sarge?
    “Do you think it was a vision?” Phoenix asked, finally past her envy. “A ghost?”
    Carlos shrugged. “I don’t know which. She looked more like a ghost in movies, almost transparent. Not like …” He didn’t say the rest. Carlos didn’t like to talk about Scott Joplin, either. “Maybe I saw what I wanted to see.”
    Carlos squeezed her hand, checking over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. She hadn’t seen the men in white in the guest cottage, except silent shadows passing in the hallway in the rear. Caitlin hovered nearby, in the kitchen, with only occasionally clanking dishes to remind them that she was there.
    “What was it for you?” Carlos said.
    Phoenix searched for words. “Peace. Flying. Like the flying dreams I used to have when I was a kid. Maybe we’re all born with a memory of it. That’s why we long for it so much. Maybe it’s in our souls.”
    They both believed in God, but neither of them had a clear picture of what they thought God
was
. Carlos was a Baptist-slash-Catholic, and Phoenix had been raised by a Jewish mother and a father who’d flirted with the Nation of Islam. Their experiences with Scott Joplin’s ghost had taught them that there was much more to existence than they could see, but Phoenix rarely spoke of the soul. Tonight, the picture seemed