Her gaze searched his face. “Not all wars happen on the outside. I know this. Breakfast will be up in a moment.”
Jonah watched her walk away. At least the eternal supernatural war raging under her nose rarely erupted into the horrors he’d seen this morning. Would she want to help him if she knew he was proving as useless in this battle as his sermons had been in her country?
Ah, but now he had his weapon.
Nim returned with the front of her T-shirt soaked where she’d obviously tried to scrub out the blood. The stain, though fainter, remained, and now the thin white cotton—already fitted against her skin—was nearly transparent. He sighed and reminded himself that he’d decided earlier that her lack of a brassiere was the least of his problems.
Maybe he needed to reevaluate his many, many problems.
CHAPTER 8
Nim focused on adding as much cream and sugar to her coffee as possible without overflowing the pretty cup, until Ms. Mbengue brought their meal.
The woman studied the debris of empty packets and little plastic containers. “If you need anything—”
“Thank you.” As Ms. Mbengue departed, Jonah took the round bread, his hook neatly pinning the loaf to the board, and sliced off the end. “This will go easier if your belly isn’t growling along with your demon.”
“Is that what you told your African kids?”
He put down the knife and gave her his patented reproving look. “Sometimes we didn’t have that luxury.”
She stared at her plate. “What is it?”
“Grits and flat bread. Every culture has some version. Just like they all have some variation on the war between good and evil.”
“Why not tell them the truth?”
“And make them face what you faced this morning?”
“But the cleaning crew, then the police, they’re going to face it anyway. Only they won’t know what’s going on.”
“And do you feel better knowing?”
“But I don’t want to be the only one who knows.” She finally drank her coffee, all of it, in one long gulp, as if she could wash down the rest of the words bubbling up.
He lowered his chin, eyes half-closed, and she thought he was saying grace. “No one believed you when you were raped, but this time you are not alone.”
Shit. Had she been that obvious? She pulled her bowl closer and took a few bites, rather than meet his gaze.
He kept his voice low, knowing she’d hear—thanks to the teshuva—even if she didn’t want to listen. “Our task, with the demons’ help, is to fight evil and win our salvation. Everything else falls away.”
She put her spoon down, rattling the bowl. “Why did the demon even pick me? I never wanted to be saved.”
“The teshuva are never interested in restful souls.”
“Why’d the demon pick you? You had it all. A loving wife. A mission in life. Your God.”
It was his turn to put his spoon down, though more gently. His jaw worked for a moment, as if he didn’t want to speak but couldn’t curb his defense. “Yes, we were missionaries serving in Africa. A life of service was what we’d chosen.”
She was in the service industry too. She might have tweaked him about it, but the bleakness in his voice took the fun out of torturing him. “You just didn’t know that your life would be so long.”
“Or that hers would pass so quickly in comparison.” His thumb smoothed over the gold band around his ring finger, a tiny, endless circle, like a nun counting a solitary bead on a rosary. “We were supposed to be together, teaching others our joy in God, digging wells, building schools, planting maize. Instead . . .”
Joy? She tried to picture a joyful Jonah, that full lower lip curved in a simple smile, eyes bright not with demon lights but with laughter.
When he didn’t continue, she asked softly, “What happened? How did a man of God end up with a demon lodged in his soul?”
He rubbed his neck where the demon mark spread in a black-rayed starburst just above his collar. “I was bitten by a spider.”
“A spider brought you down?”
“Would you be more impressed if I told you it was a tarantula?”
“No, since a tarantula bite won’t kill you.” When he gave her a surprised look, she shrugged. “I did research on exotic pets when I got Mobi. A tarantula bite can make you ill, but it won’t kill you.”
“I was helping the men clear a forest plot and I didn’t want to stop. There had been some . . . jesting the white men could not work as hard in the jungle, that we were suited only for women’s labor. I wanted to prove them wrong.”
“Oh, that’s why this story doesn’t end well,” she said. “Pride is so not a virtue.”
“Not that you’ve even a passing acquaintance with the concept,” he grumbled.
She set one fingertip in the notch of her upper lip and flashed him her me-so-innocent eyes. “Which? Pride or virtue? Never mind. Go on.”
“I was nauseated and dizzy. Which is how I cut myself on the machete.”
“Luckily, that convinced you to go home.” At his rueful expression, she sighed. “Or not.”
“By the time we returned to the village the next day, I was feverish. My wife recognized the signs of blood poisoning right away.”
“I’m surprised you admitted any weakness.”
“I might have resisted,” he admitted. “Until I was completely out of my head, anyway. It was a long fight. At one point, I was on the verge of giving up. It was too hard to keep drawing another breath. But she saved my life.”
Nim tucked her hands between her knees. “She loved you.”
“That last night, before my fever broke, she told me I had sworn to love her, protect her, to keep the faith with her, and I could not do that if I died. That I would be betraying our vows.”
Nim knew the burn scars on her legs were all but gone, thanks to the demon, but she swore she felt the ache of them where her knuckles pressed. That vow sounded sort of like love. It also sounded like a selfish, impossible command.
Jonah must have felt her weighing the contradiction, because he straightened abruptly. “She was right. I’d made a vow. I kept it.”
Suddenly, Nim understood. “That’s when the demon possessed you.”
“That was my penance trigger, the weak spot in my soul the demon exploited. It tricked me with the promise I’d be with her till the end. I didn’t understand she wouldn’t be with me. That was my bane, my curse.”
They both stared down at their breakfast.
Finally he said, “You see now why I am committed to this fight?”
She looked up. That was why he had told her the story? “How many times can you make the same promise?” To a dead woman, she didn’t add.
He met her gaze. “Forever. Just as the demon promised.”
Perhaps Ms. Mbengue had felt the tension, because she whisked over with a carafe in either hand. “More coffee, ma’am? More chai, Mr. Walker?”
Jonah shook his head. When Nim pushed her saucer closer to the edge of the table, Ms. Mbengue said, “I’ll bring extra cream and sugar.”
“Don’t bother,” Nim said. “I’ll drink it black now.”
Jonah’s phone rang. Ms. Mbengue drifted away politely. Nim picked up her spoon and pricked her ears.
A brusque voice came thinly across the line. “It’s Archer. There’s an access to the tunnel system that will put us ahead of the police when they get to the club. Hopefully, we’ll be able to pick up the tenebrae imprints.” He rattled off an address and disconnected.
“Drug dealers get calls like that,” Nim noted. “Hit men too. And cheating husbands.”
“Friends of yours?”
She gave him a smile, all teeth. “Just business.”
“So is this.” He stood to pull out his wallet and tucked a few bills under his cup.