by Jayde Brooks
“When she does, I’ll be by her side,” he said, confidently.
“Or if she does,” the Seer shot back, quickly, confusing even herself.
The problem with being Andromeda was that things were not always black and white, cut and dried, or this or that. The problem with being Andromeda was that she often had to interpret the perspective of too many different images all at once—and that sometimes she had the benefit of none at all. It was maddening. The past, present, and future often took unexpected turns on the road to their final destination, which hardly ever looked like what she thought it should. Most times, she was left feeling absolutely dizzy.
“What are you saying?” Prophet asked, a tone of reluctant hope in his voice. Anticipation swirled in those mercury eyes of his as they locked onto her. “Are you saying that she might not lose her battle against the Omen? Are you saying that she could learn to somehow live with those things inside her?”
“Oh no, Guardian,” Andromeda replied gravely. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. Eden will always lose to them, no matter which direction I’m looking at it from. That one thing is certain—always.”
“You’re getting on my fucking nerves with the riddles, Seer,” he snapped.
“Ah but you see, you are the riddle, Guardian,” she said, smirking.
Andromeda hadn’t come here to trade barbs with this handsome imbecile. And it wasn’t her place to meddle in all things fate, but she had come to prepare him and to warn him.
“You are a beautiful fool, Prophet,” she said, admiringly. “And the day is coming when you will have to make a choice.”
“I’ve made it,” he growled. “Where Eden goes, I go. Even if that means going to hell.”
“Ah, but are you really so eager to go there?”
Looking at him now, she almost felt sorry for him. One way or another, he would know the heartache of loss yet again, but in a way he couldn’t possibly see coming.
“The light of this world doesn’t have to go out, Prophet,” she earnestly explained. “But only you can keep it lit.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You have a role to play. A much bigger one than you could’ve ever imagined. And you must play it as if your life depended on it. You must play it to the detriment of yourself.”
Unexpected tears filled her eyes. It was not her place to meddle, but she had come here to prepare him for what would undoubtedly be the greatest challenge he would ever face.
“I’ve seen a future that left me speechless.” She shuddered.
“What? What have you seen?” he asked.
She couldn’t tell him. Andromeda had made a promise to fate, long ago, that she would not interfere in matters of the future. This future was a two-sided coin. It was never fully made clear and the outcome was never revealed to her, but Andromeda knew the intent.
“No riddles, Andromeda,” he demanded. “You tell me what you saw.”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
He suddenly stood up. Her eyes inadvertently fell to his cock, and lingered. He came over to her, put his hand underneath her chin and raised her gaze to meet his. “Tell me!”
“I can’t tell you what I’ve seen because you haven’t decided what that should be, Guardian,” she gravely explained.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a fly in the lemonade yet again, Tukufu. You’re a hiccup in fate’s path, and you’ve gone and fogged up the goddamned mirror,” she said irritably. “I can’t see what you haven’t chosen.”
Agitation shone in his eyes. He jerked away from her.
“I can tell you this,” she said. “The game is more dangerous than any you’ve ever played and you must find a way to balance what cannot be balanced. You must solve a puzzle that is is missing pieces. You’ll need to be cunning,” she continued, desperately trying to warn him without revealing what she knew.
“And all of this is supposed to mean something to me?” he snapped, bitterly. “You’ve got to do better than that, Andromeda. Can I save her? What do I have to do?”
Andromeda nodded slowly. “Oh yes. You can save her. And you can destroy her. In order for you to save her, you will have to.”
“To what?” he shrugged. “Destroy her?”
Again, the seer nodded. Yes. To save the one he loved, he would have to destroy her.
“Explain this to me!” he demanded, not knowing the turmoil twisting in Andromeda’s gut.
“Tell me how to save her, Andromeda,” he pleaded. “Please!”
Sorrow filled her heart. “I can’t tell you, Prophet. But you must be careful. You must listen with your whole heart. You must be prepared to lose. There is no truer truth than this.”
Desperation filled his eyes as Andromeda slowly faded from his sight. Moments later, she was at an ice cream stand on the Wharf in San Francisco.
“I’ll take a vanilla-chocolate swirl please,” she asked the clerk politely.
The man gave her a strange look. He must’ve liked her dress. Yes. He believed that she was beautiful in it.
CHAPTER THREE
There was no up or down. No light. Weightless. Without sound. Chaos! Floating and falling. Pulling. Pushing. Ripping through space. Through air. Time.
Water? Yes.
Mkombozi was warm. And then cold. Too cold. Freezing and wet.
After a time, she could feel earth beneath her. Dirt. No. Sand. Cold and wet sand, and she dug her fingers deep into it, clawing her way forward. Using every bit of strength she had.
Tired. Weak. Vulnerable.
Pulling herself from the depths of what felt like water. Water. She remembered it. Yes. She remembered. Finally she was clear of it, the small waves lapping over nothing but her feet.
Heavy. She felt weighted down, pressed down upon in this place—this strange place with its wet sand and its water. Water soaking into her skin, drenching it, saturating it—she felt it start to slough away, to fall off of her limbs, her back, her face . . .
What was underneath? Tender flesh. Sensitive. Raw. The sand beneath her began to bore into her newly exposed skin. It scraped and scratched her, each grain leaving an indelible and painful impression, torturing nearly every part of her.
She pressed her palms down at her sides and torturously, painstakingly managed to push herself up to a kneeling position. Again the grains of sand dug into the sensitive flesh under her knees, cutting her like tiny shards of glass. Cold. She was freezing, the wind tearing across her flesh as brutally as any blade.
She reared back her head and opened her mouth to a soundless scream. Blind. She could not see! Her eyes! Her trembling fingers touched the spaces where her eyes should have been. Searing and stabbing pain erupted without warning as if her head were being split open. As if a blade were piercing her skull. Moisture began to fall down the sides of her face from the empty hollows.
Her fingertips touched moist, slick flesh, beginning to bulge from what were empty sockets. She jerked her hands away, afraid to touch what might be emerging from her skull, and shut the lids of her eyes. For several moments she stayed like that, waiting, her head reared back, her knees bleeding into the sand beds they were buried in, her head splitting open.
She waited and then slowly opened her eyes. Light.
Too bright. It hurt. She covered her eyes with her hands. Tears from them stung the raw flesh of her palms.
Pressure began to build in the center of her chest. She needed to breathe, but couldn’t. She was suffocating. Her chest burned. It ached. It swelled. Breath was life. Breath was life.
Her chest filled with the promise of breath, of screams. It filled with anticipation of what could be, what might come of this impossible journey.
She fell forward, placing one palm on the ground just in time to keep her from falling. She pressed the other to her chest, afraid that it would explode, opened her mouth, and waited. Breathe. Please. Take one breath or die!
She gasped. And for the
first time in so very long, she could feel her lungs expanding, drawing in the thick, heavy toxic gas of this place. She choked, and coughed violently.
“They are your obsession. The Omen are burned into your soul and your heart. Your obsession will take you to them. And they will find you.”
Khale had said those words to her. Khale the liar and the murderer. But Ara was Khale’s home now and Ara had forced Khale to face herself the same way it had forced Mkombozi to face herself. Ara would steal Khale’s soul. It would steal her breath, her eyes, her loveliness, until there was nothing left. Until she was empty.
“Howwwwwwwwww daaaaaaaaare youuuuuuuuuuuu speeeeeeeeeeeak to meeeeeeeeeeee, Khaaaaaaaaaale! Howwwwwwwwww daaaaaaaaare youuuuuuuuuuuu looooooooooook uponnnnnnnnnnnnn meeeeeeeeeeeee.”
Khale’s skin had started to shrivel.
“She did this to me,” Khale said as the Arain winds whipped passed her. “She used the Omen—your Omens—Beloved. She used them against me,” Khale cried.
“Theeeeeeeeeeeee peeeeeeeeecuuuuuuuliaaaaaaarrrrrr?”
“Yes. Yes, the peculiar. Eden. Eden is her name. She—she has your Omen and she has—him. She has Tukufu, Beloved. She has him.”
“Noooooooooo.”
“You are still powerful. They call to you. The Omen, they are your obsession. I know that now. I know that it is true.” Khale said. And the more she spoke, the more enraged she became. The more determined she felt.
How dare that small peculiar thing steal from her. How dare she take her Omen and her Beloved.
“You earned those Omen. She did not. You sacrificed yourself for them. They were made for you, Beloved. And the Guardian, Tukufu, remember how you loved him? Remember his oath to you?”
She did remember. And she would never forget. Mkombozi had been so long without her memories of him. But to hear his name again spoken by Khale awakened something inside her—a desire, a passion she’d thought was lost.
“Everything you hold dear belongs to her now, daughter,” Khale continued. “But it does not have to be.”
Khale’s words were like fuel on a flame, feeding Mkombozi’s rage and jealousy.
“She is human,” Khale continued. “Weak. Small.”
Mkombozi drew back and stared down at Khale curiously. “Aaaaaaaaand yet, youuuuuuuuuuuu aaaaaaaaaaaare heeeeeeeeeeeere because of heeeeeeeeeeeeer.”
Khale’s lips trembled. “Because she is cunning, Mkombozi. The Omen have made her so. She is deceitful. That is her nature.”
This creature, human, possessed the things that mattered most to Mkombozi. For so long she’d believed that the Omen and Tukufu were lost to her, but now she realized that she had been wrong.
“A demon dwells in you still, Beloved,” Khale said. “His blood is in your blood. I sent you here to rest, daughter.” Blood flowed from Khale’s eyes. “But never to die. Only to rest. Your obsession is enough. It has always been enough.”
Mkombozi’s obsession surged through her like lightning. Inside her erupted a strength like none she’d ever known before, and it was enough. Her will became a force unstoppable, wild, and devastating. It moved her through time and space, searching out the path led by her heart. The residue of the Demon surged through her veins. His awful power had branded itself to the darkest parts of her, and when she found them, Mkombozi was set free.
The surge of blood burned underneath the surface of her skin. No. She would not die. She would not be killed by this place because she had fought too long and hard to get here.
Thump!
Her heart? Her heart beat, resonating through her until her whole body shook. Mkombozi had done it. She had made the journey and she had survived.
CHAPTER FOUR
What town were they in? Did it even matter anymore?
The Brood had all been “unmade”—more commonly known as “killed”—by the same Djinn who’d created them, three months ago. Millions of Brood men, women, and children all fell dead in the streets, and suddenly the threat of them was gone. It had taken some time for humans to feel safe enough to begin to open up the borders of their sanctuaries and try and rebuild, but it was happening. Just as gradually, however, other threats began to emerge.
Civilians in the Burbs, smaller and more rural towns outside of major cities, left without military protection during the time of the Brood attacks, needed saving, these days, from other Outlanders. Location was everything. It was a game of resources. While sanctuaries had largely been self-sufficient, with endless amounts of electricity, water, and fuel, these same resources in the Burbs were sketchy. As more and more sanctuaries began to open their borders, those living closer to them would siphon electricity from the grids, but the towns and cities farther out often relied upon generators. Some had managed to harness solar energy, but solar panels, too, were commodities worth killing and dying for. Prophet, other Ancients, and human fighters came together now to protect civilians from vamps and gangs that wanted not only their land and property, but also their women and children, trafficked to the highest bidders.
Prophet, Eden, Jarrod Runyon, leader of the ancient Were Nation, and Molly Stevenson had spent the entire night “double-dating,” basically defending this small community from a takeover attempt. They’d fought off several hundred of humanity’s worst specimens: murderers, rapists, kidnappers. Of the four of them, Molly was the only full-blown human. Eden, of course, had the power of the Demon’s Omen surging through her veins. Prophet was basically Eden’s Guardian Angel, and Jarrod could transform from good-looking hunk into a nightmarish lycanish-type beast in the blink of an eye. Between them, they’d taken out too many bad guys to count, and they’d saved most, but not all, of the town’s residents.
It truly was a numbers game. Ancients were stronger and faster than humans, but in most cases, there just weren’t enough of them. The fact that Theian Vampyre were partnering with these human gangs complicated things even more. The relationship between vamp and human wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it played out in the movies. Tom Cruise didn’t seductively sink his sexy fangs into the waiting neck of an inviting wench and suck her dry until she collapsed into a lovely, limp fast-food wrapper in his lap. Vamps were stringy, pale, gnarly-looking creatures bearing a more striking resemblance to meth heads than Brad Pitt. And any kind of bewitching powers that they cast over humans was likely due to the exchange of bodily fluids when they were clamping down canines on someone. Vamp saliva had a hallucinogenic affect on humans that lingered for days, even weeks. The relationship between human gangs and vamps was so toxic that it was akin to a marriage between a virus and roach.
As soon as their four would-be protectors walked into the dive, cowering humans who’d been hiding inside scurried straight for the door. To most civilians, the Ancients or anyone associated with them were as frightening as the gangs. Humankind existed in such a huge flux of confusion and fear that even the cavalry terrified them.
“Barkeep,” Molly said, sliding onto one of the bar stools and slapping her hand on the counter.
Eden made her way behind the bar and started searching underneath it and inside the cabinets for alcohol.
“I’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea,” Molly said in grand, dramatic fashion, “with extra long, please.”
Molly cut her eyes at the Were, Jarrod, sitting at a table and smiling up at her.
The redhead and the Were leader were a thing now. She slathered herself all over him every chance she got, and he lapped it up and loved every minute of it. Jarrod had found the love of his life in this world, which likely surprised him more than it had anyone else. He’d kill for her. He’d die for her. It was simple.
“You got it, sistah.” Eden found four glasses and filled each with the Jack Daniel’s she found underneath the counter. “I’ve always been a Grey Goose kinda girl, myself, but let’s just hope this crap doesn’t taste as bad as it used to, before my demon-slaying days.”
Prophet fixed his gaze on his own life-love, standing pretty behind the bar. The litt
le beauty was a beast with that kpinga weapon of hers. Besides Prophet, there was no better fighter. Runyon would likely disagree, which is why Prophet wouldn’t bother mentioning it to wolf-boy.
It was because of Eden that any of them were still here. But it would also be up to her when they weren’t. And that thought was never far enough away. Every second counted for the Guardian. He’d fought back from death—his and hers—to be here with her right now, in this moment, and he’d keep fighting, again and again, until he couldn’t fight anymore.
“My love,” she said, standing in front of him and holding out a glass.
He noted that her eyes were brown, which meant that she was fully present and not under the influence of the Omen.
He took the glass, sat it on the table, grabbed a handful of the front of her shirt, and pulled her close. “Thank you,” he whispered, before kissing her.
For a moment, their gazes locked in a declaration of solidarity, connection, love, devotion, and every damn other word absent from him that meant forever.
Eden broke the kiss and walked over to an old jukebox sitting in the corner of the room.
“Don’t you need money for that?” Molly asked from Runyon’s lap.
“Nah,” Eden said. “Looks like they rigged it.”
The song played for several chords before anybody recognized “I’m the Only One” by Melissa Etheridge. Eden took center stage, peeled out of her long, leather duster, and tied a knot in the bottom of her shirt, exposing sexy skin.
Prophet was confused at first. A whoop exploded from Molly who pumped a fist in the air.
“Yeah!” she shouted, bobbing her head.
Eden used that as her cue to embark on a very ambitious, theatrical, and animated lip-syncing performance using Molly and Runyon as her audience, and, obviously, Prophet as her muse. He sat there watching and listening with his mouth gaping open.
Eden conjured her inner rocker girl and played her role to the hilt, strutting and gyrating that impressive little ass of her in those tight jeans. A cyclone of locs whipped around her head as she arched her back and did a move reminiscent of a stripper. Before long, Molly was up on her feet, still whooping, meeting Eden in the center of the room and adding her own tantalizing moves to the mix.
