by Vered Ehsani
“Indeed not,” the doctor said.
“And she shouldn’t be riding horses,” Lilly suggested.
“Especially flying horses,” Cilla added, her eyes widening at the thought of a pregnant woman flying across the sky.
“Nonsense,” I tutted just as Dr. Ribeiro waggled his head and said, “I am very much agreeing.”
“What?” I asked, glaring at the doctor. “I am perfectly capable of riding a horse. I’m pregnant, not handicapped.”
To his credit, Dr. Ribeiro didn’t flinch as I directed the full force of my outrage upon him. My yellowish eyes glowed, and my wolf energy twitched in my metal left hand as it considered leaping out and attacking the source of my ire. Still, the Goan doctor remained steadfast in his prognosis.
“No, Miss Knight,” he said, waggling his head and a finger at me. “No horseback riding. We are wanting to keep the baby inside until the appropriate time, not popping out on the saddle.”
Lilly grimaced while I smacked a palm on my forehead. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
“You are pregnant,” the doctor said. “Everything is being ridiculous.”
“How reassuring,” I said.
Chapter Twelve
THAT EVENING, I rode Nelly home.
To my credit, we didn’t fly, as per the doctor’s instructions. We galloped faster than the wind, and I arrived home with my braid undone, my hair a tangle of knots, leaves and small branches.
But we didn’t fly.
As Nelly slowed to an ambling walk and approached our small, decrepit-looking barn, muted voices greeted me. Slipping off the horse and ordering her not to give our presence away with one of her loud bodily eruptions, I tiptoed to the open doorway, keeping to one side. Peering in, I identified the source of the voices: Death and Koki, the shape-shifting West African she-demon. They were speaking in a language I didn’t recognize.
Clearing my throat, I entered the barn and blinked until my eyes adjusted to the hay-scented gloom. Death paused in his pacing while Koki leaned against a wooden pillar, smirking, a mocking glint in her dark eyes.
In the confines of the barn, Koki seemed even taller, especially compared to my modest height. Her blue-black skin glowed in the dim lighting. A richly textured, red fabric covered her from shoulders to ankles, emphasizing her lithe, graceful form. Her shortly cropped hair didn’t detract one jot or tittle from her charm, although her beauty was of the fatally seductive variety; she could effortlessly lure unwary men into death’s embrace.
As she tilted her head to acknowledge my presence, her natural perfume of freshly cut grass and intoxicating flowers swirled around me. Ignoring the sulking god, I glanced at my former arch-nemesis. “Please don’t decapitate him. We need him alive.”
Koki flung back her head and laughed. In between guffaws, she said, “The irony. Death is now mortal and can die. If the situation wasn’t so dire, I’d be delighted to provide him that experience.”
Growling, Death lifted his spear. I flinched, expecting lightning to spew forth and annihilate us all. Unperturbed by the threat, Nelly strolled between us, her hooves clomping on the dirt floor, her tail flicking as she entered her stall.
“Please don’t use that in here,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and lifting my chin. “I don’t want the barn blown up while you two battle for dominance.”
“Don’t fuss, girl,” Koki crooned as she glided around Death. She reached out a hand to stroke his shoulders as she circled him. “His spear doesn’t work anymore.”
“What?” I glared at Death. “You’ve been waving that thing around as if it still functions.”
Scowling, Death slumped onto a bale of hay. The crunching of dry grass beneath him almost covered Nelly’s rude noises. “I didn’t want you to know how powerless I was.”
Koki snorted before turning her back on him. “Are you ready to resume your training, girl?”
Sighing, I stared around the barn. “More like torture,” I grumbled.
Grinning, Koki nodded once, her eyes bright. “Delightful, isn’t it? But you exaggerate. All you have to do is focus on the breath. Let the thoughts float overhead like drifting clouds. How difficult can it be?” She chuckled at my grimace.
My human hand slid over my midsection. What would the good Dr. Ribeiro say if he knew Koki was tutoring me in the fine art and science of being a witch? My mother, a famous witch in her time, had ceased her profession after she learned she was expecting me. My vampire father had already fled the country to escape the Society for Paranormals. For my sake, my mother married a normal human and hadn’t trained me as she didn’t want anyone to know I was part witch, part vampire and with powers the Society would love to utilize. Yet, despite her sacrifices, they had discovered the truth.
“I’m not sure I’m up for it today,” I admitted, wondering yet again how different my life would be if Mother had gone with Father as he had begged her to do.
Her eyes narrowed, Koki stalked toward me. “Since when is Miss Knight, the infamous paranormal detective, incapable of a few meditation exercises?”
“Since I’m not feeling well,” I snapped, my gaze fixed on Death’s bare feet.
I felt Koki’s energy interact with mine as she loomed before me. A sharp nail dug under my chin as she forced me to look up. Peering closely, her nose almost touching mine, she studied my eyes. Hissing, she stepped back and said, “You’re with child.”
Death stood and joined Koki in studying me. Blushing, I forced myself to meet their astonished stares. “And what of it? I’m a married woman. You act as if this is an unusual situation.” Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, I added, “As far as I can tell, it’s quite normal for a man and wife to…” My blush deepened.
“Enjoy each other’s company in bed?” Koki suggested, her dark lips curving up.
“Conceive an offspring?” Death offered as he stared at my belly.
“You two are… are… incorrigible!” I spluttered as I spun about and prepared to leave. “On second thought, don’t let me interrupt your battle. Just do it somewhere else.”
Koki’s laughter followed me all the way to the cottage.
Chapter Thirteen
ON THE EVER lengthening list of items I abhor, near the top would be messy corpses, empty teapots and weddings. And that morning, I was faced with two of those, with the third to be added before midmorning tea.
Given that I’d attended my fair share of weddings—two being my own—and that my previous profession was a paranormal investigator, one would think I’d at least be somewhat accustomed to weddings and corpses. Such an assumption would be correct. But weddings are tiresome events, and people who insist on dying in an untidy manner are inconsiderate, bordering on rude. And to even contemplate the possibility of an empty teapot was enough to cause me nervous shivers.
Yet here I was, only a couple of weeks before one of my two half brothers was to marry one of my best friends, and all I had before me was an empty teapot. Cilla would arrive at any moment, expecting my assistance in wedding plans. Meanwhile, I had new inventory arriving midmorning at the train station, and the East African Ladies League had booked my shop for an afternoon tea.
To top off the day, Death had joined me at the kitchen table and was questioning me on my condition.
“I already have a doctor,” I grumbled as I glared at the kettle, willing it to boil water faster. The wood fire in the round-bellied, black metal stove snapped and crackled, yet no steam drifted up from the kettle.
“A mere mortal,” Death replied, shaking his head. The red-stained braids flipped around his chiseled face, the shells at the ends clinking.
“As you yourself are,” I pointed out.
Death pounded a fist against the wooden table, growling at me. “I’m still a god, and I know a thing or two about childbearing. After all, it’s a leading cause of death.”
Paling at the thought, I stood up, pushing my chair away; its legs scraped against the stone floor. “That’s neither he
re nor there, and I have work to do.” Glaring at him, I added, “And don’t tell me that a woman in my condition should be resting.”
Scoffing, Death leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his muscular form. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You should be able to plow the fields and fetch the water up until a few days before the delivery.”
“Charming, as usual,” I said.
Death frowned. “I wasn’t trying to be charming… Oh, you’re attempting to use your odd form of humor on me.”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “We refer to it as sarcasm.”
“It’s not very funny,” my unwanted guest noted. “I can see why it confuses Yao. Speaking of which, you do realize the Adze love children? Or rather, they love children’s organs and blood.”
Steam began to roll out of the kettle’s spout. Relief from my current lack of tea was near. “Yao is a very well behaved Adze,” I said.
Twisting on his chair to watch me at the stove, Death asked, “Are you using sarcasm again?”
Ignoring him, I scooped tea leaves into my metal teapot and admired the swirling patterns engraved across its surface. Closing my eyes, I wished the original owner—my mother—were still alive to witness her children getting married and starting families of their own.
Before I could lose myself in morose and useless yearnings, Cilla bustled into the kitchen through the back door, her plump cheeks rosy from the morning air and her usual good cheer and exuberance.
“Good morning,” she said as she engulfed me in a hug. Glancing over my shoulder, she added, “And good morning to you, Death. Well, that’s not something one expects to say.” Giggling, she shrugged out of her cape and took a seat.
“I’ve not had any tea yet,” I grumbled. “Let’s just agree that it’s morning, and leave it at that.”
“Oh, Beatrice, you’ll survive,” Cilla said, waving a hand at me.
“Now I know you are using sarcasm,” Death said, studying Cilla with great interest.
Still giggling, Cilla pulled out a sheet of paper from her skirt pocket and flattened it on the table. It was covered in her neat, cursive penmanship.
As I placed a tray on the table and poured the tea, I studied the paper. “Are those lists?”
Nodding several times, Cilla smiled and clapped her hands. “I think I have everything covered.”
Collapsing in a chair and eyeing the number of items on her list, I said, “I should hope so.”
Before we could proceed, Lilly slammed the door open, her cheeks flushed, her dark curls in disarray. “Beatrice,” she said, placing one fist on her hip while clutching Grace in her other arm, “while I understand you keep unusual company, I do wish you wouldn’t let them wander the grounds unattended.”
I closed my eyes, set my lips upon the edge of my teacup and sipped. Hot, flavorful liquid flowed across my tongue and swirled down my throat, infusing my system with warmth and energy. Sniffing at the scented steam wafting across my face, I sighed. Perhaps I would survive the morning and Cilla’s lengthy lists after all.
“What is it, Lilly?” I asked as I imbibed more life-sustaining liquid.
Huffing, Lilly dragged out another chair and sat at the table. Grace immediately squealed and reached out her chubby arms toward Death. Her little fingers latched onto some of his braids.
“Grace, stop playing with Death,” Lilly ordered. Her offspring ignored her.
Accepting a cup of tea, Lilly turned her attention to me, perhaps hoping someone would listen to her, since her child clearly wouldn’t. “I am referring to the man tottering around Cilla’s cottage. At first, I thought it was the foreman coming to inspect the construction. But the foreman usually waits until the afternoon before he intoxicates himself. The man I just saw could barely stand straight. He looked like a corpse.”
Both Death and I straightened up. Gratified to finally have our full attention, Lilly took a sip of her tea, set the cup down on its saucer with a firm clink and said, “Of course, I assumed he was an acquaintance of yours or your guest. There was such a disheveled appearance to that man. I’m only grateful I was upwind.”
Slurping the remainder of my tea and staring at the teapot, I stood. Addressing the teapot, I said, “It is with great regret that I must leave you.”
“I too,” Death said.
“But…” Cilla stared up at me, her dark blue eyes wide and imploring. Waving her list over her head, she pleaded, “But the list.”
“Lilly is more than capable of attending to your needs,” I said. “And when I return, I shall assist in whatever remains.”
Groaning, Lilly rubbed her forehead. “It is a corpse, isn’t it? Beatrice, how many times have I asked you not to bring reanimated dead things onto the estate?”
“Don’t be too harsh on her. It may be my fault this time,” Death admitted before following me outside.
I didn’t hear Lilly’s comment regarding Death’s confession. Tugging on my boots, I hastened across the estate to a far corner where Cilla and Drew’s future home was being built. It was a generous wedding gift from the Hardinge family.
It also meant the estate would have a particularly high concentration of paranormal creatures roaming the grounds. My shape-shifting Popobawa brother Tiberius lived in the guest wing of the main house with Lilly, their bat baby Grace and my father, a Mediterranean vampire. Once Drew took up residency in the cottage with Cilla, we would have a werewolf as a neighbor. At least, we could ensure my brother didn’t run wild during the full moon.
But first, I had to do something about that zombie.
As I strode between the jacaranda and flame trees, I wondered aloud, “What will we do with him?”
“Who?” Death asked.
“The dead man, of course,” I snapped. “We can’t have a reanimated corpse wandering around Nairobi.”
“That would present a few challenges,” Death admitted.
“Just a few,” I said as I stepped over the roots of a giant bombax; the tree loomed above us, its thick branches covered in dark pink flowers. On the other side of the tree was the new cottage. Leaning against the door was Mr. Turner.
Chapter Fourteen
DESPITE BEING GORED by an elephant, Mr. Turner appeared in remarkably good shape for a dead man. At least he wasn’t covered with blood and bits of organ material. I made a mental note to congratulate the mortician who’d prepared the body for burial and get his contact details. Given the likelihood that I too would one day die a messy death, I would require the expert services of an artist; I had no intention of arriving at my own funeral in disastrous condition.
“Mr. Turner,” I addressed the corpse and tapped the tip of my walking stick against a tree root. “Enough of this running amok.”
The hunter was dressed in tight, dark cream pants, black leather boots and a black riding jacket. He presented a striking figure until he turned toward me. His jaw was slack, his eyes vacant and his neck crooked. One gloved hand was fisted in his hair to prop up his head; it seemed his encounter with the elephant at the cemetery had resulted in a broken neck.
“Argh,” he groaned and shambled toward us.
“I do hope he isn’t intending to eat our brains,” I said to Death. “Reanimated dead things often have that deplorable tendency.”
“He’s harmless,” Death said even as he angled the pointed end of the spear toward the approaching hunter.
When he was a few paces away, Mr. Turner lurched to a stop. His eyebrows scrunched together. “Argh?” he asked.
“This must be confusing for you,” I said, opting for a soothing tone even though every instinct screamed for me to use the metal fist atop my walking stick to pummel the creature into the ground.
“Argh,” Mr. Turner whispered. He lowered his head in a nod before lifting it back up. I wondered if the arm and hand holding his head was getting tired.
“We need to hide him until we can kill him,” Death said, his angular features hard and unsympathetic to the plight of the man before us.
>
Glancing up at Death, I demanded, “And where would you suggest we do that?”
His gaze remaining on Mr. Turner, Death tilted his head to me. The shells on the ends of his braids tinkled. “Since I’m using your guest room, why not Mr. Timmons’ office? Mr. Turner won’t need a bed as he doesn’t sleep.”
Reaching up, I poked Death’s shoulder; it was like touching marble. Muscular marble. “Are you seriously suggesting I hide a zombie in my husband’s office?”
Frowning at me, Death asked, “Would you prefer we hide him in the pantry?”
“I don’t want a zombie anywhere in my home,” I protested.
His frown deepening, Death bounced his spear from one hand to the other and said, “Mr. Turner isn’t a zombie. He’s just unable to remain dead.”
“Oh, well, that eases my concerns and will help me sleep better at night,” I retorted.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Pausing, he scowled. “Were you using sarcasm again?”
Forcing a smile, I said, “Not at all. Mr. Turner, on behalf of the residents of Nairobi, I would be grateful if you would agree to hide your corpse in my home.”
Mr. Turner’s rubbery lips twitched upward as if attempting to smile. “Argh.”
Once we’d settled Mr. Turner in Simon’s office, I gave him strict instructions not to eat anyone who might visit. Although he eyed Shelby with some interest, he seemed willing enough to comply with my request. I then departed for town and the sanctuary of the Cozy Tea Shoppe. Even the most ludicrous customers would be an improvement over a dead man and my family.
When I entered the back section of the shop, I glanced at the latest delivery of tea stacked in the storage room. While I was careful about my suppliers, I made a mental note to remind Wanjiru to check the contents. Some suppliers lowered cost by adding sand and soil to the tea leaves to increase the weight. I had no interest in serving my customers dirt.
“Oh, Wanjiru, Simon is right,” I complained as I entered the main shop and slapped my trench coat across the marble counter. “Finding trouble is effortless for me.”
