Then, a knowing awareness grew deep within her very existence, bringing calm to her spirit. Shania squared her shoulders and stared the beast in the eyes, determined not to allow it to win, because winning meant she’d lose her baby girl in the same way Nia was lost.
She refused to allow Nia’s unjust murder to be forgotten. And, for her own daughter to share the same fate or worse... Shania resolved to escape this hell and protect Lydia with every last bit of her spiritual and physical energy.
It squeezed her neck tighter and tighter and tighter, but Shania’s choking fear turned into the power of a mother protecting her young. She closed her eyes. Slow rumbling turned into uplifting warrior drums booming with the spirits of the wrongfully dead. The sounds rose around her, calling to her to become a champion.
A woman’s voice chimed inside her mind. “Call forth your war swords!”
Shania’s eyes popped open and her vision turned green. A rush of energy flooded her spirit form and made her arms hum in a greenish-gold hue. The misty room shook.
Shania’s hands burned to hold the hilt of a sword in both of them. It was weird because she never remembered having held a sword, but the sensation seemed natural. She focused and used her newfound toughness as a weapon, punching the hellish beast in the face.
It was caught off guard and loosened its grip, so Shania swung harder, making deadly contact with the twin’s other face. Shania bit down on her lip and pushed herself in desperate determination. Tears flooded her eyes but she would not stop. She would fight this creature to the dismal end. She would kill it, if she needed too.
Yet, it would not be denied.
The beast’s eyes blazed in fury as it squashed her neck, choking away Shania’s very existence. Shania’s soul began to split, disintegrate, and become absorbed into the creature’s magic. She could sense her capacity waning. If she didn’t get out of here soon, the evil twin monster would absorb her essence and force her soul back into the corpse. The drums beat furiously.
War beads shook, rattling all around her. Shania smashed her eyes shut again. A vision of African women in a warrior dance became clear in her third sacral eye.
Aya. Resourceful. Endurance. The fern Adinkra symbol formed inside her thoughts.
Their hands, arms, and legs swayed in unison, smooth like a savannah of lush, hardy fern plants, calling her to join them. Shania hesitated. She was a weak victim of domestic violence. No way could she join those strong women. She cowered, turning away from them in shame, but they encircled her, forming a hedge of protection.
Sacred chanting in Swahili said, “Efow Dua Pa a, Na Wo Pia Wo. When you climb a good tree, the community supports you. Help goes to the one who is ready.”
Nanabaa’s soothing voice whispered in her ears. “Chile, you must stand and defend those who’ve been done wrong, no matter what.”
The chanting ceased, but the drums became oppressive.
Shania wanted to cover her ears. Instead, she dug deep until her resolve connected with the warrior women’s dance. Shania’s eyes reopened. The beast released its grip and shielded its eyes, as she turned into a tornado of bright light ripping her from the creepy place and back to the motel.
She sat straight up in the motel bed, shaking and covered in wet fear. Tears streamed down her face, but she smeared away the salty mess. Nanabaa’s calming words soothed her. She didn’t have time to be weak. She must figure out how she could reach her destination.
“Deacon in Atlanta,” Nanabaa was saying in the vision. “He has the key. Go to him.”
The tightness in Shania’s stomach unraveled. She left him because his grandmother told her their interracial relationship would never work, and Deacon would lose his inheritance if he married a black girl. Shania listened to the old woman because she didn’t want to ruin both of their lives. He could go further in life without her and a baby to tie him down.
The memories from her soul-to-soul connection to those murdered girls made her shiver. She’d have to find him in Atlanta to protect her baby from It. She’d have to convince him to help them survive. She’d have to tell him about the child she hadn’t aborted. Would he ever forgive her? Would he help her keep their child safe?
Shania peered around the motel room. She could still hear the faint sound of drums. Were the sounds coming from within the box her grandmother left her? The drumming grew louder. Shania covered her ears. Could Lydia hear? The child and dog were asleep in the other bed.
Her grandmother’s box glowed with an earthly greenish hue, lighting up the room. Her mind spun as the box tried to connect with her…tugging…pulling her body…to show her more secrets. The miniature symbols of drums, ferns, trees and others floated upward from their spot on the box. The symbols danced around the box, expanding, until they bobbed along the walls like an amusement park carousel, but instead of carnival music, those drums beat insanely.
Shania wanted to scream to make the sounds stop, but she squeaked, rocking back and forth, so as not to wake her sleeping child. She continued to rub her forehead and shoved the drenched covers back. She slid out of the bed and shakily stumbled toward the box. Her hands ached as she found courage to stroke the wood. It sparked upon the touch.
Memories streamed into her consciousness and immobilized her, but they moved so quickly she couldn’t catch them all. They were lost teenaged experiences, but she didn’t remember things happening that way. Her head ached, but when she tried to soothe her pain by backing away, the power streaming from the box would not allow her to release it. Then, the image of a key around Deacon’s neck while they made love blazed within her mind’s eye.
Shania became dizzy. A spinning sensation of passion and love overwhelmed her as she was able to pull away from the connection with the box.
She woke up on the motel floor with her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. She was glad when the vertigo ended. She bit her lip.
What happened? Why am I on the floor?
Her memories of the visions faded, fleeing from her, as if she had a serious case of dementia.
Gosh, I’m sore.
Shania slumped. Her mind filled with thoughts of her second-guessing her decision to run. She returned to her weak self as she nursed her face and neck, remembering the punch from her ex-boyfriend, Corbin, and the choking he’d given her at her grandmother’s funeral dinner. Her stomach became heavy.
She couldn’t think. Had Corbin choked her then? Her body tingled with remembered pain. Was it from the other times Corbin strangled her? Her hands shook from the remembered injury. She needed a tranquilizer to get her nerves under control.
Insignificant and pathetic, she thought, bending her spine and relieving the tension in her muscles.
A mantra from her self-help group echoed inside her mind.
“My courage comes from having faith in the morality of my purpose, and I trust instead my own tools of love, intelligence and empathy to show me the way.”
Shania sat up and crawled toward the box. She studied it.
What was she supposed to recall? There was nothing special about it now. It sat there looking innocent, like her abusive ex.
She patted the side of her neck where her pulse was still racing, as if she would find the bruises left by his crushing fingers. Why had she stayed with him for so long? Was she punishing herself for poor past choices? Her depression loomed. The pit of her stomach seemed grave and unsettled; comparable to the scary stories her grandmother told her as a child about people who consumed dark magic. She moved to touch the strange keyhole but thought better of it.
Shania’s cell phone shrilled; the personalized ringtone filled the room with the song, I’ve been watching you. She jumped. It was Corbin. He’d been blowing up her phone with text messages and long voicemails. She wished she could block him, but it was his phone plan. She’d left Detroit in such a hurry that she didn’t have time to get a new phone.
She would get rid of it now, but her best friend, Maddy, would worry if she couldn’t co
ntact her on the road. As soon as she reached Atlanta, she’d get a new cell. She took a cleansing breath and looked at her sleeping child. She had to keep her baby girl safe. She made her lips flat and peered at her grandmother’s box. She couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking. Had she blacked out again?
The only memory she could trust was the passion and love she felt for Deacon, and a key he used to wear around his neck.
An aching gut reaction overtook her, and she knew she had to get to Deacon and convince him to give her the key. Their safety demanded it. Shania pressed ignore on her phone and hopped up to get moving toward safety. She thought about Corbin once more as another mantra filled her mind.
“Do not live in the darkness of the past or let fear stop you from creating your own destiny.”
The load on her heart lifted, and she moved toward her light. Deacon’s image blazed bright inside her mind’s eye. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she connected to Deacon. She still bonded to him, and she knew deep down not only would Deacon offer her safety, but the love she had needed for so long.
Shania slid aside the motel curtain. The menacing darkness of the pre-dawn sky making her shiver. She wrung her hands together, fidgeting. Her muscles jumped under her skin. She squeaked, allowing the curtains to slide back into place.
“Got to get out of here!” she mumbled and began to shove clothes, shoes, and whatever was left of their stuff into the open suitcases. She glanced over at her daughter. Her baby girl was asleep but her dog, Thor, leaped up next to her, protective. She stroked his coat to soothe her nerves and went back to what she was doing.
Shania snapped the suitcases locked and rolled them out of the motel door. Her car was parked out front. All she needed to do was get the box into the trunk, carry Lydia to the car and check out. Thor came with her.
Loud rustling in the trees and bushes across the parking lot made Shania pause as she was placing the box inside of her trunk. Thor growled. Her heart sped. What’s over there?
CHAPTER FOUR
Corbin
Corbin woke up, saturated in blood, in the Detroit Metro Airport hotel in a king-sized bed on top of a pile of naked white women, some of them dead. Apparently, he’d blood-binged and drained away their lives, killing them. He stretched, wiped his fangs, and adjusted himself, yawning. He smacked his lips in tasty delight. He enjoyed the free-for-all feeling. How many were still alive? He shrugged.
Bitches anyway.
He closed his eyes. Muscles relaxing. The slick dead limbs sliding underneath rolled like a waterbed. The slow rotation made his mind believe that he floated on a salvaged piece of flotsam after a shipwreck, and he was the only survivor. Ahh, sweet survival...
Movement rattled his bliss. Shit! One of them WAS still alive. Couldn’t he get a minute to enjoy the fucking chaos he created? He’d have to get rid of her so he could get back to his mission of hunting down his ex, Shania, who he refused to allow a moment’s rest. Dammit! He really wanted to chill for a few.
He gruffed and opened his eyes. One of the ones he turned by mistake slithered and slid. He smiled inwardly, proud of himself. His blood-sex-fest cranked up when he shared his own blood and turned a few of the entourage. He still didn’t quite get how he did it, but it made for lots of fun confusion.
Oh, he remembered that one with the blonde hair.
Her hotness glided over the bodies, blood sloshing as she whimpered, obviously hung over. She freed herself from her victim and pushed up to meet Corbin’s mouth. She wanted more of him.
He pimp punched her. Wham!
He enjoyed the tightening of her face muscles and her widening eyes. His unpredictable betrayal made him feel powerful. He got hard. Bam! He hit her again. Just because he hated white women. He almost came on himself. He loved to think that he shattered her hope.
She tumbled back, laughing hysterically. She liked that? Her fangs dropped down and she gazed into Corbin’s eyes, tapping into the bond that they shared as maker and made. He’d made her into an African Obayifo vampire-like creature, and hence she was now a servant of the twin soul Master/Mistress. The bonding connection forced Corbin’s head to swim. His mind moved as if doing a backstroke into a swirling pool. Everything jumbled at first, but he relaxed into the connection, a closeness that he never experienced with strangers. He didn’t like being that close to a white woman; it made him uncomfortable. Yup. Get rid of her!
Two other women, one with dark hair and one with red hair, pulled up, crawling and gliding across the dead bodies. Their eyes glowed a supernatural red. The threesome pinned him in the middle of their isosceles triangle until his back smashed into the bedpost. Shit! Second thoughts about making so many Barbie vampires.
“We know what your problem is.” They talked and smiled in unison, heads cranking in a counter-clockwise motion, fangs bared.
“We see your past, your pain,” they cackled, and blood dripped from their mouths.
Corbin did enjoy making complete disorder. A fat spider studying his prey. He wasn’t worried. A small part of his psyche knew he could control them, but he allowed them to believe they were in control.
He laughed inside his head. No white woman would ever run him! He folded his arms and settled down. He wanted to test his skill, to see how far he could go. Somehow, he knew this ability was not normal for an Obayifo. He got off on the pandemonium. He hatched his plan. All he had to do was sit back and watch their demise play out in front of him. He enjoyed drama.
Oh, this was going to be fun!
His ears hummed, and his vision blurred, as he allowed them to fall deep into his childhood memory and the day when he realized that he loved creating mayhem the way some kids loved to play with fire.
Corbin warned his mama that she’d be sorry when his daddy came home. He lapsed into the moment when his father beat his mother to a bloody pulp in broad daylight because she didn’t give his little man a cookie.
Corbin waited until his dad drank twelve cans of his favorite beer. Then, kicking the other smashed cans on the floor out of the way, he brought his daddy the thirteenth. He crept next to his dad’s huge armchair plopping down on the edge, as if he represented a tiny spider. He worshiped his father. The man was a powerful panther. Tall, dark-skinned, and fierce. Corbin pinched his lighter skin. I wish my skin was the same color as my daddy’s.
He hated his mother for making him too light. The other children teased him all the time. Poking at his pale skin, singing that stupid “light bright” song. Bigger boys pushed him down, bullied him, and told him he was gay.
U pretty like a white girl, they teased. U want some lipstick! They punched Corbin in the jaw. Kicked him in the stomach, but the largest one ripped off his pants, forced him over, raping his backside.
The boys laughed and chanted “White girl!” His face reddened as the anger fumed, but he couldn’t stop them, pain barreling through his anus.
Corbin wanted to be like his daddy—big and black—able to fight, but he was too small, too weak, too pale. When he limped home, crying, to show his mother what they did to him, she got a look on her face. She grabbed his arm and dragged him into the bathroom.
“Don’t ever tell anyone!” his mother scolded. “You’re too pretty. Gotta be tougher.”
“Ouch!” he screamed as she harshly scrubbed away the blood.
“Suck it up. Be a man!”
He’d get his mother for making him weak.
He whispered into his dad’s ear, telling him all ’bout how his mom done him wrong. His dad jumped up, and it began.
“Bitch. I’m a lieutenant in the Black Panthers!” his father screamed at his mother. “All you had to do was take care of my son.”
“I know…I know you’re busy,” his mother rasped.
“It’s yo’ fault that black people can’t get ahead! Yours!” His father raised his fist—wham—punching his mother in her face over and over and over until it was an oozing raw mess.
His mother screamed, “I’m sorry, Da
ddy. I’m so sorry. I know I’m evil. What can I do to make it better?”
Dragging her, his father kicked the flimsy screen door off the hinges and hauled her outside. The world needed another example of how to keep a woman in check.
“Bitch, you can’t do nuthin’. Piece of trash. My people built the pyramids while your people were in caves living like dogs.”
Corbin leaped over the broken screen and moved onto the porch. Ooh. She’s gonna get it!
His dad grabbed his mother by her sweat-filled stringy hair, and slung her around as if he was throwing a discus in the Olympics. Young Corbin smiled. Deep inside, somehow he controlled the destruction that ensued. She should have given him the cookie! Corbin was mesmerized with the beating his mother deserved, when he witnessed those bullies from school, gawking.
Humpf! It’s her fault.
He folded his arms. She brought this on herself. If she made him stronger like his daddy, then he wouldn’t be embarrassed. Six-year-old Corbin amped up the chaos.
His classmateꞌs brown-skinned chunky mother, a loudmouth know-it-all, yelled. “Benny or Abasi or whatever you call yo’self, stop beating that woman like that. I’m calling the police.”
Pauline’s house shoes slapped the pavement while she ran into the house to call the pigs.
His father grunted. “Stay outta this, Pauline. This is between me and my white bitch.”
The neighbors gasped.
“He’s gonna kill that poor woman. Why she stay wit’ him anyway?”
Corbin’s dad continued to smack his mother down to the ground. She crumbled to her knees and fell, face flat, sobbing.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” His mother’s voice was hoarse, pained. “I won’t do it again.”
Corbin remembered his father’s combat boot rearing back, kicking his mother in the gut, in her pregnant belly, as if she were a giant football. Corbin relished the mayhem. Ever since his mother was pregnant with that other baby, she didn’t love him as much. She wouldn’t even give him his favorite cookie! She put all her attention on the coming of that new baby.
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