by Londyn Skye
THE PRODIGY SLAVE
Book Two:
The Old World
Londyn Skye
The Prodigy Slave
Book Two:
The Old World
(Revised Edition 2020)
ISBN: 978-0-578-24040-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020920199
Londyn Skye Novels
Copyright © 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper without permission in writing from the publisher.
Reference information for Slave Codes: District of Columbia Slave Code Manual of 1860
Reference information for Ghost Rider Code of Ethics: Constitution and laws of the Ku Klux Klan
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
About the Author
Prologue
The Ghost Riders:
A patriotic white protestant organization, cloaked in secrecy, who are devoutly dedicated to the preservation of American institutions and maintaining the purity of the white bloodline, thereby guaranteeing white supremacy for all eternity.
Ghost Rider Code of Ethics
Section 2.1
This republic was established BY white men FOR white men. Our forefathers’ never intended that it should fall into the hands of an inferior race. We therefore demand that the Negro population respect the rights of the white race in whose country they have been permitted to reside. If they cannot or will not respect those rights, they must be sternly reminded that this is a white man’s country … the same stern reminder shall be extended to our white brethren who oppose and/or violate such ideology.
December 27, 1859
Two Days After Winter Garden
It was not the three heavily burned crosses that brought William Werthington to his knees in the front lawn of his estate … it was the scenery that sat behind them.
After a long train ride back to Ohio from Manhattan, William was on the final few miles’ stretch toward his estate in his carriage with his sons by his side and Samuel, one of the security bandits, at the reins. His loving sons did not want their father traveling alone after the nervous breakdown he seemed to have suffered following the heartbreaking events that had transpired at Winter Garden. He had hardly spoken a word to anyone since then. Even two days later, upon returning to the train station in Athens, Ohio, William barely lifted his head to notice the telling glances from people there who had heard whispers about a special Christmas gift left on his land.
After the twins collected their father’s luggage for him at the train station, they had all loaded up in the carriage and headed toward Werthington Estate. During the entire journey, William did nothing but stare blankly in silence out the window. As he approached his home, though, William abruptly sat up taller in his seat and pushed his spectacles up higher on his nose. It was the first visible signs of true consciousness his sons had witnessed in days. However, they quickly realized that the reason for his sudden movement was no cause for celebration. Emerson and Wilson peered out the window too and caught sight of what had finally stirred their father back to life: faint black wisps of smoke billowing in the distance beyond the trees. The closer William got to his home the more his mind tried to deny what he was assuming. But the moment he rounded a bend and trotted down the tree-lined, dirt path toward his land and pulled through the steel gates embossed with his name, he was forced to face the reality of the tragedy that had befallen him.
William stepped out of the carriage and tears began to careen down his face as he scanned the gift that the ghostly, white-robed, night invaders had delivered to him on Christmas night. The graphic visual left his legs far too weak to hold him. He fell to his knees and stayed perched there, paralyzed by utter disbelief. With his mouth agape, William stared at the place that housed his mother’s carefully crafted quilt, the desk he had built with his father, the hundreds of books his father read to him as a boy, and his sentimental portrait of Emma. The massive mansion where William had spent forty years building a life with his beloved wife, where their twins were born and lived their entire childhood, and the very place where they had set a family of slaves free had been reduced to a charred, smoldering heap.
After William took in the grisly sight, the thought of two people came rushing to his mind who were far dearer to him than any books, quilts, or miscellaneous objects. When deep concern for those two people suddenly hit him hard, William instantly vomited into the grass. His sons were already huddled next to him and did not flinch at how ill he had become; they were far more concerned with comforting their father and comforting themselves for that matter. After William’s stomach settled, Wilson and Emerson helped him to his feet. All having yet to say a word, they began to take torturous steps toward the place that was once their home. Just a few yards away, they approached three heavily burned symbols of the well-known terrorist group, who had proudly left them buried there. They wanted William to know who deserved credit for their gruesome visual message, a message that was meant to permanently cement fear of future consequences for not immediately conforming to their unwritten societal rules.
The sight of a round, bloodstained cloth sack dangling from one of the crosses and the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh stopped William in his tracks as he approached the hateful symbols. He would have thrown up again had his stomach not already been cleared of its contents. He stared in complete shock at the blood-soaked bag and then slowly looked down into the grass. Streaks of dried blood were in nearly every direction he turned. The bodily fluids surrounding William’s feet was proof to him that the three bandits who stood guard that night had fought the good fight on his family’s behalf. It was a thought that could never have been more accurate …
On that Christmas night, Griff stepped inside of William’s mansion to bid Anna Mae and Ben goodnight. He then walked the perimeter of the estate grounds to do his usual security check. With all clear, he made his way back to his post at the front gate. He then leaned against the gate post and began talking on and on to Jasper, another dedicated bandit, about the highlights of his mon
ths on the road with Lily.
“Hell’s bells,” Jasper laughed, flashing his toothless smile. “I been settin’ ’round here bored as shit for the last four months whilst you’s gettin’ all the goddamn fun! I’m goin’ on the road next ti-…”
Griff suddenly put a hand up to silence Jasper when he heard rumbling in the distance. “You hear that?”
Jasper took a moment to listen. “Sounds like horses.”
Seconds later, Jasper’s assumption was confirmed when dozens of horses stampeded out of the woods, along with a bullet that pierced straight through Griff’s shoulder. He and Jasper quickly took cover behind the brick lining on the inside of the fence. As the intruders funneled though the gates, the pair began firing into the herd of white-robed night riders, killing five of them. Still, though, more than twenty had trampled through the gates unscathed, free to continue their onslaught.
The remaining horsemen scattered in different directions as Jasper and Griff took cover again on the outside of the gate. While they took a moment to reload, an array of bullets began ripping through the frame of William’s mansion. Billy, a third bandit who had been inside the house, woke Anna Mae and Ben and forced them to hide inside of a closet. When they were out of harm’s way, Billy ran upstairs and began sniping riders off their horses from William’s bedroom window. One by one, wild tresspassing madmen began to fall after Billy’s bullets found their way into their skulls. His sniper skills gave plenty of time for Griff and Jasper to reload and rejoin the war. From behind the outside wall of the gate, they fired and hit as many of the intruders as they could. They then snuck from trees to bushes to fountains and sculptures to get a better angle on the terrorists who remained. From behind the decorative pieces, they took aim at the ones who were brave enough to dismount their horses and storm toward the house.
The night invaders had finally caught sight of who had taken out an abundance of their men. Through a hail of Jasper and Griff’s bullets, they bounded up the mansion steps and kicked open the double doors. Upon entering William’s home, the leader of the savage group snatched his hood off. “Y’all three look for William and the nigga’s!” he commanded, looking at the men to his right. “We’ll take care ‘a that som’bitch upstairs in the wind-…”
Before he could finish handing out his orders, he was shot in the head from the top of the stairs, splattering his skull contents onto the six who remained standing nearby. Twelve pistols were immediately raised in the direction of the shot and a smattering of shells hit the upstairs hallway wall, but the elusive sniper had already taken cover around the corner. Billy waited there with a sinister grin on his dirty face, eager for his next opportunity to make sure William got his money’s worth out of him. He listened for the sound of reloading, then popped out again from behind the wall and unleashed another wave of ammunition, killing two more before ducking back behind the wall again with a giddy smile still plastered on his face.
Knowing Billy was outnumbered, Griff bolted toward the house to give him some much-needed backup. Just yards away from the front porch, though, he was shot in the leg and was then nearly trampled by the shooter’s horse. After barely maneuvering out of the horse’s path, he popped up on one knee, took aim, and fired at his attempted murderer. Griff took a moment to relish the sight of the man slumping over and falling from his horse. Fueled by pure adrenaline, Griff then stood up and began limping toward three other riders, who were blazing toward the amphitheater with torches in their hands, attempting to burn it down. Despite his wounds, Griff began advancing on them, alternating shots from both of his six-shooters, fearlessly making his way toward a hail of bullets on his way there, not letting the pain in his leg and shoulder detour him in the least.
Despite the fact that there were only three bandits against an army of hate-filled infiltrators, they managed to dwindle their numbers down to eight. Four of them were still inside of the house in a shootout with Billy and another began attempting to deface Emma’s tombstone. Jasper caught him in the act and shot him in the back of the head. After witnessing the execution of his younger brother, one of the masked marauders leaped down from his horse. He threw his pistols down, snatched his hood off, and pulled out a machete from the inside of his boot. He wanted instant revenge for the death of his family member but felt that a bullet would not provide the sort of suffering he was suddenly raging to inflict. The moment Jasper turned around, he was sliced from his left eye all the way down to his right cheek. He dropped his pistol and stumbled backward, not ever having had the slightest chance to defend himself. “You killed my brotha’, you nigga’ lovin’ son of a bitch! I’ll kill you, you goddamn nigga’ lova’! I’ll kill you!” were the last words Jasper ever heard as a blade was driven repeatedly into his flesh long after he was dead. Jasper was ultimately beheaded and left lying in a sea of flowers in Emma’s garden, which were all now colored in his blood.
Still filled with fury and coated in Jasper’s blood, the vengeful brother took a metal container of kerosene from his horse’s saddle and began coating the porch of William’s mansion. He kicked open the door to the kitchen and began pouring it inside. His actions were not initially a part of their grand scheme until his need for revenge over his brother’s death drove him over the edge. “WHEN Y’ALL FIND THEM NIGGA’S BRING ’EM TO ME GODDAMN IT!” he repeatedly yelled in a psychotic, rage-induced chant until his voice nearly went hoarse.
In the midst of his rant, the vengeful brother heard a voice he did not recognize. Ben was pleading with his captures while trying desperately to get to Anna Mae, who was shaking with fear as tears poured from her eyes. “Take me! B-but please just leave my wife be!” Ben begged, reaching out for Anna Mae, who was being manhandled toward the kitchen, in much the same manner as he.
“These’re the only two nigga’s here!” one of their capturers announced after entering the kerosene-soaked kitchen.
“What about that fucker in the winda’?!”
“Dead now. Shot that som’bitch right square ’tween the eyes,” he replied proudly.
With Billy and Jasper now dead, Griff was left alone to fend off the remaining cloaked marauders of the terrorist group. Two of the three men trying to burn down the amphitheater were left dead after their bullet exchange with Griff. The gun battle had completely drained Griff and the sole survivor of their ammo, but that did not stop either of them from trying to kill one another.
Despite two heavily bleeding bullet holes in his body, Griff had bounded up the theater steps and lunged at his opponent while he was struggling to pull a knife from his boot. He hit him at full speed in the stomach with his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him when they hit the ground. The two remained intertwined in a tussle, neither of them getting the upper hand until the invader rolled on top and wrapped both of his hands around Griff’s neck in a death grip. With his life slowly draining, Griff began desperately trying to grab a torch that was still ablaze just inches out of his reach. With his lips turning purple and his world fading to black, he miraculously thrust his body close enough to roll the torch toward him with his fingertips. As soon as it was in his clutches, he pressed the flame to the face of the man who literally had his life in his hands. Upon the intense burn, the invader immediately turned Griff loose and grabbed his scorched face. Woozily, Griff managed to stand up and steady himself while desperately trying to catch his breath. With the last bit of strength in his weakened body, he brutally beat the man with the very torch that he had carried there to burn down the elegant piece of architecture that Lily, his little flower, considered her second home. The torch the robed rider had personally lit to commit his act of arson was ultimately to blame for the way his hair and clothes were set ablaze during the savage beating he was rightfully given. Completely engulfed in flames, Griff then kicked him to the ground. Griff took a moment to get a dark and twisted high off the sound of his opponent screaming in agony as his flesh melted from his bones. He then collapsed onstage when his adrenaline subsided and the damage from
his bullet wounds finally took their toll.
… William now stood at the foot of his porch viewing the aftermath of the war that had taken place on his land on that Christmas night. With Anna Mae and Ben on his mind, he refused to walk another step toward the smoldering rubble that was once his home. The loss of all the memorabilia and treasures he had spent a lifetime collecting, he felt he could easily overcome; but the mere possibility of finding his two dear friends in the wreckage, he knew would haunt him the rest of his life. “I can’t,” William whispered to his sons, slowly backing away from his crumbled porch.
“Go on to the carriage, Father,” Wilson told him.
When William did not move, Wilson escorted him to the carriage and then returned to be by his brother’s side. Both men knew they had to, but they did not have the heart to shuffle through the rubble of their childhood home, at first. Instead, they walked around back, surveying every bloody spot that marked where a body had once been. It signified to them how brutal the battle had been. The normally comical twins were completely silent and straight-faced while they begrudgingly trudged along toward their mother’s gravesite. As they approached, the brothers simultaneously pulled out a handkerchief and covered their noses when the downwind of a harsh stench blew their way and nearly made them clear the contents of their stomachs. Following the smell, their heads turned just to the left of their mother’s tombstone, where they finally found the source of the pungent odor: Jasper’s decaying body, lying in their mother’s flowers, still in the very spot he had defended her grave. Seeing his decapitated body, the twins finally knew the contents in the bloody bag that was dangling from the middle cross that reeked of death. The pair backed away slowly, too shocked to say a word to one another about what they were seeing on the sacred grounds of their mother’s final resting place.
