by Amarie Avant
After about thirty minutes of chatting with people, we walk farther down toward a row of low, rich green grain. It almost feels like a romantic stroll, given that Nivean land is so breathtakingly beautiful.
“This is the crop from the seedlings you were sent?” he inquires, glancing at the crop that reaches to the bottom of our calves.
“Yes.” I nod, smiling graciously.
“That was merely two months ago, My Queen. You move swiftly. Soon, it will mature.” He crouches down. His powerful hand moves delicately over the golden grain.
Out of nowhere, a deceptive thought pops into my brain. “Please touch me like that.”
The voice, it’s back! I scream out MamLalumi’s name inside the confines of my brain.
What if the thoughts are just the beginning of this intrusive juju? Thoughts of disturbing alien invasions cause me to struggle with my breathing.
Fari turns toward me. His thick lips are set just so, and I can breathe again. His eyes hold me siege. “I just noticed something.”
“What?” I murmur, unable to move.
“Your eyes. They have these tiny flecks of gold.” He steps closer, close enough for me to smell the scent of spice and leather of his cologne. I’m rooted to my spot, unable to reclaim the distance between us. “They are beautiful, so very beautiful.”
My voice speaks words that I’ve not cognitively sanctioned. “You’re a very handsome man yourself. I’m sure others have told you so.”
His dark eyes cloud. He bites down on his bottom lip then asks, “I hope I’m not out of turn by asking, your weekend that you spent with friends . . .”
With a friend and the love of my life!
My lips move, words float out that I haven’t authorized nor thought. “Two associates.”
Stop! I scream inside of my head. I’m in love with Jagger Johansson!
“I am in love with Prince Fari,” it replies, echoing my very own tone of voice.
“Associates? Hmm, good, very good.” He steps closer. “You must forgive me for being gone for much of the past two months. My father’s illness has left me in charge of many aspects of Zihulan life. I have had to communicate with our associates as well, dealing with our oil and a few other parcels of land that we own in East Africa. Also, an argument with a sheik in Egypt, whom I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy on.”
Few parcels, my ass! He’s a billionaire.
“All eyes are on us, Queen Mikayla. We haven’t had much time to become acquainted since you succeeded the throne, please allow me to rectify that.”
A devilish grin appears on my face, but inside of my body, I’m screaming for MamLalumi to help. “What do you have in mind?” My response is so sickly sweet that it grates my ears.
“Dinner. If I haven’t compelled you to keep ties with the Zihula nation by then, I’ll up the ante.” He turns around and heads back to his Maybach, leaving me breathless with unbridled desire. A lust that has stolen my sanity.
Denso starts toward me with a few guards at his side, he moves quicker, mouthing, “Are you alright?”
“No.”
“I’ve sent Eadric for MamLalumi. Told him you have a stomach ache.” He mouths the last bit as Chinwa and the guards follow on his heels.
My servant has a silly grin plastered on her face, unaware of my concern. Good, Denso is perceptive. And I’ve done a great job of holding in my confusion while wrestling these witch-planted feelings. “I’ve been told you have a dinner date tonight. Let’s get started. Kmota thought she dressed you nicely for today, but honey, what I have in store will . . .” Her smile dies. “Your Highness, are you okay?”
Shaking my head ‘no,’ tears brimming in my eyes, I’m no longer alone with my thoughts. Unwilling to fight something considered paranormal in my brain, I just stand there, dejected, with my back toward my people, needing to calm myself.
“Did he do something?” Chinwa glares at the expensive rides gliding down the road. She’s as loyal as my cousin, Brittany, ready to strike.
I shake my head again. “I’m just not feeling so well.”
“Oh, Denso, we have to get her home, now. I’ll have someone tell Eadric to bring MamLalumi to us.” She moves away from us as Denso escorts me back to the car.
“I’ll have to honor the dinner date, won’t I?”
Denso is his usual quiet self, pondering before responding. “You are permitted to have an ailment, Mikayla. With Eadric going for MamLalumi, it solidifies your reason to decline.”
He’s about to close the door when my head falls back against the seat. He perceives that I have more to say. Damn, how quickly has he become a friend. “Denso, did you see how our people were reacting? This is what they want.”
“But you want Jag—”
The opposite back door opens, and Chinwa climbs into the backseat with me. “Eadric hasn’t made it out to our diviner’s home yet, still driving. He will bring her to us.”
“Thank you, I murmur.”
An hour later, I’m in the upstairs sitting room, hiding away after having fled the scene. Great. Word is probably spreading like a southern California wildfire that I fled town after speaking with Prince Fari. Did she leave so swiftly because she was only interested in his company? Or worse, is our new queen too sick to sit on the throne?
Denso offers a brotherly smile ever so often. Chinwa keeps refreshing my hibiscus tea.
There’s a hard knock on the door. Eadric and another guard enter. He steps forward. “I’m sorry, My Queen. It appears that MamLalumi has placed a sign on the door to her home. She is away.”
“Away?” I breathe the word in astonishment. Why would she leave? Immediately, dark thoughts attempt to swallow me whole. We completed a ritual to damn near save my life yesterday.
I’m almost carried away by my fixations when Denso says, “On occasion, she has been known to travel north.”
“How far north? The tribe directly above us or . . .” I murmur. We’re talking an entire continent here.
“A small tribe on the outskirts of Somalia to meet with a fellow diviner who she shares ingredients with.” Eadric huffs. “She goes by foot. I apologize, My Queen. I have sent men north. However, since she does not travel via road, I cannot provide specifics.”
My gaze finds Denso’s. He stops pacing like a caged animal to nod his agreement. Though I know both of these guards by name, I’m guessing that Denso being there while MamLalumi completed her ritual yesterday has given Denso more clout. I suck in a breath of air. She left? It’s more than I can bare. Somalia is a little north of central Africa. Even if she meets her friend halfway, it has to be a thousand-mile trip.
“How long is she usually gone?” Eyes closed, I focus on another blow to my spirit.
“Precisely three months.”
Chewing on my bottom lip, I stare at Eadric. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I have the note.” He digs into his pants pocket. “It is similar to others that she has left in the past. More recently, it has been said she’d leave when your uncle made dark magic requests, and she did not . . . she did not want to be in the area.”
Lips tensed, I nod for all of the guards to be pardoned.
When they withdraw from the room, Chinwa starts to pour more of the deep purple, aromatic tea into my cup.
“Is it true that MamLalumi leaves on occasion?” I ask again, though I believed Denso’s claims, and Eadric had proof, something in me is waiting for the punchline. I search my brain for when I was a child, and MamNcoza was a staple in Nivean. She was dependable. Even before, when I was under the care of Lalumi—prior to her calling—she was there. Always there!
“She did. MamLalumi never helped King Qaaim—I’m—I’m so sorry. I have spent so many years under his rule, please forgive me.”
“Forgiven.”
“She never assisted your uncle with a thing. She was always there when the people needed her. Somehow, she’d leave and be back prior to a sick child needing ointment or any other serious ailment, My Que
en. May I also state that maybe she went for you. I don’t know how sick you are, Queen Mikayla, but it’s just a thought.”
I chew on my lip. I assumed the actions MamLalumi took yesterday were a means to an end, and that I’d be in my right mind. Now, I wonder, why did I have those crazy thoughts in the first place? They only ruined one day with Jagger, not my entire time in London, nor did this disease rear itself while we were in Amsterdam?
Why then?
Why now?
Prior to crashing into Jagger, I was well on my way to a prestigious medical school. Had a person stepped up to me and said they were having specific auditory delusions that conflicted with certain thoughts, I would’ve pointed to the first psychiatric hospital in the general vicinity.
What’s triggering these thoughts? What has compelled these actions? I groan, considering how I responded to the prince earlier today.
Scratching my fingernail over the skin of a cuticle, I stop short of biting into it. Damn, maybe Chinwa is correct. Yet a vice squeezing at the pit of my stomach urges me to call Jagger and share the otherworld crap I’m now dealing with in Nivean.
Can I believe Chinwa? I think back over the last two months, and how she was the first to really open up to me. The rest of my servants regard me as someone to bite their tongue around. Chinwa has been the friend that I need.
I sigh heavily. Though MamLalumi might be in search of a stronger cure, since I’m still plagued by these thoughts, I just wish she hadn’t left without speaking with me first. Alright, Mikayla, a note on the door is not out of the norm, per both Eadric and Chinwa. Remember Elder Chumi said she didn’t have a telephone.
A little while later, I write a note with my seal and close it. This will be my formal apology to Prince Fari. I ask the servant to send for Denso and or Elder Chumi, whoever he crosses paths with first. For now, out of an entire nation, only two men have gained my trust.
It hurts that I can’t trust my people, but it takes time to build trust.
The only truth I know is that someone wants me to be with Prince Fari.
Or worse, to play my love for Jagger against the prince and start something Jagger will refuse to end without bloodshed.
A war.
17
Jagger
It’s late afternoon. I sit on the leather couch only a few feet away from where that bulldog faced bastard had his brains blown out. Trinkets sparkle and gleam. No one would know the lavish area was recently ground zero in a blood bath. Breathing in a natural lemony scent, I preview the current requests for X Member assistance on my iPhone screen. None of the potential profiles hold my interest.
Who am I kidding? I can’t pick a mark without expiring Totsi first. I love my job. Murdering someone disconnected to me is a major stress relief. And with Mikayla’s nation piecing itself together after being on the fringes, I need to purge myself of that fucking dirty cop and return to the only thing that kept me sane after my good-willed mother died and prior to falling for the queen.
So, I grab my trusted Magnum .357s, grip the railing of my modified Jeep, and climb inside. The cool air slaps my face as I drive down the hill from my home and past the street which has conveniently been renamed “Blue Cove.” I glare at the massive resort that sits like a jewel at the edge of the water and determine that Pierce will get his comeuppance soon. With Mikayla in South Africa, I’ve got a reason to stay nearby and, for now, off the man who has tried me one too many times in the past.
Palm trees are on each side of the road, and luxurious shopping centers are all around. I stop at the light.
“The fuck are you doing, Jag,” I grumble to myself. I need to have a game plan. Murdering someone right after they’ve pissed you off isn’t a good look. I press on the gas, knowing full well that I’m not the sort of man who bides his time.
I pull into the parking lot of a cigar lounge. Even though the time has long since passed that Totsi needs to be expired, I’ll do a bit of recon and drink a few shots of whiskey.
With drink in hand, I use the X-Member database on my iPhone to hack into his cellphone, but he doesn’t have any useful information such as text messages about dinner dates. There is no wife mentioning that the meatloaf is coming out of the oven soon, not a single text message today from another human being. The sorry bastard gets off work at five-thirty. I estimate the time he’ll be home from the distance of the police station to his place and leave the cigar lounge, going home to trade my Jeep in for my motorcycle.
The sky transitions to indigo as I navigate the freeway. Totsi rents a tiny plot of land about forty-five miles north of the city. Of all the kickbacks he receives from Pierce and who knows who else, he hasn’t put a dime into living a posh life in the city. The eye-catching buildings and rich cars start to pale as I got close. Zipping between two big rigs, I pressed a button on the side of the throttle. The skin of my motorcycle switches from black matte to blood red.
Jag, kill him easy. No emotion.
Mistakes overshadow the necessity of meticulousness when my mind isn’t set on the kill. Attributing a death to sentiment and not a job causes trouble, and I hope that the long ride helps offset the anger I feel. I max out the speedometer at two-hundred-ninety miles per hour at about ten miles out, honing my vision on the ride. Dark silhouettes blur by. I tunnel my eyesight, calculating the precise instant when to zip around vehicles, calming the rage in me.
Under the cloak of darkness, I arrive at Totsi’s home around six p.m. I pull into the front yard of a box shaped home with no character. I roll over the patched grass and toward the shanty of a standalone garage at the side of the home. A thicket of overgrown shrubbery blocks out the two-lane main road. A ski cap comes down over my man bun. Funny that Mikayla is always complaining about my hair, but I choose these moments to be thorough. I won’t go through the hassle of masking my identity because looking a man dead in the eye before you snatch his life away represents power. Someone will find Totsi’s rotting body, and they’ll call the authorities. Then I’ll reach out to Pierce. Maybe that’ll be a lesson learned. Maybe not.
Wearing leather gloves, I fist the brass handle of the garrote and wait. A tranquil patience finally loosens my tight muscles. It doesn’t matter how long I have to wait. This is the end of the line for Totsi.
The night is noisy, chirping and croaking all around. The wind picks up, sending the rickety back screen door flapping. I imagine Mikayla at my side, the voice of reason.
Words don’t hurt. Why kill a man for his asinine comments?
It’s the principle.
The sound of a six-cylinder small SUV comes chugging into the lot, pulling up alongside the home. Totsi gets out, and his eyes narrow as he sees the outline of my motorcycle within the shadows. His hand guides down toward his .9 millimeter. His steps are slow, precise, and just before he can touch and potentially free his gun, I hold both brass handles out, looping the wire garrote around his neck. I use just enough force to steal the air from his lungs.
“You did a lot of talking last night, Totsi. Why not now?”
A small curdling sound comes from him as the wire bites into his skin. I’ve applied a diminutive amount of pressure, so it constricts his airways, though not cutting him yet. I’m not yet ready to slice his neck wide open. I hunger at the sound of his pain. Totsi’s hands come up and underneath the wire.
It’s the worst move he could make. The force is enough to slice his fingers to the bone when he attempts to pull down.
“Aghhhhh!” he screams.
In one quick thrust, I yank him back to me. Blood sprays out before him, bathing the cement. Totsi’s fingers, which have been cut all the way through, fall to the ground. I lay his limp body down, flipping him over onto his back. Red liquid continues to gush out. His neck is carved just so perfectly. Though there is no blood on me, my gloves, jeans, leather jacket, and boots will be incinerated once I return home. I do not want any fibers connecting me to the scene. For now, I remove a flashlight from my back pocket and methodi
cally roam the light over the murder scene. All the circumstantial motive will point in my direction, but there will be no evidence. I don’t give a fuck. This is for Pierce.
Pressing the off button, I place the flashlight back in my pocket. The cops in this area don’t have the means to do a complete crime scene investigation, but they’re not gathering anything from this scene but the dead, crooked cop.
I pull out of the driveway a few minutes later. By the time I reach the city limits, the color of my motorcycle has returned to black. Stomach growling, I head to Nkechi Café. It’s a few blocks down the street from my home, but The Cape tourists stay away from this joint, though it stays packed with locals. The place is homey, not one bit of furniture matches the other. Eyeing couples and groups of friends laughing and chatting, I wearily move around to an empty table.
Kayla loved this place. I huff, sinking down in a chair, massive legs wide, lifting two fingers for service. My gaze stops on the table for two that we sat at the first time I brought her to Nkechi Café. A man and woman with similar dreads have placed the seats next to each other, caressing and touching as they eat.
Ms. Ghanda, with her silver dreadlocks and apron covering her hefty frame, places a chilled bottle of Castle Black Label beer before me then rests a hand on her hip. “Molo wenza njani namhlanje, Jagger–How are you doing today?”
I grumble something inaudible. “How are you, sweetheart?”
She smirks. “Good as can be. How is our lovely Queen Mikayla? Last time, I told you to bring that child in here for some good eats. Next time, you come in here without Mikayla, no good eats for you.”
Hand over my heart, I feign shock. “Ms. Ghanda—”
“Eh, fine, colonizer or not, I don’t need y’er sweet talk tonight. It’s too late. My feet already hurt. Your favorite will be out in just a second.” She turns her wide hips side to side, weaving around the tables.
