by N. D. Jones
Pause.
“All joking aside, I’ll take care of her. Now move your ass before the ugly fucker makes its grand appearance.”
Pause.
“You’d better, detective.”
Three words uttered in such a menacing snarl Sanura shivered from there vehemence. Then there was nothing. No one spoke. Sanura assumed the officers had come to some “man” agreement. Soft relief swept through her. She would be okay. Assefa would shift into his Mngwa form and make sure nothing happened to her. At least that was the plan.
Simple.
Lethal.
On this dark, humid May night, Sanura sat in the historic park, the wooden bench sturdy despite the sun-faded paint. The trees were in full bloom, tall and strong, rooted to this place where runaway enslaved men and women sought comfort and protection on their long journey to freedom. The North Star guided their ragged, determined movements away from the dehumanizing system, away from government-sanctioned bondage, and away from a bastardized version of Christianity in which plantation sermons were nothing more than opportunities to tell them to “obey their masters.”
Sanura closed her eyes, feeling the lingering spirits of the journeymen, their warm tears shed for loved ones left behind absorbed back into the earth, giving life to the trees. It was an odd sensation, a connection to Mother Earth and the past, powerful witches unwilling conduits for mortals who’ve passed over but not passed on.
A cool breeze encircled the witch, severing Sanura’s connection to the spirits of the forgotten trailblazers. It chilled her to the marrow, forcing Sanura from the bench. She started walking toward the path when she heard Mike yell, “Watch. Out!”
Without looking back, Sanura ran. She was in excellent shape, could outrun any full-human mugger or rapist, but this was an adze that was fast on her heels. And no matter how swift she was, or how many quick cuts she made, Sanura knew this was a race she couldn’t win.
Wings flapped overhead like a sail snapping in the wind, shots from a gun a reply echo. The flapping continued, moving closer with each gust of air, stabbing Sanura in the back.
She breathed out a quick incantation. A wind gust knocked the adze back. Using the seconds the attack afforded her, she dug deep and ran faster, putting as much distance as possible between her and the demon.
Her attack had done nothing but momentarily slow the adze’s hungry pursuit. It probably hadn’t eaten in weeks, her scent and strong aura an enticing mix for the beast. It wanted her, the craving a psychotic tendril of death and destiny reaching out for her. She could sense the creature’s desire to tear into her flesh, filling its belly with her blood.
Hunger and bloodlust propelled it forward. It was so fast and too damn close.
It swooped down just as Sanura rounded a tree.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t put together one spell in her frazzled brain. All she had were her instincts. Those told her to run faster and not to give up, to trust the man who wanted to claim her with heart, body, and fangs.
Sweat flowed heavy down her face and back. Legs were tight from overexertion.
The heat of the adze’s breath found her vulnerable neck.
With effort born of countless hours of practice, Sanura reached for her fire magic, not the cage she kept her fire spirit locked away in.
A knife—no, claws—raked across her left shoulder, ripping through shirt and flesh and hope.
She fell, face-first. The ground reached up and found her chin, her cheek, her breath.
Afraid but not paralyzed by fear, Sanura turned onto her back.
The adze stood over her, mouth open, baring razor-sharp teeth. A trickle of saliva fell onto Sanura’s forehead, marking her as his. She knew this was the face of death—sinister, cruel, and ugly, not from nurture but by nature. There was no pleading with the monster. It wouldn’t recognize the appeal or even care. It was doing what it was created to do.
Her fire spirit raged within, demanding her freedom. Sanura denied the heated plea, all the while knowing the adze was mere seconds from sinking its long fangs into her.
Let me out, her fire spirit demanded.
I can’t.
He’ll kill you, kill me. I can help. I can save us.
With a trembling, unsure hand, Sanura reached for her fire spirit’s cage. Hand on the handle, she met the shimmering, ruby eyes of her beast, as hungry and volatile as the adze wanting Sanura’s blood. She dropped her hand.
Her fire spirit snapped and hissed.
The adze bared more teeth. Licked fangs. And came for her.
In the space between the darkness and the light, between life and death, another emerged.
A beast.
A predator.
A myth made real. Created by a warrior goddess and sanctified by a witch’s fire. Sanura’s fire.
Hunt. Kill. Protect.
The words roared in Sanura’s head. Then he was there, his amazing force knocking the adze forty feet away from her.
Go, Sanura. Now! the Mngwa commanded before bounding after the adze with the speed, agility, and ferocity of no other cat known to the modern world.
And, gods, the real-life Mngwa was even more impressive than the one she’d met within the astrophysical plane. Larger. Stronger. Fiercer.
Sanura watched as the adze staggered to its feet. It spread its wings, preparing to take flight. Hurt, tired, but still in the fight, she used her fleeting energy to cast a force field, encapsulating both the adze and the Mngwa. Trapped. The killer of witches now had to contend with a foe that had never known defeat. Serves you right.
The Mngwa was all muscle, claws, and teeth. He had to weigh over 600 pounds, his huge claws striking the ground soundlessly as he stalked his prey.
“Sanura, are you all right?” called a winded Mike as he approached. “Shit, woman, you’re fast, and I’m too old for all this running.”
She felt old, too. Her body ached all over.
Noticing her bleeding shoulder, Mike swore, spewing dwarf curses as vile as the adze’s soul. He went to work, helping her to her feet. Shotgun in one hand and Sanura in the other, Mike began to pull her away.
“No, we can’t leave Assefa. He may need our help.”
Mike glanced back at the ferocious cat that had once been the special agent. “I don’t think he needs our help, Sanura. Besides, I promised him I would get you to safety. Now, let’s go before he turns that snarl on me.”
Reluctantly, Sanura allowed herself to be led away, trusting Assefa to come back to her alive and unharmed. The thought of him trading his life to save hers, of never being able to feel the warmth of his loving spirit again, made her shudder, the urge to return to his side so strong, she blocked both the taste of bile and hysterics that started to boil just below her shaky reserve.
It wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do for her to throw up and start crying and screaming like some reality show lunatic who was just thrown off the island. Besides, she’d be damned if she acted the part of the nervous-wreck girlfriend in front of Mike. Although, with her bleeding shoulder and weak legs, Sanura made for a very good damsel in distress. And damn Mike’s sexist, dwarf behind. And damn her for not being honest with Assefa, with herself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The adze was finally in a cage where it belonged, a magical trap for the winged monster, care of a brave fire witch.
The Mngwa didn’t have to lift his nose to smell the blood. Sanura’s blood. The creature had hurt her. Sanura’s precious blood stained the adze’s claws. It would die, very, very painfully.
With piercing gold eyes, the Mngwa watched as the adze attempted to escape the enclosure, slamming face-first into the force field.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Magic crackled around them each time the fool used its head as a battering ram. There was no escape, only death.
The adze bolted for the top again only to pivot and fly headlong into the cat of legend. If the Mngwa had been a smaller, weaker, o
r even slower cat, this move may have worked.
But he wasn’t.
It didn’t.
The Mngwa backed up, reared up on his hind legs, and with a swipe of his mammoth claws sent the adze crashing into the force field. Blood oozed from the gash on the adze’s side, flowing oil-slick black. The Mngwa’s mouth watered. The scent of his prey was an indescribable confluence of heartlessness, blood, and terror.
He went in for the kill.
Scrambling to its feet, the adze extended its wings, peered at the top of the field, its intention clear. It bent its legs to take off, wings already flapping. It got several feet off the ground. The Mngwa leapt, his jaws opening and catching a dangling leg. He forced the killer of children, killer of mothers and fathers back down to the cold, pitiless ground.
Thud.
The Mngwa clamped down on the limb, his sharp, white teeth cutting through leathery flesh and robust bone. Visions of the slaughtered Ferrells entered his mind and of an orphaned child hiding in a hospital closet, afraid of her own shadow, terrified of this creature. No more. The Mngwa and the man would abide no more witches’ deaths at the fangs of this worthless vampiric bat. It had survived too long on the blood, fear, and tears of others. Today, that would end.
Too stupid to know when a battle was already lost, the adze used its wings to attack the Mngwa. Fingernail-like claws went for the cat’s eyes. Stupid move. The Mngwa sidestepped the weak effort and charged the left wing of his target. In a debilitating light of speed, the Mngwa lunged for the lean bat, tackling it to the ground and ripping at the cape-like wing.
The bite started at the shoulder blade, and with the force of a vise, the cat sank in deep, yanking the appendage from north to south.
The adze keened.
The Mngwa didn’t let go, didn’t stop tearing, pulling, and ripping. His neck bulged from the tense effort until he freed the wing from its owner. The shredding of bones, flesh, veins, and ligaments sounded nothing like the tearing of paper or the ripping of cloth. No, it barely made a sound beyond a pop, splat, and squish.
But the visual, well, that was different. The once darkly majestic wing that could elevate the bat above the world in search of prey, while gliding on the cool, air currents of the gods, was nothing more now than a grisly, tattered reminder of why the Mngwa was the predator of all predators.
Then there was the anticipated response to the Mngwa’s ruthless call—a high-pitched wail of a downed, conquered prey.
But the adze still lived, the Mngwa’s and special agent’s mission not yet complete.
Blood soaked into the spring-green grass—inky and thick, the ravaged wing twitching a pathetic cadence of defeat.
Their eyes met—gold versus red. I’ll show you no mercy, beast. It was there in the killer’s cruel glare, the bitter stench of fear and hopelessness. The adze understood the big cat’s brutal promise. Good.
The Mngwa bared his teeth in a belligerent smile, making sure the son of a bitch could see each and every one of his incisors. With lightning speed, he struck, teeth sinking deep into the adze’s neck, savaging the creature in the same way it had mercilessly killed countless witches. He didn’t stop biting and gnashing and clawing until the adze lay lifeless. Then and only then did the Mngwa release his prey, feel satisfied that the hunter of witches was no more.
A mighty roar proclaimed the Mngwa victorious, the trembling ground echoing his win, his superiority. The Mngwa had once again earned his reputation—an undefeated killer of killers.
“We’re almost to the van, Sanura.” Mike’s voice was fatherly smooth but dwarf-hard. She knew he could feel the warmth of her blood on his arm. “Stay with me, firefly. I’ll get you to the hospital as soon as I can.”
Firefly. He hadn’t called her that since she was twelve and almost burned down Makena’s kitchen trying to make him a cake for his birthday. If he was calling her that now, the damage to her shoulder must be pretty bad. Maybe all the wetness she was feeling wasn’t just from perspiration.
“I’m fine, Mike,” she lied. “Don’t worry about me.”
“What the fuck?” Mike pushed Sanura behind him, and then raised his shotgun. “Goddammit, I knew it couldn’t be this easy.” Loud blasts came, one after the other, lighting up the bleak spring night.
Peering from behind Mike, Sanura spotted three adzes. One was unmoving on the ground, bleeding from Mike’s gunshot wound. Gods, she hoped it was dead because the other two were fast approaching, quicker than Mike could reload.
They flew at them, fast and wild, red eyes glowing with ravenous rage.
“Shields rise and protect your servant.” The magical field blazed to life, sprouting swiftly from the ground to obey its weak and bleeding mistress, mere seconds before the adzes came crashing into her force field. The field shimmered a flushed red, with gauzy underscores of white, gold, and blue. A colorful mix that was more dismally dull than radiantly rigorous. It should be darker, brighter, stronger. Much, much stronger.
The beasts were not as large as the one that had attacked her, but they were no less vicious, no less determined to make the only witch in the vicinity their next meal. They were also angry, periodically glancing back at the—thankfully—still downed adze.
They circled the field, bloodshot eyes searching…for a weak spot? Probably. But they wouldn’t find one. Not yet.
“This shield won’t last us long, Mike. I’m tired and weak, and if they keep hitting it, I won’t have enough strength to keep them out.”
Digging into his pocket, Mike pulled out two shells and deftly reloaded his gun, years of military training making his movements automatic, precise.
“What if I shoot them from inside the field?”
“It won’t penetrate. It’ll ricochet and probably hit one of us instead.”
“Shit.” Mike scratched his head, as if in thought, while tracking the adze with clear, gray eyes. “Then lower the field, let me get a shot off, and then raise it again.”
“They’re too close and too fast for that to work.”
“Then call Assefa and tell him to get his big, hairy, cat ass over here, pronto.”
She wasn’t made for this, Sanura thought. She was a trained psychologist and professor who drove a midsized car and lived in a quiet Baltimore neighborhood. She wasn’t a warrior or even a fighter. Sure, Sanura had taken Tae Kwon Do, at her father’s urging, but that didn’t make her anyone’s champion.
Sanura was tired and they needed help. She’d told everyone, even the caustic Mike, that she could handle this assignment. That she was the only one who could. And, for Oya’s sake, Sanura would be damned if she allowed self-doubt to blur her vision. She’d already messed things up with Assefa, she wouldn’t screw this up, as well, by getting herself and Mike killed.
She closed her eyes and focused on the partial mating bond she shared with Assefa. Sanura could feel it, sense him in her soul, her heart.
She sent the telepathic message to Assefa. He would know what to do. He was trained for this type of lunacy, having built a career on finding and dispatching the gods’ more troublesome creations. Beings that refused to live within the rules of civilized society or who, because of their very nature, couldn’t.
I’m coming, Sanura, just let me out of your force field.
“Oh, gods,” she moaned in realization. Sanura had forgotten. Dear gods, she’d forgotten. She wasn’t an officer, trained like Mike and Assefa to use her powers as a weapon. She was a witch, a well-schooled witch. But this was combat in which all spells had to be thought out and planned before execution. Sanura had talked a good game the night before, bristling at Mike’s overprotective and sexist comments. He was right. She was ill-prepared for this mission. But, Sanura thought, she was also right, for no other witch could do this. She was their best chance, but Sanura would have to do better, much, much better.
She slid down the force field, her shoulder leaving bloody streaks of frustrated awareness. If I recall your field, Assefa, I’ll also recall th
e one Mike and I are in. The spell to recall force fields doesn’t discriminate. It’s a general anti-force field spell and it’ll destroy all fields created by me.
Meaning you and Mike will be left without the protection of your field if you free me of mine. Hell.
Pause. Pause. Pause.
Sanura, I’m your familiar, call me to you.
That’s a legend, that doesn’t really work. I can’t pull you to me. No witch can do that.
She winced from the growing pain in her shoulder but fought to maintain her composure, to not give in to the encroaching blackness. She wouldn’t pass out. She refused to be a liability to the men. And the way Mike was gripping that shotgun of his, watching as the adzes continued to try to claw their way inside, she thought the dwarf just might ignore her warning and let one fly.
Listen to me carefully, sweetheart. You can do it and you will. We are compatible for a reason. Neither one of us should exist, but we do. If the prophecy is true, a fire witch and a Mngwa can perform powerful magic once their auras are aligned and bonded.
Thanks to her, they were only partially bonded. Even if it were possible, would a one-sided bond be enough?
Look, I’m sorry about earlier. Your demons are your own, and I have mine. But know this, mated or not, I’ll always be there for you. I made a promise to protect you, remember? I never break my promises, Sanura. And I won’t start tonight.
I don’t know if it’s possible. I just don’t think—
For once in your life, Sanura, don’t use that psychologist brain of yours. Just trust your heart and let me do the rest.
“Umm, Sanura, we need to do something soon. The force field is beginning to weaken.”
Sanura knew that already, with each slowing breath, she knew. She glanced up at her godfather, not having to tell Mike to ready his weapon. The man had never lowered it. This had to work, and Mike and Assefa would have to be damn fast. Because if they weren’t…well, Makena Williams would never survive the death of her only child.
With that depressing but fortifying thought, Sanura forced herself to her knees. Using the blood that had run down her arm to her fingers, she drew a small magical circle. She closed her eyes and started chanting in a language she didn’t recognize. An incantation she’d never read or heard before flowed from her. Vapors of earth magic surged around her, reaching in and attaching to her second sight.
