by N. D. Jones
“That has nothing to do with—”
“It has everything to do with my family, your family, hell, the history of the entire continent of Africa after the 1600s. They came, they plundered, they took. But it wasn’t enough. They wanted more, they wanted it all—oil, gold, diamonds, land. And who do you think stopped them?” Assefa didn’t wait for her reply. “Our kind, Sanura. For once, preternaturals banded together interfered in a war between full-humans and prevented colonization.”
Assefa shook his head and let out a slow breath. “I don’t even want to imagine what Africa would look like today if preternaturals hadn’t stepped in, sending the Spaniards, French, and the others back across the Atlantic Ocean.”
“So, you think that makes what your father did and does okay?”
“I think,” he said, swallowing a growl, “that it makes one cautious, covetous and protective of their home, their own. Sometimes to the extreme,” he honestly conceded. “Not so unlike that Witch Council of Elders you belong to, or that witch- and were-cat-only school of which Cynthia is the principal. Exclusive clubs, as far as I’m concerned. How are they any different from what my grandfather did or what my father continues to support? It’s called survival, Sanura, plain and simple.”
They glared at each other, crossing arms over chests in defiance of the other’s position.
For the next several minutes, Assefa watched as Sanura ran everything through her psychologist brain. He could see the different emotions play across her face, feel an invisible wall form between them.
“What else haven’t you told me, Assefa of the House of Berber?”
The use of his title to distance them hurt, and he knew that was her intention. He couldn’t blame her. Sanura had revealed herself so completely to him during the handfasting ritual. Yet, he’d hid behind old pain and memories. She’d bared her soul to him, and he took what she cautiously gave while not giving equally in return. But her very reaction, her narrow-minded appraisal of his family, and by extension him, was the reason for his silence, his lie of omission.
Assefa braced his back firmly against the wall, legs spread in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He looked like a man settling in for a comfortable little chat with his girlfriend, but he felt anything but. He would’ve never pegged her to be one to judge without first examining all the facts, yet she’d obviously bought into the cable news reports from pundits about the political state of Sudan and the purported villainy of Jahi Berber.
He exhaled slowly, taking stock of his emotions. He teetered on a ledge somewhere between righteous anger and crippling fear. Assefa didn’t want this conversation to be the end of them. But he couldn’t abandon his family or the truth for the love of a woman who should be able to see him for the man he was.
“My father was part of the old military regime that denied people’s civil rights and abused their military and political power. But, like me, he was born into it with the expectation of filling his father’s boots.”
Concerned eyes flew to his, the first flicker of hope that perhaps she didn’t view him as the son poised to take over for his “despotic” father.
“When my grandfather died, my father was next in line, but he rejected the title of General Supreme. He’d seen too much bloodshed and believed the people of Sudan deserved better than another Berber. But there were captains and lieutenants who wanted what my father turned his back on. Infighting eventually led to another civil war. The nation was being torn apart. The people cried out for relief from their suffering.”
“And the relief came in the form of your father?”
“Yes, he was the only one from the old regime the people thought might do right by them and who was strong enough to keep the others in line. He’s a kind, just man, but you wouldn’t know that if all your information came by way of biased, misinformed news reports.”
“If he’s so kind and just, why are you here instead of there?”
Good question. The woman was too perceptive by half.
“People expect me to be like him. I’m not. I came here to stake out a life for myself that has nothing to do with being the second son of the House of Berber. I couldn’t do that at home. Hell, even the money I used to start my company came from my father. I paid him back as soon as I was able, but it’s a constant reminder of my dependence on him. To do a good deed, I took questionable funds.” He snorted at the irony of it all.
“I haven’t taken a penny from him since, and I don’t claim the privileges or the scorn that naturally comes with being his son. But he is my father, Sanura, and I love him. He’s not perfect, that’s for damn sure, but he is my father and, for that, I will never apologize.”
His frosty tone chilled the already cool late-morning air.
“I’ve seen too many of my friends, family, and countrymen die under our flag, and I’ve no desire to see more. It’s not the life I want. My life is here…with you, if you still want that.”
Her face was unreadable. Definitely a fine interrogator she would’ve been. Or perhaps Sanura had just spent too much time around Mike.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding too gruff, too raw. “I should’ve been totally honest with you during the ceremony, but I didn’t know where to begin. I was just so happy you accepted the Mngwa and the bonding was a success. I convinced myself that nothing else mattered.”
Assefa figured this would happen eventually. No matter how hard he tried or how far away from home he went, he couldn’t shake the Berber legacy and image. People either wanted to be near him because he was rich or wanted nothing to do with him because they feared or hated his father. He hoped Sanura would prove the exception to the rule, but the look in her eyes made him think otherwise.
“It doesn’t matter to me that your father is a dictator or president or whatever the hell he wants to call himself.”
She stood and walked away from the bed. From me and my secrets.
“I wouldn’t care if you were rich or poor, and I certainly don’t care what animal spirit you possess. I do care, however, about honesty and trust. And while I know in my heart you’re an honest man and would never deliberately lie to me”—she paused when she reached the bathroom door— “you should’ve trusted me enough to tell me the full truth.”
“But—”
She held up a hand.
He stayed his words and his frustration.
“You told me to trust my heart, and I did, which is why I’m here with you now. I went out on a limb for you, for us, as I’ve never done before. And I thought you were on the limb with me. Now I see I was out there by myself, having faith in you when you had none in me.”
She took one step into the bathroom, but Assefa’s questions halted her. “Would you have given me a fair chance at your heart if I’d disclosed everything from the beginning? Would you have ignored the past misdeeds of my father and his international reputation and seen me for the man that I am, and not the man people think I may become?”
She paused for long seconds, dropped her head, and then went into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind her.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Thirty minutes later, Sanura emerged from the bathroom showered, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and moonstone firmly in place. Assefa wasn’t in the bedroom, and she was surprised to feel a sense of abandonment. But what had she really expected, for him to be waiting like a lapdog at the bathroom door to make yet another apology as soon as she exited? She’d walked away from him without answering his question. Correction, she’d walked away, thereby answering his question. Damn it, he probably now thinks I’m some overly judgmental witch who can’t see past her own political ideology.
She scanned the room in search of her suitcases. Mr. Siddig had placed them in the west corner of the room against an armoire that matched the one Assefa had retrieved his boxers from earlier. She’d noticed a Post-it note on it last night that read, “Welcome, make yourself at home. If I find your clothes in here then I kno
w you intend on staying more than a night.”
Assefa hadn’t written the note, for he hadn’t even been in town for the last two weeks and had no idea she intended to move in with him until he’d already taken off on his Alaskan assignment. Besides, her special agent had too much class to write his feelings on a Post-it. No, that had to be the idea of…well, she didn’t know, probably Mr. Siddig or another household staffer. But the words and sentiment were all Assefa’s.
She hadn’t unpacked last night. Was she planning on staying more than a night? Had her feelings about Assefa and their future together changed? Did she even know what future she wanted with him? Sanura had too many questions, just too many damnably complicated questions for one morning. Shaking her head, Sanura grabbed one of her rolling suitcases.
She rummaged through the largest of the four cases until she found the ingredients to make a decent outfit. It was an atypical June day in Virginia, with storm clouds threatening overhead and a cool wind cutting across the Potomac. So, Sanura dressed in comfortable flare-cut black jeans, a short-sleeve, baby-blue shirt, and a black pair of easy-on, easy-off recovery tennis shoes intended for versatility, comfort, style, and durability. Perfect for what she had in mind.
Sanura headed for the bedroom door, intent on exploring the grounds of Assefa’s estate when her cell phone rang. She managed to run to the dark-gray leather chair where she’d dropped her oversized pocketbook the night before and dig the phone out before the caller was thrown into voice mail.
“Hi, Cyn,” she said, having seen her name appear on the phone’s brightly lit screen.
“I need you to come home, right away, Sanura.”
At her friend’s shaky voice, her heart began to race. “Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Eric, he’s sick again and—”
“I’ll be right there.” Understanding dawned. “Tell Eric I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hung up, her face taut, mind already in Baltimore.
Hoisting her pocketbook onto a shoulder, Sanura turned. There stood Assefa, fully dressed and standing in the threshold. She silently walked to and then moved past him and into the outer room, not stopping until she reached the door that led to the upstairs hallway.
“Are you coming?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, a disturbingly long pause followed. And Sanura didn’t even want to know if Assefa had retreated behind his FBI mask, so she kept her back to him, expecting the worst if their eyes met. When he spoke, instead of the frigidity she knew him capable of, his voice was a languid tide—deceptive in its calm fluidity.
“Be. Sure.”
Those two words, she knew, went beyond her single question, her invitation. Be. Sure. Yes, he was referring to them and their future as a couple. Was she sure, could she ever be totally sure of something as monumental as trusting another with her heart?
“I’m sure.” She turned to face him. And, thank the gods, he wore no mask, but neither was he smiling. “Are you?”
“Of course.” Quick. Certain. The man was always so sure of his mind, his heart.
Well, Sanura could be as well.
“Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Assefa and Sanura sat quietly in the limousine. Neither had said a word to the other for most of the ride into Maryland from Virginia. Assefa ventured a look at her and the expanse of black, leather seat between them.
“I think if I was contagious you would’ve caught it by now.”
Sanura opened eyes that had been closed for the last forty-five minutes, blinking at Assefa as if she’d forgotten they shared the same space. “Ah, what did you say?”
“I was wondering if I smell or have bad breath.”
“What are you talking about?”
He gestured to the space between them. “You can be honest. Feel free to tell me I need a breath mint or the use of a stronger deodorant.”
“I guess you consider that funny,” she said, her lips lifting in a small smile.
Assefa took that smile as a narrow opening and moved closer. “I’ve been known to be funny on occasion, but it isn’t something I’ve been accused of often. In fact, I’ve been told I have no sense of humor at all and can be quite anal.”
“Now, that I believe.”
Humor. Much better.
Like any driven agent, Assefa asked the question uppermost in his mind. “How long will you be upset with me? Your silence and distance aren’t exactly the way I’d hope to start the new phase of our relationship. In spite of that, every time I look at you, I keep having the most sinful thoughts.” He drew even closer. “Do you want to know what I’ve been thinking about during this ride, beyond what I can say or do to convince you to forgive me?”
“I’m no longer upset, and I wasn’t intentionally ignoring you.”
Well, Sanura was full of surprises. She’d invited him on this little trip of hers, not bothering to tell him why she wanted him to accompany her to Cynthia Garvey’s home. After their disagreement, he thought it best to give Sanura space. So, he grabbed a few items from his closet and went to the room across the hall to take another shower and to dress. By the time he’d finished dressing, Assefa was done with giving her space. He’d wanted to know whether she intended to stay or if he needed to have Mr. Siddig arrange to have her personal belongings returned to Baltimore.
“Okay, why have you been so quiet then? And why are you no longer upset with me?” He had to know. It wasn’t enough for her to simply admit that she was no longer angry over the secret he’d kept from her. Women, from his experience, didn’t work that way. Less than two hours was scarcely enough time for a woman to forgive a man for some perceived transgression.
“I have a sick friend who needs my help, and I was meditating to focus my thoughts and chi for the work I have to do when we arrive.”
“Cynthia’s husband Eric,” Assefa said, remembering the one-sided conversation he’d overheard.
“He’s been sick for a while, and there’s a ritual I perform that brings him temporary relief.”
“His wife’s a witch, why doesn’t she perform the ritual herself?”
“She can’t,” Sanura said without explanation.
Assefa waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. He waited longer. He had nothing else to do, so he could afford the luxury of patience. But Sanura, for all her psychology training, was, in the end, a fire witch. She wasn’t rash. But a witch’s emotions weren’t coiled as tightly as a were-cat’s.
“Stop looking at me like that and being so annoyingly patient,” she snapped two minutes later, the way he knew she eventually would.
“Would you rather I shook you until you told me the rest?”
Sanura considered him, eyebrows arching at a charming angle, front teeth gently biting her lower lip. “Anyway,” she said with a huff of mild annoyance, “I discovered a long time ago that I can cast spells and perform rituals other witches cannot.”
“That’s because you’re the fire witch of legend. You should be able to do things other witches can’t.”
“Do you really believe in the prophecy?”
“All I know for sure is that your unique hair and eye coloring matches the paintings I’ve seen of the fire witch of legend on the walls of the two ancient temples for Oya in Meroë.”
“But does that make it true?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But in my line of work, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“Hell.”
“Yeah, hell.”
A long pause invaded the limo once again, and he pondered what it would mean to them and the world if the prophecy actually came true. Nothing good ever resulted when two powerful witches and their familiars battled. Worse, for all the faith Assefa had in the existence of gods, he didn’t trust any being who wielded absolute power. Lord Acton had it right. Absolute power did tend to corrupt absolutely.
Sanura shifted her body so that she faced him. “We do have enough time for me to explain
why I’m no longer upset with you if you still want to know.”
“I haven’t changed my mind about wanting to know.”
“I thought about the questions you asked me before I went into the bathroom. While I’d like to think I would never judge someone based on the actions of another or media propaganda, I’m not entirely sure. Witches conceal their identity because of fear of how they’ll be treated…or rather mistreated. And what you did wasn’t much different from what I do when I wear my moonstone.” Sanura took his hand in hers. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone, not even my mother or Cyn.”
Her hands were soft but also unnaturally warm. The heat radiating from them seemed to reflect the nervous haze shimmering in her faux brown eyes.
“Ever since I was born, with the red-gold hair and green eyes, I’ve been tagged with the label of Fire Witch of Legend. I was constantly the center of attention, treated as if my every word and deed were spun gold. As a kid, all the attention made me feel special.”
Assefa knew all about feeling “special.”
“My parents didn’t treat me like that, of course, but they couldn’t control the way others viewed me.”
“And how did they view you?”
Perspiration now moistened his hands, the heat stronger but not yet painful.
“As if I was their savior, Oya reborn in witch flesh.”
“A heavy burden for a child.”
“It was, but I never truly felt special. I felt like a fraud, a freak, and positive everyone had it wrong. Sure, casting spells came ridiculously easy for me. By age ten, I could outcast all my teachers. By fifteen, my skill surpassed most of the members of the Witch Council of Elders.”
“Except your mother’s.”
She released his hands. Thank the gods for that, because Sanura’s fire spirit was too close to the surface. And, from the way she was staring at him, Assefa didn’t think Sanura was aware of the fact.
