Black Lotus 2

by K'wan

  “Can I borrow him for a minute?” Magic asked Audrey.

  “Sure, I need to use the little girls’ room anyhow.” She got up.

  “Don’t keep that ass away too long.” Ben slapped it as she was walking off, then turned to Magic. “What’s good?”

  “You tell me. What in God’s name would make you think it was a good idea to invite that muthafucka Tay to the grand opening?” Magic was livid.

  “You still on that? C’mon, man. I know you guys got some unresolved issues over him fucking with Sable now, but—”

  “But shit! This ain’t got nothing to do with Sable. This is about Tay being as hot as a firecracker right now after that clusterfuck of a job! Do you know what this looks like?”

  “Yeah, it looks like we don’t abandon our own when shit gets a little hectic,” Ben responded. “Regardless of what’s going on, Tay is still one of us.”

  “Tay is a walking lightning rod, and I don’t want us to get hit when it strikes.”

  “Okay, Magic.” Ben put up his hands. “You don’t want Tay around the club. I get that. My bad. Still, I think it’s a bad idea to cut him off completely when he can still be of use to us.”

  “Tay can’t do shit for me but keep his distance. At this point he’s a liability, and anyone associated with him is likely to be a casualty of what’s coming his way. We got too much riding to go down with the ship.”

  “I can dig it. I was just thinking—”

  “Like a nigga who could be tempted to do something reckless.” There was an icy chill to Magic’s voice. “Ben, you know the game can’t be played with one foot in and one foot out. If you got aspirations to do some moonlighting, there’s the door.” He pointed at the exit.

  “Magic, I know how hard you’ve worked to clean up your image. You even brought me in and let me eat with you. Why would I do anything to fuck it up?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Magic said sharply. “I’ve bled for this shit here, Ben. Put it all on the line to see my dream come true, and I’d do anything to keep it intact, even if it means taking out one of my own.”

  “That a threat?”

  “Only to those who threaten what I’ve built. Feel me? Ben, you’re a loyal dude, and that’s one of the things I love about you, but don’t let that make you blind to the bigger picture.”

  “And what is the bigger picture, Magic?”

  Magic’s eyes drifted across the room. He spotted Chancellor King huddled in the shadows by the bar, staring at him. “Survival.”

  Chapter 9

  The next day was a drag, and Kahllah settled into bed very early. All she wanted was blissful sleep. It didn’t happen. The moment she closed her eyes, she was plagued by a recurring nightmare that she hadn’t had in years.

  She was a girl again, barely into her teens and still an initiate in the Brotherhood of Blood. Most initiates were given to the Brotherhood before hitting puberty, but she’d entered slightly older. This was back before she inherited her floral calling card, and wore a simple mask of black plaster, same as her peers. During that period, Kahllah had still been struggling to find herself. She’d entered the Brotherhood with two strikes against her. The first was being a legacy, as her adopted father, Priest, was already a member; the second was being female. Traditionally, members of the Brotherhood were male. In all her years with the Order, she had only ever known two other women to serve. This meant that she had to work twice as hard to prove that she belonged, and most times even that wasn’t good enough. No matter how hard she tried, she was always reminded that her gender made her lesser. Priest would urge her to stay focused and not to feed into what the others said, but it did little to ease Kahllah’s mounting frustrations over unfair treatment.

  One day these frustrations came to a boil, and that was when everything changed for her. She was participating in an afternoon sparring class with some of the boys. Their weapons: kendo swords. They were bamboo and hardly lethal, but could still inflict a good amount of damage if you hit your opponent the right way. Their instructor for the day was a woman code-named Tiger Lily. She was a legend within the halls of the Order and one of its most highly decorated members. In the beginning Kahllah had idolized Lily, going out of her way to earn her approval, but the woman couldn’t seem to stand the young girl, for reasons that Kahllah wouldn’t discover until years later. The sparring match would be her opportunity to finally earn the respect of the elder assassin.

  Kahllah had always been gifted in swordplay. She dispatched the first two boys set against her swiftly and efficiently, showcasing a broad array of parries, thrusts, and slashes. Neither opponent lasted more than a minute, and the second even managed to get his wrist broken when he clumsily tried to block her strike. She finished her little display by twirling her wooden sword and taking up a defensive stance. From behind her black mask, her eyes washed over the initiates in attendance as if daring one of them to step up next.

  “Well done, little bruja,” Tiger Lily said in her thick Spanish accent. Kahllah had made it very clear that she hated that nickname. Wearing no mask that day, Lily allowed them a rare glimpse of her face. She was older and very attractive, with long black hair just starting to gray. Her skin was smooth and tanned, as if she spent her days basking in the sun instead of toiling in the stronghold under the mountain with the rest of them. Hanging from the custom belt at her waist were two metallic tiger claws. Kahllah had heard plenty of stories about the damage these claws could inflict, and could only imagine what her victims must’ve felt when they fell to their cold touch.

  “The Order and my faith have made me strong,” Kahllah said. “My weapon is an extension of my very soul, and will always strike true when in service of my Order.”

  “I’ve seen better,” Lily said dismissively, and began walking away.

  “If there are any who claim to be better than me, let them come forward, no matter their level or rank.”

  Lily turned abruptly and gave her a crooked grin. She grabbed one of the practice swords off the wall and tossed it to Kahllah. “How well will you do when you’re not swinging a broomstick?”

  The young man Lily put her against next was tall and as thin as a wisp. A black glove covered his left hand. While most initiates of the Order were forced to wear the same black masks, his was white with a golden palm carved into the center. The fact that he had already earned his totem spoke to his skill, though his legend had been whispered in the dorms even before he had arrived. Back then Kahllah had known him as Seven-Palms. It was a moniker he had earned because of his lethal hands. It was said that Seven-Palms was so fast that he could land seven blows in the time it took others to launch one. He had been away the last three years, studying under Brotherhood elders around the globe. He’d only come to the mountain stronghold at Lily’s request, to serve as her apprentice. Kahllah had always hoped that the honor would fall to her, and the fact that it had been handed to an outsider created a resentment in her toward a boy she hardly knew.

  “You may want to arm yourself,” Kahllah said, noticing that Seven-Palms hadn’t picked up a sword.

  “No need. I want to feel the softness of your body with my own hands before I break it.” His reply added fuel to the already-building fire in Kahllah’s gut. Like his mentor, he wasn’t taking her seriously. She’d make him regret this.

  Kahllah and Seven-Palms moved around each other in a circle, each assessing the other for weak points. He kept his fighting stance loose, one arm tucked back and ready to fire.

  “Are you two going to dance or fight?” Tiger Lily taunted. “Come on, little bruja!”

  Tired of hearing the elder’s mouth, Kahllah decided it was time to close it. Her strike was as swift as the wind, but Seven-Palms moved at a speed that seemed almost unnatural. Twice Kahllah found herself hacking at the air. On her next attempt, Seven-Palms knocked her off-balance and struck the back of her head. It felt like being hit with a lead pipe; the force made spots dance before her eyes. She retaliat
ed with a series of combinations that got him to backpedal. When she had him off-balance, she jabbed the blade at his face, intent on blinding him. At the last moment, he raised his gloved hand. Kahllah expected to see the blade split his palm, but instead it stopped as if it had struck a wall, sending a shock wave through the sword and her arm. It made sense now: Seven-Palms didn’t need a weapon because he was a weapon.

  In her studies, Kahllah had come across old scrolls that told of the discipline Seven-Palms was using. It was called pugilism—a technique that hardened 99 percent of the skin, making it resistant to most blades. She’d thought that the technique was just a myth, written into the Brotherhood scrolls to add to their legend, but Seven-Palms was proof that it was quite real.

  Kahllah came at him in a whirlwind of slashes and jabs. She landed several good blows, but the blade seemed to have little to no effect. If she planned to beat him, she needed to break his discipline, which meant finding that one percent of flesh that hadn’t been hardened. It would act as a kill switch. But her arms began to tire, and she could feel herself getting winded. Kahllah figured she was as good as beaten. It was then that she picked up on something. Every time she swung at Seven-Palms, there was one part of his body that he made sure to protect: the crook of his arm, near where his elbow and bicep connected. It was a long shot, but it was all she had.

  Kahllah faked like she was going to cut him high and then diverted her strike to the area she’d pinpointed. The tip of the blade stuck his skin. At first there was nothing . . . then a small red stain appeared on his shirt. She had found it! Seeing his own blood made Seven-Palms’s focus slip, and his next few swings were wild and angry. The initiates who had been quietly watching the match were now chattering away, in awe of the epic battle. This may have been only a sparring match to them, but Kahllah was trying to make a statement.

  Seven-Palms fired a punch at Kahllah that, had she not dodged at the last second, would’ve broken her jaw, if not taken her head off her shoulders. He was playing for keeps. Moving more off instinct than thought, Kahllah whirled, bringing her blade down with everything she had. The practice sword bit into his arm with a sickening sound. It tore messily through skin and muscle, only pausing upon striking bone. Completely in a frenzy now, she yanked the blade free and somehow cut him again, this time across a leg, dropping him to one knee.

  Tiger Lily called for her to stand down, but Kahllah was too far gone to hear anything but the blood pumping in her own ears. Beating Lily’s toy wasn’t enough—she intended to break it. She honed in on the exposed flesh of his throat and struck.

  Seven-Palms would’ve lost his head that day had fate not intervened. Tiger Lily suddenly appeared between them. Her iron claws grasped the tip of Kahllah’s blade. Kahllah tried to yank it free, but the older woman’s grip was unyielding.

  “I said enough!” Lily barked. “This is a sparring match, not mortal combat. You almost killed your brother.”

  “And I would’ve, had his wet nurse not come to his rescue,” Kahllah growled, her adrenaline still pumping.

  Tiger Lily released the sword and shook her head sadly. “You are good, Lotus, but you will never be great. You lack the focus that is required of those who serve the Order.”

  “Is it that I lack focus or that my presence here makes you insecure?” Kahllah challenged, immediately regretting her words. She’d spoken more out of anger than actually wanting to challenge Tiger Lily, but the gauntlet had been laid.

  Lily’s response was quiet but immediate—she sliced Kahllah across the gut with her claws. The talons were so sharp, Kahllah didn’t even realize she’d been cut until she looked down and saw the trails of red across her stomach. She raised her sword to try and mount a defense, but the cheap metal was no match for Tiger Lily’s custom claws. The blade broke in half and left her defenseless.

  “Little bruja,” she flexed her claws, “I’m going to make you scream.”

  Tiger Lily held true to her word. Kahllah no longer had to wonder what victims of those claws felt, because she found out firsthand. For the first time in ages, Kahllah screamed.

  Chapter 10

  “Kahllah . . . Kahllah!” She was pulled from her nightmare by someone shouting her name. Her brain was still half-asleep, but when she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders, her reflexes did what came naturally. Kahllah slapped the hands away and shot out her palms.

  “Fuck!” someone shouted, followed by the sound of something breaking.

  Her head whipped around, heart beating rapidly. It took a few seconds for Kahllah to realize that she was in someone’s bedroom and not the sparring room. Phantom burns ran down her stomach and back, where the claws had left scars that she still carried. That was a day she’d never forget; Tiger Lily had seen to that. She never saw Seven-Palms again. Infection had set in on the wound she gave him and he lost the use of his arm. In her attempt to spite Tiger Lily, she had ruined his chances of advancing in the Brotherhood. Nobody wanted a one-armed assassin. What she’d done to him was the one thing she regretted about that day.

  The voice drew her attention. “Is it safe for me to get up now?” She had been trapped so firmly in her dream that she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone—she was, in fact, in his Harlem apartment. His six-foot, naked frame was crammed in the corner at an awkward angle. He was bleeding from a thin cut on his forearm, from the glass candleholder he had broken during his fall after she’d struck him.

  “Dominic!” Kahllah gasped.

  Dominic was her little secret. She had met him while digging into the Jerome Yates case. Dominic was one of the attorneys who’d been working to get him released from prison. Their common crusade to seek justice for Jerome had them spending a lot of time together. She couldn’t remember how many late nights they’d spent going over his case files. Dominic had been fresh out of law school, hungry and eager to champion the wrongly convicted. Kahllah reasoned that was what had attracted her to him, his passion. She couldn’t recall when it turned sexual. It was like something that had always existed between them, instead of a wine-fueled late night where both of them had some stress they needed to get out. It felt good, so why stop? A commitment would’ve complicated things, so they kept it what it was, a booty call.

  “Sleeping with you is getting more and more dangerous, you know.” Dominic pulled himself back onto the bed. He was athletically built, and worked out a few times a week. A tribal tattoo snaked across his well-defined bicep. Though not quite chocolate, he was too dark to be considered light skinned. His chin was covered by a fine stubble that wouldn’t grow much past that point; it hadn’t in the time she’d known him, which sometimes felt like forever.

  “I’m sorry, Dominic. I was having—”

  “I know, a nightmare,” he cut her off. “I’ve been watching you sleep long enough to know when it’s fitful. From the way you were screaming, it must’ve been intense.”

  “You have no idea.” Kahllah ran her hand over her T-shirt, feeling the scars beneath.

  “Then give me an idea. K, I know we agreed to keep this thing casual, but that doesn’t mean I’m not here if you ever need to talk.”

  “And what makes you think I need to talk?”

  “Maybe the fact that you’re fighting in your sleep every time we spend the night together; or the fact that, in the months since we’ve been seeing each other, you’ve never taken your shirt off in front of me. You got a third boob you’re trying to hide?” He reached for her shirt and she reflexively jerked back. “See what I mean? Kahllah, your actions speak of somebody who has clearly been hurt in her life. That’s a lot of baggage to carry around. Let somebody else help you with that load.”

  “I thought the only loads we were worried about were the ones let go between our legs.” Kahllah rolled off the bed and headed to Dominic’s closet, where she kept some clothes. She pulled out a pair of sweats and sneakers.

  “Whenever I try and figure out what’s going on with you, you either make a joke, change the subject, or run of
f. I’m getting two out of three tonight, huh?”

  Kahllah paused her dressing and looked at Dominic. She wished she could say that she blamed him. The harder he tried, the farther she pushed him away. “I know you probably think I’m being a world-class bitch, but my history is complicated. How can I put something into words that I’m still trying to process myself?”

  “So, what, I’m supposed to just sit by and watch you suffer through whatever you’re dealing with and not feel in a way about it?”

  “I’d think less of you if you didn’t worry, and I’m thankful. Truly, I am. But I got this.” Kahllah pulled on her hoodie. “I’m about to go for a run.”

  “Why can’t you just let me in?”

  “Because not every cause is yours to champion,” she replied flatly.

  * * *

  For early evening, there were surprisingly few people on the streets, which Kahllah was happy about. She had no direction; she just wanted to run and think. Jogging gave her the space to clear her head.

  She hated to be cold to Dominic, but it was a necessary evil. Though they had agreed to keep things loose, she knew he was starting to get attached. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t have strong feelings for him, but she knew that pursuing a relationship wasn’t even a remote possibility. Kahllah had done a great bit of wrong in her years of service to the Brotherhood. There were people who would love to find a way to hurt her, which was why she stayed clear of attachments. Dominic would be kept at arm’s length just like everything else she cared about.

  As she jogged, she thought about how screwed up her head had been since she’d seen the pictures of that van. When she glimpsed those claw marks, it brought back memories buried in the deepest parts of her mind. There was only one person she knew who wielded claws able to do that kind of damage: Tiger Lily. But the old hag had been dead for years, or so it had been reported. Tiger Lily had been branded a traitor when it was discovered that she’d been stealing Brotherhood technology and selling it on the black market to the highest bidders. She had supposedly been killed while trying to orchestrate a rebellion in some developing South American country. Kahllah would never wish death on another member of the Order, but she couldn’t say that she was unhappy when she got word of Lily’s passing. It was more likely that this was some copycat rather than Kahllah’s past coming back to haunt her. She tried to remind herself that what had happened to those people in that van wasn’t her business, but she was having trouble shaking it.