Given

• Dedication
  
• 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
  
• Epilogue
  
• About the Authors
  

To my uncle, Arthur Louis Smith, who wooed many women with the Song of Solomon. I have to assume that heaven is full of women with good legs, or you would've come back by now.

—Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

As with most of my works, this book is dedicated to my mother, Gloria Belle Riley. Thank you for everything, Mom. I love and miss you. Word of advice: Steer clear of one Arthur Louis Smith.

—Lisa G. Riley

Authors' Note

The Gist Settlement in Ohio is an actual historical location. We chose to use this historic town because of its close proximity to Ripley, Ohio, a verified hotbed of abolitionists and a station on the Underground Railroad. There is no evidence that there was any resistance activity in the Gist Settlement, but it is a well-established historical fact that most all-black towns were sanctuaries for escaping slaves. Thus, we believe that no damage is done to the history of the town to use it in this manner. All characters and activities as described in this book are fictional, aside from well-known historical figures that are mentioned such as Paul Cuffee and Frederick Douglass. Cuffee did establish one of many colonies for free blacks on the west coast of Africa, and Douglass's actions are legendary.

West African plains

Sometime in the first millennium of the Common Era

Acrid smoke darkened the already pitch-black sky, swallowing the screams. The blades rose and fell, fueled by relentless fervor, and with each stroke blood glistened a brighter black in the scant light.
Earth must be wiped clean of all the evil ones, kith and kin, so humanity can survive
. Man, woman, and child fell before the onslaught as the Thakathi—death bringers and a source of disease, pestilence, and destruction—were slain with the same lack of mercy they showed their prey.

Obaluaye
, who commanded disease and death and who could heal disease and death, could not be ignored. And it was Obaluaye who commanded: “
They all must perish
.”

So the task was put to the Eshu, the witch smellers, for they could find the malevolent ones no matter how clever the Thakathi's subterfuge. The Eshu alone possessed the power to become any animal they willed, and they alone were strong enough to smite the witches from the face of the earth.

The battle had been joined long before these executioners drew breath, but now this village, one of the last Thakathi enclaves, was being put to the knife and the torch. The piteous cries of innocent animals held captive as familiars joined the screams of their masters. Obaluaye's orders were inviolable: nothing must leave that village alive. And so the slaughter continued until the blood joined the red dust of the road in an unspeakable mélange.

And then a burst of light brightened the sky until it shone like noon, and the smell of ozone and sulfur lingered in the air. With that, the Eshu knew immediately that their mission had failed. Like every other Eshu mission before, they had failed to exterminate the last of the Thakathi. Despair washed over them.

As long as one lived, it was as though the slaughter had never happened. Pain would come again, so piercing that death was a respite. Always the Thakathi brought pain with them for the suffering of living beings powered their spells.

The Eshu looked about them, knowing that they could not rest. Obaluaye was ruthless. As long as the Thakathi survived, so would pestilence. The Eshu looked at one another, the blood of the evil ones still dripping from their long knives, and they saw nothing but death and death and death.

Their failure that night would resonate for centuries. The Thakathi's retribution would be long in coming, but it would be chillingly effective, even traveling with the Eshu to what would come to be known as the New World. Only Obaluaye could give them respite—and that was not forthcoming.

Gist Settlement, Ohio

1850

Mary Katherine awoke with a start. She lay still on the soft feather bed, disoriented, as she wondered what had awakened her from a sound slumber. Then there it was again: the unmistakable chime of the bell she'd had installed to alert her when cargo was being delivered. She shook her head to clear it of sleep's lingering cobwebs. Cargo? But there was to be no cargo tonight, which meant something had gone wrong. Unwilling to waste time dressing in such an emergency, she just threw her bed robe over her soft cotton nightgown. Though her nightgown wasn't nearly as voluminous as the one she wore in winter, with the robe it provided adequate covering. Her hair hung down her back in four plaits as thick as a man's wrist. She didn't waste time with it either and left it improperly hanging. Emergencies of this nature trumped etiquette.

Carrying a specially shuttered lantern designed to emit as little light as possible, she rushed down the stairs to her cellar. Even though the house was empty, she automatically walked close to the wall on her descent to lessen the possibility of one of the risers squeaking. Fortunately she'd made the trip in near darkness many times before because she didn't dare light any additional lamps. It was never possible to know whether her house was being watched—so she always assumed that it was.