Minion

 

 

 

 

 

M
INION

A VAMPIRE
HUNTRESS
LEGEND

 

L. A. BANKS

ST. MARTIN
'
S GRIFFIN
NEW YORK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MINION
. Copyright © 2003 by Leslie Esdaile Banks. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

 

www.stmartins.com

 

Book design by Jonathan Bennett

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Banks, L. A.

        Minion : a vampire huntress legend / L.A. Banks.—1st ed.

            p. cm.—(The dark legends begin ; bk. 1)

        ISBN 0-312-31680-1

        1. Women artists—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.

 

   PS3602.A64M56     2003

   813'.6—dc21

2003042042

 

First Edition: June 2003

 

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

 

 

 

 

 

 

This book is dedicated to those people who believe in things unseen and have walked by faith for so long that it's second nature. All of us know the elders who have that unshakable belief that there's a spiritual plane, and without those individuals holding the line, who knows what shape this world would be in? And yet while predators come in all forms, and have besieged our communities on many levels, there still seems to be a force that keeps a total eclipse of the light at bay. These elders teach, impart quiet wisdom, and ready another generation to take the baton as they pass it.

On the surface it may appear that the battle is a hopeless cause, and that there are no young, strong replacements . . . one could easily buy into “the illusion” that all is lost. Not so, because there are so many young warriors out there whose names we have yet to learn, and so many old guardians still keeping the lantern lit. Some say it's myth, others call it legend—but I have seen these people moving in mysterious ways. Therefore, do not believe in the smallness of things, believe in the light within.

In his inauguration speech, Nelson Mandela said it best: “Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness,
that most frightens us. . . . As we are liberated from our own fear our presence automatically liberates others.” Keep your lights on!

To my spiritual team of women warriors of light, I thank you: Mom, Aunt Julia, Aunt Hettie, Aunt Ruby, Aunt Ruth, Grandmom Pete, Grandmom Thornton—y'all were awesome while on the planet! Count them . . . there were seven, who have now crossed over into the light . . . and who keep me there in my darkest moments.
Thank you, Father God
.

 

Special acknowledgments go to: My editor, Monique Patterson—whose creative vision and chutzpah allowed this project to be realized; my agent, Manie Barron of William Morris Agency, Inc.—the crazy man who dreamt up and pitched the concept! To the
Evening Star
writers of Philadelphia: Hilary, Kamal, Karen, Jenice, and Sheila . . . thanks, guys, for guiding me and reading scary stories that nobody wanted to read. To my sister, Liza Peterson, a spoken-word, hip-hop artist/actress extraordinaire! Thanks, sis, for keeping it real. Last, but not least, thanks to my husband and children for putting up with my dark side, my late nights, and total immersion in the realms of otherworldliness while I went into the mind-set and half-turned personae of vampiri in order to create a story about keeping the light.

 

 

 

 

 

M
INION

 

 

 

Twenty Years Ago
New Orleans

 

S
ARAH
R
ICHARDS
stood in the middle of her bedroom trying to console her infant who was wailing at the top of her tiny lungs. Yes, she knew what pain was, and wanted to cry out as much as her baby was carrying on right now. Instead, silent tears slid down the sides of her face as she turned her chin up to the ceiling and shut her eyes. How, Lord, was a preacher's wife supposed to deal with the fact that her husband was having an affair?

For months she'd denied the obvious. But now her husband's lies regarding his whereabouts had been found out. He'd even violated the sanctity of their home by bringing this woman to their bed—their marital bed. Evidence, in the form of the marriage-violator's perfume and blood, still clung to the sheets. She'd only been gone an hour on a church errand her husband had contrived for her to do. One hour, and now this?

Sarah covered her mouth and turned away, hastening from the sight and stench of the filth, taking her baby girl to lay her in her crib. With her hands trembling, she left the screaming infant, whose wails intensified as she turned away from her. Shame burned through her. How could she call the church elders, or talk to Mother Stone about something like this? How
did a preacher's wife, the first lady of the church, force her lips to say that her husband, the Reverend Richards, had lost his natural black mind?

Amid the now hiccupping bleats from the nursery, Sarah became very still as she heard movement in the small clapboard house below her. There were two voices. One soft, seductive; the other was that of her husband. He'd brought this whore back to his home again! Once was not enough? Did he think she was so foolish as to run another church errand to an elderly neighbor, at night, again, so he could be doing God knows what? Couldn't he hear his own child screaming her lungs out—and wouldn't he know that
his wife
was upstairs? Did he have so little respect for her, or was it that this whore's pull was that strong?

Tears of bitter rage and hurt stung Sarah's eyes, the pain of her acknowledgment almost crushing her rib cage as the muscles around her heart constricted. This woman, this transgressor, had a hold on her husband that not even the Lord could seem to break . . . because, Father God knew, she'd prayed on it from the first inkling of doubt. Now, her husband had brought a violator back into his house?
Her
house. A home designed for a minister, his wife, and children, across the street from hallowed ground? Sarah felt her knees begin to buckle as she envisioned the faces of loyal parishioners who hung on the good Reverend's every word . . . just as she once had. This house was not a home, nor was it a place where she or her child could find peace.

She resisted her first instinct, which was to barrel downstairs to confront her husband and the heifer that had crossed her threshold. But something slithered inside Sarah's soul and gave her pause. The green-eyed monster raised its ugly head. She had to know what this hussy looked like . . . who was this woman that could break up hearth and home using something that all women had? She wanted to spy and know the things her husband
said to this home-wrecker. What lies had Armand Richards told?

Silently, like a thief in the night, Sarah Richards crept down the hall, hugging the wall. She knew this house by heart and easily avoided the creaky floorboards. Stretching her body, she clung to the very paint as she peered around the corner of the landing. The baby's cries escalated, her pulse rising along with it. She held her breath as she rounded the corner—and froze.

A tall, handsome, male figure the color of café au lait and dressed in an impeccable black suit, ran a palm across her husband's jaw. The caress was sensuality personified. The sight stole the scream from Sarah's lungs, as her husband closed his eyes and dropped his head back in a display of sheer feminine submission. Sarah took the stairs one by one, clutching the handrail to keep from passing out. She couldn't breathe as she watched in abject horror while this man . . . a man . . . not a woman . . . embraced her husband like a lover and lowered his head to Armand's exposed throat.

When she heard her husband groan, something fragile within her snapped.

Everything became a blur. Her feet flew down the stairs; her screams outstripped her infant daughter's. The words became a chant—“God, no! Not that!” She would crucify this beast, the fouler of her household! There was no rational thought as she hurled herself forward trying to grab hold of his broad shoulders. She wanted blood. A pound of flesh! But the agile intruder simply swept her husband up in his arms as though he were sweeping away his bride, and deftly slipped through the door with him.

Sarah gave chase into the front yard, screaming, crying, hollering behind them, but only the night heard her. She spun in a crazed circle, searching the darkness for them. Where had this
lover taken her husband? And so quickly? Sarah fell to her knees in the gravel driveway. The stones cut through her nightgown and pierced her knees. Bloodied, she lay outstretched, sobbing a futile prayer. A man? It was a man. Dear Jesus in Heaven, no! A man, gorgeous, with jet-black, penetrating eyes, a regal carriage, flawless skin, thick, black lashes, onyx curls that would shame any woman . . . a man . . . please no . . . a man that stood six foot two, with a solid frame, and strong enough to lift her husband as if Armand was a baby! No!