Retribution, Devotion (8 page)

The beauty of it was so strong that the Medusa almost clapped when she noticed the Mad King suddenly gripping his own throat upon his throne. His dry, husky gasps echoed in the shocked and silent chamber.

“Remember where to point your anger, dear friend, when carelessness is founded in the root of this house. Your daughter is the only one who followed our laws,” Jacques hissed in constrained anger.

With that simple sentence, Nydia watched him push back from the council table then stand, disappearing his cup and bowing his head. His lips parted to smile before giving an exasperated sigh. She watched the man brush his hands down his attire and straighten his tie. He ran a calm hand over his bald head then held his hand out for a yawning Brandon. “We are pleased that you requested our services. We will debrief with the Princess and her team about her victory, as well as your insurgent Mr. Mer'ce about the intel he has gathered. We will work through deciphering the rest of that . . . tome you successfully found with my son, my King. We will also correct the errors, on which you failed to educate your daughter. Do remember to keep building the ranks for the One Battle. The horns have sounded and our time to play is now.”

Calmly moving around the room, Jacques slid his hand in his pocket. Addressing the King over his shoulder, he strolled to the door. “Now please continue with your meeting; it was quite educational.”

Brandon wrapped his arms around his father's ankle, gleaming with a giggle, “Byeeeee, naughty Unkie! Papa, will we play with his head soon?”

The pair disappeared in the shadows and Nydia was impressed. This was one of those moments that made her actually like the bastard. Leaning back in her chair, the Medusa crossed her legs, inwardly gloatingly grinning.
Did Jacques just challenge the Mad King and win?

Nydia often forgot that, although he was King and was a Fallen Elder, he was not an Original Fallen. He was created, unlike her mistress who was born a Cursed half breed. Her mother, the former Queen, was Light bred but given the Dark Bite. Because of this, it meant that King Caius still had to report to higher authorities and if he lapsed at any time, those authorities could do away with him at any time. In Cursed society, they had a King, but like in the earthly realm, Parliament could be a motherfucker.

Lloyd Price soulfully crooned, “
C'est si bon,
it's so good.” The music connected to the Mystic energy in the room.

Calvin ran his lesion-covered hands over his blades, tracing each carved insignia. The curling filigree breathed with illuminating life upon the blessed steel as he whispered to it, warming the surface with Slayer rune songs his Nana used to sing him as a child. Songs passed down through his family reaching back to the creation of the heavens. His green pupils darkened. Before him lay the hand of the Medusa. Preserved in gauze blessed by Elders and doused in a combination of various oils and holy water, the hand looked harmless. But he knew it was still as lethal as it was when attached to its owner. Inhaling, he smelled the poison within, nestled in the blade-sharp nails. He now had an agent to use to make more healing salves against her lethal poisons, but really, it didn't matter. He had a feeling she would change the chemistry of the poison anyway.

Reaching out to touch the preserved hand, he paused over it. His fingertips almost grazed its resting surface before he opted to reach for the bottle of anointing oils resting near it instead. His eyes never left the hand while he tucked the clear vial in his jeans and closed the glass case that held his prized possession. She had a beautiful hand. A line of raised scales adorned her skin as if it were a jeweled hand glove. The end of the shimmering metallic scales formed a point at her middle finger, the rest of her cocoa smooth skin seemingly warm with life.

He couldn't help but think with the flex of his own arms back and forth trying to relieve the tension in his arms. Each cord tightened then constricted causing him to grind his teeth together. Man, his body ached from the battle. Every ligament screamed multitudes of curses due to the work he put in on the battlefield. It relieved him that his blood had survived but not without loss.

The Medusa had almost ended his blood's life. She had almost taken from him what he had vowed in his past lives never to lose: those he loved; and though he didn't lose them this time, his heart muttered something different. Glancing at the pictures on his wall, of Ghanaian war masks, weapons, pictures of the Harlem Renaissance, of 'Nam, his heirlooms, pieces of his past he once had locked away in Society archives to inherit in his next life, lost in his memories he ran the palm of his hand over the scalp of his low Mohawk fade. His mind was shifting over everything that went down these past months and days.

He pulled off his white A-line tank shirt. His fingers traced over the bloody gauze wrapped around his chest and waist. Four reddened gashes rested along his ribcage. His gift with healing always paid off, especially with battling the Medusa and her poison nails. But this time something different happened, something he hadn't expected.

Walking past his calendar, red slashed through days past, counting down the months left to his thirty-second birthday, his dog tags from his past life in 'Nam swung against his chest. He paused to run his hand over a black mahogany carved box sitting on a shelf in his built-in bookshelf. He had made this intricately designed box with his own hands in Ghana. It was his coming into his Guardian transitioning box and his dowry gift. Turning it in his large hands, the carvings gave him comfort while his mind drifted. He had planned to give it to her, which was custom in Society, whoever she was.

A bride gift to his mystery woman with the flowing braided hair decorated in tiny conch shells and a lilting light laugh. He could never see her face. He could only remember holding her and fighting off the Cursed bitten warriors for the neighboring tribe who used to be their allies. He could remember how they flooded his home, kidnapping whom they could then killing the rest. He had centuries to think about why it happened. He had eras to learn that it was due to his tribe being Nephilim and Guardian wealthy. Large numbers of oracles, healers, and slayers made up the village. The land they lived on was blessed by the Most High's own hand and rich in mighty spirits.

His Gran was the High Eldress of the Ashanti village and his Granpops was the Elder over the slayers and guardians. The day his village was destroyed was the day of his transitioning and mate bonding with his mystery love from the neighboring Nephilim village. He remembered holding her hand while they linked souls, given the union soul mark tattooed on his front right shoulder and hers on the side of her ribcage under the curve of her plush breast.

He could remember the proud sensually aroused feelings of seeing her presented to him, but he could never see her face. They were a soul and love match, freely picked for each other and no one else. He remembered his Gran having a flash after weeks of oracles and seers being blocked, her words telling him that she would see him again in a strange land and that he would get his lives back with the awakening of the One Oracle, his own blood.

Calvin's shoulders rolled with the flood of memories. Her Denotation vision paused the wedding. When she opened her electric white bleached eyes, they returned to their amber-green radiance. Later their consummation was interrupted by war. Debris rained around them, bodies went flying. Every Warrior, female and male, took to their weapons. Hand-to-hand combat was his strong point then and his blades, his trusty scythe blades were still in his hands even then. Pure blood demons faced him, as he cut monstrosity after monstrosity apart. Black-red blood covered the sky while it rained down purified by the mystics in the village.

People he loved died around him while he fought until his hands bled. He tried to protect his loved ones and his new bride, who he saw fighting in the beautiful style of a seasoned warrior. He remembered her method of fighting. Strangely she preferred her hands as well, using blades that locked between her fingers as if claws. Her tribe was known for the jaguar claws in fighting he recalled. Her mahogany pupils flash pure white, marking her, a Guardian oracle. She was coming into her maturity. Tradition stated that they would have been linked as one and matured in power together but now it was different, now their world was ending.

His mystery woman sliced and heart snatched demons. Each touch she laid on them caused them to implode into cinders due to her anointing touch. Rain fell then thunder sliced the graying skies as she hurled psalms against the demons that grouped around her. In harmony with her, he dropped down to finish a kill, fangs descending; then they stood back to back.

Briefly glancing over her shoulder at him, her light brown sugar eyes locked with his in love, as they fought side by side. That was all he could see of her were her eyes, her braids, her beautiful syrupy sweat covered coffee bean skin. As for that fight, he couldn't remember it all. He remembered watching his bride being taken, then given the Dark Bite before his eyes. Her blood splayed over his face, while he was bound then taken from her by strange men with pale skin and demon eyes. Men he later learned to be Cursed demons from the Europe nations. Men who took him from his homeland to Louisiana then took his name, replacing it with “boy.” To this day, he hated being addressed as such and he hated the name Cuff. He was only seventeen then.

Thinking back he smirked slowly unwrapping his bloodied dressings, that name, “Boy” and what he had found was the reason he lost his life in the 1920s; well, one reason. His love for music, drinking, food, hunting demons, women, and his anger with the discrimination he lived in the enclave of the Harlem Renaissance were the other reasons he had been caught up. It was also the reason he had died protecting, yet again, his family, this time his great-aunt and uncle. They survived and waited for his rebirth to tell him all he missed, even as he prepared to fight in 'Nam. They begged for him not to, knowing his curse. He loved them and even though he was reborn in the eighties, their natural death still hurt to the point that he missed them to this day.

With a rub of his wrists, he reached to rub at the back of his neck, standing before his mirror in the bathroom. The steam of his shower slowly fogged the glass. The warm healing oils glistening against his skin absorbed into his body with a glow. Memories of the chains that kept him from his mystery woman flashed in his mind. The echoing words from his spirit whispered,
As it was before, so shall it be again.
He closed his eyes then clenched his jaw at the painful memories. That was then. This was now. For now, he had to get his business in order. The anniversary of his death was coming and soon, his light would be over again.

The fact that he always died before his thirty-second birthday was his curse, each time fighting to protect his family and loved ones. He died in Louisiana in the swamps, fighting Cursed who tracked him down and wanted his pregnant wife. Another oracle he had found and loved in those dark times. He lost both her and his life, but not before he sacrificed his light as a Guardian and burned everything around him in the swamps. His self-sacrifice garnered him his rebirth as an Immortal: a downgrade for those Society snobs who'd never set foot on a battlefield, but for him, an honor to get another chance at life. Running his thick tongue over his blunt teeth, he smiled; he did miss his fangs and Guardian ways.

Stepping naked into the shower, his skin sparked with Mystic currents as he turned the shower into a healing rain. Glowing water kissed his cocoa rich skin. Silky currents sank into his wounds, washing away the aches while it sloshed down his back, caressing the hard curve of his rear, then taut, muscled thighs and feet. Running his hands down his face, he lathered with cocoa, Shea butter, aloe, and sandalwood soap. His rough, large, cut-up hands slid over the plains of his flat abs. It felt good to wash away everything. The battle had him still amped. He went in head-on, ready to meet his end to only hit a rebuff. He was sure of it, that this was his battle, yet everything felt surreal. He was protecting his loved ones, fighting for their safety, for the protection of his cousin Sanna but it didn't happen.

At the end of it all, he stood watching the Medusa fall, her eyes locking on his. Something sparked in his awareness, connected to his spirit's memories. He was going crazy, he knew it. Maybe this death would be at the hands of insanity because as the bitch fell, he swore he knew her as surely as he knew himself. She was the woman from his dreams, his lost bride. He also knew something else. While he watched her fall, satisfaction hit him, only to trigger that soul link and instinctively provide a bond of protection to cushion her fall. He couldn't believe that shit. It was eating at him as he thought. He saved her, and in rescuing her, he knew The Dark Lady was protected too and all of it by his hands. Yeah, he was going insane; he had to be. This was nothing but battle weariness, wasn't it?

Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped his towel around his waist then exhaled. He knew he had to talk with Sanna. After witnessing her power, he knew she would be able to help her big cousin for a change. In their Society, the rare order of Oracles—or House of A'lor, Valor in human tongue—had levels, from zero to four. Though Seers and Mystics were never called oracles, their kind still either came from an oracle lineage or would produce a future oracle, which was why the Cursed typically targeted them first. Seers and mystics were level four. Level three belonged to Virtue oracles; these were typically oracles with a stronger gift and were also Guardians, like his lost love.

Level two was what Khamun's mother, oracle Neffer, controlled as Eldress and formally the last of their region's oracles, Dominion. Dominions, if strong enough, could read one's soul. Tell you who your past life was and sometimes awaken your memories. It was restricted to do so, but in emergency cases, Eldress Neffer had done such. It was no secret that Dominions were the regulators and the ears of the Most High so they were very much revered. They were the only stable link to the Most High, the only ones who could hear him with a strong clarity and obtain orders.

Now with the revelation of his cousin Sanna being the Oracle, a being within Nephilim Society so powerful, it made him think of the founding tales of the First Ones he learned as a child. He knew everything was definitely about to change. Calvin had recently just learned from his aunt that there was a level none in history had ever obtained or surpassed. A level that belonged to the First Ones and that was level one, Throne. They could do everything oracles, Mystics, and Slayers could do, but the only differences was they could directly speak to the Most High, receive direct orders and were the breathing Holy Spirit with the power of the divine . . . so it was believed.

This gave Sanna her title as the Oracle. To have a Throne-born always meant a war or something major was going to happen, like the Armageddon. This was why Thrones were so rare. Thinking on it all, Calvin wasn't sure if Sanna was able to work all of the powers that came with her position, but he was curious to find out just how bad ass his little San was.

Quietly chuckling in his massive room, he switched his playlist over. The Roots thumped on his Bose stereo system while he mentally processed. It seemed that his cousin San was definitely history in the living flesh and now linked up with the baddest Guardian Angel in the game. He figured both his cousin San and Khamun would most definitely be forces to be reckoned with.
C'est si bon.

 

 

Calvin made his way through the compound, passing various pictures of the team through the years to seek out Sanna. From the corner of his peripheral, he saw his boy Nox painted in his Templar uniform, an old world painting his boy had found when traveling in Scotland seeking out knowledge about his past life. Nox's history tripped him out. When it was taught that there were African Mansas in his past, the truth of it always greeted him when Calvin walked down the great hall of their past lives.

Calvin paused for a moment to see the past lives that his family and team were able to remember. He saw Marco, a general in Cuba, standing near a black stallion, holding his general's hat with his sword at his side. Marco stared at him with the same steel-colored warrior eyes he held today. His boy was a huge factor in Cuba's independence and it was interesting that he still carried the warrior's name in reference. He remembered when Eldress Neffer presented Marco with the knowledge that he came from a line of Light always. The familiar haunted glaze in his brother-in-arms' eyes changed from that moment on, which was a blessing. The crap his boy went through was nowhere like what he had gone through, nope. Homie's shit was worse, so Calvin could get with understanding that darkness that lived with him. He carried his own scars himself.