Fire, Fury, Faith

by N. D. Jones

  N.D. Jones

  Copyright © 2020 by N.D. JONES

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Kuumba Publishing

  1325 Bedford Avenue

  #32374

  Pikesville, MD

  kuumbapublishing.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design By Jennifer Munswami - J.M Rising Horse Creations

  Fire, Fury, Faith ©2012 Siren-Bookstrand—1st ed.

  Fire, Fury, Faith/N.D. Jones – 2nd ed.

  ASIN: B08417CWQD

  DEDICATION

  For my husband, Jahi, who has known me long enough to remember when I only read and wrote nonfiction, but who loves me enough to read drafts that are fit for only the most supportive of eyes.

  #AmReadingFireFuryFaith

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  #AmReadingFireFuryFaith

  Chapter One: Fire

  Chapter Two: Fury

  Chapter Three: Faith

  Playlist

  Audiobook

  Sneak Peek: Heat, Hunt, Hope

  About N.D. Jones

  Other Books by N.D. Jones

  Join N.D.’s Readers’ Group

  CHAPTER ONE

  420 Years Ago

  West Africa

  Grateful for the quelling blackness of the night and the glowing full moon, Serwa slipped away from the village. The melodic drums, tapping feet and clapping hands, boisterous laughter, and good cheer made her escape a surprisingly easy task.

  Following the jagged line of the unimpressive, solemn river that served as a natural and fragile border between the two warring villages, Serwa glanced behind her. The burning torches from the village enclosure grew dimmer the deeper she sank into the woods.

  She turned away. There was no one tracking her, or at least no one she could see or hear. Serwa couldn’t be certain her absence hadn’t gone unnoticed. Would he send one of his guards after her? She darted another furtive glance around, nervous, brown eyes slowly searching the shadows for movement. Nothing. But he would send someone for her, she thought. The grim possibility of being dragged back against Serwa’s will chilled her. An unwelcome coat of cold sweat trickled from tense nape to resolute shoulders. She quickened her pace, bare feet hitting the ground with determined strides.

  Serwa broke into a sprint. Long, toned legs used to the exertion propelled her forward, the freedom awaiting her on the other side of the river an incalculable motivator. So she ran. A hint of cool mist danced down from the swaying overhanging trees, their branches rich and heavy with vibrant leaves meant to tempt. But she refused to be enticed by the intoxicating aroma or the sinfully beautiful sight of the Wawa Aba Forest in full, bountiful bloom. No, she had to get to the other side before they came for her.

  Pushing the tide of black hair away from her sticky brow, Serwa slowed, hid behind a towering tree, and peered across the river. The village she spied was farther in the distance, but all was quiet save for the hypnotic chirping of— Two strong hands caught her unawares, one going to her waist, the other across her mouth, effectively silencing the scream that threatened, forcing a compressed, trembling swallow.

  Serwa’s heart sank to her soles, her short-lived escape plan dying with each step her captor took. He carried her deeper into the forest. The sparkle from the moon glistened off the water, a mocking reminder that an even an unimpressive river could be a prison.

  While the urge to fight and flail about welled inside, she squashed the impulse, knowing she could harm no one, even if it meant sacrificing her freedom, her very beating heart. Instead, Serwa relaxed into the powerful hold, accepting her fate, already calculating her next escape plan. For there would be another, and if need be another, and another still until she was free. There was, after all, more than one mode of fighting. Blood and death weren’t the only options, just the ones men often prized, spear and shield their default.

  So she closed her eyes and permitted her body to release the tension that had built into a cataclysmic fright the moment she was grabbed. Then a rush of awareness washed over Serwa, causing her heart to race. Her dashed hopes of only a moment ago frantically pulled itself from her feet, up her shivering thighs, settled in her lower belly, then exploded through her suddenly moist sex.

  That smell. Myrrh. Musk. Him.

  That touch. Trained. Tender. Him.

  That taste. Sweaty. Sensual. Him.

  His low, deep voice drifted in her ear, warm honey to her senses. “Everyone is drunk on the winter solstice. They’ll be celebrating until the sun finally rises after a long day of rejuvenating slumber.”

  He released her, and she turned to face her captor. Issa, the eldest son of the chieftain of the village across the river, was indeed her captor. For he’d captured her heart six months ago, claimed it as his own, locking the delicate organ away for all time. It was Serwa’s finest surrender, Issa’s noblest victory.

  That sight. Dignified. Dangerous. Hers.

  “I couldn’t wait any longer.” Issa pulled Serwa against his bare, muscled chest. Eyes the shade of midnight stared down at her, oval face hard, hiding the boyish smile behind his single-minded resolve. “Our fathers must be made to understand, Serwa. This tribal war must end. I refuse to allow us to become the next casualties.”

  Issa’s strong, thick fingers skimmed Serwa’s trim, exposed waist, sending jolts of fluttering desire through her. The moisture she’d felt earlier returned with unprecedented intensity, the green and yellow cloth wrap covering her lower half suddenly hot and uncomfortable. With effort, she ignored the soft, probing fingers and focused on his words.

  He settled them between the protective armor of two ancient sentry trees, the barks thick, hard, and worn with strength and fortitude. Like Issa, she thought with feminine pride. They were to run away together, but as Serwa looked about she noticed Issa carried nothing with him. She didn’t even remember seeing a boat at the river’s edge before he’d scurried her off into the shielding bosom of the wilderness.

  He touched her cheek with a gentleness that belied the fierce strength housed in a stocky, five-nine, granite frame made for wrestling and submission maneuvers. Issa, reared to become chieftain, educated in the ways of warfare and weaponry, was also a man with a keen knowledge of trade, negotiations, and diplomacy.

  His midnight eyes and skin gleamed with a hope she hadn’t seen since the day he’d asked her to run away with him, to start over with a tribe who knew nothing of their legacy and families’ expectations. A chieftain’s son and a chieftain’s daughter, normally an advantageous match, but not when the two tribes involved had nothing more between them than disdain, distrust, and blood. Lots of pointless, wasted blood. Too many wounded warriors for even a shaman, like Serwa, to tend to.

  “I have a plan,” he said, his questing fingers finding her hip and pulling her even closer. The spicy, sweaty scent of him filled her nostrils in a familiar and arousing way.

  Serwa’s palms came to rest on Issa’s solidly built chest. A light dusting of sweat clung to both ripp
led sinews and shy, curious fingers. “We already have a plan. It’s why we’re out here instead of partaking of the annual festivities, an entire day of darkness the best opportunity for escape. Remember?”

  Issa shook his head, black coiled hair neat but short against his firm scalp. She wished he would let the corkscrews grow long, thick, and untamed down his broad back. But he had refused, telling her, “It’s not wise to give an opponent too much of me to grab onto. Long hair on a warrior is a liability, an invitation to death. On you, however, my lovely Serwa, it’s an invitation to touch, to twist, to take.”

  She gulped at the memory, reminded of the look of pure male lust that had accompanied each word. Then he’d kissed her, causing Serwa to forget such a foolish, girly request.

  “I have a different…better plan. One that doesn’t involve shedding our identities and sacrificing all we love except each other.”

  “There are no other options,” she protested. Their families had left them with none.

  Stay away from him, Serwa. I will not have my only daughter defiled by anyone, especially not the son of my mortal enemy. If he hadn’t saved your life today, he would already be dead.

  Her father’s words echoed in her mind as they so often did when she made the forbidden trek from her village to the Wawa Aba Forest to meet Issa.

  Defiance blazed in Issa’s eyes. He wasn’t a man who took kindly to others forcing their will upon him, especially unreasonable men like their fathers. Those raging eyes looked beyond Serwa, seeing something only Issa was privy to. The look vanished and his gaze softened when he refocused on her. Back was the glow of hope she’d seen earlier.

  “The Seer came to me this morning.”

  Serwa knew of the Seer. She had known the elder since she was a child. The widower was the only person permitted in both villages, the river a bridge of peace for him instead of the prison it had become for her. He spoke in a foreign tongue when he was in a seeing trance, a language no one understood, but everyone respected his “sight.” Even her father, who trusted few, save for his wife, his daughter, and his personal guards, held the aging man in the highest regard, opening his home to him whenever the congenial Seer entered the chieftain’s territory.

  “He spoke of a great danger, one that will threaten both of our tribes.”

  Serwa shook her head, the mass of curly locks skimming her bare shoulders, the soft layer of finely woven cloth covering her breasts the only thing separating her chest from Issa’s. In spite of herself, Serwa couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to have nothing between them, not their short-sighted fathers, nor the frigid river, or even their paltry clothing.

  “There are no tribes within a one-month travel, in any direction, more powerful than ours. Our only threat is to each other, as we continue to prove.”

  “The danger,” Issa began, his jaw clenching and unclenching, “comes from an unknown land, unknown people. The only hope, according to the Seer, is for our tribes to unite. To put aside our petty disputes and band together in one unbreakable…” He raised his right hand and tightened it into a dangerous boulder of a fist. His teeth gritted in a frightening snarl, body fierce and battle ready.

  Then he peered down at her, their eyes holding for long seconds. Finally, the tension in his body began to ease, the battle-hardened warrior slowly giving way to the protectively loving man.

  Issa caressed Serwa’s cheek again, and she melted into him. The thought of an enemy strong enough to take on two powerful tribes like theirs overshadowed the heartache she’d felt when she looked upon her parents for what she’d thought was the last time. Now…?

  “Are you saying you want me to return home and inform my father of the Seer’s vision?” If that was the case, Serwa didn’t know how she would survive without Issa, because her father would be sure to follow through with his threat to assign two of his most loyal guards to her, ensuring her “safety.” If she were extraordinarily lucky, no one would’ve yet noticed her absence. If she wasn’t…

  One more stroke across her cheek and then a gentle press of lips to forehead. “No, my Serwa, I would never send you back by yourself. My plan may have changed but it still involves us ending up together.”

  Relief swept through her. Tears that had begun to form receded like the floodwaters that threatened both their villages the last high-water season.

  “As we speak, the Seer is now on his way to speak with your father.”

  “What will he say?”

  “The truth of his vision and,” he smiled, Issa’s eyes morphing from warrior to diplomat, “outline my plan for reconciliation.”

  Serwa knew her father quite well. He was a stubborn man, not given to changing his path once he’d settled upon it. And this path, the one of bickering, competition, and battles, was a course he’d heartily and readily inherited from his father. A path he had refused to stray from “until all those northern river tribesmen are dead.” She couldn’t imagine a scheme that would alter such an unrelenting and fruitless stance.

  “As much as they hate each other, our fathers have one important trait in common.”

  Serwa stared at Issa’s self-assured face, awaiting his analysis.

  “They love the people they are sworn to protect. Every decision they’ve ever made has been to this end. Even when I disagree with my father and you with yours, their choices have always been guided by what they believed was in the best interest of their tribe.”

  He spoke the truth. And the Seer’s vision in relation to the two of them finally began to crystallize in her mind.

  “Our fathers know the Seer’s visions are never wrong. What the visions lack in specifics, they make up for in big-picture accuracy. Without a union, our fathers will lose what matters most to them—their families, their territory, their property, their pride.”

  “What is the best way to unite a tribe?” Serwa asked rhetorically, the first embers of her own hope flickering to life.

  Issa leaned nearer, his full lips and warm breath coating her, sending sparks where they landed, her ear, her cheek, her neck, her heart. “A marriage,” he whispered, his lips teasingly close. “It’s the most sacred of all unions, the ultimate bridge between two families.”

  And so it was, but a marriage was not the only type of union. During their courtship, Serwa had come to learn that Issa was as smart and brave as he was thorough. When devising a strategy, he left nothing to chance, not even the arrogance or stupidity of two warring chieftains.

  He released her. Issa moved with a predator’s grace to a tree across the clearing from the ones they’d been sheltered behind. He went around the tree and soon returned with a satchel. Removing downed twigs and stray leaves, Issa unfurled a bundle stored in the satchel. He laid out a thick, plain pallet under the huge, wilting trees, the branches silent witnesses for what was to come.

  Serwa knew it would be tonight, had prepared as best she could. But that did nothing to halt the uncontrollable pounding of her heart, her virginal body eager yet afraid.

  Issa removed the sharp daggers strapped to his left forearm and thigh. He slid the sheathed weapons under a pile of leaves at the base of the nearest tree, weapons that had saved his life and the lives of others, Serwa among them.

  Kneeling on the pallet, he extended his hand, palm up, a slight tremor visible in an otherwise steady offer of assistance. He was nervous, too. This realization pulled at her heart, made Serwa smile down at him with open tenderness, accepting his hand with grace and anticipation.

  Issa returned the smile, his dazzling white teeth sparkling bright against his night-kissed skin. The most exquisite shade of dark brown Serwa had ever seen or had the pleasure of touching. But she would touch much more of him tonight than she had over the last few months. Stolen moments, hidden kisses, shy caresses, and promises of more had only served to taunt, to tempt, to tease.

  Facing each other on bended knees, they were nearly the same height. Issa was only two inches taller than Serwa, and the same two inches were a
ll the space that existed between their parted, waiting lips.

  Time seemed to slow to an unbearable crawl, their eyes holding, holding, holding—spear-callused hands and sun-baked lips were abruptly upon her, pressing into her pliant, innocent flesh. Serwa gasped at the ferocity with which Issa claimed her mouth, lips hard and hungry, greedy and anxious. And she loved it, opening her mouth to his seeking tongue.

  Then he was inside, stroking, exploring, caressing, delving deeper than he had ever before. Serwa wrapped her arms around Issa’s taut shoulders, the need to touch his muscular frame an overpowering urge that only grew in ferocity the deeper he kissed her, his tongue penetrating and precise.

  Wandering but sure hands came to her face, holding her firm. Delectably plump lips slanted, pressure increased. Senses became riveted and ripe. And he took all of her, revealing the rocky cliff of sensations beneath the water’s surface, going from shallow to deep, shallow to deep, shallow to deep.

  A moan broke free on a sigh when Issa finally released her mouth, eyes heavy-lidded with barely suppressed need, breath coming in ragged gulps.

  “I-I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for a very long time,” he admitted, looking proud he’d managed to hold back for so long.

  Until I was ready.

  Taking a deep breath, he ran a controlled hand through her mass of hair. “Now that I got that out of my system, I can do this.”

  His lips touched hers again but with none of the fierce urgency of a moment ago. No, this gentle touching of mouths, lips, and tongues was set to slow burn. And burn she did, beginning at the point of blissful contact and radiating down through stiff, aching nipples, and out through swelling, pulsing, female heat.

  Issa tasted and felt divine, better than rainfall after a long, hot, dry season. Wielding his tongue as expertly as he did a spear, Issa engaged her mouth in a seductive battle. One she was willing to lose in order to win, Issa’s skilled movements sparking both need and jealousy.