The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  COMING IN JULY 2005

  DAMALI FELT like she was flying, the images whirled by so fast. Her skin crackled with electricity, and she gasped as she landed on her feet with a thud. She crouched down, instantly on guard, and glanced around herself. She quickly patted her side. Damn. Her blade was back on the plane.

  The question was, where was she and how did she get here?

  It was clearly an industrial area. A river lay to the south of her and to the north was a wide street, but there was no traffic. The moon shone like a perfect silver disk in the sky, not a cloud in sight. This was the hunting hour, not a good time to be without a blade. Damali glanced down at herself. Black leather pants, black halter top, and steel-toed boots. Perfect for kicking vamp or demon ass.

  She walked forward slowly and cautiously. The large, dark buildings loomed silent and empty. A bridge towered in the distance, looking blue and skeletal in this half light. She saw a street sign and narrowed her gaze. Delaware Avenue. She was in Philly.

  She rounded a corner and saw a purple neon club marquee that read “Club Egypt.” Damali stopped walking and folded her arms over her chest. She stared at the sign, then noticed the hieroglyphics that had been spray-painted on the sand-colored exterior of the building.

  “All right, then,” she muttered. She crossed the wide boulevard and walked toward the club with purpose. Standing on a corner wringing her hands wasn’t going to get her any answers.

  When she got to the door, a huge bouncer stopped her. “ID?”

  Damali looked him up and down. He was a big, burly brother who looked like he was straight out of the motherland. His blue-black complexion gleamed, blending almost seamlessly into his black muscle shirt and jeans. Brother wasn’t moving. She could do this the hard way, and simply kick his huge ass or do it the easy way. She smiled. Finessing her way into a club had never been a problem for her.

  Still smiling, Damali caressed his broad chest and said, “Now you know you need to stop playing. You know a sister just wants to get her groove on.”

  “No ID, no getting into this club.”

  Damali licked her lips and moved in closer to him. She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Oh, come on. How about it I say pretty please?” Then she pressed herself against him oh so slightly, leaned in, and breathed in his ear, “Please?”

  He stared down at her, his face blank, his eyes icy. Damali gave a little wiggle and smiled at him again. The ice cracked. Almost reluctantly, he moved his mountainous girth out of the doorway. Damali blew him a kiss as she hurried past.

  Once inside, she squinted through the purple lights and hazy clouds of smoke. The interior seemed fairly normal. The place was jumping, the music was thumping, and people were freestyling on the wide, polished wood dance floor. The DJ was all right. The bars were loaded. People were seated at round tables or lounging stylishly on purple or black mini sofas. She couldn’t sense anything preternatural or demonic. Very weird.

  Damali carefully made her way to the bar and slid onto a tall brass and leather stool as she continued to scan the club. When the female bartender came toward her, she remembered—she was broke like a mug.

  No problem. There were plenty of brothers sipping at the rail to make that a nonissue. But if they were offering drinks with a shot of color, she wouldn’t be drinking anyway.

  Damali studied the tall, older woman as she walked over to her. Girlfriend looked good. She had on a metallic gold bustier that served up her double-Ds like trophies. A gold filigree waist chain that moved ever so slightly above her tight, gold lamé pants as she walked accentuated her flat belly. Her complexion was of burnt cinnamon, but her eyes were a smoldering dark brown, matching the color of her shoulder-length braids. A gold serpent bracelet circled her sleekly muscular upper arm. She looked like she was in her late thirties. Her walk was so smooth, she almost looked like she was moving in slow motion. Damali had to shake her head to break the hypnotic rhythm. Had to be vamp.

  “What are you having tonight?” the bartender asked with a smile.

  Damali studied her. “What are you serving that’s top shelf?”

  The bartender’s smile widened. “Sis, I don’t roll like that. I’ve got a man.”

  Damali sat back. “Well, shit, so do I.”

  “Don’t we all?” said a deep, sexy, female voice close to her ear. Damali quickly pivoted on the stool, ready to do battle. “But if you’re angling for a free drink, just name your poison.”

  “First, you need to back up off me,” Damali said slowly, watching a very tall Native American–looking woman slide onto the barstool next to her. She tossed her long French braid over her shoulder and sighed. Damali didn’t like the odds and they were getting worse. She could feel the females moving in on her quickly and quietly as the men backed away, making room for them.

  One by one the chairs filled around her. She glanced at the bartender, then the tall, older woman who was a fly-ass fifty, serving royal blue peacock and black stilettos.

  “Pour this child a Jack Daniel’s,” the woman beside her said. “My tab.”

  “This ain’t no bargain,” Damali said, accepting the drink with her eyes but not touching it. Another older sister had slid into a chair on her right. Her dark face seemed vaguely familiar, and her intense black eyes had that same knowing quality the others possessed.

  She flipped her hand to dismiss Damali’s open assessment. Sister was rockin’ so much ice that the diamonds were practically blinding. Pure confidence radiated from her, almost like a heat wave. She was serving red stilettos that bordered on being “fuck me” pumps. The red pants suit, killer. Her aura demanded respect.

  Damali raised her glass to them. Her gaze surveyed what she quickly counted as eight women, all older, of varying hues, and dressed to the nines, so confident and cocky that they hadn’t even worn good battle shoes . . . All of them, obviously, professional assassins who could be patient and wait to do their hits. “Well, I have to hand it to you, ladies. You sure know how to take a sister out in style.”

  The one in red chuckled and sipped her martini. “So dramatic.” She looked down the bar at the others. “See what man trouble will do to you? Make you simple.”

  Damali gave a small smile and bumped her glass, spilling the contents into the woman’s lap. “Yeah. It’ll do that. So, let’s get this party started.”

  She’d expected the woman to attack and braced herself for it. Instead she just looked at the stain and the liquor running down her shapely leg, dabbed it with a finger, tasted it, made a face, and shook her head.

  “Now that was just tacky,” she said in an even tone. “Why don’t we step into the ladies’ room?”

  Damali stood. “After you.”

  The bartender cleared the bar in one lithe leap to stand before Damali with a sly smile. “Shall we?”

  “It’s your house,” Damali said through her teeth. “You lead the way.”

  Martini glasses, champagne flutes, and rocks glasses were calmly set down in unison as the women flanking the leader stood.

  “Baby girl, do you have any idea who you’re up against?”

  Damali stepped back, one hand on her hip. “No, do you?”

  It was the first time she saw a flicker of rage cross their faces.

  The women simply turned on her heel and walked away, her head high and her shoulders back.

  Damali stared after her. Was she hallucinating, or had these female vamps just marched off toward the bathroom like a bunch of offended church ladies? Something did not fit, big-time. Curiosity got the best of her and Damali cautiously followed their regal promenade.

  The sister in red swung open the heavy door, almost yanking it from its hinges and making it slam against the wall. Bright fluorescent light greeted them. Damali entered the now tightly packed space last. She made a quick assessment. No windows. All white metal stalls and tile with pink accent borders. Who knew vamps liked pink? Then she stopped as they stood before a huge mirror, every one of them casting
a reflection.

  Okaaay. They weren’t vamps. So then, who the hell . . . ? Damali opened her mouth, then slowly closed it.

  “That’s right, damn it!” the woman in red said. “You’d better recognize who you’re talking to. I ran empires before you were even thought of, sister!”

  “Chica, this is bad,” another said, shaking her head. “We’re gonna have to kick your behind for real now.”

  “Aw, ladies,” a third tall beauty said. “You know that’s not why we brought her here.”

  The bartender stepped forward. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

  “All right, Eve,” the sister in red said, giving Damali a hard glare. “This is your territory. School her fast before I snatch a bone out of her narrow behind.”

  Damali’s attention jumped from one woman to the next. Did one of them just call the sister serving drinks Eve?

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Long story, baby. But hey, you know how this goes. You find Mr. Right, fall in love, get your head twisted around by some other fine bastard, then you have issues. Feel me?”

  Damali couldn’t stop herself from gaping.

  “Take a walk with us,” the one named Eve said, moving toward the mirror. “You game for some insight?”

  Damali nodded numbly. Eve turned and touched the mirror, melting into it as if it were water. “We had to strip your blade from you, hon, until you could learn to use it correctly. Because you can’t fight what’s coming for you like you just did out there. A common street fighter.”

  The others nodded.

  “You will get your ass beat down if you go after her like you just did, hear?” the woman in red said, obviously still salty about her dress. “Lilith will fuck you up good if you don’t watch your back, and no man is worth all that.”

  Damali’s eyes were so wide that she couldn’t blink. Then someone behind pushed her forward and she was suddenly alone in a vast stone enclosure, standing on the landing of a massive staircase. Towering oblong windows let in the breaking dawn.

  Once she reached the top of the stairs there was a wide hallway. A glasslike wash of violet light spilled across the marble.

  She focused all her senses, straining to feel vibrations, to hear, all to no avail. Where had they gone?

  She began to walk forward, feeling amazingly light as each footfall lifted her slightly off the floor. Soon the glasslike purple rays covered her as she entered their full beam. Suddenly she rushed forward to an open atrium filled with swirling golden-white light and women’s voices.

  Damali squinted as a large, opalescent table came into view. Seated before her were the eight women. Four were sitting to either side of an empty, high Kemetian throne carved in alabaster, with a falcon-winged sun disk bearing the ankh symbol of fertility. She recognized Nzinga instantly this time. The red siren’s getup had completely thrown her off. Then she saw the Amazon sitting to her right and immediately dropped to one knee. Oh, dear God!

  She’d been summoned to the Council of Neterus!