by Vered Ehsani
“Not at all,” I replied, smiling at my brother as I observed how his caramel coloring blended so perfectly into the landscape. I on the other hand glowed in the dark, summoning all carnivores and biting insects like a beacon.
The difference in the coloring of our skin was yet another reminder that my family didn’t come close to following the Victorian definition of normal; leave aside the paranormal aspect, both my brothers were my half-brothers, and I was the illegitimate child of a love that ended not in marriage but disaster.
“Oh, goodie,” Gideon crowed as he floated through the wall behind me. “Isn’t this a cozy family reunion?”
“It was,” I agreed, frowning at the ghost but I couldn’t stay annoyed for long while in the presence of the Elkhart men. They radiated calm.
“Beatrice, I was thinking about your mother this evening,” Father said. “She was a very fine witch.”
I nodded, unsure why he should mention this. The only memories I had of my mother were of domestic scenes around the home. I couldn’t recall any involving her as a witch.
“She had training,” Father continued, his gentle gaze fixed on me as if measuring my reaction. “Have you ever considered it?”
Confused by the conversation, I asked, “Considered what?”
“Engaging a mentor,” he replied while Gideon rolled his eyes nearby. “Someone who could aid you in your training. You might find it advantageous to develop your skills, of which I’m certain you have a great deal.”
“And you happen to know a witch residing in Nairobi?” I queried, confident the response would be in the negative.
Father and Tiberius exchanged a look that caused a spurt of suspicion to surge through me: this was a premeditated conversation.
“Now that you mention it,” Father said, his voice softer than usual, “I have found a mentor for you. I suspect you may not approve at first, despite recent events. All I ask is that you keep an open mind.”
“My mind is open,” I said a little too quickly.
“Except when it’s closed,” Tiberius said with a smile.
Ignoring him, I asked, “Who is this mystery witch?”
“Koki.”
“Koki?” I yelped, my voice rising in a shriek.
It was an automatic reaction based on years of animosity and conflict with the she-demon. Only afterward did I call to mind how my relationship with her had altered over the past few months, yet still I had flared at the mention of her name. Not for the first time, I wondered what was wrong with me. Was the stress of Simon’s incarceration finally wearing down my normally steely nerves? Or perhaps it was my concern over the shop’s commercial viability?
“And her mind is closed,” Gideon muttered.
“Not exactly,” I said, remembering how Koki had saved my life on multiple occasions.
More disturbing than owing a debt to my former arch-nemesis was that I no longer considered her my enemy. The difficulty lay in my uncertainty as to what I should call the shape-shifting she-demon. There were moments when I could envision referring to her as a close associate, perhaps even a friend. Then she would say or do something to cast doubt over such sentiments.
“She saved your father’s life,” Gideon said.
“I realize she saved his life,” I huffed, my cheeks warming with confusion at my emotional outburst.
“And Grace’s,” Tiberius said.
“And possibly Lilly’s,” Father added, his voice so soft I had to pay attention to hear him.
“Fine,” I said, throwing my arms in the air. “She might have saved all our lives that night the warrior poet and a horde of skeletons attacked us, but don’t forget she cut off my hand.” I waved my left hand at them, the metal components glowing with my werewolf energy. “Then again, what can one expect from an insect?”
“Beatrice,” Father said.
The slight tone of his disapproval was all that I required to assert some self-control. After all, he was correct. Recent events had altered my attitude toward Koki. My reaction was fueled by a set of emotionally charged memories, aggravated by the current stresses in my life.
Sighing, I placed my hands on my lap in a picture of contrition. “Very well. I’ll train with her, if you can find her. I haven’t seen her since Grace was born, even though she promised to stay.”
No one could avoid noticing the bitterness of my tone, least of all Father. He patted my hands. “I’m sure she had her reasons. I’ll find her.”
Nodding and unable to meet his gentle gaze, I said, “I may disappoint you with my lack of skills. Perhaps I inherited none from my mother.”
Father again placed an arm around my shoulders and said, “I could never be disappointed in you for trying.”
Chapter Eleven
WHILE I’D NEVER imagined business to be easy, I hadn’t anticipated the demands a small shop could place on the proprietor. After the excitement of the first few days, the inflow of customers settled down to a moderate, more manageable level. Still, there were numerous tasks that occupied my time and demanded my attention.
The most arduous of my duties was responding to comments, complaints and special requests from customers: Mrs. Porterhouse wanted to exchange the gold-rimmed tea set with the silver-rimmed, to better match her curtains (as if I needed to know the details of her interior decorations); Mr. Shah decided the Bangor Black Tea was far too strong for his constitution and preferred a bag of the Ceylon Tea (he provided me a detailed description of the symptoms of his declining health); Mrs. Patel wanted me to deliver morning tea to her premise (to which I was tempted to remind her I was operating a tea shop, not a postal service).
Such impositions on my energy inspired me to create a unique blend of double-strength tea for my personal consumption. Thus fortified, I could endure customer trivialities without throwing a teapot at anyone’s head.
Then there was ensuring the shop was always neat, well organized and fully stocked. During an inventory check, Wanjiru discovered someone had the temerity to steal the white bone china teapot from the corner table where the dead bride had sat. I considered hiring a certain shape-shifting vampire as a security guard — who would notice a firefly buzzing around the store? — but having my customers drained dry was not conducive to encouraging repeat business.
My only consolations were the kettle constantly boiling water in the narrow kitchen at the back of the store and Wanjiru who, although still lacking in confidence when engaging with Europeans, was capable in all other aspects.
So satisfied was I in her abilities, I decided to only attend the shop during peak shopping times, which allowed me greater flexibility in the mornings and late afternoons. It was one such afternoon several days after the grand opening that I found Koki waiting for me outside our ramshackle barn. She was standing in the shade of the nearby flame tree, under branches adorned with countless woven nests of the weaverbird colony. The incessant chirping of the yellow birds greeted me but did little to soften my foul disposition.
The she-demon drifted over to the barn and studied me as I approached, her face impassive as if anticipating my ire. Her blue-black skin glowed against the drab background of the wooden wall. A richly textured, red fabric draped her tall, lithe form from shoulders to ankles, emphasizing her womanly graces to great effect.
Her shortly cropped hair didn’t detract one jot or tittle from her charm although her beauty was of the fatally seductive variety; she could effortlessly lure unwary men into death’s embrace. Even women were not spared, for she wove an alluring tale of power and emancipation that could win over any heart weary of the socially enforced limitations assigned to the female form. It was an influence I’d once experienced but I was in no mood for it now.
Sliding off Nelly, I marched up to Koki, her natural perfume of freshly cut grass and intoxicating night flowers tickling my nose.
“So finally you appear,” I snapped. “Two months you were gone. Two months! So much for your promise to help look after Grace.”
&n
bsp; “And what makes you think I broke my word?” she retorted, her dark eyes narrow slits as she followed me toward the barn’s entrance. “You may not have seen me but I was here.”
Her statement caused me to pause and glance back at her. She didn’t flinch from my gaze, even though I knew my eyes had brightened from their golden hazel to werewolf yellow. Such abnormalities didn’t disturb the she-demon.
“I always keep my promises, little girl,” she cooed. Only Koki could coo in a threatening way.
“Well,” I blustered, “I didn’t see you.”
“So you missed me,” she said, a laugh in her lilting voice. “How sweet.”
Rather than engage in a conversation that would only infuriate me, I entered the barn and breathed in the familiar scent of clean hay, warm horse, dry wood and sweet oats. My eyes adjusted with inhuman speed to the dim light.
Hay shifted on the ground behind me, and I turned to face Koki who had followed me.
“I never left, you know,” Koki said, her chin raised imperiously. “I was always near, watching over Grace.”
Somewhat mollified, I grumbled, “Well, it would have been appreciated if you’d made your presence known.”
“Yes, I’m sure Prof. Runal would have appreciated it greatly,” she retorted, her full, dark lips twisting in a sneer at having to utter the name of our mutual nemesis.
“Did he come near Grace?” I demanded, holding my breath in anticipation. My heart palpitated in a worrisome manner, producing a sharp jab in my chest at the mere notion the wily old werewolf might have any interest in my baby niece.
“No,” Koki admitted, her expression settling into something approximating serenity. “He seems genuinely ignorant of her true nature, and so he must remain.”
As I began to breathe again, she tilted her head and added in a thoughtful tone, “Perhaps it would be prudent to remove any risk of discovery.”
Frowning, I asked, “What do you mean… No!”
Smirking, she shrugged and countered, “Why not? Oh, you still possess sentimentality when it comes to the old dog? Tsk, tsk, Miss Knight, how you cling to such human frailties. This won’t do at all.” Lowering her voice, she warned, “At some point, it may come down to such a decision: us or him, Grace or the Director of the Society for Paranormals.”
“And if it ever does, we shall protect Grace by whatever means,” I reassured her. “But not until then.”
Sniffing at my weakness, she glanced at my metal left hand and looked away sharply.
“Regrets?” I asked. My werewolf energy clenched the metal hand in memory of how I’d lost the original.
“No,” Koki said, yet she was unwilling to meet my gaze. “And you?” She gestured toward her legs. As a human woman, she was complete; however, her praying mantis form was missing one leg.
“Not at all,” I said. “You have five others.”
Chuckling, she said, “That I do.”
“Did you hear about the murdered bride?” I asked as I led Nelly to her stall. The other two horses and the ox made nervous sounds and rolled their eyes at Koki’s proximity.
Strolling around the barn, she shrugged and said, “I did.”
“Do you know anything about it?”
Koki snorted. “While I’d never tie myself to a man, I wouldn’t kill a woman foolish enough to do so.”
“How quickly you assume I was accusing you,” I said. Tugging the saddle’s strap with more force than necessary, I added, “I however might be a suspect in the case.”
“How riveting.”
I scoffed. “I imagine you’d think so.”
If I were to describe my relationship with Koki in one word, I would select ‘complicated’. It wasn’t always thus. Initially, it had been brutally simple: the Praying Mantis was the enemy of all the goodness in the world, or so I’d believed. For the longest time, the shape-shifting she-demon had terrified me to my core in a way no other foe ever did. During our first encounter, in which she decapitated almost every officer in the constabulary of Lagos, I was overwhelmed with the horror of her brutality even as she tempted me with an offer to join her.
Ironically, that was what eventually had transpired: we were now working together.
Starting with our first quest into the Underworld and ending in our epic battle against the poet-warrior Liongo and his army of skeletons, somehow our relationship had shifted from a simple one of mutual hatred into something more nuanced. We actually had interactions that didn’t involve trying to kill one another, which only goes to prove miracles happen.
“So you’re here to teach me how to be a witch?” I said, breaking the tense silence.
“You’re already a witch,” she said, her dark eyes glittering. “I’m merely going to instruct you on how to behave like one.”
“And how do witches behave?” I asked, trying to remember my mother. I couldn’t recall her doing anything witchy. Then again, she had been hiding the truth, so would she have used any of her abilities?
My stomach clenched and my face flushed as I reminded myself it was because of me that she’d suppressed who she was. I was privy to the three secrets my mother had hidden from her husband and the world: she had been one of the most powerful witches in Europe; I had inherited her abilities; and my biological father was not the man she’d married.
This last secret, if ever it became public knowledge, would make of me a bastard child and an outcast, even here in the relatively tolerant and morally flexible colony of British East Africa. Simon dismissed this concern, pointing to our eccentric neighbors as proof that Nairobi residents were more open-minded than the average Victorian. Then again, my husband had his own terrible secrets which were now holding him a prisoner in our own home.
“Are you finished reminiscing?” Koki asked, smirking at my discomfiture.
Complicated, indeed.
“Fine,” I muttered as I mentally brushed away the dark thoughts. “Where do we start?”
“Meditation.”
“Meditation?” I repeated, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my leather overcoat. “What sort of tommyrot is that?”
“The sort that will clear your head of useless and distracting thoughts,” she said, her toothy smile dazzling against her blue-black skin.
I wasn’t sure I wanted a thoughtless head. After all, thoughts distinguished humans from animals.
“Mr. Elkhart warned me you’d be difficult to teach,” she added, gloating at my outraged expression.
“My father told you no such rubbish,” I protested even though, on reflection, I could imagine him doing just that.
“Before you ask,” she said, preempting my question, “meditation helps witches to communicate with plant and animal spirits. That’s most helpful when, for example, you’re creating a new spell or potion, or requesting the service of birds as spies.”
My mood lightened at the notion. Birds would indeed make useful spies. “Fine. Let’s start. It can’t be difficult.”
And so began an hour of instruction in the practice of doing nothing. As it turned out, sitting in silence was more challenging than battling an army of skeletons or looking after a baby. In fact, I’d have preferred managing the battle and the baby simultaneously over meditating, assuming someone else would change the nappy.
“This is ridiculous,” I exclaimed after the umpteenth failure at maintaining a thoughtless brain. “How can I stop thinking?”
Smiling, Koki patted Nelly and offered her a handful of oats. Barely awake, the horse snuffled up the food, belched and resumed snoring.
“You can’t,” Koki acknowledged. “But meditation is the art of letting go.”
“I was never one for art, you know.”
Chuckling, Koki leaned against a wooden pillar. “When a thought comes, let it pass over you like a distant cloud. Don’t focus on it or follow it.”
I exhaled my frustration and dug my hands into the scratchy straw bale upon which I was slouching. Rubbing my eyes, I realized that sitting around
and focusing on not focusing was arduous.
“I think that’s enough for the day,” Koki said as she sauntered toward the sliding door and pushed it open. The door rumbled and squeaked. “You may experience restlessness today or while sleeping. It will pass as we continue to practice.”
“You mean we have to do this again?” I protested, leaning my elbows on my knees and my chin on my clenched hands.
Koki’s laughter drifted through the doorway.
Chapter Twelve
“MR. TIMMONS THANKS you for not disemboweling me yesterday,” I said.
We were again sitting in the barn, preparing to focus on nothing.
“How do you tolerate that man?” Koki mused.
“How do you live with a spider?” I retorted, referring to Koki’s husband and shuddering at the memory of the elephant-sized Trickster God, Anansi. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to marry a giant arachnid.”
Koki sniffed and crossed her arms. “I’m sure you can’t.”
As she didn’t volunteer to elaborate any further, I attempted to provoke a response and thus delay another futile lesson on meditation. “How did you meet Anansi?”
The long fingers of one of her hands tapped against her arm. “Through Ngofariman.”
“The chimp?” I smiled, recalling my interactions with the man-sized talking primate.
“Yes.” Koki’s countenance relaxed into a wry grin. “Ngofariman the Chimp introduced us, after he saved me.”
“From?”
“My own stupidity, amongst other things.” She snorted, the mood dissipating.
Studying her for any indication she might turn against me, I said, “Other things?”
Slanting her eyes toward me, she reluctantly smiled although the expression was edged in sadness. “Slave traders who captured me when I ran away from home.”
My eyes widened at the revelation, and I realized I knew nothing of Koki’s past. I couldn’t imagine Koki running away from anything or anyone. And if slave traders captured her, she must be older than she appeared. “You must have been very young.”