by Vered Ehsani
She blushed and refrained from mentioning the possible engagement. There was no need, for everyone with eyes to see understood.
“This is your betrothed?” I spluttered. “My brother?”
Still silent, Drew nodded slightly and Cilla nearly glowed in the dark with joy.
To say there was a happy confusion cannot adequately describe the state of our group or of my mind. Dr. Ribeiro thought nothing of the coincidence that Cilla’s beloved friend and soon-to-be-fiancé was in fact my brother, and congratulated them heartily on their much-anticipated reunion. Mr. Timmons – not easily disturbed — was visibly unsettled and I… Well, I wasn’t clear yet on what to feel apart from confused. So much commotion ensured that Lilly and Mr. Elkhart broke off their pleasant isolation to join us.
“So why didn’t you inform me previously the man in question was my brother?” I asked amongst the excited babbling, in as nonchalant tone as I could possibly muster.
“I suppose it didn’t come up,” Cilla replied in a hesitant tone.
“It didn’t come up,” I repeated. “Drew never mentioned me?”
Cilla glanced at Drew who had retreated into the barn’s depths. He seemed unabashed by his failure to tell his beloved about a sister. Cilla compensated for his lack of shame by blushing deeply. “I don’t believe so. Or rather, I don’t remember,” she said.
I watched my brother pace about the barn. The ox and two horses, who could detect his non-human status as well as I could, made uncomfortable noises and retreated into the far end of their stalls. Nelly however was less unconcerned by his doggy smell, and chomped contentedly on hay.
“But he did mention he had personal business to attend to in London,” Cilla hurried on. “It was something vitally important, enough so to hold him there and delay his journey here.”
Mr. Timmons frowned, Dr. Ribeiro whistled tunelessly and Mr. Elkhart and Lilly glanced at each other with twin expressions of concern.
But it was Drew who ended the awkward moment. “I never stopped thinking about you, Beatrice,” he said softly. “It’s just that up until recently, I’d been led to believe you were dead.”
“By whom?” I demanded. “Why would anyone tell you such a terrible untruth?”
Before he could answer, there was a rumble of thunder, the smell of lightning and a large figure blocked the light coming through the doorway behind us. We all turned to see a tall, muscular African standing there, his dark skin marked with symbols that, when I squinted, would shimmer and move about for unknown purposes. His shaven head glowed with reflected light.
“Hello, Kam,” I greeted him warily, wondering what trouble he heralded this time.
Without preamble or so much as an acknowledgement of my greeting, he asked me in his gravely voice, “Are you expecting a visit from a giant, five-legged Mantis?”
Chapter 4
For those of you who have experienced, and by some minor miracle survived, an encounter with a giant Praying Mantis, you might well be able to appreciate my reaction to Kam’s question: terror and panic.
None of these emotions, I might add, I displayed to outward viewers. I am, after all, a lead investigator for the Society for Paranormals & Curious Animals and as such, I do not admit to fear and I certainly never indulge in panic.
A deep breath helped ease my inner turmoil, but the fear lingered, as well it should.
Kam watched me, impassive and unreadable. Mr. Timmons was not so aloof. He must have discerned something of my initial reaction, for he asked with some concern, “Mrs. Knight, you know of such a creature?”
I had to inhale another deep breath before I could venture a response. “Yes.” My voice sounded faint and strained. Cross with myself, I cleared my throat forcibly and said with greater assertion, “Yes, I believe I do. The Mantis being referred to is Koki.”
Everyone stared blankly at me except Kam, whose features shifted with understanding. “The Spider’s wife,” he added.
“You know her then?” I asked, although more with relief than surprise.
Kam sunk into his taciturn mode and merely provided the slightest of nods.
“Spider’s wife?” Cilla repeated. “Is that a code name for a Society operative?”
Mr. Elkhart frowned at me, for he had made his thoughts regarding my employer quite clear on a previous occasion, accusing them of nefarious activities. He had in fact intended to dump me on the next ship leaving East Africa in order to rid the region of any Society employees.
I shook my head. “No. The Spider is in fact a spider, from what I know, and a very large one at that.”
“Anansi the Trickster,” Kam clarified.
“Yes,” I agreed, “and his wife is a shape-shifter with a predilection for decapitating anyone who displeases her.”
“And this Koki shifts into a giant bug?” Mr. Timmons mused, clearly not grasping the perilous nature of the situation. “How big?”
I indicated up to the edge of the loft. Everyone followed my pointing finger in astonishment.
“Very remarkable,” Dr. Ribeiro said, rocking his head side-to-side in a manner that only Indians have truly mastered.
“Oh dear,” I said. I’d utterly forgotten about Dr. Ribeiro, who had now learned more about the paranormal world in the past few minutes than most people do in a lifetime. I studied him, watching for signs of disbelief or alarm or any other normal response that the unaware human is prone to display when confronted by such supernatural elements.
But the small Goan seemed utterly unconcerned and instead smiled eagerly. “In some places, they are frying up insects as snacks. Imagine the size of the pan to fry such a creature as Koki. It would be feeding us for some time.”
Lilly flinched. “I’d rather not imagine, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Elkhart placed an arm protectively around her shoulders and asked in his smooth, sultry voice, “And just how did you become acquainted with this creature, Mrs. Knight?”
I heard Jonas snort from the loft and mutter, “If it’s dangerous, she knows it.” Hay crackled as he settled down to listen.
I gazed about the barn at my odd circle of friends: Mr. Elkhart the Popobawa who in addition to having to hide his bat nature had also to cover up his African background; his fiancée and my cousin Lilly, who had been thrust unwittingly into the paranormal community by way of her engagement and her recent possession; Cilla and Jonas, the only non-paranormals, neither of whom I’d consider normal; Cilla’s godfather and uncle, Mr. Timmons, a man with a dangerous ability to steal energy, and with a terrible taste in fashion as demonstrated by his thick sideburns and untamed hair; Drew my brother and werewolf who unfortunately stunk permanently like a wet dog; Kam whose powers were unclear to me but involved the use of thunder, lightning and an unerring ability to source out trouble; and Dr. Ribeiro, a friendly Goan who had an unnatural affinity with wild animals. The only person missing from this eclectic group was Gideon, the ghost of my husband.
If ever there was a group who would support and assist me, this was it. Yet I hesitated. I’d never worked with anyone before. Prof. Runal, Director of the Society, had mentored me initially and then overseen my activities, but I’d always depended on my second sight, my stern constitution and my walking stick. Many a creature had mistaken me for a young, frail infirm, and regretted doing so.
“It seems our talented Mrs. Knight has no need of any assistance,” Mr. Timmons commented sardonically and with a shrewd glitter in his eyes.
I reddened slightly, for in fact I had needed his assistance on a few occasions and, I suspected, I had greater need of support now than at any time in my life.
“No, Mr. Timmons, I am most certainly in need,” I admitted and he smiled smugly, for which I forgave him. Pride is never helpful and would only lead to my rapid demise if I didn’t take care.
I looked around the circle. Drew had withdrawn into a corner again and was picking at a bale of hay. Dr. Ribeiro leaned against Nelly’s stall, stroking her ears and as relaxed as
if he were at home. Jonas was lying down above us, with a disinterested expression that wasn’t shared by the others.
“Very well then,” I said, coming to my decision. “Koki seeks to avenger herself of a wrong I committed a few years ago. But in my defense, I only did it to avoid being eaten.”
“Did what?” Cilla asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.
I took a deep breath. “I cut off her leg.”
Chapter 5
It’s a tribute to my friends — and I reveled in the fact that I had so many — that not one gasped in horror or exclaimed, as any civilized person might, “How could you? How dreadful.”
Emboldened by their friendly silence, I pressed on:
It started off as a routine investigation into the smuggling of Brownies. It rapidly detoured into everything but routine. I knew the moment Prof. Runal called me into his office that I was in for trouble, but even I couldn’t imagine how much so.
“Beatrice, my dear, do sit down, my dear, do sit down,” he huffed as he pushed himself upright and gestured to a plush chair facing his oversized desk.
Everything about Prof. Runal, the Director of the Society, was oversized: his voice, his build, his beard that covered his large jowls, even his nose. “All the better to smell you with, my dear,” he would joke which, coming from a werewolf, isn’t really a joke.
Before I’d taken my seat, he sharply tapped one of the numerous sets of pendulums that graced his office. As the five bronze balls clicked against each other, noise from outside the office faded into a background murmur. I knew our conversation would be impossible to listen in on. I really couldn’t imagine whom he was so concerned about, but whenever those balls started ticking, I knew I would be presented with a difficult case.
“What do you think about this Brownie case, Beatrice, what now?” he asked in his booming baritone.
I cleared my throat and avoided inhaling too deeply through my nose. As dear as the man was to me, and as much as he had done for me, I have to say this: he stunk. That was nothing to do with his habits of hygiene but rather the unavoidable wet dog stench of werewolf.
I paused and gazed at my brother. “Sorry, Drew, but as you may recall, I have an overly developed olfactory sense.” I glanced at Dr. Ribeiro, who was as unaffected by the revelation that my boss and brother were both werewolves as he had been when told there was a giant, murderous Mantis on the loose.
“Well, sir, I’ve tracked the smugglers to a foreign-owned shipping company. It’s based out of Lagos, of all places,” I updated him.
“Good,” he nodded, his mane of hair flopping about his heavy set face. “Very good. And so that’s where you’ll be off to then. It’s part of Her Majesty’s Empire, so it shouldn’t be too taxing, not at all.”
“Sir?”
“To Lagos, my dear, you’re going to Lagos,” he said, except from him it was at a near yelling volume.
“You’re sending me to Lagos,” I said, resigning myself to my fate but hoping he’d realize the silliness of such a decision and change his mind.
Werewolves seldom do change their mind. In addition to being smelly, they are wholly stubborn.
As Prof. Runal preferred immediate action, I found myself on a ship that very night. A doctor’s note (forged by a vampire of that profession) was dispatched to the Stewards with an explanation that I had contracted a highly contagious virus and was under strict quarantine in a sanatorium until further notice, meaning until I should improve or die. The note ended with reassurances that my chances of survival were fairly reasonable.
A human police chief posted with the British Governor was assigned to assist me in Lagos. He had been told I was searching for slave traders (which wasn’t far from the truth). He hadn’t been told I was a woman.
He was therefore much dismayed to discover this inconvenient truth upon meeting me at the port. His African counterpart merely shrugged his shoulders, accustomed as he was to the oddities of the white foreigners, and led us from the port to a waiting carriage.
I paused in my narration at this point, reluctant to continue, even knowing I would. It was strenuous enough having nightmares about it all. But to put everything into words seemed to imbue the whole memory with a life and power I didn’t want it to have.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Mr. Timmons squeezed gently. “If you don’t wish to continue…” he offered in an uncharacteristically subdued tone.
The others were watching me with various levels of fascination and concern. Even Drew had paused in his pacing in the corner of the barn and was observing the proceedings, his eyes glowing through a stringy fringe of hair.
I coughed through a constriction in my throat. “It’s all right,” I reassured him. It wasn’t really, and I suspected I wouldn’t be able to adequately describe the raw emotions that suffused my system every time I dwelt on the next part of the memory.
Chief Inspector Jones was very helpful in the case. As it turned out, perhaps a little too helpful for his own good. We had successfully found and arrested the gang responsible for smuggling Brownies to the New World. In the process, Jones came to learn about the existence of Brownies and other fairy-tale creatures. There was nothing to be done about that except swear him to secrecy. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered.
We rounded up the culprits and jailed them in the basement of the two-story, humid, stone building that served as the constabulary. It became clear to us that the ringleader wasn’t among them.
Anyone we questioned refused to assist us in any way, regardless of threats and bribes offered. They would transform from tough, insolent thugs to quivering wrecks of abject terror. The only bit of information we ever could persuade them to reveal was a name, whispered behind locked doors, eyes averted, limbs shuddering: Koki.
I closed my eyes, her name echoing about me and reverberating through my memories.
I particularly remember the last one we interrogated, a young African man. He was sitting in a chair in the middle of a small, gloomy cell that stank of mildew and unbathed bodies. His eyes were round, the whites showing brightly against his dark face. His every limb twitched and he cowered before us but not because of any fear he had for what we could do to him. His pitiful state was induced by the name that had slipped from his mouth.
Koki.
“Where is he?” Jones demanded with such a threat of violence in his voice that in any other circumstance, the prisoner would surely have revealed his secrets.
But not this time.
“She will kill us all,” the prisoner blubbered out, his eyes searching the cell for his allusive and lethal leader.
“She?” Jones asked, clearly disgusted that a woman could inspire such a state in any man.
“Don’t be too surprised, Inspector Jones,” I said dryly, fingering the knobs along my walking stick. “For doesn’t the Bible compare a woman’s fury to hell?”
He snorted, not impressed or convinced that anyone had reason to fear a woman. “Come, man, tell us where she is. We’ll protect you. She can’t touch you here, this,” and he sneered derisively, “Koki.”
The prisoner shuddered and whimpered. I could see from his energy field that we wouldn’t extract any further information from him.
I stopped again, phantom screams reverberating around me, the constabulary juddering with the boots of panicking officers, the air saturated with the coppery odor of fresh blood. I breathed deeply and forced more words out through stiff lips.
It was evening, the sun just setting, the humidity inexplicably rising. Jones and I were just leaving the basement where the cells were located when we heard a commotion from outside the building’s entrance: shouting and a gunshot. Then the screams, each one abruptly cut off, to be replaced by others.
Jones raced up the stairs ahead of me, and that’s the only reason I’m still alive. I could hear him yelling orders to his men, but when we reached the foyer, we could see his commands were a waste of breath. Everywhere was chaos, the floor littered with deca
pitated bodies, the heads nowhere to be seen.
The place stank of excrement, blood and something else… An indefinable scent that included slightly rancid meat, freshly cut grass and a rich, flowery perfume. It was a revolting mix of pleasant and putrid.
I gasped for breath, my nose remembering more than my eyes, overwhelming me with that ghastly mixture.
“What was happening to the heads?” asked Dr. Ribeiro in a clinical tone.
“She eats them,” Kam responded flatly. I nodded.
Jones made it halfway across the room before Koki pounced from another room. The first I saw of her was a set of green pincers twice the length of my arms; they snapped about Jones’ neck with a sharp click. His body ran on a few more paces before collapsing. His head had vanished by that time, and I was left alone to face the largest and most intimidating beast I’d ever seen up to that point or since: a Praying Mantis as large as an elephant and nastier than a junkyard dog, covered in the blood of her victims.
Cilla grabbed my hand with such force that I flinched. “What did you do?” she gasped.
“What any sensible paranormal investigator does when faced with an overly large insect,” I said with little energy left to me. “I threw my sachet of ground cinnamon at her head.”
“Cinnamon?” Mr. Elkhart asked skeptically.
Dr. Ribeiro did his enthusiastic side-to-side head waggle. “Oh yes,” he assured us. “Cinnamon is being most effective against many types of insects. They are not liking that spice.”
“Neither did Koki,” I continued.
The spice didn’t stop her but it distracted her long enough for me to run in the only possible direction open to me: upstairs. I locked myself into the first room I found. Unfortunately, all the windows in that building were either sealed closed or covered with grills, so there was no exiting except through the foyer. I hid in a wardrobe amongst police uniforms and hoped she’d satisfied her blood lust sufficiently.