by Zelda Knight
“But how do you hide it? A lion is not exactly a big house cat.”
“You’d be surprised. People see what they want to see. And we are masters at camouflage.”
“We,” Serwa repeated. “When you say that do you mean humans or lions or what?”
“I’m a shifter,” He said. “Like you. It’s part of me.” He looked at her with his golden eyes.
“Like you are.”
Serwa felt the weight of his words to her soul. This strange new part of her she had discovered and her strange connection with this unusual man.
She’d only been in Ghana a week but it already felt strangely like home. And she knew she wanted to spend more time there. Her visa was good for 90 days. After that, she would have to see.
They have a saying in Ghana which Serwa took to heart. Go where there is no path to begin a trail.
She would return to Chicago long enough to pack up her condo and hand it over to a rental agency. She would say goodbye to her parents and promise to visit them often while Abeiku was stationed there.
And then she would return to Africa, the place that held her heart and her mate.
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review.
About Katia Kozar
Katia Kozar was born in Washington DC but considers herself a citizen of the world after living in several different countries, including Portugal where she now resides.
* * *
Find Out More:
* * *
Website: http://kattomic-energy.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html
Heart of a Dragon: https://books2read.com/u/3nEDgR
* * *
Death in the Drowned Lands: https://books2read.com/u/47OV6j
Serpent’s Nest
© 2021 W.M. Dawson
Edited by Stories Matter Editing
About Serpent’s Nest
Naga and Hyena might be enough to stop an evil Nest of Naga from bringing back Devi, one of the Banished.
* * *
Devi, a banished Naga priestess, had started a new life in New Orleans with her lover Lou. Her past had caught up with her. The Nest found her hiding place and retrieved her, regardless of her wishes. It would take everything Devi had to protect Lou's life. Despite her desire to communicate with the Gods again, even if it meant taking on some questionable characters, experimenting with magic she had not used in a long time, and dealing with some suspicious characters.
“The sea is endless when you are in a rowboat.”
By Adolfo Bioy Casares
Standing before the dull brick two-story house, I had expected it to be…I don’t know, grander? One of the old stately buildings reminiscent of New Orleans’ elegant plantation homes. One of the fantastic homes with the patios wrapped around with stately white columns, flowers are blooming with the ye ol’ gravel driveway, and fountain in white marble. The picture-perfect travel brochure photo everyone associated with the area. The ones I had seen driving around when I had first arrived in New Orleans. Heck, I had taken tours to visit to get the lay of the land. As the house blended so far into the background, I double-checked its address using my GPS. It was boring, beyond the shadow of bland into the cookie-cutter area. It matched every other house around it, down to the coloring, minuscule front yard, and bland personality commonly associated with oatmeal.
I was stepping out of my merlot red BMW sedan, popping out my umbrella to avoid the misting rain from getting on my hair and tracking in too much moisture. I clicked up the few steps to the taupe-colored door to ring the doorbell that didn’t even bother having a camera, sensor, or a hint of modern technology. Heck, it didn’t even appear from this century. The bell made a half-ass noise; tapping my foot, I waited.
And wait. A bit of misting rain and humidity had formed on everything as the sun broke through the clouds early in the morning. Today would be another hot, sticky day in the city. Finally, the door cracked open, with each joint making sounds of age and creaking. They all needed a good spray of oil—the wizen older man with orange-tinted glasses and a ZZ Top beard down to his pot belly appeared. His suit in beige, which seemed to be from the 1950s, matched the outside paint job in such a creepy, matchy-matchy way that was deeply unsettling. Even the fedora coordinated.
“You are late, Ms. Basu,” his high-pitched yet surprising youthful voice sang out. He glanced briefly over the orange-tinted glass to reveal tangerine-hued eyes, revealing his not-so-human side, something not demonic but probably shifter-like. Maybe reptilian-like me.
“Getting the fresh beignets from Madam Bateaux, who doesn’t open until dawn, means I can’t be here until after dawn. I have a half dozen, part of the price of admission,” I replied. I handed the warm, pale purple bag over. With greed in his eyes, the wrinkled, old spotted hand snatched the bag, peering within as if counting the contents greedily. He licked his dry lips with his long, damp tongue.
“Accepted, you may enter,” he pushed the door fully open and stepped aside. I entered, carrying the heavy suitcase with the full tribute. Gods, this was stupid, this whole thing was. Only the desperate came here, and with limited options... Okay, scratch that. No one came here unless they had no other options. I had no other choice. Stepping into a tan tiled hallway, I stepped away from the oversized entry table adorned with dried fruits to enjoy the cool air. The dried fruit looked like some kind of potpourri, or maybe just fancy dried fruit to eat; I didn't even bother to take a chance. I stood there waiting impatiently for the man who took his time closing the door. He shuffles his way back, munching on a beignet to escort me toward the front sitting room.
He seemed to have no sense of urgency, so we drifted into the pale-yellow room. They packed it with modern antiques, and by modern antiques, I mean furniture, from the 1940s and 1950s. When I perched on the edge of the couch, the plastic slipcover made those particular sounds. Specialty dust collectors in the cabinet featured round-faced porcelain cherubic in a variety of pastel hues. I did not know enough about what they were even to guess what they were, aside from something to collect dust. My surroundings were just as dull as the magazine on the table from last year. Everything was flat enough to drain every vestige of interest I had. It was stodgy in this room, so mind-numbingly dull.
Keeping my butt right on the edge of the plastic-covered seat, I placed the case next to my knee-high leather boots. I waited in the room while he left without explanation. Gazing about the room, searching for any answer other than I would never want to live or have this room in any place I lived in. This faded yellow but a step up from the beige, so at least there was that. To distract myself from the boredom of this dull room, I tapped out rhythms to different songs to keep myself awake.
Sunlight filtered through frightful gauzy curtains covering the semi-clean windows as it burned off the morning mist. A beam of sunlight struggled to filter through the dirty windows, making me wish I could send an entire cleaning crew as payment. Continuing to wait until noon came and went, I clicked my manicured nails over the plastic.
A door opposite to the one I entered opened, finally. A double take followed my glance. It did not prepare me for the woman who wandered in. My first thought was that she would make a brilliant singer with a folk band at one of those hippie festivals.
Her long pale blonde hair looked nearly white, possibly due to age, dye, or an entirely natural state. It was difficult to tell. Even though her skin almost matched the unnatural color, the absurd white feather dress with red bows took it to another level. The girlish bow held back for hair in shiny red certainly didn't help. The sound of her claw-like toenails tinkling against the floor competed with the jingling of bells strung around her ankles as she floated barefooted gracefully. With her pitch-black eyes, she examined my knee-high brown boots and saffron suede dress. When I stood, I towered over her petite frame, and I am just barely over five feet tall without shoes. I have never seen any adult this tiny in America. I had previously seen several women like her in India. She approached slowly, her hoode
d eyes examining me intently as I took her in.
“A Naga in my sitting room,” she sang. Almost expecting some orchestra to waft in to accompany her, she sang her verse out in perfect pitch. “What brings you into my parlor?”
“The Song, you help those in need,” I replied. There's no sense in skirting this problem. I bowed deeply in reverence for her position.
“Only the desperate come here. Ultimately, I am the last option. Which is more terrifying, death or worse for you, Devi Basu?” Singing, the Song stepped around me, sitting on one of the awful chairs’ opposites to me. Though not as loud as mine, the low humming of her plastic cover gave some sign that her small frame carried some weight.
“Worse is definitely on the horizon for me. I don't believe what is coming for me will be death,” I replied. Death was simple, short, and sweet before one was reborn into the eternal cycle of rebirth to begin again. They would take my life in New Orleans away from me. The Nest would force me back to an existence on the surface, essentially slavery. They would change me into someone I never wanted to see again, or force me to become something I couldn't be.
“Sit, this won’t help our negotiations, serpent,” she waved to the couch. I sat back on the edge with my back in perfect alignment. Old habits are hard to break, ingrained since childhood and years of training. “The tribute?”
As I slide the large case over, I say, “Of course.” If she accepted my case, she deserved payment. “I freely offered the following items for the consideration of my situation.”
“This situation is a disaster zone, as you say. A Naga Nest is coming here, so I dislike the idea of an invasion. I think letting them take you would be the best solution.” The Nest could take me. It wasn't something I hadn't considered before I came. There was no doubt in my mind that I didn't want to go. My life, though imperfect, was mine, and I had no intention of giving it up unless the damned Gods personally came down here and dragged me back.
“I don’t want to go, so here I am instead.”
“A priestess, maybe one of Mansa Devi's people,” she asked, almost in an honest tone. I knew the answer as well as she did. I was using the moment to refocus on the present. As opposed to the past, which kept trying to invade my mind. Memories, bittersweet and vicious, wanted to be a part of this moment.
“When I was part of the Nest with the Naga, I was a priestess. I am just myself now,” I replied. In fact, I had not spoken with any deities in years, not since one of the Nest Priests chose another bride and threw me out into the cold. The Seers chose me to become the next Voice of the Gods. It didn’t come to pass. He didn’t want me. He decided, and they cast me out into a world I knew nothing about. This was like being raised in a cult and then thrust out into the “real” world, not understanding what lay ahead. After that deep breath, the moment was over. This is now. Panic wouldn't help me right now. I wanted to avoid going back there.
“Once a Priestess, aren’t you always one?” she asked.
“It's a question I can't really answer. Since they banished me, I've lost all of my title and holdings and I'm no longer a Priestess of Mansa Devi, therefore,” I replied. “No.”
I didn't use any of the powers they gave me because I didn't hear from the Gods, and they didn't talk to me. I kept to the powers of my Naga nature and what I have learned since my escape.
“I suppose that's a suitable answer, at least,” she replied, tilting her head slightly. She finally blinked her dark eyes. It was eerie how rarely she blinks. Petting her feather dress, she surveyed me. “I will search the paths for you, see if there is a way to save yourself from your current fate.”
“I understand,” I replied. Now on to the caveat I had, the minor hiccup which might get me evicted unceremoniously or worse, I shudder to think what may happen. “Technically, I know my fate is sealed. I have someone else, and they will come for them.”
“The purpose of your visit isn't to save yourself, but to help someone else?” She asked. An added weight shifted the air, and the pressure increased. Throughout this time capsule of a room, her magic filled every space. Before there was no more air left, I gulped down what I could. “You have someone else; they will use them to get to you. Why would you risk your heart?”
“The thought of them searching for me again never occurred to me,” I spoke. I never thought they would find me, thought of, or come to America in a million years. As luck would have it, I received a warning via the postal service. Several days ago, a letter arrived in a familiar handwriting. An old, steady handwriting that evoked splendid memories of home. Jiera, one female in the nest, alerted me they had found me, were coming, and wanted me to be safe. I trusted her with my life. If I could figure out how to protect the females of the Nest, I could return to protect her and the others. "Someone I trust warned me, and they'll be here by Saturday morning. I have two days left before I have to decide.”
"Doable to save your man," the Song replied.
"Actually," I replied. Let's hope the misogyny didn't run deep here. "Elouise is actually she. I want her to be saved."
"Ah, they wouldn't approve of that at all. You're not only in love, but with a woman as well. How scandalous!” she exclaimed. She smiled at the edge of her unpainted mouth. “Come closer; I have invested in this plot.”
The ugly couch was too far away to get closer. After a few easy steps, I kneeled before the small woman. Her hands lay upward. She beckoned to me with a calm song: "Put your hands on mine, young serpent." I put mine on top of hers—mine were the same temperature as the room around us, a common trait of my species. The magic tickled over my skin. Goosebumps followed suit, marching up and down.
As she began doing what she did best, the thick magic of the room took a sigh. No one knew exactly what the Song did. Scholars, books, occultists, gossips, and gave the simple answer, even by those who claimed to know everything. She just was. Her presence in the supernatural world made her impossible, but what isn't? I used to communicate with the Gods. I can transform into an oversized cobra and do magic beyond human comprehension. Who was I to judge what this woman could do?
She stared into me, and the world melted away.
“Pain makes man think. Thought makes man wise. Wisdom makes life endurable.”
By John Patrick
Emptiness, I was somewhere floating in the void. Did I meditate again?
No, I was somewhere else.
Flashing lights were everywhere. Pain. The pain is unbearable. Migraine pain levels. That's a possibility I didn't realize existed. Those streaks of colors my brain couldn't see made me understand hot pokers were stabbing through my lobes. Where did the migraine come from? What had I done? Did I hit something? Where was I?
No, I went somewhere. Stress, the Nest. I remembered.
My eyes slowly opened with the willpower I had left, looking at the disgusting rug on the floor in washed-out lemon, cream, and a shade of green that should never exist. There might have been some push, or I may have fallen and dropped to avoid vomit on someone. It was Song's sitting room. Oh, Gods, I hope I haven't puked on her. I can't apologize enough for that faux pas.
In a shrill and sing-song voice, she said, “No, I did not vomit on you.” Dear Gods, had she always been so loud? Her soprano voice was loudest of all the singers. “You have underestimated the simplicity of your answer."
“What?” I spoke. My tongue, filled with lancing pain, worked nearly as fast as my brain. As the blinding light of the room blinded me, I needed medication and darkness to sleep off this horror that had resurfaced after years of slumber.
“Lie after lie, deceit after deceit. It's a shame you missed it and can't see it at the moment,” the Song said loudly enough to pierce my ears. “I have given you what you need within your mind. Once you awaken again, the information will still be there.”
As I pointed to the case where the payment was, I said, “Your payment is inside.” I hoped it was still over where I had left it. The payment was a mismatched collection of stran
ge and unusual items. I had to collect them by hand myself. An antique Pez dispenser featuring a Looney Tunes character turned out to be a cosmic joke when I got the list. Fortunately, I found one with Tweety Bird and in decent condition. I had to dig up a lump of coal that ruined my manicure. After researching what it was, I had to find a one-hit-wonder in an antique shop, thanks to which I found something by a band called ‘Information Society.’ I had never heard of them before. The last bit of gold, of course, was the easiest to acquire and made the most sense.
Her dazzling speech spoke again, “I have seen and accepted your payment.” Shooting pains reverberated through my ears, ricocheting off my skull in some morbid attempt to dissolve what was left of my brain. “I've sent a car to take you home.”
“Why?” Another word I could find in the mishmash of terms floating around in my mind.
“You are in no shape to drive yourself home,” I heard the voice saying, softer and farther away. I had closed myself off from the light, blinding me to the undeniable pain it brought. As I placed my head back on the rough rug below, I wondered when the ground would swallow me whole to end the suffering of the long-dead migraine. The display had returned yet there was so little time for this.
As I heard the voice, “Stress, sleeplessness, and magic crashing into your mind,” my horror level decreased somewhat. “My man will help, and you will wake up at home knowing what your options are.”
I can only hope that I will remember this.