Rise of an African Elemental: A Dark Fantasy Novel (African Elementals Book 4)

by Alicia McCalla

  CHAPTER SIX

  Priest

  The priest played ring around the rosy with the school children. He smiled and cheered with them as he tumbled to the ground. He was fully alert, at peace, surrounded by God’s creatures. The children’s roving eyes and grins from ear to ear reminded him of baby deer. Succulent meat. He swallowed his excitement.

  The desire to hunt then kill burned deep within his belly. A dangerous predator pretending to lie down with his prey. He didn’t have to murder them all, but if he found one, the chase would be fulfilling. He quivered…aroused. Sweat rolled down his back. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on a target. The little ones were always beautiful. They had spirit, such tenacity.

  The adrenaline rush filled his ears. He enjoyed the chase. Hunting with purpose. Camouflaging himself by sitting Indian style in the grassy area of the playground. He didn’t want to scare them away; he only had a few seconds to get close enough. He had to time things right. He’d learned over the centuries to have patience while searching for his next victim. He fluttered on the inside.

  Hard to clamp down on his excitement.

  A little munchkin noticed him and brought a dandelion and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Oh, thank you.” He salivated, leaning in and kissing her on the forehead. Her sweet magic enticed him. His heart pounded in his chest. He tingled all over.

  When he was hunting, he was free.

  Lots of tender meat at the Title One School. A smorgasbord. This place attracted very powerful girls. The unique breed that the Earth goddess, Mawu, would have been proud of in Africa.

  He scoffed.

  Mawu had been a thorn in the side of the Master/Mistress for centuries. Bitch-goddess thought she’d saved her priestesses by sacrificing herself but here, in America, they were treated harshly for being smarter, faster, dominant. These tiny girls were sassy, in control, but young and unable to fight back. He trembled. Intoxicated with excitement. A stalker in his favorite candy store.

  “Can I braid your hair?” a caramel-colored girl with large eyes asked. He’d heard the teachers talking about this one in the workroom. These hot mamas in the making were the “bad” ones. Delectable. The “badder” the berry, the sweeter the juice.

  “Why, certainly, I love it when someone dresses my hair.” He batted his eyes and she giggled.

  “Come closer, dear.” He breathed in her scent, closing his eyes. The soul eater shuddered.

  She braided his hair in cornrows. Her wild magic called to him. His stomach growled. He hummed. He could use her magic, not for the Master/Mistress but for himself, to finally be able to slip between realms. He’d learned a few years ago that if he could amass enough souls who carried Mawu’s magic, then he could cloak himself and slip by the Traveler, Mawu’s portal guardian.

  “What’s your name?” His eyes popped open. He turned his head. He desperately wanted to pull her close to sniff the shiny coconut oil in her pigtails. Her magic was intoxicating. She was going on his list.

  “Ta’Jenai Truitt” She stopped braiding his hair and placed her hands on her hips. Her voice inflected at the end. She had pride in her ghetto name.

  “Miss. Nay. I shall give you a gift for being so sweet.” He drooled; his hand went to wipe it away.

  “Tah Jeh Nay,” she corrected him.

  Her magic sparked. He loved her sass. He wanted her now, but the second grader was too young. If only she were a little older. Could he keep this one, or would he have to turn her soul over to the Master/Mistress again? He sighed.

  His abilities allowed him to slip between portals on Earth. If only he could slip between realms or universes. He’d hunt at several different schools across the country. He would take mental notes, make his mark, and when they were about ten years old, they’d be ready for slaughter.

  Lately, he hadn’t been turning over all the souls to the Master/Mistress. He’d been saving them for his own plan. He wanted to resurrect his original master, Loki. He needed to slip between realms!

  “Let me see your hand.” He smiled inwardly, delaying his gratification.

  These young ones were special with their afro pigtails, toothless grins, and caramel-colored skin that’d been greased up with Vaseline by vigilant mothers trying to keep them safe from harm. She offered her hand freely.

  Oh, her African magic surged. She was a fire elemental. He hardened. He wanted it—bad. He smacked his lips.

  “Ta’Jenai Truitt, leave the nice man alone. He’s got enough problems without you botherin’ him.” Damned loudmouth teacher. How’d she see me? Why did she choose to care about her students, now?

  She probably wanted something.

  “Go along and play.” He gritted his teeth. “I’ll give you a gift, later.” He envisioned slicing Ta’Jenai’s neck and stealing her magical soul. She shrugged and skipped away.

  The priest stood up, wiping away the debris from his pants. He ran his hands through his hair to get rid of the cornrows, then huffed as he cracked his neck, avoiding eye contact with the teacher. Are you still here?

  “Mrs. Johnson, how may I help you?” He flashed a cold, insincere smile.

  “Well, I was hoping that you had time to hear my confession.” She gulped, lowering her shoulders. “I’m going through stuff, and I was hoping you could encourage me.”

  Was she kidding? The priest wanted to bash her face. He straightened his spine. He truly wasn’t a priest. Over the centuries, he took pleasure in bastardizing Catholicism. He felt it was well-earned payback after what they’d done to Norse and Viking gods and goddesses. If he ignored her, maybe she’d go away.

  The teacher took his silence for real concern. She rattled on about nothing. He bit the inside of his cheeks and feigned interest, all the while focusing his gaze on Ta’Jenai, double Dutch jumping.

  “And you see...” Mrs. Johnson continued to fill his ears. He studied her hardened face. She wore a large wig to cover her balding scalp, and he smelled cigarettes and alcohol on her breath. Apparently, she was on husband number three, and she had five children of her own. She needed more than prayer. She was a broken drama queen. Who cared?

  He sighed. If he’d lost his chance with Ta’Jenai, he’d mark another one. It was easy to find Mawu’s unprotected priestesses in America. Slavery closed the door on their protection so the world had no idea what these girls could grow up to do.

  If they survived that long. Many were strong in African elemental magic and mostly unprotected by the guardians. He tugged at his cleric’s collar.

  “Mrs. Johnson. Would you like to pray?” He cleared his throat, grabbing her hands to stop her from talking.

  He could only think of being blocked from his prey by everybody.

  The descendants of the Norse God, Tyr, were his main problem. They’d sworn to protect the priestesses. He didn’t know how Tyr’s children could side with Mawu, thereby abandoning their own kind. This age-old battle within his people bothered him. Tyr betrayed the Children of Loki, and to boot, bade his children to fight to protect the African bitch-goddessꞌs progeny.

  The priest bowed his head and smashed his eyes shut.

  “Our savior, please send your eternal light to this poor, WRE-TCH-ED woman.” He stretched the word, fake coughed but continued to pray. “I mean soul...”

  He’d made it his business to sabotage Mawu’s army. She wouldn’t be able to defeat his Master/Mistress with the pittance of magic bearers he’d left. The leftovers were broken, drugged up, or otherwise out of touch with whom they really were by his design. A lot like Mrs. Johnson. He wondered if she’d had any magic in her youth.

  Hmm...

  He turned her hands around, feeling the inside of her palms. There was a tiny spark. Water elemental.

  Damn. He could’ve used her magic twenty years prior when he was battling the Traveler.

  The priest helped to usher the demise of African matriarchal magic, on purpose, for centuries. No one ever caught him except the former Traveler. And, he’d taken care of
him. The world cared nothing about black girls or black women.

  It was a fact. He’d cornered these women on both fronts. The Children of Loki found the adult magic bearers and stole the magic they carried by lynching them, and the descendants of Eshu found the young girls and the priest stole their souls.

  “We ask you to bring healing to Mrs. Johnson during her time of turmoil and distress.” The priest studied Mrs. Johnson’s face. He could see a small magical aura glowing around her. She was too stupid to know she had abilities. Now she was drowning in her unfulfilled water magic. Mrs. Johnson’s eyes were shut tight, and she was whispering amens and hallelujahs.

  In Africa, Mrs. Johnson would be a high priestess and protector of young ones like Ta’Jenai.

  He cocked his head toward Ta’ Jenai. He wanted her bad.

  “Aye, Lawd.” Whoops! He took a deep breath and tried to make his voice sound American. He couldn’t get over how these thirteen colonies turned out to make a huge nation. It made no sense to him. But he’d seen many empires die over the years. He’d wait to see America take a dive.

  He finished his fake prayer, squeezing her hand while siphoning her magic. Munch! Eating a snack. He released his grip on Mrs. Johnson’s hand. She stumbled. He thought about turning her into an Obayifo. She’d be perfect.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She kept stammering, unaware that she’d been violated.

  “No problem. All in a day’s work.” He got away from her as fast as he could. Damn. Ta’ Jenai was gone!

  His posture became rigid as he walked around the schoolyard. Now he’d have to find another one. Everyone could see him now. The teachers smiled as he surveyed the hunting ground. No one ever questioned why he was there. He’d set himself up as the regional director of a stay-in-school program. His religious organization donated money to schools with high percentages of at-risk children.

  When you gave them money, they opened the doors to you. Easy easy pickings.

  He had free rein and took as many girls as he wanted. No one ever noticed, in the end. He’d always picked the ones whose parents were far gone. It didn’t require much, a little something for the parents on the side, and they never noticed the missing children. Well, most didn’t. Those that did notice, he had the fetish priests, descendants of the African god Eshu, use sinister magic to erase memories with white powder. It worked well. No one was aware.

  The southern sun burned brightly in the sky, beaming down on his head. He took off his cleric’s collar and wiped his forehead as the sweat rolled down his face. He needed a break. He slumped. Not a great day of hunting. He found a nearby tree, sitting down to search for another victim. He would wait for the right creature to jump rope or dance in front of him. Dancing…some of them were already twerking in the fourth grade. Those were the ones he wanted. They had energy. They had lots of unrealized goddess magic.

  Content, he closed his eyes; even hunters needed to rest. In his mind’s eye, a large spider’s web emerged. Summoning him. His soul left his body, traveling along a darkened thread. His only way to journey between universes. He wished he’d stolen more souls so his entire body could travel using Mawu’s portal between realms, but he couldn’t cloak himself and the Traveler would catch him.

  “Yes, Master/Mistress.” He bent over.

  “Rise, my humble servant.”

  He looked into the face of the twin soul. One side was a beautiful woman, and the other, a shell of a reanimated corpse. The priest looked deeper; he could see the redness of his real master, underneath, trapped inside the dead male’s half. The Guhruhi spoke to him in its scratchy voice. Apparently, the woman’s consciousness was resting.

  It spoke. “We have been considering what will happen when her daughter is reawakened.”

  The priest smiled proudly, allowing his vernacular to change. “‘ave been collecting souls, Master. It ’vill be soon.”

  “We know, but we need another plan.” The Guhruhi’s red eyes fluttered like lanterns. “Once the girl has reawakened, Iniko might forget her oath. She may change her mind.”

  “‘Es, master.” The priest thought he understood.

  “We need a new vessel. One that may carry us for a short while.” The Guhruhi’s voice became low, menacing.

  The priest was excited. Was this finally his chance? He’d worked so hard over the years to support the Guhruhi’s chaotic mission. He bit down on his tongue. He would be overjoyed to be the vessel for chaos. Since the Viking witch made him…centuries ago…he’d been lost. He needed to be more. Being the vessel for the one who saved him would go a long way. He’d be content with it.

  “I ’umbly volunteer, Master. ’Vill gladly serve as your temporary vessel.” The priest buzzed with anticipation. He wanted to be the next vessel.

  The Guhruhi slithered behind the eyes of the twin soul. It was thinking.

  “Iniko is pregnant with a boy child. This will be a child of chaos. One born of Loki’s line, one born of Eshu’s line, and one born of Mawu’s line. All three lines will intersect in power. It will be magnificent. We only need a vessel to survive long enough to reconnect when the child becomes an adult. But the vessel must be special, from the lines of Loki, Eshu and Anansi. We know of one.”

  The priest allowed his shoulders to fall. He knew this meant he was not a suitable vessel. He couldn’t let on that he was disappointed.

  “Who do ye ’ave for t’is, master?” The anger bit the back of the priest’s throat. He wanted to be the next vessel. He wanted to carry the Guhruhi, to have a real purpose. With the Guhruhi’s power, he could hatch his plan to resurrect Loki. It burned him to feel like he’d worked hard to show his worth over the centuries, and, yet again, his efforts would go unrewarded.

  “Corbin. The lover of Shania. He is born of tricksters and chaos. We need his body prepared to be our next vessel.”

  The priest was really angry. That piece of crap he’d turned into an Obayifo in Detroit? Weak minded! Ignorant! Fool! He didn’t have the heart to become the masterꞌs vessel. The priest changed his vernacular to hide his rage.

  “I will do as you will, Master, but that one is lost. He has no knowledge of his lineage or magic. He is a follower.” The priest allowed the words to hang in the air.

  “We know of this one’s weaknesses. We can feel him through the Obayifo witch spirit, but he is very tricky and strong in chaos. We can subdue him quickly.”

  The Guhruhi’s red eyes slithered back and forth. The priest was saddened. He wondered what he’d need to do to get the recognition he deserved.

  “Your will is my command.” The priest stood and looked around. He should be the next vessel. He’d survived all of these years, harvesting souls of magic bearers. The Guhruhi saved him after his Viking witch died. It restructured his body so he could carry African magic. He’d been upgraded and had done what needed doing. Now, in the wake of his success, he was being replaced by a fool. He had to find a way to resurrect Loki…soon.

  “You are our ever-faithful servant.”

  The priest knew he was dismissed and could return to his body. His soul drifted back, down the web and into his form. He was seething on the inside when his soul slammed back. He opened his eyes.

  “Clear,” he heard. “Charge!”

  An electric static sound and he realized his chest was on fire. He stopped the hands of the young man who seemed to be trying to save his immortal life.

  “He’s awake.”

  The priest sat up inside the ambulance. He must have been out for longer than he’d imagined.

  “Sir, you’re very sick. Please lie back down.”

  The priest pulled out the needles and pins. He knew he was fine.

  “No, thank you. I only needed a nap.” The priest made himself humble, even though he wanted to slash the boy’s throat.

  The two attendants tried to hold him down. The priest allowed his fangs to puncture the first one in the arm. He grabbed the second by the throat choking him to his near death.

&nb
sp; Hungry for blood, the priest attacked the first one. The man peed his pants as the priest drained him within an inch of his life. They both lay unmoving on the ambulance floor when the priest took out the white powder and blew it into their lungs. He allowed the Swahili words of magic to flow from his mouth in a deep, slow bass tone.

  After a deathly quiet moment, the two men returned to this world with wide eyes and immediate acknowledgement. Now, they belonged to him. He’d turned them into Obayifo.

  “Stop this ambulance.” He glared.

  “Yes, Master.” They pounded on the driver’s wall, signaling the driver to pull over. The other man stopped the ambulance and came around back to open the door. The priest caught the third one by surprise and turned him into an Obayifo.

  The priest was still seething about the Guhruhi’s next vessel. He smiled. He had an idea. He’d allow the Children of Loki to kill the boyfriend. He could say he had nothing to do with it, and once the boyfriend was dead, the Guhruhi would have no choice but to use him as its next vessel.

  The priest jumped out of the ambulance and whistled. He had his plan in motion. He’d get rid of Corbin, and become the next vessel for the Guhruhi. He would resurrect Loki. This would be a win-win for everyone. Especially since Loki would appreciate his efforts. He told his new Obayifos to go eat. They would help him do what needed to be done.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Agent Moss

  FBI Agent Gregory Moss slammed his hands down on his desk and got up. He rubbed his tired eyes. The murder board went back more than two hundred years and spread all over the southeast. He squinted, sucking in his cheeks. The 1818 “Battle of Suwanee”—Andrew Jackson against the Gullah Nation—ended in the ritualistic murder or lynching of black girls and women. A vein throbbed on the side of his forehead. He massaged it then leaned back and crossed his arms. Anyone else see this systematic structure? Was he nuts?