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

by Alicia McCalla

  He needed a cigarette and a cup of coffee. His mind became unfocused. A part of him felt responsible, but he knew that was impossible. His hands trembled. Sometimes that happened. It was the residual effects of the bullet lodged in his brain. Technically, he’d been dead, but one day he’d gotten up out of that hospital bed, renewed and ready to work. The doctors said it was a miracle. He didn’t care how or why.

  In the coma, he’d fallen into an abyss. Distorted colors, sounds, and sights surrounded him as he died. But, women’s voices prayed over him, calling him to return to this world to be their guardian and protector. Frankincense and myrrh reawakened his senses. He bolted up, disorientated, his body and soul on a renewed mission. He alone must stop this senseless murder of black girls and women, bringing those responsible to justice.

  Moss grabbed his jacket and went outside of the precinct for a smoke. When his hands shook, smoking was the only thing that calmed him down. He knew cigarettes would kill him, but chain smoking kept him stable. Who cared anyway?

  A bullet lodged in your brain makes you view life differently. If he died of lung cancer, what was the difference? Already survived shooting and mass murder, what else could the universe do to him?

  He plopped down on the bench and lit up. He enjoyed the smoke filling his lungs, expanding. His lips puckered as he inhaled, calming his weary soul. Disconnected and unfeeling, Moss stared into space. In the last three years, smoking was the only thing that brought him pleasure. The doctors gave answers, but Moss didn’t care.

  “The bullet is lodged in a place that controls your emotions. Unless it moves, you’ll have intermittent feelings here and there.”

  Yadda yadda. What did that make him, a sociopath? Maybe he’d be better off dead.

  His heart thumped. The weird sensation overtook him…again. The one that made him break out in intense sweats and seizures, assaulted by the strange memories of another man. Hands, dark and strong, filled with burning magic, killing people in an African village. Addicted to the corrupt magic…the sensation…the power was intoxicating. Was his other “self” responsible? Guilt did drive him.

  Then the hazy memories stopped, and he returned to what he thought he knew about his life. He was that little boy…again. The one who survived the mass murder of his entire family.

  He trembled in remembrance. Everyone prayed and sang. A normal service until the doors of the church swung open, and a white misty powder rolled in, hovering above their heads. Little Gregory wore his Lone Ranger cowboy outfit, and covered his mouth with the bandana before the powder settled over everyone. The church doors slammed shut, and red dots formed on the wall behind the pulpit, expanding, growing. No one else sees it!

  “Mama, look!” He tugged her skirt but her eyes blanked.

  The splotches morphed into huge red spiders, creating an oversized web. The entire wall expanded into an oozing threaded circle. Little Gregory gripped his cap guns. Could he shoot them?

  “Nana, spiders! ’Dey coming for us!” He turned to his other side, but his grandma wouldn’t acknowledge his presence either.

  A dark-skinned man with perfect sideburns and an afro strolled up the rows and into the pulpit with his walking stick. The cat was decked out in a red polyester bell-bottomed suit, open-collared black shirt and platform shoes. Was he about to testify?

  The man’s eyes glowed! Demon’s eyes!?

  Little Gregory swallowed a scream and covered his mouth with his knuckles while clutching the cap guns.

  The brother tapped the cane, adorned with sinister symbols, on the ground and the building rattled. An otherworldly crack split the tiny church in half. Jesus Christ fell, smashing to the ground.

  Little Gregory shuddered as a cold menacing presence whipped past him. He squinted, dropped his hands and aimed his guns, ready to fire.

  The man’s deep voice talked in tongues, but the words distressed Gregory’s soul. A sickly scent assaulted his nose, but before he threw up, his mind froze. In a surreal moment, his cap guns fell from his hands as he crumbled to the floor, unconscious.

  When little Gregory returned, he stared at the ceiling covered in millions of scarlet spiders. He groggily sat up, massaging his head. Everyone gripped large communion cups in their hands!

  The hulking figure in the pulpit laughed as they all poured a flower-filled drink down their throats. No! Don’t drink!

  “I am Papa Amin, Follower of Eshu, fetish priest. I give you a sacrifice. ’Dese children of Eshu who done lost ’dey way. Amen!”

  That day, little Gregory became an orphan. His parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles dropped. He yelled at the top of his lungs. Their eyes rolled backward…the convulsions…the shock, and then their souls rose from their bodies and got sucked into that big red web portal. He tried to stop them from leaving.

  He attempted to drink too, but a beautiful woman materialized in front of his eyes. She touched the center of his forehead, calming him. She was dressed in a flowing white dress with golden sandals. Her hair was braided in long cornrows with the tips adorned with cowry shells. She stopped him from drinking.

  “I am Nana Buluku. You have been chosen for a special mission.”

  Her voice mesmerized him. He dropped the cup, spilling the killer Kool-Aid.

  “I can give you magical abilities,” she whispered.

  Everything went quiet around him. The tall woman brought herself to his level, opening her arms and surrounding him in peace. He rested his head on her shoulder.

  “Little one, you are very young to take an oath, but you have shown your true heart; you must be trained. Would you like to learn to become a guardian and protector of the priestesses of Mawu?”

  Gregory buried his head in her warmth. He wanted to suck his thumb but that was for babies. He was cowboy tough. He wished his cap guns could’ve been real. The woman massaged his back. She reminded him of his mama, nana, and aunties. He felt warm, safe.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman touched his forehead again. “You are now guardian and protector. You can do and see what others cannot.”

  Little Gregory’s body vibrated and his vision clouded. The woman smiled at him as her warmth and calmness receded, disappearing.

  He returned to the horrific reality, smashing his hands together, crashing to his knees, praying hard while everyone around him dropped. He opened his eyes to the eerie silence, stood and scanned the rows of bodies. They’re all gone!

  The man slapped his hand down, splitting the Bible. Wham! Gregory jumped. The man’s mouth formed a devilish grin as he zeroed in on him. He’s gonna kill me!

  Little Gregory tried to run and hide, but he couldn’t move. His feet rooted to the floor while his fingers and hands turned ice cold. His knees knocked together.

  Papa Amin sauntered down the church aisle, whistling a grisly tune, sinister cane thumping the now normal-looking wooden floor. He stopped in front of little Gregory, grabbing the boy’s chin in his beefy dark hands. Gregory studied the man’s perfectly manicured nails with gold rings on every finger. The man lifted the cane, touching the middle of his forehead with the creepy symbol. His forehead burned, searing his skin, bringing tears to his eyes.

  “Bitch-Goddess! You stole his soul!” Papa Amin gritted his gold teeth.

  Little Gregory still couldn’t move.

  “You live today, but I find a way to remove what that bitch-goddess did to you. Next time yo’ bloodline cross me again, I kill you.” With the other hand, Papa Amin slid his long finger across his neck in a slicing motion.

  Little Gregory’s stomach somersaulted as an unnatural force blasted him backward onto his mother.

  Later, when the white police officers came, they found him next to his mother’s dead body, huddled underneath the pew, gripping his cap guns. They gawked at him with pity, but the white faces scared him. He wouldn’t allow them to touch him. He needed his mama or nana to cuddle, to take the pain away, to make him feel better, but
they were covered in bed sheets. That was the day he lost his emotions. The pain and shock of that moment turned him into a different person. He vowed to get Papa Amin for taking away his entire family.

  The white police officers brought her. The woman who he called simply, “Mama.” She was a church mother. She knew everything and everybody in the community. She said she would raise him, and she did. Those white police officers didn’t know what hit them when she marched into the room. She came into that church, clutching her Bible and singing the Lord’s praises. Magic vibrated from her soul, but only Gregory could see it. After Nana Buluku touched him, he witnessed what others could not.

  Mama had those white men being saved and saying “hallelujah” as she passed. They didn’t know what to do when a caramel-colored woman of strength strolled in and took over. She walked to him and held out her hand. Her body radiated with overwhelming power. Little Gregory bit his lip and didn’t know what to do. He pulled away, looking at his dead family all covered up. His eyes darted to the wall where their souls had gone. The spider web streaming around the hole and the smell made him ill.

  She said, “I see it, too. Take my hand, guardian, and we will make the people who did this pay.”

  Little Gregory holstered his cap guns and reached for her. Mama grasped his hand in hers. The connection…intense. He could see so much but retained so little.

  She smiled at him. “Come, we have work to do, precious.”

  They strode out of that sinister place together. Little Gregory glimpsed a smaller spot on the wall. It diminished in the presence of Mama, but his stomach told him that the web was still there. After that, his life changed.

  The tremors stopped. The moment passed. Agent Moss was back to his grown self. He ground his cigarette butt in the ashtray until it cried uncle. He stood and took out his sweat rag, wiping his neck and face. He thought about the murder board. Tracing the lineage of most of those girls and women showed him they were all descended from an area in West Africa and connected to Ebo Landing.

  An historic site of resistance located at the Sea Islands in Georgia, Ebo Landing was the place where one group of newly-shipped slaves metaphorically walked on the water back to Africa. A priestess led the spirits to Africa in the 1800s. Had she been stronger in her magic, they would have returned. The Igbo were content with freedom at any cost. As the Igbo people drowned, they held hands and sang a song asking the water spirits to take them home—to freedom. Just hearing the story of Ebo Landing pained him.

  A woman’s voice whispered, “Women with that much power are a threat and must be stopped by the white male power structure.”

  These women became targets based upon their race and sex. Powerful black girls and women like Mama were hunted and murdered for well over two centuries. Anger boiled within his soul. He walked into the FBI field office. As he entered the building, people moved out of his way. He was used to it. Not so much when he was in uniform but in his T-shirt and jeans, he noticed people were afraid when a six-foot-three black man with an athletic build and serious eyes entered. He chuckled inwardly. He was only dangerous to a certain kind.

  Mama trained him. Teaching him how to battle freaks and forces of nature. Chopping off the heads of the vampire-like Obayifo, fighting the descendants of Eshu, who were Papa Amin’s fetish priests, and killing the snakes and werewolf-like Children of Loki by any means necessary.

  He was a guardian and protector of the priestesses of Mawu. All his notions were confirmed when he realized the women were descendants of the goddess. He trotted up the stairs to his office. FBI rules stated that he should have a full team working with him because there were so many interconnected murders, but he’d rather work alone. Not many people visited, and he didn’t want them there. Regular agents wouldn’t be able to handle the supernatural issues he faced. He took a deep breath as another vision assaulted him. Damn, thought they were over.

  He stopped, soothing his cramping leg muscles, then went down on a knee. The day he almost lost his life, he’d felt the fiery bullet as it pierced his skull. Papa Amin enchanted it, and somehow the great mother saved him—again. Finally, he’d gotten too close to breaking the followers of Eshu and they were scared. Instead of taking them down like a guardian, he broke their organizational structure using law enforcement. Guardian magic protected him, and putting them in jail hurt their ranks. Since he sought to bring them down in the non-magical world, they tried to take him out using a man-made weapon.

  Moss swayed back and forth on the stair. An arm came over his broad shoulder, and someone asked if he was okay. He nodded and said this too would pass, to give it a minute. These episodes occurred so often that his coworkers moved along, and if that didn’t work, the goddess granted him a small bit of magic to erase the memories of those who witnessed too much.

  Moss sucked in air to get himself to calm down. He lived two lives before being shot. Guardian by night and FBI agent by day, but when his soul was ready to pass on, the voice of the goddess spoke to him…the one who held him as a child.

  She asked if he could share his body; share his soul with someone who could help him defeat the villain who took away his family. Moss remembered wanting to get retribution. Inside, hardwired to combat this evil, he immediately said yes, and his life changed. He was now integrated. Mystics might say, having lived another lifetime, he was a reincarnated soul. He shivered. His suspicion told him the other soul had been wicked. He sensed the other would control him if he could. Besides the episodes, he rarely had any memories, but he was unsure of what would happen if the old soul took control.

  The vertigo subsided. He stood and trudged to his office. He closed the door and stomped over to the murder board. He studied it carefully. He’d made a deal with the Southeast regional FBI. With the use of a little magic from Mama, they agreed to allow him to work exclusively to bring down the evil network. He was no longer torn. Guardian and FBI agent by day and night who took on those strange cases that dealt with the ritualistic murder of black girls and women. The cases no one else cared about.

  His pocket buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID. It said, “Mama.” He slid the phone to answer the call.

  Her voice boomed. “It’s starting. Get ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was about to ask a question when she hung up. Moss returned his attention to the murder board. This time Papa Amin and the fetish priests would pay for what they’d done. He’d take them down.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Stacey

  Stacey was summoned to her family home in downtown Savannah, Georgia. She tromped up to the white mansion. As a child, she’d been embarrassed to live here; sheꞌd wanted to live in a normal house with a real family. The house gave her chills. She knew why. It’d been in her family for generations, and on the outside, resembled the perfect Southern mansion, but the inside was filled with dark magic and death.

  The local ghost hunters tried to convince her grandmother to put the house on the tour, but death was not in the past. The hauntings were from old and new ghosts. Her grandmother and uncles were her evil family. She despised them all, except her baby brothers.

  After the death of her parents, Stacey and her brothers were left with her self-entitled uncles, and a grandmother willing to do anything to give them what they wanted, even if they were wrong. Her grandmother had some kind of obsession with her sons. They were her world, and she’d do anything to make them stronger. Stacey fixed her hair. They’d probably talk about her and try to make her feel guilty for not marrying Deacon and having an heir. That was their thing. Broken record.

  She was the closest female relative since her mom’s passing, and her womb funneled the magic into the males of the family. Part of the curse that came with being descended from the Children of Loki.

  Stacey was nothing more than a breeding cow. The more powerful her mate and magic, the stronger the males in her lineage would be, but for her entire life they’d treated her like dirt. Instead of being special, they relegated her to
the level of servant. She should have been revered, but instead, she was the one who always fixed everything.

  Stacey, your uncles need you to do this. Stacey, your uncles need you to do that.

  Gah. Magical invalids. Her grandmother used her means to give her uncles new cars, lavish homes, and ideal lives, while Stacey became the magical workhorse. Worse, her baby brothers got nothing.

  It burned her insides. Her grandmother didn’t realize she’d created these pampered bitches, but Stacey understood what was up. Her brothers would be coming of age soon, and they’d pull her magic away from her parasitic uncles. Stacey also knew her unmated status caused her magic to be weak, and her uncles had found unsavory ways to boost their abilities temporarily. She didn’t know how they did it, but she knew they’d dabbled in the dark arts, which caused the destruction of her parents.

  Stacey remembered her mom. She was a sweet, humble, Southern woman who wanted to make everyone happy. On her deathbed, the woman grabbed Stacey, half her face youthful and the other half death. She told her that her grandmother would do anything for her brothers, even force her to use the darkness. She said never to use it because it came with a painful price.

  Stacey wiped the tears from her eyes. Her mother used dark magic to further her grandmother’s goals, and since they were mated, it cost Stacey both of her parents. If one died, then they both died.

  Stacey was determined never to use it, no matter what her power-hungry uncles said.

  She pushed the door open and sauntered into the parlor. The three sat at a long table, ready for her tribunal.

  “Welcome.” Her uncle Button, the short, squat, bald one waved her over for a hug. His belly hung over his pants. Greedy little banker. The snake. His sweaty, pasty-white skin turned her off. Stacey side-stepped. She didn’t want to touch him.