Black Queen, Dark Knight II

by Avant, Amarie

  Trick points the black licorice at me, the lemony sherbet powder shimmering on it. “Don’t be disrespectful, Juggernaut. I’ve taught you a few things or two. Believe in me.”

  He begins to laugh, and I fold my arms. “Guess we’ll see then.”

  “Damn straight, mate.” A while later we stop, and I assume we are at our destination. He kills the engine, and places on black gloves then reaches over to the glove compartment. “Rare, double-edged, Egyptian dagger. Since we can’t get up close and personal, no blood play, at least we can kill the bastard in style.”

  “You’re remind me of Batman. Gadgets for days that you think are cool.”

  Trick’s head tilts in thought. “Eh, I’m not seeing the similarities. That shit is for show.”

  “Gadgets, toys . . .”

  We get out, closing the doors.

  “These aren’t toys, mate. These blades are imbued with Egyptian cobra venom that I’m not fully immune to yet.”

  I pause for a moment. Shit, I’m really turning into my parents. Hitmen don’t compare the dynamics of their kill to movies, television, or superheroes. But here I am, simple talk and all.

  “Never mind.” I gesture for him to take the lead.

  From the X-Member profile, I gather the gig had something to do with drug dealers stepping out of line. Some boss wants to show his balls, and instead of a massive blood bath, he’s requested to have one enemy picked off. Sometimes, if you dig a little deeper, the benefactor and the mark are the same person, different bodies. Alpha wolves hate competition.

  The port is about a hundred yards off when Trick clicks on his iPad, pulling up the X-Member profile. I guess that the benefactor also requested a play-by-play like, “I’m placing the magazine in the fucking Ak-47,” that type of stuff.

  Trick holds out binoculars for me, and I see your run-of-the-mill drug dealer. He must be a small fish, being in the same location as his product.

  “So how are you . . .” I again begin to wonder.

  * * *

  At 3:29 a.m., we’re headed back to the hotel. Trick’s back to multitasking, candy, cigarette, cellphone, and steering wheel, of course. I blink a couple of times in shock.

  “My IQ is 137, Juggernaut. Might not use all my braincells on any given day, but when I do, I do.” He mentions the record for a knife thrown in World War I then goes on to talk about physics, and I shut down. This is beyond me. Now, I’ll say that a sniper rifle would’ve done the trick, but this asshole has reinvented the game. I’ll stick to my trusty magnums. Nothing compares to holding them in my hands.

  We’d been over a hundred and fifteen yards away from the mark; I clocked it. The knife arched across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed out. I had a front-row seat, binoculars in hand. His body convulsed, foaming at the mouth for a split second before he dropped. One way or another, he was dead. Trick had sent the coordinates to the X-Member profile during our walk back.

  “Looky there.” Trick hands over his iPad, while heading down the street for our hotel.

  “You just expired a mark. No break?” I scan over the page. It’s open season, and Trick has already been offered a new hit. Damn. Since Ava Sinclair’s death, I’ve been pardoned. But on the other hand, the requests are coming in few and far between. Though, I had never been offered a new assignment the same day just as I had pressed the expiration button on another, and sure as hell never within the hour.

  Then I see a facial shot of the new mark. She’s pretty, black. There’s a light to her gaze that reminds me of Mikayla’s. However, a quick scan of the benefactor, and I know that this picture is old. Damn, she’s as good as dead.

  Here I go again, allowing feelings into my day-to-day. “You trying to settle down?”

  “No, any bloke looks at her and their dingy bits are hard as fuck. Just look at those lips, I don’t give a damn if she has a growler. I’d shag a pretty thing like that. Ruin’er. She’d love it. Then she’d still have to die.”

  “What if she’s like Mikayla. Hasn’t done anything?”

  He pulls on the cigarette for a second then breathes out. “Doesn’t matter. She could be a manipulator. She could deserve it. She could be as innocent as she appears, Juggernaut. A face and a body that complements it like that will only break a man’s heart. Might as well be the one to do her in.”

  I scan over the profile. “Denise Joy Everly. You’ve been personally vetted to find the Ballerina.”

  “Bollocks, find her, you say?” His accent amps up in annoyance. “Deny that shit.”

  “It’s probably why they want you. No location. You’re the man with the bag of Tricks, Harry—”

  The tip of a knife flashes before my gaze, stopping a slither away from my eyeball.

  “I just complimented you, fuck off. Move your knife.”

  He tosses it onto the dashboard. “Don’t call me Harry.”

  “Duly noted.”

  He grabs the tablet back. “You’ve got the Black Queen. I don’t need no fucking cutesy black ballerina because unlike you, I complete all my jobs.”

  “Contrary to what you believe, Trick. My assignment was not to murder Mikayla, but—”

  “I know. Jag, I sneak into everyone’s missions. On occasion, I’ve been known to reroute the ones that were assigned to someone else because of my intrigue in the level of danger. But I always complete the assignment.”

  “Smug prick.” I shake my head. The Brit has clout. He can pull moves that others can’t. The armory in Vegas isn’t the only one Trick has. He’s has them all across the globe. When he gets tired of living in Australia then he goes somewhere else. But what the loner has is the ability to make connections. People like him. He hates them.

  Shit, I think if it weren’t for Mikayla, he’d hate me. Still probably does. Do I care? No.

  Do I care about this young ballerina dying? Maybe.

  I never took a female gig before Mikayla. Ava Sinclair conned me into it. The more I love Mikayla, the more my principles alter.

  “If the assignment says find and expire Denise. That’s exactly what I’d do.” He takes his eyes off the road to decline the offer. “Nice price on ‘er head, but I don’t feel like chasing around pussy. Her face is beautiful. I’d have to figure out how to murder her without marring it. So, nay, not for me.”

  “Simple shot to the head does the trick,” I say, not because my morals about not murdering women and children have changed, but because this British fuck off can get really nasty—if he wants to.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Those assignments with the sheik of Tavar almost take you over the edge yet?”

  His eyebrow rises.

  I cuss under my breath. “Trick, I don’t hack the literally impenetrable X Members database like you. You told me in Costa Rica while you were drunk. You’re all talk.”

  “Costa Rica?” He grins. “Can’t be all talk if I told you how I tortured an enemy of Tavar.”

  “You bragged about it, about the money and.” I pause. The shit Trick had said back then had made me sober. I return to the subject. “Heh. I’m sure our lovely Ballerina wouldn’t want to tango with the likes of you either.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Trick is a different man than the one who became a widower. It’s like being drenched in ice water after watching him interact with Anna and his sister.

  I recall holding my heart with a vice grip when it came to Mikayla. Sure she was a pretty little fuck. I treasured her innocence that first night but intended to complete my job.

  But Trick . . .

  Denise Everly is better off having a bullet put in her head via another hitman.

  One not so broken.

  6

  Mikayla

  A satisfying groan swells through my body. Nothing compares to waking up after the best sex of your life. Roused as I am, after having been immersed in the good love Jagger bequeathed me, it almost pains me to untangle my limbs from him so that I can relieve myself in the bathroom.

 
A few minutes later, breath minty, I slip into my jeans and Jagger’s jacket, zipping in my naked stomach and breasts. I grab my phone off the side table and tiptoe toward the balcony. A gentle sun barely permeates through the clouds, sending my bones shaking.

  Growing up in Long Beach, I’m used to a soft chill, but London is a whole other beast. I sit down on the wrought iron chair, fold my legs up, and dial Elder Chumi. Out of the seat of Elders, most who had to be replaced due to misguided loyalties, Chumi will always be my closest confidant. It helps that, though he is rigid in his ways, he understands I’m in love with Jagger. He, along with MamLalumi, implored me to return to Nivean. This was right after Qaaim had me taken from Jagger. Once I returned to Nivean, I was aware that I’d been stripped of my heritage—no comprehension of the Xhosa language, no knowledge of my culture—no nothing. Instead of having me locked away, safe and educated on Nivean ways, the bastard had discarded me like a rag. It was Qaaim’s ultimate plan that when I returned to Nivean I would not want it. And I fell into his plan, blossoming in Western society. I did not want the kingdom. Chumi and MamLalumi came straight to Jagger’s to implore my return.

  MamLalumi once went by Lalumi, and she’d been sort of a babysitter when I was a child. Usually, I sat with Lalumi while my parents conducted rituals or other practices, but this one time, Lalumi was with our old principle healer or diviner, MamNcozo, and the center of attention. I can still recall sitting with King Bannan. In his nurturing way, he’d explained:

  “Lalumi has an ubizo. She is one of the youngest, uthando lwami, it is an honor for Lulami to be called as a young woman. I am sorry, beautiful, but she can no longer care for you. She is becoming the umkhwetha as a amagqirha.”

  My call is not answered, so I dial his phone number again. The nightmare that I had on the jet is at the forefront of my mind. Sleeping with Jagger was a worthwhile antidote, but now, I need a few concerns addressed.

  Chumi answers my call on the fifth ring. “Mholweni—Hello?”

  I smile at the hesitation in his voice. “It’s me.” I address him in our native tongue.

  “One doesn’t answer the phone, ‘It’s me’ when she or he is royalty, Mikayla.”

  “How are things?”

  “You left twenty-four hours ago. Qaaim may have played a game of thrones while you were growing up, but I assisted in ensuring our nation did not fall into the hands of any outsiders. I am more than capable of handling your daily activities for the next couple of days.”

  “Alright, I’m really calling about MamLalumi. Do you have a phone number for her? I’ve never been in the situation to need it.”

  “No, I do not. Our divine healer does not believe in such novelties. Should she need you, Mikayla, she knows how to contact you. You’re highly aware of that.”

  Sometimes Chumi is a father figure, but most times he plays the thorn in my side. His favorite phrase is “I told you so,” yet in a more refined manner. “I called to her last night during a dream, Chumi. Can you do me a solid and check on her.”

  “What dream?” His Xhosa clicks ring through, and then he mumbles under his breath, “You’re still having those dreams, Mikayla?”

  “Yes. The one with my mom and I running up the stairs of the palace, attempting to get away from Qaaim the day he murdered her and my father,” I say, as if uttering it aloud will somehow alter my dream future so that it’s not plagued anymore. Watching a red double decker bus drive by, I sigh. “Yup. I still have those. Just like I had them when I was what, five or six years old? Chumi, now the day that the South African government addressed Qaaim’s deception is in my dreams too.”

  “That day was not blessed in our favor?” He sounds as if he’s ruminating over every facet of the day Qaaim was brought to justice, surprised that I recall it differently.

  I clasp my arm around my chest, squirming in my seat. How do I tell him that that particular dream is different somehow? Whilst awake, I can fixate on it enough to recall that Prince Fari held my hand and made a very good platonic royal confidant. In this reoccurring dream, it transpires vaguely different. Not wake up and change your panties different, but I feel guilty enough for the thoughts—my lustful thoughts. I glance over at Jagger.

  The unbreakable connection I have with him, well it’s wonky, because I feel the same connection for Fari, and I’ve only known him . . . shit, practically two or three weeks less than I’ve known Jag. However, Fari and I have communicated only a handful of times. He’s handsome; he’s a prince for goodness’ sake, but I don’t equate status with falling in love. Something is wrong with me.

  “Yes,” I finally respond. “It was a good day. Albeit, I’m recalling it a little too well, Chumi. Reach out to MamLalumi.”

  “I will visit with her today, and hopefully, she will speak with you, My Queen.”

  I smile. Elder Chumi knows when to calm my nerves.

  Just as our call has ended Joyce’s face pops up on the screen.

  “Where are my pictures?” Are the first words out of my adoptive mother’s mouth.

  Full-blown laughter rolls through me, and all those misguided shameless thoughts about Fari fade into oblivion. “Momma, you’re even worse about saying a simple hello than I am. Where is my southern cooking?”

  “Humph, you could be sitting at your momma’s restaurant right now enjoying some black-eyed peas, ox tails, and greens, but you went to Europe instead. I’m scared of you,” she says. I still don’t understand it when old folks say that term while smiling.

  “I know. I have to come home soon.”

  “Tsk, no you don’t. You’ll look up soon enough, and I’ll have sold my restaurant. The English professor,” as she refers to my dad Dr. Earl Bryant, “has chosen to no longer correct a person’s language, and we will be right up under you, living the royal lifestyle.”

  “Hmmm . . .” I say, not sure how to respond. Aside from the palace, most of the royal assets have been turned over to the people, such as the grossly substantial number of cars Qaaim collected for himself. “The more the merrier, Momma. We might not be living like Coming to America, though.”

  Her chuckle is a delight to my ear. “Sweetheart, we both know home is where your heart is, and as a matter of fact, did Jagger . . .?”

  “He did.” I grin. “He came, and he didn’t even know that I’d planned on meeting our mutual friend as well.”

  Glee radiates through the cellphone. “Yay! He isn’t as selfish as you thought.”

  “Not when it comes to me.” I glance back into the hotel room warmed by thoughts of him.

  “Is that old man harping about you marrying still?”

  “Yes. Elder Chumi is like a cantankerous grandpa, aware of what I need more than I do.”

  “That’s a lie,” Jagger speaks in a slow rumble of a voice.

  Shit, he’s awake, and he can hear me.

  “I know everything you need.” His golden tresses shaggily touch at his muscular shoulders and pecs and are draped over much of his face. Jagger’s large, muscular frame pads toward the bathroom.

  Waving a hand back at him, I listen in to my mother’s hesitant inquiry. “I understand that your relationship with Jagger has moved rather swiftly. Do you believe threeish months is enough time for the two of you to consider tying the knot? Has such talk been brought up in discussion?”

  Biting my lip, I ponder for a moment. Our longest time spent together was a week in Vegas. It’s been just shy of three months since Jagger took my contract in order to buy a custom Lamborghini.

  “I doubt,” my voice lowers, so that I don’t scare nor pressure Jagger, “he’s ready for such a life altering change so soon, Momma.”

  “Time is of the essence. Oh, honey, you’re in love with him, and I see that the old man is pushing the Fari prince on you. I’ve no problem with Dijmon,” she says, mentioning the actor, “had he entered your life first . . .”

  My mom’s voice trails off, and she makes these giddy little sounds, quite like Jenifer Lewis from Blackish, w
hen excited by a man.

  “Oh, heck no, Momma, keep it up with those sinful thoughts, I will run snitching to my dad,” I joke.

  “Humph. You have choices, very nice ones, honey. Pick the guy who—”

  “Momma, the prince and I have held the equivalent of a one-hour conversation. Fari is not an option.” I begin to sputter on my words when the door to the bathroom opens.

  Exiting, Jagger yawns, his chest expands like a bear.

  I love him.

  A voice that sounds much like my own worms into my thoughts. “You love the prince.”

  The cool morning air licks at the nape of my neck, and I’ve gone cold, even in Jagger’s leather jacket. I’m no longer breathing in his masculine, spicy scent. The cars driving up and down the street below all seem to have frozen in time. What the fuck was that?

  “Mikayla?”

  I blink, and my mother is addressing me, as is Jagger.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He comes to the opening, and reaches out a thumb, gliding it over the side of my mouth where a frown has set.

  “Hello, Mikayla? Kayla?” Mom asks.

  What was that? The voice inside of my head was slightly off. It did not belong to me.

  I love Jagger, I silently repeat.

  Fear slams through me as the response denies my request. “You’re in love with Fari.”

  “Mom, I have to go.” I cringe, adding swiftly before hanging up, “love you, bye.”

  The reoccurrence of the dream prompted me to reach out to MamLalumi earlier. I dread not having spoken to her about it before.

  I push my mouth into the perfect semblance of a smile, praying that Chumi has the diviner reach out to me soon. Standing to my full height, which brings my eye to Jagger’s never-ending pectorals, I rise further onto my tippy-toes and kiss him. “Just missed you.”

  His hands clasp harshly at my ass, and I’m on his waist in a matter of seconds. He carries me in and places me back on the bed. “Thought I hurt that pretty little pussy of yours last night.”

  I delight in his response. “You did. Hurt me again please . . .” Hurt me until I cannot think of the shame and guilt of these unwanted thoughts.