Black Queen, Dark Knight II

by Avant, Amarie

Another .9 millimeter pings off of my sleeve. Now, those are much easier to navigate.

  Magnum in hand, I aim for the Ukranian brandishing a shotgun and fire one round between his eyes. My .357 is enough to leave a large gaping hole. A flash of white from Yakiv’s suit, and I aim, sacrificing my body to another .9 millimeter shot, since these idiots aren’t intelligent enough to aim for my head.

  A take a shot, and he’s down.

  Five, ten, fifteen men enter the bar that wasn’t quite big enough to begin with. Men and naked women, serving drinks, scatter. Chairs are flying, along with tables, as patrons and tits go fleeing.

  A devilish grin brightens my face. Who ever said working for X Member was easy?

  It’s all a blood bath, and I love it. Mikayla will forgive me later.

  22

  Mikayla

  A sickening feeling fills my stomach as I start descending the steps of the palace. With each blink, the last day I was in the presence of my umama flashes through my mind. The two of us robed in grand clothing, her queenly shoulders that always stayed erect, sagging in fear and doubt.

  Qaaim calling after us, my father’s leopard skin on his shoulder, proof that King Bannan had been murdered.

  Elder Chumi pats my shoulder. The first time I followed him up these steps was a week ago. Chinwa still does not talk.

  Denso leads the way to the dungeon where my servant Chinwa has spent the last fourteen days.

  At the top of the stairs, there is a wrought-iron beam jutting out of the floor. Across from it are wrought-iron bars. About twenty feet off the ground are the only windows, which are out of reach for a prisoner’s escape. Also, one would have to be rather skinny to fit through them. The sunshine scarcely reaches the dank cell. Chinwa cowers against the far end of the room.

  “It’s cold in here, Denso. We have to give her a blanket.”

  His mouth sets. “I am not too comfortable torturing a female, Queen Mikayla. And so, this is one of my ways. Intentionally causing her discomfort.”

  “So, you haven’t fed her either?” My eyes peer through. It’ll be a while before her chubby cheeks cave in, but her dark skin is pallid.

  “I’m—”

  “It’s not your fault.” I breathe a good dose of oxygen through my lungs, raking my hand through my kinky hair. What are we doing? The undertaking of visiting this cell sets my soul on fire with thoughts of my last moments with my mother.

  “You must rule with an iron fist, Mikayla,” Chumi orders. “The care in which you saved that child at Nivean Hall has shown to your people that you are just and kind. Now, show your authority as is necessary for a versatile ruler.”

  “Elder Chumi, what would the rest of the elders think if they knew that I not only listened to you as my own personal advisor, but we were aware that we were starving a Nivean in such chilly temperatures?” I pause.

  Chinwa rouses awake with a groan. She moves slowly toward the bars.

  “Denso, please, a blanket and food.”

  He nods and makes his leave.

  “Girl.” Chumi addresses her with the same dominating tone that he takes with me. “Who is in charge of this farce?”

  Moaning, she licks her dried lips, gripping the bars, pulling up. The process of clutching the bars and moving higher is accompanied by frail groaning until she’s on her feet, though leaning heavily against the wrought iron. My eyes stare just past her, unable to look her in the eye. That chubby husband she gossiped so rudely about has not asked for her since Eadric sent word that she “disappeared.”

  “My Queen, do you remember me?” Her tone matches my inflection, sounding just like me. It’s speaking through her. Chinwa’s hand reaches through the bars.

  “Don’t!” Chumi growls.

  Fingertips brushing against hers, I’m plunged into a childhood dream.

  A toasty fire warms my skin. Abayomi is at my side, more candied fruit in a bag in his pocket. His scrawny leg is pressed against mine, and he sneaks out a gooseberry.

  “There are not just the two of you.” King Bannan’s voice booms from across the fire. My mother is seated at his side, shoulders high, lustrous dark cheekbones molded in marble. The two of them inspire awestruck stares, even just sitting on the ground as my father tells stories.

  Gasps come from children in the circle around us.

  My umama supports his statement. “We are Niveans. We share.”

  “It wasn’t me, Utata.” I grin.

  He arises from the cow skin rug, fire flicking off his chiseled face as he comes around. All the children’s eyes are on him. The king becomes my doting father, scooping me up into his arms. He tickles my stomach. “But yet the evidence is on your fingers and in your belly.”

  “Alright, Bannan.” My mother’s voice is lush with love. “You promised the towns children the story about that leopard skin over your shoulder and the distinguished scar on your chest. Tell them the story.”

  “What’s distinguished?” one of the children ask.

  Dad’s voice booms as he begins to tell the story, pausing only to give Abayomi a look that causes him to share the fruits he so thoughtfully picked for me. “You’ll have other ways over the years to prove your undying love to my daughter.”

  I fall back in a giggle. Bannan always puts my best friend on the spot, but with other children around, embarrassment wanders over my brown skin. Abayomi squeaks something inaudible while grabbing out a few fruits and handing the bag to me.

  I pluck out just one, and then my fingers brush against a girl whose eyes never smile and . . .

  That long-ago forgotten day fades from my mind. For a moment, I’m content with my childhood love and my parents delegating time from their busy schedules to entertain a bunch of giggly preschoolers.

  “Do you know who I am now?”

  “Anathi,” I murmur the South African word for “they are with us.”

  “Did you say?” Elder Chumi gasps. “We must call a meeting with the rest of the elders, now!”

  “Who is An—”

  He yanks my arm, cutting off the rest of the girl’s name.

  “But we still have to . . .” I begin, glancing toward Chinwa who is now on the ground in the fetal position, groaning softly. The transference must have taken a lot out of her.

  23

  Jagger

  A metal table laying on the floor is now my shield. Not sixty seconds ago, Yakiv escaped the bar. I’ve counted out ten dead bodies before me, which are mine, but the number has more than doubled since Yakiv’s men aren’t proficient marksmen.

  “Put your guns down! I’ll spare you, all of you!”

  “Fuck you,” comes from my left, then a grunt as the man rises. I lift my gun and shoot in that vicinity.

  “Garh!” he shouts. I stand up. He’s clutching at his side. “No” is his last word before I blast a shot right between his eyes.

  Eleven. All head shots.

  This is a lot more entertaining than the lives I claimed in my living room two weeks ago. Perceiving the tip of an AK-47, I aim for the hand of my enemy. The shot blows his fingers to smithereens. All number twelve has to do is stand or pop his head up from behind a table, so that I press on with my perfect score. He gives a blood curdling scream, staying low.

  I pick off thirteen and fourteen.

  Twelve’s crying has started to die down. Four minutes have passed. Number fifteen is silent as a mouse. Crouching low, I move from my position, doing a perimeter search for fifteen. Reflections have become my best friend today. I see a distorted image of a man huddled against the opposite side of the bar via a vodka bottle on a shelf. Damn, he had my favorite bar shoot out spot this entire time and didn’t excel at it. I creep over, stand up, and issue one shot through his cranium. He never looks up. Brain mush goes flying as his upper body tumbles over to the side.

  Guess that makes a good enough headshot as any.

  When I turn around, there’s a trail leading toward the exit. Twelve cradles his arm against his chest, blood gush
ing out where his hand once was. He crawls toward the door.

  “Tsk, Tsk.” I click my tongue. He turns around.

  Right between the eyes.

  Seven minutes have passed.

  Outside the weather is brisk. Crystalized white flakes fall onto the asphalt, leaving faint tire tracks in the direction that Yakiv left. Due to these asshole’s goons’ disastrous shooting only the patrons fortunate enough to flee out of the back survived. The tracks point west, skidding off so quickly that the trajectory line zig-zags prior to disappearing. He left in a hurry.

  I start toward my modified truck, thick rubber jutting off the wheels. Inside, the truck is nice and toasty. Though I was in Yakiv’s bar for a while, my truck stayed juiced up in order to be used as a secondary form of surveillance.

  “Good evening, Jagger. The temperature in your automobile has been adjusted to your preference.” The computerized voice comes through the speakers.

  “Confirm if Yakiv traveled due west approximately seven minutes ago and the type of car he drove.”

  “Yakiv did travel due west seven minutes and twenty-two seconds ago, turning left three blocks ahead. Yakiv is driving a 2019 misano blue metallic Alfa Romeo Stelvio Quadrifoglio. Would you like assistance with tracking? I will adjust the speed for safety and maximized time.”

  I maneuver out of the parking lot and give the gas a little less than what my truck is capable of. Desiring the taste of Mikayla’s lips, I ramp up some more. Graffiti-tagged cement buildings blur by. My knuckles tighten in order to keep the beast in line.

  “Jagger, it appears you are traveling at a rate extremely dangerous for the current road conditions. Please confirm—”

  “Turn on manual shift.” I gun the engine to a hard ninety. My eyes search the desolate, snow frosted streets for Yakiv’s car.

  “Jagger, I have detected a potential threat. There are three Lada 4 × 4s increasing speed approximately two miles on your rear. Censors have detected heavy artillery.”

  Fuck! More minions coming to save their master while Yakiv heads for the Ukraine underground again. I glance through the rearview window. The snow is coming down in torrents now. Through the white haze, bright lights shine from what must be the off-road vehicles.

  Thump.Thump. Thump.

  Burst-fire rounds from a military-grade weapon hit the bullet-proof back window of my truck, right behind my head.

  “Window integrity eighty percent,” the automatic response warns. With a nonmilitary grade gun, the bullet-proof glass offers a higher resistance. “Sixty percent.”

  “Tire integrity—”

  “I know!” I grab the Magnum from my lap. I underestimated Yakiv. This new crew of his is more tactical. They’re forcing me to spinout.

  24

  Mikayla

  Elder Chumi has exchanged his suit for tribal wear. Four other men are dressed the same. Only one elder resides on the counsel who has been here since my grandparents’ rule, and his are eyes hardly a slit while the rest of elders have rounded saucers.

  Our guards have changed their attire to proper warrior customs. Denso, Eadric, and others are donning meager outfits. Animal skins cover only a small portion of their muscular asses with long, powerful limbs at the ready. Customary spears are at their side. Those damn Okeke warriors. You can pick them out of a line up while blind. For all the hemming and hawing Chinwa did when Denso opened the door for her weeks back, these men deserved their own calendar.

  I slump in my seat, feeling tinier than an ant under a spray of stars. Hand rubbing over my face, I grumble inwardly. As far as the eye can see, Nivean men, women, and children are seated on the ground, anxiously awaiting the reason why they’ve all been called together.

  Chumi slams a hand onto the table, much like he did on the night when we met. I’d just been abducted from Jagger in Las Vegas, and my uncle Qaaim played us all for fools by presenting me to society with no understanding of the Xhosa language or its customs, which was prior to MamLalumi unlocking my repressed memories.

  I can still hear Chumi shout, “Princess Mikayla has made her choice. Unfortunately, she has allowed herself to be enraptured by the evil Western society. This man’s mother has stolen much of this nation's family. We won't allow a Johansson to take any more of our people. It stops now. She and the devil can go!”

  He has never taken it easy on me, and I’ve grown to respect that his calculated moves are always for the advancement of the Nivean nation. This time, though, his eyes are warmed with sincerity as he speaks. “Our Queen and I are here to address you with very important news.”

  Did he include himself in that statement? I heave a sigh of relief, thanking God that I don’t have to talk.

  Chumi speaks again. “Anathi is—”

  “Did he say . . .”

  “He said . . .”

  Other variations of shocked whispers fill the air.

  “Anathi has returned.”

  Now, the crowd is bickering and arguing about what we will do.

  When Chumi hustled down the steps earlier this afternoon, moving faster than his eighty years, I knew our asses were toast. I begged him to tell me who this person was prior to the meeting, and I can’t say if I’m lucky or doomed because he did just that.

  Anathi’s parents were pregnant with twins, hence the name “they are with us,” though, as fate would have it, it seemed more like this bitch is stuck in my head. Anyhow, the story went that the good twin died as an embryo, swallowed up by the bad twin. Up until a few years ago, Anathi, who is my age, was the apprentice for MamLalumi. Face turning pale, Chumi was unable to divulge what happened to her, warning that the rest of the story was all hearsay and gossip.

  Chaos ensues, twining around all the dark stories while the people shout. Anathi practiced black magic. She attempted to murder MamLalumi to steal her power when our diviner chose not to bless her.

  “Listen to me, everyone.” I speak from the depths of my diaphragm, standing up from my overwhelmed position. Instant order blankets over the crowd.

  “We are in the process of searching for MamLalumi at this very moment,” I tell them, hoping that Eadric’s attempts, which didn’t make me feel much better, are a momentary solace.

  “What does she want?” one of the elders asks.

  “You’re privy of my desires, My Queen. The choice is yours to tell them all or leave them in the dark.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I determine the proper course. If I tell the people that Anathi is on their side—within her dark, twisted mind, she does want the best for Nivean—there’ll be a riot because Anathi has lost all of their trust.

  Telling them the bitch is playing me, the queen, like a fiddle is not an option.

  Speaking sincerely, I say, “For now, Anathi has not appeared to be a danger to the greater good of the—”

  “What about my daughter? My baby has never tried any of the crazy stunts that her big brothers have.” The man whose child I saved a few days ago cuts in. Questions of the child being possessed by Anathi churn, circulating slowly until they pick up momentum burning like wildfire.

  I can’t lie that Anathi is incapable of such atrocities.

  Hand stretched flat, I slide it parallel across from me. More silence. It almost feels like a dead weight instead of being a blessing. Faces look to me expecting a simple solution to a forest fire. “As many of you know, I was in the process of attending medical school when my Uncle Qaaim sent for me. I can explain the exact nature of your daughter’s injuries, and the process of how I assisted her.” I address the distraught father who’s now holding his child closely to him. Until this moment, I had left my medical examiner’s bag at the rear of my cognition. And while I cannot affirm if that crazy bitch is the cause, I square my shoulders prepared to dig into the task. “Or we can place our focus on Anathi, as myself and our fellow elders are currently endeavoring to do, in order to resolve the situation. We will bring her to justice.”

  The angst of the evening still clings to me
an hour later and all the townspeople have dispersed to their homes. I grit my teeth to the chill of wearing tribal clothing so late at night. The strenuous effort of pushing my body up from the seat where I literally spent this entire time explaining the medical procedure causes me to groan.

  I’m not even steady on my feet when Chumi leans over, softly touching my forearm to whisper, “We must address the elders.”

  “But I thought we did just that?” My body sinks down again. Since we were seated closer to the townspeople, I stop myself from glancing back at the rest of the elders who are no doubt staring at us. Fatigue has caught up with me, but not too much, so I bite my tongue. “We just addressed the entire nation. Which might I add, didn’t seem like a great idea—”

  “Mikayla, I see you perceive our tradition as an unnecessary evil. Where you’re from the government is corrupt, the people unawares. We stay woke for lack of a better term. No sweeping mud over catastrophes.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, not seeing how the two can be compared, not at all. The entire reason for the elders is to defuse a situation prior to bringing the mass into the fold. This was like a post-apocalyptic movie where a newscaster tells everyone to “stay calm, we’re all gonna die.”

  “Chumi, at least, we should’ve met with the elders, formulated a game plan, and then brought the nation up to speed. It just sounds a little more counterintuitive sounding the alarm first.”

  It’s past midnight when there’s yet another meeting. This time, it’s just the five elders, Denso, and me. Denso has garnered so much respect from the people that he is permitted to stand guard near us. A few more guards are sprinkled off across the vast area.

  “How will we defeat Anathi without MamLalumi?” Elder G asks, his fingers planted on the table.

  “We simply do not have the means. Granted, Mikayla is in Prince Fari’s good graces. Will Zihula assist? She has yet to meet King Damba.”

  Another one clicks his tongue. “King Damba is not in his right mind anymore to issue decrees or sanction any contributions. Let us not worry like chickens over every little thing when that senseless ibhinqa elingenangqiqo and her black magic is running rampant.”