Black Queen, Dark Knight II

by Avant, Amarie

  My eyes brighten. She’s talking to me. And here I thought I was giving off don’t fuck with me vibes. “The name’s, Jagger, sweetheart. What’s yours?”

  “Most people call me Grammy, but you can call me yours for the night.”

  I sit up, rigid, blinking a few times. Shoving the dirty blond hair from my face, I stare at the old lady. Woman, it’s not safe for you outside after dark, let alone with a killer.

  “Now, don’t be so quiet and stoic, you’ll remind me of my grandson.” She begins to do something with her mouth and then her teeth are in her hands. “That’s not all Grammy can do.” Her tone is sing songy, promise ringing true while speaking of herself. If she weren’t half my height, I might be inclined to show shock. And when I show shock, people run.

  I point toward the door. “Listen, I’m not here for you. Go back inside where it’s safe”

  She huffs, waving me away. “Yeah, you just killed my vibe. Broody like my grandson. If you want to knock it off, and reset my hip, I’m room 302, third floor.”

  The doors swoosh closed behind her. What is the world coming to? A little old lady who goes by the name Grammy. She should be somewhere baking pink cupcakes, smelling of homemade cookies. Shit, not like that. Not pulling out her teeth and promising good head.

  I sit back again, dragging my fingers through my hair. Then I text Mikayla.

  ME: Hope you’re happy. Doing good shit today.

  I place the phone back into my pocket as a few more guests leave for the night.

  MIKAYLA: Did you find Trick’s new boo??

  ME: She isn’t.

  MIKAYLA: Jealous much?? But did you find her?

  ME: Found her.

  MIKAYLA: Yay!

  ME: So how many ‘dances’ does that erase?

  I start to erase my statement then retype the same words. If she prefers to compare deaths to dancing, I’ll give her that.

  MIKAYLA: One ballerina. One (dance emoji)

  I chuckle.

  ME: If that’s how the ratio plays out, I’d never see you again, accounting for all the people I need to save.

  MIKAYLA: 10??

  ME: I guess. I’ll see you next lifetime.

  MIKAYLA: Boy!

  MIKAYLA: Just keep being you. I love you.

  ME: Good. Because I would have to quit after one. Chat later, uthando.

  Shaking my head, I place the phone back into my pocket. Placing a woman over my missions, it’s fresh territory. Though for Mikayla, I’ll do anything such as stalk other women, apparently, to tell them something they should know.

  You’d have to want to know that someone wanted you dead, right?

  Another couple walk out of the retirement building. Visiting hours are almost over. Denise Everly is here. I found her, and I saw her walk inside earlier. I scouted around and saw where she parked. Even if she snuck out back, my gaze is still on the box-shaped car she drove in with. The license plate has Rhode Island plates. Figures. She hid out somewhere small, where she’d stick out like a blister.

  I could’ve squared away this impatience by going inside of the place, spooking her there in front of her grandfather.

  Finally, she comes out, moving ever so gracefully. She’s about twenty pounds heavier than her X Member profile, and the weight has settled in all the right places, making my loins scream for Mikayla.

  Then my teeth grit. She’s not walking like one should if they were watching their back. She gets about ten yards before me when I growl, “Denise Everly.”

  Her shoulders jolt. Fight or flight is radiating off her skin.

  “Don’t run. I will catch you.”

  34

  Mikayla

  Denso and I descend the staircase, which curves as we go. After a moment, a deadly pair of eyes zero in on my soul. Upon glancing around, my heart sinks. Oh god, Denso’s wife is glowering at me. Her gaze bounces between us. Once on the main floor, I nod toward the royals in the room and head straight to her, with a tiny, silk sack in my hand.

  “I’ve heard that MamLalumi’s salve has worked for you,” I whisper. “You are simply glowing. May your pregnancy be blessed,” I tell her. “Here’s a small gift just for you.”

  The undertones of jealousy die quickly as Denso’s wife notices the thoughtful token. Her eyes lower as is custom, and she says, “My Queen, you didn’t have to.”

  “I did.” I smile as she opens the silk sack to see a bottle of folic acid. “I hope you don’t mind me pushing my Western customs on you. In this regard, folic acid assists with brain development. I’m sure that MamLalumi will have an alternative for you when she returns, but just for now.” I shrug and smile.

  “I hope she comes home soon,” she says. Denso claims his place at her side, protective, though she hasn’t yet started showing.

  I address the Northern king and queen, taking their hands into mine. “We may have troubles to overcome in order to better our kingdoms, but for tonight, I decree only talks of happiness are allowed.”

  The king smiles brightly. “Oh, you are becoming more and more like your mother every day, Queen Mikayla.”

  “She is,” Prince Fari saddles up next to me. In seconds, I’ve greeted him as per custom and how I’ve greeted everyone else. I then work toward Eadric’s wife, followed by Zane and his wife, with hopes that my quick brush off of Fari isn’t too noticeable as the hostess this evening.

  Zora welcomes me with a huge hug. “Mikayla, I just have missed you so much!”

  I linger with the Solarin’s for a few minutes longer than the others, but mostly because I’m thanking Zora for all her help when I returned to Nivean.

  An hour later, two courses have been served, and a third is placed before us. The chef cuts into the lively dinner chat, offering a brief outline of the ingredients and enjoying the compliments. It isn’t until the main course is being whisked away by the servants that the chef metaphorically stands on his soap box for a rendition of Iron Chef America when Zora cuts in.

  “Queen Mikayla, every single morsel of food has been lovely. I hope you do not mind, but I brought teas for our dessert.”

  “I have specially selected . . .” the chef begins, his head held high, dreadlocks jittering to each word. I’m tempted to glance around and scoop out the hidden Food Network Channel cameras because he has been in character all night—self-confident, haughty, every bit of a prized chef. “To round off this fine evening, I have prepared for you—”

  Zora cuts in again. “Oh, but I must insist. The teas are a gift.”

  Zane stares straight at me. “Queen Mikayla, we would be honored.”

  The transference between husband and wife is enough to make me wonder if what they have is spiked. Infused with an ingredient that can counteract Anathi’s presence in my body. I’ll take it.

  “Yes.” I nod, staring at Zora but she doesn’t let go of the wooden box.

  Clutching it tightly she says, “Hot water and tea cups.”

  My glower causes a fire to light under the chef’s ass. Maybe Zora and Zane don’t trust him enough to steep the teas, but I still myself from the plethora of emotions clashing inside of me. I’ve noticed that Anathi does not respond to all of my thoughts. I’ve begun to wonder if it’s only the extreme emotive ones that she can dig down into.

  When the chef returns, donning a pot of steamy water, I’m in for shock. The instant the tea touches my mouth, the pain that I endure is greater than anything Anathi has ever caused. A white light shines before me, and death comes knocking at my door.

  35

  Jagger

  On ballet flats, she turns around beneath the glow of the streetlamp, rivers run down the brown skin of her face.

  “You . . . know . . . my . . . name. Guess it’s time for me to die,” she murmurs.

  I shake my head standing up. “Not while I’m around.”

  “What?” Her thick mouth sets into a pout. “My ex had me run over by a car.” This accounts for the limp in her gait, and most likely the reason for the weight
she’s put on since being in the limelight.

  “Then he leaves me a message that he doesn’t want me anymore, that the thought of us would disturb his wife,” she shakes her head, pointing to herself. “I was his wife. I wore a white dress, had a princess wedding, I became a Marchetti! At least I thought so. Sir, my life has been marred with good things. Like being the first black girl to join the Louis Vallour Ballet Academy. I’ve traveled the world.”

  I stare at her, unable to fathom how her accomplishments can be perceived so bad.

  “My parents died in a plane crash while coming to visit me in France for a recital.” She shrugs. “I meet the love of my life in Rome. He tells me I’m his world. No, he sets the world back on its course after my parents’ deaths, and he marries me. Gives me a lavish lifestyle until he disappears. Plays these games that only can happen in some bizarre 20/20 segment. Then the running over. Then . . . he wants me dead. So, will you do the honors or take me to him.”

  I see my Mikayla in Denise for a moment when Qaaim and the Elders had their festival after her arrival. He’d wanted everyone to see how she did not belong in Nivean. She chose me over her kingdom because she was afraid, and wild, courageous, and full of fire.

  “Take me to him,” she murmurs, burning in conviction. Something in that crazy little head of hers thinks she’s going to murder her husband. A Marchetti.

  Where have I heard that name? Fuck it. Doesn’t matter. I have to get it through Denise’s head that hiding is better than what she’s thinking, especially when a motherfucker’s last name is Marchetti. The asshole probably did a number on her.

  She’ll go down fighting, and it doesn’t matter because nobody in this world gives a damn about her enough to save her. At least, I have some karma to set right, so this will have to be enough.

  “No,” I say, taking her shoulders. “You can’t fight a Marchetti. Stop doing things that you love. Stop visiting people that you love.”

  I tell her these things, not because I give a fuck about her, but because every once in a while, I will play human because a bad man like me isn’t worthy of a good girl like Mikayla. I did it while helping out my parents’ church when Mikayla and I broke up for two months so that she could resurrect her nation.

  If I gave a damn, I’d find the man who wants her dead, and I’d tear him limb from limb, so no worries about more Marchettis coming to vindicate him. They’re like roaches. “Stop coming to see your grandfather, Everly.”

  Spittle flies from her clenched teeth. “I can’t.”

  “Then here’s some truth for you. There will be more after me, Ms. Everly. We’ve been promised a lot of money for your death.”

  The animosity fueling her soul for a moment fades into oblivion. Denise shrinks before me and steps back off the curb. It’s clear that she wasn’t prepared for such movement. There’s still pain in her knee.

  As the severity of this moment sinks in, Denise stares at me. She’s thinking about the hitmen that’ll no doubt come for her. I keep replaying the day that I stole Mikayla Bryant in my mind. How I wanted her. How she was so pretty. How I was going to have her before selling her to a monster.

  But this isn’t the case.

  The bastard who pretended to love Denise, blinded by her beauty and lavishing her with the finer things, probably still has a hold on her. And I can’t give a fuck. My happily ever after is in South Africa.

  She doesn’t turn away from me, eyes too bright with fear. “You’ll shoot me in the back. I won’t—”

  “You need to leave this place. Forget your family, your loved ones, friends, ballet.” I grab her arm and drag her toward her car. “And go!”

  Tears flood down her gorgeous face. Denise’s mouth twists, clearly due to the pain at her knee. I grab her purse, pull the keys out, and unlock the car. Then I shove her inside. When I reach behind my back, she stops crying to hitch a breath. She’s filled with a moment of pure, undulated panic. I pull out my wallet and give her over a thousand dollars, a few rand that I have, and some of the hryvnia that I hadn’t used while in Ukraine. My wallet is empty, and I feel like a dick for not being prepared with more money.

  “Now, go!”

  36

  Mikayla

  Next morning

  I wake up in the same bed that Jagger and I christened, feeling as if I were drowning underwater. A nightgown clings to my clammy skin. To add to the embarrassment and confusion, there are four sets of apprehensive eyes peering down at me, belonging to Chumi, Denso, Zane, and Zora. I’m lying in the bed, soaked through with sweat.

  “They tried to change you. Each instance you were moved, you had a seizure, My Queen,” Denso says. “We thought we lost you.”

  “The prince almost called for my head.” Zora sighs heavily, rubbing my shoulder as Chumi mumbles about a cough he’d been nursing yesterday evening. He’s clearly reiterating something about everyone acting without his orders. Zora ignores him. She asks again, “Did it work?”

  I blink a few times. The current situation—paranormal activity and all—flashes before my gaze. Sitting up on the pillows, I stare at the husband and wife. “Zora, Zane, you figured out that I had a problem?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Zane says. “Every once in a while, at the policy meeting, you stared off listlessly, signs that you were either in need of a vacation—though you just returned from one—or something was wrong. And you pretty much tried to keep your distance from Fari the entire time.”

  “Usually, this stuff makes you sleepy, and the bad spirits leave. Chumi brought us up to speed late last night when he arrived. I assume Anathi was fighting hard not to leave you.” She shakes, visibly disgusted. “I hate saying that name.”

  “Are you alright now, girl?” Chumi asks, suppressing a cough.

  “I love Jagger,” I murmur, then again with more conviction.

  Chumi’s bushy eyebrows come together in a major unibrow. “Child must be still loopy—”

  “Father, no,” Denso says. “She was compelled to fall in love with Prince Fari. Zane, that’s why you saw her on the run from him at your meeting.”

  After a few minutes of declaring how much I’m in love with Jagger Johansson while everyone stares at me as if I’ve offered more than enough information, Zora clears her throat. She stands before my bed, her stance similar to a pediatrician persuading a toddler to cooperate with a nasty dose of medication. “I suggest you continue to take the tea, maybe not the copious amount like you did last night.” As she mentions it, I have a figment of a flashback. I’d downed the tea straight from the kettle, liquid splashing down my throat in desperation. “One tablespoon of the loose-leaf tea is enough. Let it steep for a minute or two.”

  “Thank you.” My arms are dead weight, and it takes all my energy to plant them around her. I’m a sweaty dog. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “No need to worry, Mikayla, you have been through much. We were going to get this demon of a woman out of you one way or another. First, with my great grandma MamNecoza’s remedy. If that failed, Jesus is the way, the truth and the life!”

  My lips fall open in shock. I knew that Zora’s family came from Nivean. She married into Zane’s Christian family. But I wasn’t fully aware that she was . . . “You were . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am. MamNecoza trained Lalumi,” her tone lowers, understanding Chumi is heartbroken over our diviner. “It was the last blessing I attended a short while before Zane.”

  The tension in the room breaks momentarily as Zora stares at her husband. I imagine it is much in the same way she did while falling in love. I bite back the tears that I held onto last night when Denso’s wife and I briefly mentioned her. “Thank God for them. I fear that MamLa—”

  “We will not,” Chumi growls. That incessant cough he’s had this entire time takes the back burner as he asserts, “MamLalumi is safe somewhere either on her way to help her friends in the North, or in the process of returning to us, nothing else.”

  The finality in the old man’s voice reminds me
of Jagger for a moment. For a woman who is unable to love, given her circumstances in Nivean, he loves everything about her. Now, I know the reason why MamLalumi brought the ornery old man with her when I fled Nivean with Jagger. They can’t be together, yet those fleeting moments in each other’s presence are enough.

  I can’t have that for Jagger and me.

  Hell, I think back to Anathi’s offer—become Fari’s queen, keep Jagger. That was never an option, and so I will drink the hell out of this tea.

  “Alright, Mikayla, you can say you love that beast all you want, but we have an even better test for you, waiting in the room across the hall,” Chumi grunts.

  “What?”

  “That prince.”

  Denso chuckles. “Not sure how their argument or my father’s sickness didn’t awaken you. But my father had to remind Fari that he was an elder on a few occasions last night while we took turns watching over you.”

  My heart sinks. Anathi can’t be offering the silent treatment right now, can she? And then the moment I check in on Fari, she will extract her claws?

  “He stayed.” I gasp.

  “The entire dinner party did. We kept all the servants on.” Zane rubs the back of his neck. “I do not trust them all still.”

  Chumi agrees. “Therefore, we will not let on that the queen took ill last night without Mikayla being able to grace them with her presence in the center of such gossip this morning. She needs to appear one hundred percent rehabilitated.”

  “Well, I’ll freshen up. Then we can have breakfast with the Prince.” A dose of trepidation worms its way through my body as I arise. Please let the concoction have worked. Handling Anathi’s wrath if she played possum for the past eight hours might not be something I can endure.

  37

  Mikayla

  Two weeks later . . .

  Officially, I’ve regained my life back. The breakfast that I spent with Prince Fari and the rest of the dinner party was the last face-to-face encounter the two of us had. There wasn’t a hint of flirtations on my end, and anytime he stole a touch or a fleeting glance, I stared at the handsome man as if he had a tattoo on his head that read, “Cheater, Womanizer, Sexist Asshole.” An entire list of no-goes for the female race. Fari, being the busy man that he is, did Facetime me from a palace that he owns in Saudi Arabia. Turquoise pool and all the amenities of a tropical oasis in the background, he offered for me to head over for the weekend.