Black Queen, Dark Knight II

by Avant, Amarie

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as Trick hastily stands up with my cellphone. “Where . . . is. . . she?”

  “Leaving Zihula. Our car crashed itself,” Kmota utters in confusion. Her voice sounds weak like mine. “The prince has her.”

  “Mate, what the fuck is going on there?” Trick sets the phone down. I blink out. When I’m able to open my eyes a fraction, I see Trick standing above me. There is a syringe in his hand above his head. He stabs it straight down into my heart. I feel a jolt. He’s given me an adrenaline shot to restart my heart. While I’m in a state of semi-consciousness, I feel a slight prick in my arm, which must be the antivenom.

  Trick growls, “Get your arse up! What is this Zihula, and where is our Mikayla?”

  Wake up, wake up, get the fuck up! The antivenom is coursing down through my veins. Tingling sensations warn that my body is transitioning out of its catatonic state. In the background, a broadcaster speaks in a monotonous tone, and I gather that has Trick turned on his television.

  “We were highly anticipating the formal proposal from Prince Fari to Queen Mikayla Mthembu last night per Prince Fari’s statement earlier this week. However, we are told that the two royals have opted to forgo addressing the state and have settled on a more private affair.”

  “Look!” Trick settles me on the floor into a seated position against the couch. On the screen is a social media transmission from Fari’s Instagram. A selfie of them in the backseat of a Rolls Royce. The Zihula insignia is on the leather seat. Mikayla’s hand is at her cheek. A huge rock sits on her finger, and her mouth is set wide in a smile, though it does not reach her eyes. It’s nowhere near the happiness that Mikayla exhibits when she’s smiling for me.

  Out of all the collective reasoning a person can come up with such as—this engagement is a farce—did he force her hand—all that shit slammed straight through my head. What remained—she still loves me.

  “What the bloody fuck is this mate? I knew Mikayla was too good for you!”

  The energy to speak comes in spades as I reply, “It’s . . . long . . . story. Now, fucking, help me!”

  * * *

  The flight from Australia to South Africa is about eighteen hours, lucky enough for us—Trick refused to sit this one out after stabbing me with the antidote—Zihula is slightly closer. Denso had told them about Prince Fari’s alternate private plane on the opposite side of the island, out of the way of prying eyes such as the media folk that wanted more details on their pending nuptials. When he called me back, I ordered him to place the phone on mute and follow instructions. I had Denso toss his cellphone into the cargo shafts. There was no need for him to play hero, which would just set off Fari and endanger Mikayla even more.

  Also, after the shit I’ve pulled, playing hero on my part wouldn’t reset my karma. The cellphone pings off satellite towers ever so often.

  “Everyone is a threat?” Trick asks, standing in the aisle of his superjet, rubbing his hands over his knuckles in anticipation.

  I provide Denso’s description just in case Mikayla’s guard played the stowaway that I strongly suggested against. Based on the short story that her advisors provided the day that the Solarins visited in order to give her tea, I also add a word of caution. “Trick, this might not be our normal scenario. Kmota explained that—”

  “Some witchy shit is going on.”

  I sit, checking the bullets in both my revolvers when he pats my shoulder.

  “Mate, I’ve told you there’ll be cases that guns might not handle. But trust me.” He holds out his belt of throwing stars, these four-point knives that all have a yellowish hue at the edges. “This shit’s enough to knock out the devil, if you ask me.”

  “Here I thought you were equal parts devil and bipolar.” Sniggering, I start to put the two .357 Magnums into my waistband holsters. I pause, chewing my lips for a moment. “Trick, you got any tranqs?”

  “Tranqs? What for?” He tugs at the ascot tie topping his expensive, tailored blazer. Today, he’s dressed like a British aristocrat from those bad regency romance books that are often in airport shops. He expected to expire a lot of lives today, and I guess this is his way of doing it in style.

  I grumble, “We can’t kill the people—”

  “Tosh! Any persons who does not resemble Mikayla in shape or size of derriere is dead to me.”

  “Tranqs, Trick. Do you have them?” If Chumi and the others are correct then maybe Fari is confused. “Hey, I don’t need a fucking war between Nivean and Zihula over snuffing out their future king. So tranquilizers?”

  “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

  After he considers it for a moment, he heads toward the back of the jet where a cherrywood chest is. He glides his hand across the glossy wood then places his palm down and his eyes close up to what I assume is a retinal scanning device before it opens up. In the velvet compartments within are the things that make a hitman’s life worth living. There are machine guns of all sizes. A rocket launcher that—

  He smacks my hand.

  “How did you get this series?” I inquire, unable to keep my eyes off the launcher. “It’s not available yet.”

  “I have my ways, Juggernaut. Now, you mentioned tranquilizers, which implies that I don’t get to kill anyone mate, so you don’t get to touch my new baby.” He grins tersely, pressing another button and a contraption rises slowly. A hundred rows of tranquilizer darts move up to the top.

  “Do not look at me like that. You’re the wanker. I am the bloke who is prepared for any situation.” He holds one out. “I’ll have you know, this is a special chemical compound that I invented because the ones I previously purchased ruined the potency of the venom of the snakes and other poisonous reptiles that I study on occasion. These are very expensive. Each dart is worth $20,000.”

  Study?

  “How many do we need?” he asks.

  “Best to take them all.”

  “Weren’t for Mikayla, I’d charge you for every single one of ‘em—doubling down due to demand.”

  50

  Mikayla

  It’s that single instant when you’ve become aware that all which is before you is nothing but a dream. It sort of soothes the wild, fearful beating of your heart that it. I’ll never know why the reoccurring ones hurt the most. They place me into a past where instead of reveling in a few token moments with my parents, I’m reminded that King Bannan and Queen Makuachukwa’s reign was to be fought for, not handed over easy to them as her right.

  My father had just removed the leopard skin that I always saw as a symbol of his pride from my doting hands. But instead of a million times before in dreams—or once in reality—he did not place the token of other men’s envy over his broad shoulder. He placed it over mine.

  “Utata, wenzani?” I asked what he was doing. “This is for my brother.”

  My eyes glided over to Abayomi, who shrugged.

  “Mikayla,” Bannan’s calloused hand felt comforting as it glided across my face. “Our lives are about to change, sweetheart.”

  My mother came to fruition at his side, an image of grace and beauty, her stomach swollen.

  I started to remove the skin, which was truly a badge of honor and deserving of my baby brother.

  Bannan’s hand swallowed my own. He took it, kneeled down, and said, “Unyoko, umzalwana wakho, kwaye ndiya kukushiya kungekudala—Your mother, brother, and I’ll leave you soon.”

  Leave? I had yet to meet my baby brother. He hadn’t even been born yet. Abayomi stood at my side. I thrust myself against my mom’s stomach, tears wetting her belly. “You cannot leave me . . . You cannot leave me . . .”

  “I will be here for you,” Abayomi’s voice trembled. “Don’t cry, Mikayla, I will never let you go.”

  My father guided me away from the comfort of my mother. Usually, I found solace in his arms. Now, though, his hands weighed down at my shoulders while he held me at arm’s length, resettling the heavy leopard skin over it. The skin was meant for the n
ext ruler.

  “I have always said that you have your tiara, and one day, you’ll have your crown as Queen of Nivean. But Abayomi will not have this leather skin no matter how much the two of you love each other.” He stared at Abayomi addressing him. “You can choose another path for yourself son. If you continue to follow Mikayla, though, you will join the three of us instead.”

  The three of us? I figured he meant himself, mom, and my brother in her belly. How odd, as I was always included in this trio.

  “Abayomi,” Bannan’s pitch hardened. “Your path or Mikayla’s—hers does not lead to happiness for you.”

  “I will follow Mikayla to the ends of the earth, King Bannan. MamNcoza blessed me so, and I will not give up on her or Mikayla.” He stood tall, skinny limbs shaking slightly.

  “So be it. You have yet to see your blessings beyond measure, young warrior. They’ll be flowing in abundance in another life for you,” His words were enough to fill both our tiny beings with encouragement. My father turned back to me. “Take heed my dear child, you have always had my leopard skin and your crown.”

  I started to rush into his arms for a hug, but he shook his head and stood up. Mother clung to his side. I noticed she hadn’t said a word. Instead of holding me tightly, she took my hand and gave it a squeeze. She nodded to herself, wide mouth pinched together.

  “I won’t argue with you, my little princess, no more dresses,” she murmured. “You’ll put those convictions to the fight, Mikayla.”

  “Umama, we don’t fight.” I almost laughed in fear. Kmota and a few other Okeke girls were trained, and the choice times I followed Abayomi’s schoolings, I received a swift scolding from my mother with Lalumi or dad being the one to calm me down.

  I didn’t understand this.

  Dad treated me like a princess.

  Mom demanded grace. That did not come easy when your best friend had centuries of blood for fighting.

  Lalumi appeared at my side and took my hand. Her lips went to my ear. “Musa ukulibala oku . . . ”

  I sit up. Silk curtains rustle softly in the sea-salted wind. Just when I thought I was dreaming about one of the worst uprisings against my father, the dream had blossomed into something different. That day had started with me admiring Bannan’s leopard skin. I believe it was the day before my mother had given Abayomi and I an earful when she caught me in a pair of his jeans kicking my legs around like I was some badass little child. That day had ended with a few men testing my father right before my eyes. Abayomi and I were about fifty yards out when King Bannan had addressed the men and had handed their asses to them, but there had been more. The night had ended with my father being stabbed with an elephant tusk from someone’s necklace—those vile, evil men had been apprehended.

  In a daze, I reassess when the reality diverged. It was a premonition, and my babysitter, Lalumi, offered a vital morsel at the end.

  Her words are instantly forgotten as I wonder where MamLalumi currently is. I close my eyes and call to her.

  “She’s not in this realm.” A masculine voice carries on the wind. I glance over to see a Zihula guard, eyes dark as if Anathi has dug root into him, standing near a cement balcony as I lie in a wrought iron bed with a lumpy mattress. The sun brightening a new day creates a sinister halo around his bulky frame.

  “No. She is not.” Fari’s voice comes from yet another dark corner of the room. “Perhaps she’s dead.”

  He comes from the opposite side of the bed. A white linen tunic and matching pants contrast beautifully against his dark skin. “You must enjoy the newfound bliss of our engagement so much that you cry for your old caregiver, old diviner? There aren’t many royals whose nannies are blessed to such magnitude after serving for them. I actually expected more from you as you had the previous connection.”

  “MamLalumi is still with the Nivean’s. She has not blessed another to take over, so you do not know what you’re talking about. I will not marry—”

  “Today, you’ll become my wife.” The thing inhabiting Prince Fari’s body clutches my hands and pulls me up onto my feet. His eyes light up since I haven’t physically attacked.

  “Is Anathi in there?” I touch his chest, recalling that a demon had cloaked her devilish wills as well. “Is she muted and bound like Fari?”

  His fingers are cold, clasping over mine, and what radiates beneath my hand is chiseled ice.

  “Anathi, do you remember when my father used to tell us those stories? We’d sit around a fire, all the towns children, and his voice seemed to reach across the nation, captivating every single one of us.”

  The thing seems to get off from my touch, so I continue to talk. “Abayomi would sneak in sweets. I don’t know how that boy stayed so skinny.” I chuckle. “It had to have been all the working out he did. But my dad would have to remind him that I wasn’t the only person. A few times, you’d sit next to him. Then here we came, King Bannan and the spoiled little princess.” I smirk, though I never thought of myself as spoiled. “I’d plop down right between you and Abayomi.” I bite my lip, feigning apology, when it was my best friend who’d yank me down at his side.

  “We had our own language, Anathi. We were just friends. He did not have a crush on me. It was you who he liked.” I gulp down the lie, constricting my throat and bat away the tears in my eyes. Abayomi and I loved each other to the point of madness as children. “He really, really liked you. But I was Princess Mikayla, I had to have him—”

  “You stole him from me,” she screams through Prince Fari.

  This woman is warped and confused, and I sought this very response from her. Abayomi and I grew up glued to each other’s side.

  “I made a mistake, Anathi. MamLalumi did too. She did not bless—”

  “She stole my blessing!”

  “We are human, Anathi. We make mistakes.”

  Prince Fari convulses, gripping his stomach. I stare in shock. Was she fighting the demon that she allowed to have a stronghold over Fari, over her?

  “Anathi.” I continue to call her name, hoping it conjures a small dose of humanity.

  The guard near the opening of the balcony begins to step toward us.

  Musa ukulibala oku. MamLalumi’s words from the end of my dream return.

  Do not forget this.

  I have to remember my parents, my brother—who never had a life because Uncle Qaaim murdered him in my mother’s womb. I have to remember Abayomi’s promise to follow me, though marking him with an end before his time.

  I have to remember that I wasn’t just Queen Mikayla. I have to recall that before Lalumi’s dedication, she saw something in me. Not in Anathi, she saw it in me.

  All those years . . . all those dreams.

  Anathi is so confused. She’s one of those beings filled with strife, in which the fondest words can be twisted and spin out of context. She hated me because of my birth, my friend, and the dreams consuming my mind as a child.

  The womanly shrills cease. The demon has won. With a flick of the wrist, I’m thrust back on the bed.

  Prince Fari jumps on top of me, his groin striking against my center. “I’ll fuck your brains out first, then the wedding photographer should be arriving later tonight for our marriage.”

  51

  Jagger

  The cellphone, tracking Fari’s plane, ceases transmitting movement a few hundred kilometers away from Madagascar at a small island. It scarcely could be considered as such, and on the land stood a dilapidated cement fortress. There is no elevation or valleys to hide our arrival. Trick and I parachute onto the west side of the probably ten miles in circumference land. His pilot is told to keep a safe distance until we’d verify it was safe to land next to Fari’s private plane.

  Aside from native animals, there are no threats. We move our way toward the building, anticipating an attack and receive none.

  “I still say any bloody wankers wishing our good girl harm needs to die!” Trick fists his tranq gun in annoyance. At the cement slab of a wall, I peek o
ver to see a dozen guards clustered together and then crouch back down on the opposite side. “You, pick them off, create a diversion—something. I’ll find my way inside.” Time is of the essence, and I have no doubt Trick welcomes the challenge.

  It isn’t long until I find my way inside of the fortress. Some areas are ridden with dust mites and darkness and a few choice pieces of furniture strewn about. Other areas carry in the bright morning sun. At the sound of footsteps above, my pace slows. Tranq handgun pointed out before me, I move swiftly and cautiously up the steps. So far, Trick will have gotten all the action since Fari’s men were like sitting ducks toward the entrance of the place.

  On the second floor, there are two men right outside of a set of double doors. I squeeze the trigger, double tap, issuing out two tranquilizers to the back at the carotid arteries of their necks. Before the sound of them falling can warn anyone in the room, I rush toward the door.

  “Fari—stop—please . . .” Mikayla screeches.

  I burst inside. The sight is enough for me to grab my Magnum out of my back pocket and forget the tranquilizer pardon that I practically had to shove down Trick’s throat.

  She restrains him, pushing against his weight, as he holds her forearms down. Her fear-sparked eyes find my wild, vindictive ones.

  “No,” she screams. “You can’t kill him.”

  I shoot him in the leg. “You sure about that? I considered sparing a lot of lives today, Mikayla. Him, I’ll torture him slowly.”

  Prince Fari falls to his knee, grabbing at his shin. His white pant leg pools with a gray liquid. A guard near the balcony bulldozes toward me. Though I can see a .357 bullet piercing him straight through his eyes, I instead clock him at a pressure point on the side of his temple with the butt of my Magnum, and his body drops to the ground, unconsciousness.

  “Jag . . . shit.” She climbs off the bed, pushing down her clothes, breaths coming heavy, ragged. “Do you have a knife?”