Black Queen, Dark Knight II

by Avant, Amarie

  “No.” I respond begrudgingly as intuition tells me that she won’t have me cut the prince into a thousand pieces.

  “Think fast, mate.” Trick calls out, tossing his knife toward me from the door. He leans against the wall, ready to watch a crazy story unfold.

  A knife goes somersaulting toward me, and I catch it in both hands. The yellow ooze at the end of it, inches away from my eyes. Pressing the blade of the knife against my jeans, I begin to rub both sides as Mikayla eyes me in astonishment. “Venom, you know the drill.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hey, Trick.”

  “Hello, love.”

  Shaking the jitters from her bones, she says, “It’s a sickness in his abdomen. Jagger, can you cut him, I . . . I can’t. I had forgotten all about the ritual MamLalumi did when I came home from London. Denso too. Not sure if Anathi was binding that portion of my memory, but MamLalumi just reminded me.”

  My eyebrows furrow in confusion. Where was Mikayla’s witchy friend?

  “She’s . . . not here, Jag. We have a bond.”

  Nodding, I ask, “Okay, sweetheart. What does she want us to cut?”

  While Fari continues to wriggle in pain, attempting to stunt the foul stench of black blood emitting from his calf, she pulls up the side of his shirt, and points to his rib. “Between. Bloodletting, not too much.”

  Bloodletting my ass. I stab the prince in his side abdominal. There’s an abnormal force against my knife. Usually a blade of this type would slice into a person like butter. It’s almost as if it’s hitting bone, but I know the human body, and something bizarre is attempting to stop it. I give another push until the knife slides between two ribs.

  When I pull the knife out, a foul odor is emitted from his skin and maggots go toppling out of the gash.

  “We can’t let any of them get away.” Mikayla slams her high heel down on a few. “If they get into us, we gotta get cut too. And I’m not a big fan of this process.”

  “Now can we kill ‘em?” Trick asks, frowning over her shoulder. His boot stomps down on one dramatically.

  “What the fuck?” I feel my skin crawling. Hell, I don’t do creepy crawlers. I’m liable to shoot them all too.

  “Clearly, he had some bad sushi.” Trick chuckles stomping another one.

  “I’m glad you see humor in the situation.” Mikayla stares at Fari’s wound. Then she gives his face a few slaps. “C’mon, Fari, wake up. Be regular, old Fari . . .”

  “Regular, old Fari almost had his entire life handed to him.” Trick folds his arms. “Should I stab this other bloke?”

  I stare at the desire in his eyes, to inflict any sort of pain, and nod.

  “Very well then.”

  “Not too much.”

  “Eh.”

  “But with more force than the normal human skin.”

  I wedge the knife into the rib on the opposite side of Fari’s body, since Trick had just done the same to Fari’s guard, and he’s already murmuring.

  After a few more minutes of squashing maggots, Mikayla returns to Prince Fari, kneeling down, placing the back of her palm against his forehead. The anger in me rises a thousand-fold. Trick nods as if I need to handle my business, leaving the room to us, Fari, and a guard who is mumbling words of bewilderment.

  “He’s in love with another woman, Jag,” Mikayla murmurs, not looking up while quietly begging him to awaken.

  “And you love him,” Fari mumbles. His muscular body shutters in a cry. I look away. This shit happens to the best of us. Just recently my woman had me overcome by emotion. “I almost murdered Cikizwa,” he sobs.

  “You didn’t, Fari. She is hurt, but she will recover.” Mikayla stands up, holding out her hand.

  He places his hands over his face, staying there in a pool of infected blood. “My people saw how I treated not only a woman, but the woman I have always professed my love to even in my father’s doubt.”

  “Cikizwa is alive, and I’ve told her what happened to you, Fari. She may take time, but she’ll forgive you for hurting her.” Mikayla finally looks at me for a fleeting second before continuing to speak to him as if their old friends. “She fought hard for your love, so that makes the moments that follow—your earning back her affections—all the more precious for you, do you understand, Prince Fari?”

  He removes his hands from his face. The shame disappears as he sits up. Her hand reaches out again, and he clasps it this time. But before he can stand, he falls back down. “Oh, fuck, you shot me.”

  “You deserved worse.”

  Prince Fari holds his hand out to me. “I apologize for mistreating Mikayla.”

  “Oh, where’s my apology?” She bites her lip, hand on hip.

  “You, I’d hug, but as you can see, I’m not—”

  “Alright, this is enough sentiments to last me a bloody lifetime,” Trick cuts in, reentering the room. “So, we get to stab everyone that’s sedated now?”

  “I’m so glad you derive such pleasure from this situation.” Mikayla pats Fari’s shoulder and goes to give Trick a hug.

  His embrace lingers, and I growl.

  “Whatever, arsehole. I’ll go get my flame thrower, and I have samurai swords—real samurai swords—Jagger is renting much of my weaponry today, so anyone else want to use one?”

  “Renting?” Prince Fari asks.

  “You don’t wanna know too much about the company I keep.” Mikayla winks at him.

  “Shite, it is for the best that you don’t.” Trick cocks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll have my plane land, and we can start with the festivities.”

  I head out with him, hearing Mikayla again encourage Fari that no matter what he’s done to Cikizwa, if his heart is in it, she’ll forgive him.

  Has my woman forgiven me?

  52

  Mikayla

  He’s afraid. A man who doesn’t shy away from a stainless-steel Magnum .357 and who can shoot a man dead in the heart with his eyes closed by just concentrating on the sound of a voice has only one fear in this world. When he blinks, he sees himself pointing his favorite gun at me, and he pulls the trigger because he can’t conceive that after all the love we’ve made: I don’t love him.

  He can’t wrap his head around it.

  And he’s a quiet man, prone to thinking. Or if he isn’t thinking, he’s reacting in haste.

  And I know it took something out of him while he contemplated his actions, prior to making said moves.

  He pulled the trigger, and it broke him.

  Little did he know that the mixed emotions churning in my soul—the love for him, the false adulation for Fari—well, it broke me too.

  Because I couldn’t conceive how I began to give a damn for Prince Fari so much. How when I was in his presence, everything about him reminded me of . . . love.

  Love is a vision of Jagger in my eyes.

  A fire burns across the courtyard of the dilapidated fortress. Off in the distance, Fari is speaking to men who’ve just underwent the bloodletting process, asking their help to complete the process with the other few who are still unconscious from the tranquilizers. He hands each of them those innovative weapons that spit out fire. Trick has been cutting the men left to right, more interested in the inflicting pain than completing the entire process of clearing out the maggots via firepower.

  I move a pace forward. “You were heartbroken, Jagger.”

  The knife in his hands, dripping in black blood falls to his side. “I fucked up.”

  “You did.”

  In his eyes, he continues to see one big mess that he made.

  And in mine, I see the day he took my virginity. How handsome and delicious his voice was when he told me to take my virginity myself because he couldn’t hurt me. Jagger doesn’t hurt me intentionally.

  I move my arms, gesturing toward my body. “It might not look too hot right now, Jag, but I’m quite alright, as you can see. I’m alive. You are too. We’re both here and okay.”

  “You,” he pauses, each word he says next
blossoms with strength and fearlessness, “look gorgeous, Kayla. Every second of my life, in your presence, I can’t fathom how you do it?”

  Now, I’m lost in his words. “How I?”

  “Manage to be a vision. This vision of everything I obsess over, everything I love and am not worthy of.”

  I step closer to him. The bottom of my souls squishes nasty bits of waste. This is a battlefield, and it’s beautiful because Jagger came, and he saved me.

  “Jag.” I fold my arms. “Don’t be a bully. I’ve stepped halfway to you, dammit, you better come here.”

  He rubs his hand over his muscular forearm, another shred of vulnerability. “I fucked up, Mikayla. I was drunk. I lost my parents—could’ve lost you too that night—and the shit would’ve been my fault.”

  “Come here.”

  “Even with that fuck-off being compelled, you deserve—”

  I take the last few steps, my hand poised to slap the crazy right out of his mouth. “We were supposed to have dinner on Sunday night, my place, Jag.”

  His eyebrows crinkle.

  In retrospect, my statement might seem out of the blue, but I repeat it. “You and me. After our weekend of catching up at your place, which I screwed up, forgive me.”

  “You,” he chortles. “You didn’t screw it up.”

  “Yeah, as I recall, I tried to run away before your time was up. Excuse me, our time. Our quality time between just us, which should have been followed by Sunday dinner at my place with me showing you around to the Niveans.”

  “Get on your tippy toes,” he orders.

  “I walked all the way over to you.” I gesture. “And now you make more commands—”

  “Do it.”

  I push up as tall as I can. Jagger clasps my face, holding it steady, then his tongue delves slowly into my mouth, testing the waters. I moan into him. My breast against his hard chest. His tongue strokes mine, and the world fades away. All that remains is the desire that I have for him.

  His hand scours over my ass, pressing me flush against him. The hardness of his groin against my lower abdomen sends a shockwave of lust to my core. Lips trembling, I groan when his cellphone vibrates soundlessly.

  “No . . . It’s just you and me, Mikayla,” Jagger whispers, caressing my cheeks.

  “Hmmm, and this stinky stench.” I step away from him, watching the fire embers in the distance as the last man recovers consciousness. “And them.” I nudge my chin. “I’m sorry that I’ve always been so busy, Jag.”

  He doesn’t respond because Fari seizes the opportunity to walk toward us. “I think that friend of yours is enjoying the task a little too much, Mr. Johansson. Mikayla, we have to address South Africa.”

  I gasp. “We’re engaged. Damn, we’re still technically engaged.”

  “Yes, and my father has made a mistake, which he will fully have to account for. Thus given the reason why we never formally addressed them.”

  Eyebrows furrowed, I ask, “Your father? He’s . . .”

  “Early onset dementia is what the doctors have said. This will be his doing. I’m sorry, but we cannot spin it another way.” Fari bites his lip for a moment in trepidation then says, “Eadric is with him now. I took the liberty to not tell any of my Zihula people on the palace grounds. Since he’s already aware of what’s going on, I informed my staff it was safe for Eadric to guard my father a few minutes ago. Eadric performed the process that you did on me, and that friend of yours—again creeping me out—then I spoke with my dad. He’s feeling up to visiting all of his wives this week.” He smirks. “If he can whore himself out, he can admit to a few mistakes.”

  Wow, a king admitting to a mistake. It’s something I wouldn’t expect, but if it releases us from our engagement, I’ll have no qualms to agreeing. “Oh-kay, sounds like he’s healthy.”

  “Yeah, not the type of king that I’ll become, nor what I want for you, Mikayla.” His eyes lock onto Jagger.

  “Keep it that way,” Jagger responds, lips hardly moving.

  Prince Fari nods then says, “We should leave soon.”

  While Fari moves gracefully toward his men, I ask, “You still hate him?”

  “I do.”

  “Give him a chance. Before all of this, Jag, he and an advisor on his team did assist Nivean.”

  “What do you need?” Jagger asks. “You ask. I provide. That is how this relationship will proceed.”

  “Though I like the Neanderthal husband brings home the bread historical philosophy, I have to communicate with other kingdoms, and we don’t just ignore ideas and customs, Jag.” And, I think to myself, recalling my conversation with Zane, that your help comes with a price I can’t ask you to pay.

  Fire bounces around in his cerulean gaze, smoldering for a few beats. He nods, reluctantly.

  I pause for a moment. Did I say “husband” while addressing Jagger without so much as toppling over my words?

  All the dreams I’ve had of my father, not only fighting to help our nation, but fighting so the nation would be found worthy, come to fruition in my mind. They did not accept an outsider from a neighboring island. I close my eyes for a moment. Will they ever accept a white man who has ties to Christianity?

  * * *

  The moment Trick’s jet opens in Zihula, he glances wearily out toward the newscasters. I’m tempted to ask if he listened in on our game plan while traveling, but the answer is an unequivocal no. He actually looks like a European diplomat until this very second, and he pulls the ascot from his neck and unbuttons his top button.

  “Not a big fan of the limelight?”

  “Nay,” he grunts.

  “Sheesh, this is the second time my crown has placed you in—”

  “Not if I can help it, love. Will my services be needed any further? Unless I can destress, by way of pain infliction, then this is where I leave you, sweet cheeks.”

  “Hey, I’ll have you know my cheeks aren’t so puffy.” I suck them in like I use to do subconsciously then give him a hug.

  When we let go, he grabs my face. “Listen, Juggernaut might fuck up every so often. You need me to put his ass back in line, call, text, whatever, My Kayla.”

  Jagger steps beside him, places his hand heavily on Trick’s shoulder. I almost cringe as he begins to squeeze. The lean man stares intently at him.

  I nod to Prince Fari, who has watched the entire scene unfold, and appears on guard.

  “Don’t mind them, Fari, but these two will fight to the death,” I say, starting down the stairs. “Literally, I had to revive Jag last time.”

  “Jag?” He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, built like a freight train until the other one, Trick, hence the nickname, attacks.” I feel myself ready to continue nervously chatting, but Fari gives my shoulder a quick pat, and we move forward.

  A plethora of questions are fired off at us from a mass of reporters. One is loud enough to drown out all the others. “How are the soon to be King and Queen of—”

  Fari cuts in. “We will address you all at the town hall in an hour with King Damba.”

  There’s a hush through the crowd.

  The anchor woman poises her mouth to speak again.

  “Please,” Fari says, tone genuine. “Town hall in an hour.”

  While we’re escorted through the crowd, I notice Denso waiving a hand. Zihula guards hold him at bay.

  “Let him through,” I order, feeling Jagger step to my side. With so many around us, I take his hand in mine.

  My warrior’s eyes are glossed. He kneads the back of his head. “It’s Kmota.”

  A sinking feeling creeps up my spine. After the night and day I’ve endured, I literally forgot about the car slamming into an invisible forcefield. My body is pulled in every sort of direction. Guilt becomes the vice grip at my throat as I ask, “Is she. . .”

  “Broken leg. We’ve been keeping her awake for the past two hours. She’s with the Zihula Diviner.”

  Shocked, I breathe in a gulp of air, gripping Jagger to
stand as guilt burns through my veins. “Fari, when you spoke to Eadric about your father, did you—”

  “Fuck,” he grumbles. “All of you, to MamNontsikelelo at once!”

  Four men scramble away, and Jagger follows after them.

  53

  Jagger

  People point, staring at me while I run on the heels of the Zihula men. They’re whispering, “Is he this, and his he that?”

  Is he the man Mikayla had an affair with and other questions. Had it not been for the agreement I made with Kmota Okeke, I’d stop and let them all know that he loves her very much and will never let her go.

  But this is what happens when you start viewing other people’s lives as important. Sweat tracks down my back as we hightail it through the sand to a straw hut over the sea. The front door is facing the ocean. I can hear the cries of the woman I promised to keep safe while secretly working for me. MamNontsikelelo, I have to assume it’s her, is older than dust, holds a pale Kmota in the air. Her leg is in a cast as she struggles to remove the witch’s grip at her throat.

  I shout, “Let her go!”

  On instinct the Magnum is in my hand, it’s like fucking magic.

  “What are you doing?” The guards turn their guns on me, speaking Xhosa.

  They’re surprised when I spit out my response in kind. “Something is wrong with your. . .” Witch could be considered a derogatory term for their culture. Fuck, what is this woman called again. I could say “witch,” but will it offend them?

  “I am Elder Chumi of Nivean.” Chumi speaks up, holding a steak knife in his hand. Nobody had noticed he was already attempting to stop MamNontsikelelo. He growls, “I have not left Kmota’s side as MamNontsikelelo has requested countless times. Now, I know why. Your diviner is truly possessed. She was attempting to administer a godfrey root, which will put Kmota to sleep!”

  “Buxoki—lies,” MamNontsikelelo yells out. “Le ntombazana iphambene—This girl is crazy. The Niveans are—”

  About this time, I’ve had it. I hold my gun up. “Okay, just don’t make any sudden movements, neither of you,” I stare at the witch, mainly speaking to her, though there are .9 millimeters pointed straight at me.