Black Queen, Dark Knight II

by Avant, Amarie

  I can hear Mikayla shouting my name about fifty yards away. Fari is begging everyone to stand down. Chumi blinks. Kmota hisses. I let go of the handle, the nozzle of my gun sliding down while I hold it by my index finger. Guard one grabs it. The second starts in on me, the barrel of his gun pointed at me. I swiftly remove the gun from his hand. I slide back the frame, unleash the bullets, dismantling it, pressing him before me, before the third and fourth can shoot.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Guard two screeches while I hold him.

  The witch claws into Kmota’s neck before giving off a shrill cry. “This will not—”

  I throw the dagger that Trick handed me. It grazes Kmota’s side and then through the old woman. Kmota lunges forward as one of the guards near Prince Fari and Mikayla lets off a round. The bullet bites into my jaw.

  Blood trickles down my chin. This burns badly.

  Mikayla rushes to me.

  I can hardly speak as blood fills my mouth. “Check Kmota.”

  The female warrior lays in the sand and rolls over spitting up tiny white bits.

  The witch bleeds the disgusting goop across the white sand. The salt wind carries the foul smell. All of the Zihula guards stop. They have no more desire to seek vindication as they stare at her. Denso glides his knife into her other rib while they stare on in disbelief.

  The walls around Chumi break down. He grips MamNontsikelelo’s frail arms. She no longer wields a supernatural power. He asks, “What about MamLalumi! Where is she?” The tempered, intellect of his voice comes out in a guttural hiss. “Where is my love?”

  His son starts to guide him away from the witch as I pull the pieces of the puzzle together. He loves her.

  Prince Fari says, “We need to burn the sand in this entire general direction now. Carry MamNontsikelelo into the hut. The Okeke woman as well. The Okeke will always be respected by our people. Call in a doctor for her wounds and treat every Nivean you encounter with the utmost respect. Do you all hear me!”

  His guards deflect their gazes. He turns to me. “We do have general medics on this island, Mr. Johansson.”

  I recall the bullet lodged in my jaw and spit up blood while pulling it out. “I can stitch—”

  Mikayla clears her throat.

  “Dr. Bryant can.” I bite my lip to stop from smiling.

  She sighs. “Oh, calling me Dr. Bryant again when you stole that dream away from me.”

  I stare at her.

  “That’s not how I meant . . .”

  “Uthando, I know. This is me laughing with you, after spitting out a bullet.”

  “Don’t be too long, Queen Mikayla. We still have an entire nation to address.”

  I walk along the shore away from the scent of infected blood.

  A few minutes later, Mikayla follows, holding up a small tin box. “No ibuprofen or the like, sorry.”

  “Score any alcohol, sweetheart. Doesn’t matter which kind.” I sit down on a palm tree that has coiled round and around multiple times and hardly stands three feet tall.

  She kneels before me.

  “Rubbing alcohol count? In cotton swab form.” She grimaces.

  Mikayla softly blows while patting the liquid on my face, made chilly by the wind.

  “Wow, you’re a big boy.”

  I place my hand over hers, ceasing her movement. The greedy fucker that I grew into as a man is ready to toss her over my shoulder and leave this island far behind.

  She stops blowing, reaches over, and plants a kiss along my opposite jaw. “Jag, I need to clean you up and get some sutures in you.”

  “Just keep doing that, Kayla.”

  Mikayla glances over her shoulder, self-consciously. Scaling back on being an asshole crashes and burns as I say, “I don’t fucking care who’s looking.”

  “We can’t be back to square one.” Lips tensed, Mikayla laces the thread into the needle.

  “No, we’re at the point in the game where you tell everyone you love me just as much as I love you. Fari mentioned addressing everyone soon. That’s as good a time as any.”

  “Stop talking, so I can stitch.”

  “Stop leaving me in the cold.”

  Mikayla comes to sit beside me, holding the needle and thread. She stares at it so long that I have to bite my tongue and remind myself that, though I’m changing my ways, I can’t be the one arguing and fighting for us.

  What is there to think about anyway? This entire time getting to her? That was the fight. “Actions speak louder than words—cliché—but you say that shit. Live by that shit.”

  “You won’t understand how easy this is, Jag.”

  “Just stitch me up, Kayla.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Stitch me up. I’ll screw you as payment. Because trust me, I can’t stop fucking you no matter how—” Shut the fuck up, Jagger.

  “Jag, we discussed how I’m telling the Niveans, but the entire African government? We aren’t ready to address them all.”

  “So, test the waters first with your own community, huh?” I chuckle, driving my point home, though bringing with it an immeasurable amount of pain.

  “Jag—”

  I take the needle from her hand, and grab the tin box, holding the bottom of it, which has the shittiest reflection of my face. Then I get to work doing what I’ve always done. Stitch myself up.

  “This is ridiculous.” She pouts.

  I hold the needle up, mouth contrite. She takes it and gets to work. When done, Mikayla has another cotton swab. Her breath is cool against my cheek. Like hell. She doesn’t get to play the dotting girlfriend in the dark, blowing my face sweetly. I grab it from her hand.

  “Jag.”

  And because I’ve spent the brunt of my life being an asshole, I respond per my normal. “Where should I sneak tonight to fuck my woman, Mikayla?”

  54

  Mikayla

  He’s being an asshole and has the nerve to sound so good while doing it. “Fuck my woman,” he says. The words wrap around my body, claiming me. My pussy lips quiver at those very words. Heat begins to lick at my neck. Now, though, the wind is not only carrying the stench of those nasty maggots but the bonfire that Prince Fari commissioned in order to have the contamination contained.

  With hands in pockets, the prince stands about twenty yards away from where Jagger and I have been arguing.

  It’s time to stop arguing and put my country first.

  How did mom do it?

  Though I only recall a few select years with my parents, my father loved my mother enough to weather the storm together. To my recollection, I cannot remember a single argument between the two. But how long did she string Bannan along, considering the feelings of her people before fully giving up her heart?

  While I change into a purple chiffon dress, I determine that they had their entire time away at college before returning to Nivean. My heart feels heavy and ready to explode. I know Jagger loves me.

  Is that enough to run a nation?

  He’s a lot more hotheaded than my father.

  I hear giggling and pause.

  MamLalumi?

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Where are you?

  “Tell that old man to stop worrying. I sometimes hear him louder than you, and you had a life-threatening situation.”

  “But—”

  “Mikayla, you are not only a queen. I think you became aware of that today when the demon inhabiting Fari’s body said that most royals do not grow up with diviners as their personal caregivers prior to a blessing.”

  I stare in the mirror in shock, closing my eyes, willing her to continue chatting.

  “You had your dreams as a child, Mikayla. Though I don’t believe I’ll be blessing you as an apprentice anytime soon, that too was another reason for Anathi to detest you. She was more than aware that your visions would always have more precision and accuracy than hers.”

  “Have I had the dream before? The
one where my father actually lets me keep his leopard skin, instead of taking it back as usual?”

  “You did. You also reminded Abayomi of that dream prior to his quest to The States in order to save you. Mikayla, you also have a very good defense mechanism called avoidance. That is why you could not recall the process you underwent when I removed Anathi from your life the first time.”

  “I see.” I murmur in confusion, wishing that I could see MamLalumi.

  “I’ll be home soon. Tell the old man that, so he’ll stop worrying. As far as Jagger, yes, that is the reason why I invaded your thoughts just now. I am not one to pop up into a person’s mind uninvited. But you just considered that Jagger is a lot more hot-headed than Bannan. Are you sure about that?”

  Aware that her inquiry was rhetorical, I chew on my bottom lip. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Keep remembering, Mikayla.”

  Cherishing those words, I feast on them in thought for a few moments longer. Someone knocks on the door and my shoulders jolt. I stride over, opening it.

  “You look tired,” I tell Denso.

  He grunts. “I could use my wife’s homecooked meal and our bed.”

  “Well, let’s get you home then.” I fidget with my fingers as he escorts me to the town hall.

  “Where’s Jag?”

  “I will send Eadric to search, My Queen.”

  The queen-like aura surrounding me falters. The argument that we had earlier comes to fruition. Address the entire South African nation of our love or start with just my queendom? I bite my bottom lip in thought for a few moments and reply, “No. He’s good at getting around.”

  Denso’s mouth pulls up at the edges, not quite a smile.

  “How’s Chumi?”

  This time he shakes his head. “My father. I hadn’t noticed it until after my mother’s death, but he, he never loved her as much as MamLalumi and with age, he’s losing his mind over love.”

  “Tell him that MamLalumi is alright.”

  “How do you . . .”

  “We talked.”

  Denso stops walking. “That is great news, Queen Mikayla. Do you have a phone number for her?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did she—”

  “No.”

  “How?”

  I start walking again, determined that my conversation about being a potential diviner will have to wait for another day in the not so distant future. “Ehh, we have our ways.”

  * * *

  The town hall is the epitome of luxury and diplomacy. The Zihula nation did not spare any gilded marble here as well. There are pillars throughout the large room. Rows of marble slab benches face a panel of kingly chairs and a literal throne where King Damba will sit today. The seat where Prince Fari’s mother, the dearly departed queen would be seated, is claimed by him for today. The rest of the panel is at either side and about three feet behind to show a change in rank. I’m first at Prince Fari’s side, and then the rest of Zihula royalty fills all the seats.

  The first row before us has been claimed by news reporters.

  King Damba pounds his walking stick onto the ground.

  “Any man is capable of making a mistake.” His voice booms over the crowd as if there’s an imaginary microphone, carrying his voice across the people. “It takes a great man to admit such error. It takes a king of immensurable character to admit his fault. I forced a marital liaison between my son, Prince Fari, and Queen Mikayla of the Nivean nation. I saw that this union would benefit both kingdoms immensely. It is no longer customary that the king creates such arrangements, and to that extent, I must release both Fari and Mikayla from their current circumstances.”

  The reporters are silent, eyes hungry for more, but this isn’t America where questions are shouted to a president. In our nation, royalty is regarded with respect, regardless of their worth, well in most cases. When my uncle Qaaim was King Regent and the shit hit the metaphoric fan, the media was in a frenzy.

  “I have a few words that I would like to say.” Fari speaks up. He stands. “Cikizwa . . . if you are here.” He pauses, brown eyes cast down momentarily wrestling with himself.

  Through the crowd, she stands. Her dark skin is marred by bruises on the side of her face, one eye swollen shut.

  “I have loved Cikizwa before we could conceive of the word. I have here my mother’s ring.” He unbuttons his suit jacket, pulling out a velvet box. “It would honor me, My King, and my entire nation if you would—”

  “Hayi!” she bellows, her entire body shaking.

  The lofty room is cloaked in a silence so deep that when King Damba slams his stick down it echoes heavily in my ears. He doesn’t agree to her response, not at all.

  “Cikizwa,” Fari repeats filled with conviction. “It would honor me, My King, and my entire nation if you would forgive me and have me.”

  He starts to kneel on the ground.

  “Hayi—No! I forgive you as my God requires it of me,” she spits, declaring herself a Christian, further forcing the King to bite his tongue as she finishes off with a resounding, “but no.”

  My heart breaks for Fari. Cikizwa was at her breaking point when he slapped her last night. And though I’ve forgiven Jagger, Cikizwa hasn’t had the time to talk with Fari as I have had time to talk things out with Jagger. Even then, we are still far from good. So, I can see why Cikizwa reacts so strongly. Unfortunately for Fari, it wasn’t his doing, and although she knows that, I know she is still deeply hurt from all that has happened in the last three and a half months. I can only hope in the future she can learn to forgive what has occurred and see the good that’s in him. The good that she’s loved a lifetime.

  I feel eyes on me and see the bright blue gems that I love the most. Jagger is in the back, tethered to the door. He has no expectations from me. There is not a single ounce of expression on his face. In a flash, our conversation floods through my brain. Yet, the fear of how my father was treated when my mom not only married him, but crowned him king, gifting him with power and an equally suffocating curse . . . Who knows if my mother expected more of her people? So, while bad memories plague my mind, I concentrate on another broken heart.

  Cikizwa has just declined every little girl’s dream. She begins to turn around, head lowered. A sea of people standing in the back, part ways as she ambles out of the door.

  King Damba glares at me. I almost roll my eyes. The rumors about him being a hardass have come to fruition. Women are for bedding and blaming, and Cikizwa publicly declining his son’s proposal is her fault.

  It’s my fault too in his eyes. Our union would’ve deferred this display in its entirety.

  I stand up, and the thick, disgusting silence seeps away. My eyes search for Jagger’s, but he isn’t leaning on the door, prepared to offer one last two-finger salute due to my inability to publicly claim him.

  A deep breath funnels through my lungs as I mentally wrestle with the dreams that have plagued me in the past. All the times that Niveans hated on Bannan for being from Madagascar. I was about four when I overheard someone say, “Fuck it. We would’ve loved an Okeke king, a lowly member of the palace staff, a Nivean vagabond. But she brought this disgusting beast home.”

  They’d been talking about Bannan, and I was unaware, speaking of him as if he weren’t human. A beast. Disregarding the education he received in my mother’s presence while in college. Discounting him.

  So, again, I’m stuck in a dilemma. It is not only race that separates us but also religion. Though I count myself a Christian, my entire nation’s religion is much different than mine.

  “Thank you, King Damba, for clearing the air.” I close my eyes for a moment. “Clearing the air,” might not be a metaphor widely used in South Africa but humbling myself to an angry, and no longer sickly, king works in my favor as I murmur, “I am madly in love with another man.”

  There’s a hushed blanket of whispers floating through the air while I begin to speak of Jagger Johansson. Each word provides the co
urage that I need to address not only the few Niveans in the crowd, but the Zihula, and the cameras broadcasting in South Africa, maybe the world.

  The words stop tumbling from my mouth and begin to flow readily. Declaring the reason why I love Jagger is a whole lot easier than I expected, particularly when I’m not concentrating on other’s shortcomings, especially the little amount of time I had with my father, and how it was plagued by negativity.

  Breathing freely, I tell them the truth, stopping just short of “and I don’t give a fuck” about anyone else’s opinion. That might have worked for Chris Tucker, but I’m a queen. Though, I wouldn’t mind shouting it from the top of the Lighthouse of Alexandria—with the grace of royalty of course—that Jagger Johansson has not only stolen my heart, he’s claimed my very soul, and I’ll love him in this world and the next.

  55

  Extended Epilogue

  Mikayla

  One Year Later.

  Summer.

  MamLalumi secured a new apprentice from the Okeke clan. It turns out that Kmota’s family and mine will be even more entwined in the future. Her very own sister is now in Anathi’s place.

  When MamLalumi returned, she explained that my lucid dreams of the past weren’t normal, which I’ve always tried not to concentrate on too much as I kind of figured so myself. She said I had the makings of becoming a diviner in me, even when I was a small child, and that I could communicate with my ancestors through dreams—another thing that no other royal or Nivean has been able to do. As far as MamLalumi’s original disappearance, she had gone to fellowship no doubt, but while there, she received a call, through other members of the tribe, from some of her family who not only left Nivean but South Africa for New York. She said she hadn’t visited New York since MamNcoza was alive and felt that leaving me to my own devices would awaken the strength that I already had. She felt like between Chumi, the town doctor, and me, with my divining powers and medical training, we could handle caring for the Nivean people. She had left word with the tribe she had been visiting, but word-of-mouth only found its way back to our kingdom when she did. When she returned, she was surprised to find out that it wasn’t only Anathi up to her old tricks, which she had suspected I could handle on my own, but that a demon was involved. She praised me for being so strong. She said that if I hadn’t had such strength that I would’ve been controlled by the very thing Anathi praised while I was in the car with a possessed Fari. When the demon destroyed Anathi, I was set free of her, but I was still in danger of his possession until we destroyed him. MamLalumi was unapologetic for her disappearance, but I think that was because she was so pleased that her plan to bring out the diviner in me worked.