That Night in Lagos

by Vered Ehsani

  Several more humans joined the first. I wondered if they were cognizant of the vampire sorcerer’s true nature, for they all remained in a huddle, several steps away from the Obayifo. Or perhaps they instinctually knew to maintain a distance, as any prey does around its predator.

  The Obayifo glanced down at the man with the lantern and nodded. Wordlessly, the humans formed a chain that began in the shadows behind a nearby warehouse and ended on the deck of a small ship. Wooden crates were passed along and deposited on a boat. I knew what must be in those crates: enslaved Brownies.

  Inspector Jones nudged the man next to him and the unspoken command passed down the line. I could imagine the other groups of police officers also preparing themselves for the attack.

  “Leave the Obayifo to me,” I whispered to the Inspector.

  The man hesitated, irritation and acquiescence warring across his countenance. He must’ve recognized at one level that he was no match for the vampire, despite his decade of experience. Eventually practicality triumphed over pride. He nodded curtly, and then proceeded to ignore me, which suited me very well. The fingers of one of my hands tapped along my walking stick as I pondered what weapon to extract from the device, while my other hand patted the pouch of powdered cinnamon in my skirt pocket.

  A preternatural silence enveloped the scene, when time itself held its breath and the soft slap of bare feet against the wooden pier was muffled by the intensity of the moment. I could feel rather than hear the men about me inhaling deeply, preparing for the charge. The Inspector was the first to stand up, and the other officers sprang out of their hiding places and launched themselves at the slave traders.

  The quiet shattered into chaos as men erupted into action all about me. The fervor of the police officers’ determination was evenly matched by the traders’ desperation, and a battle ensued for which the Africans were poorly prepared.

  The Obayifo however was unperturbed. A light began to radiate about him, tentacles of energy stretching out and grasping the minds of the men nearest him. Those officers thus touched fell into a palsy, incapable of voluntary movement, their limbs quivering. Their slack mouths and eyes lit up with a light that mirrored in color the globe surrounding the sorcerer.

  “Most peculiar,” I said as my fingers settled on a knob that opened a shallow ledge built into my walking stick. A blowgun hardly longer than my hand was snuggled against a few darts tipped with enough narcotics to incapacitate a grown man, even one as sizable as the vampire.

  As if divining my intentions from the other side of the impromptu battlefield, the Obayifo swiveled to face my location, his eyes narrowing in recognition. With a sneer, he hurtled through the men, his glowing eyes fixed on me, his form weaving around and leaping over fallen crates and thus denying me a fixed target.

  “How very inconsiderate,” I muttered as I gingerly dug a dart out and inserted it into the blowgun. Then again, vampires didn’t tend to be overly complacent when faced with their possible demise, and the African version displayed no better manners in this regard.

  I lifted the blowgun to my lips and was about to blow a long night of sleep into the Obayifo when a set of hands clamped themselves about my waist and snatched me away, thus spoiling my shot. Instead the dart flew wildly off course and sunk into the backside of one of the smugglers, who promptly collapsed to the wooden decking.

  “Miss Bee, you’re in the way,” the Inspector shouted at me as he pushed me aside and slashed a saber at the vampire.

  Fuming, I snapped, “How very valiant of you, sir, but so are you.”

  “Not now, madam,” he interrupted me as he leaped atop a crate and used his superior position to discourage his adversary from proceeding toward me. “To begin with, your presence here is outside of protocol.”

  “A pox on English propriety,” I said as I attempted to secure another shot, but the Obayifo, having assessed the situation and observing that most of his men were captured or otherwise incapacitated, had transformed into a large globe of light and was floating away beyond the reach of any projectile we had at hand. Only the Inspector and I were in a position to observe the creature’s unique escape, and I wondered how the experience would impact the man’s increased reliance on narcotics.

  While I was in a huff over the lost opportunity, I couldn’t entirely fault the Inspector and we had, after all, captured the majority of the smugglers. But even as the officers congratulated each other in restrained voices, I couldn’t help but wonder if their felicity was a tad premature.

  Brownies, being the clever creatures they are, can appear very much like little humans. When the officers began cracking open the crates, they saw human children crawl out. The children, I knew, would be delivered into the care of a nearby church, after which they would be shipped off to an orphanage in England, from which they would eventually escape and return to their forest homes.

  Leaving a few of the officers behind to liberate the Brownies, Inspector Jones and the remainder of his men rounded up the smugglers and filled up the holding cell in the dank basement of the constabulary. While the Inspector wished nothing more than to disassociate himself from me, he couldn’t very well refuse my request to join him. He contented himself with a bit of snuff and a stiff-lipped, self-congratulatory comment: “You see there, Miss Bee, my men and I managed very well in the end.”

  I remained silent, keeping my counsel to myself and resisting the urge to remind the man that we hadn’t captured the ringleader. The Obayifo had also escaped, thanks to the Inspector’s gentlemanly need to rescue a damsel who hadn't been at all in distress. I was certain the vampire sorcerer was floating his way back to his master. A disquiet settled on me like a sodden cloak, and the cheers of the officers did nothing to dispel it.

  Once all the sullen-faced smugglers were locked away, the Inspector and I began to question them, although I suspected we would have as much success with them as we had with the driver: that is to say, none. Inspector Jones however was in an ebullient mood, his confidence buoyed by the successful attack and the snuff he now imbibed nearly hourly.

  “Watch and learn, Miss Bee,” he said over my voiced concerns. “If your delicate, womanly constitution will allow it, that is.”

  I restrained an unwomanly snort at that comment, for my constitution was anything but delicate. To admit to a lack of feminine frailty however would serve me not at all, so I again didn’t voice my judgments and instead joined the Inspector in the interrogation room.

  On the pier, the smugglers had appeared as tough, insolent hooligans. In the small, gloomy cell that stank of mildew and unbathed bodies, isolated from their leader, they still were the hardened thugs but their eyes were downcast and nervous.

  The first man we interrogated was the one who’d held the lantern for the Obayifo. He was a burly fellow, his body well accustomed to carrying loads. By the tilt of his chin and the unwavering nature of his gaze, I deduced he was also accustomed to relaying commands and expecting results. He wasn’t as intimidated as the others by his current predicament. After some prodding and coaxing as to his name, he stated in a surly voice, “I am Jumuka.”

  “John,” the Inspector said, writing the name in his notebook.

  I frowned. “That’s not what he said at all.”

  The Inspector shrugged. “Close enough. All right then, John, tell us where your base of operation is.”

  I squinted in order to study Jumuka’s energy field and could readily discern that we wouldn’t extract much more information than what we had just received.

  “Listen here, boy,” the Inspector growled into the silence. “If you aren’t willing to cooperate, we’ll use whatever means required to encourage you.”

  He raised his bludgeon as if to strike the seated man. Jumuka didn’t so much as flinch, but maintained a blank mask over his dark, sweat-streaked face.

  “We know who your master is,” Inspector Jones said. “A bloke who goes by the name of Koki the Mantis.”

  At that, Jumuka notice
ably gulped but remained stoically silent, as if his life depended on it, which I suspected he believed it did.

  “Who is this Koki, eh, John?” the Inspector persisted. “Just give us a location or a description, and you can go back to your hut or hovel or wherever you come from.”

  There was no inducement the Inspector could provide, no threat he could utter, no pain he could inflict, that would extract from Jumuka or the other prisoners any information beyond their names. As the minutes sweated into hours, Inspector Jones’ confidence dissolved into frustration. Stalking toward the holding cell, he pointed at a young man — more a boy than a man — crouching in the corner.

  “Bring that one,” he shouted, spittle spraying.

  The boy lacked the hard heart of his fellow smugglers, for he cowered before us, his eyes round, the whites showing brightly against his dark face. His every limb twitched and shuddered, but not due to any fear he had of the sufferings we could inflict upon him. His pitiful state was induced by the name that had slipped from his mouth when the Inspector asked a question.

  Koki.

  “Yes, Koki. We know the name of your leader, but where is he?” Inspector Jones demanded with such a threat of violence in his voice that in any other circumstance, the prisoner would surely have revealed his secrets.

  But not this time.

  “She will kill us all,” the boy blubbered, his tearful eyes rolling about as if searching the cell for his elusive and lethal leader.

  “She?” Inspector Jones asked, clearly disgusted that a woman could inspire such a state in any man.

  “Don’t be too surprised, Inspector Jones,” I said dryly, fingering the knobs along my walking stick. “The Bible states that hell itself has no fury greater than a woman’s.”

  He snorted, not impressed or convinced that anyone had reason to fear a woman, which thoroughly convinced me that the man had never been married. “Come, boy, tell us where she is. We’ll protect you. She can’t touch you here, this,” and he sneered derisively, “Koki.”

  The prisoner shuddered and whimpered, and I suspected he would be subjected to a lethal fit if we continued to pressure him too greatly.

  “Inspector Jones, perhaps if you would allow me to spend time alone with this one,” I suggested softly. “He’s not much more than a child.”

  “Madam, I tolerate your presence in this room out of obedience to the request sent by my head office,” he said through tight lips and, I suspected, gritted teeth. “But that is all I shall do. I believe…”

  I never did learn what profound beliefs the man held with regard to my presence, for just then he was interrupted by a manly scream.

  We both looked to the prisoner whose mouth hung open, but the sound hadn’t ushered forth from that source. The Inspector strode out of the small room, his countenance a storm about to break. I followed him into the narrow hallway. Ahead of us, the prisoners in the holding cell stood in a tight huddle, their gazes fixed on the stairs leading up to the ground floor.

  “What in tarnation…” the Inspector began but a gunshot cut him off, echoing down to us from above, followed by the stamping of boots, shouting, several more gunshots and a shriek that was cut off abruptly, only to be replaced by others. I inhaled deeply, detecting what the Inspector couldn’t: the acidity of sweaty terror mingling with the coppery odor of fresh blood.

  When a scream is combined with the scent of blood, it generally indicates a spot of trouble is around the proverbial corner. In such circumstances, I believe it prudent to restrain one’s urge to rush into the scene. Inspector Jones however had no such inclination.

  “Inspector, don’t,” I warned, raising a hand to prevent his hasty departure. He of course paid me no heed as the frequency of gunshots and yelling increased.

  Instead, the good Inspector raced up the stairs, which just goes to show that one really shouldn’t hunt for monsters while under the influence of drugs. Not only is one’s judgement critically impaired but one is inclined to rush blindly into a room full of blood and screaming people. This is an excellent way to lose one’s head or another similarly critical limb. With a sigh, I followed him with slightly less haste, my walking stick held before me.

  He began yelling orders to his men, but when we reached the foyer, we could see his commands were a waste of breath. Everywhere was chaos and carnage, the floor littered with decapitated bodies, the heads scattered to all corners. The place stank of excrement, blood and something else… An indefinable scent that included slightly rancid meat, freshly cut grass and a rich, flowery perfume. It was a revolting mix of pleasant and putrid.

  The Inspector spun around in a daze, his disbelieving gaze settling on one corpse after another. He finally looked to me, opened his mouth, shut it and then through tight lips said, “Miss Bee, this is no place for a woman. I believe it prudent you leave, although at this juncture I shall not be able to provide you an escort.”

  “Inspector Jones, I hardly think this is a suitable juncture to discuss prudence,” I retorted, although with far less vehemence than I would normally have. While I’m not accustomed to fainting — an inconvenient habit if ever there was one — I admit to experiencing a disturbing vertigo at the spectacle laid out before me, and it was all I could do to grip my stick tightly as if that could anchor me to consciousness. I could only imagine the shock and despair the Inspector was experiencing, for these were his men.

  “As you wish,” he said without much conviction and continued his spinning until he was again facing the foyer.

  At that moment, we witnessed a peculiarity that boggled the mind and befuddled the intellect: two green, slender tree trunks floated into the lobby from an adjoining room.

  “What in carnations…” Inspector Jones muttered. He strode forward even as I stepped back, for I was certain that trees shouldn’t be able to float about and if they were doing so, that only indicated that something else was afoot.

  “Inspector, perhaps we should…” I started to say and then the trees were joined by a triangular head with a set of green pincers the length of my arms; they snapped about Jones’ neck with a sharp click. His body continued forward a few more paces before collapsing. His head had vanished by that time, and I was left alone to face the largest and most intimidating beast I’d ever seen in my nineteen years of life: a Praying Mantis as large as an elephant and nastier than a street dog, covered in the blood of her victims.

  There was only one course of action I could consider, rattled as I was by what had just transpired: I threw my sachet of ground cinnamon at the creature’s head. My muddled rationale was that if cinnamon was so effective against tiny ants, then surely it could defeat a giant Mantis. That erroneous form of logic may have been induced by the shock of witnessing my fellow investigator being decapitated so tidily.

  Be that as it may, the spice exploded about her head in a puffy cloud of sweetness and of course did nothing to stop the beast but merely distracted her long enough for me to run in the only possible direction open to me: upstairs. The constabulary had fallen under an eerie silence as I navigated the wide staircase littered with heads and limbs. I choked on the stench of blood and realized with dismay that I was experiencing a rare sensation: absolute terror. Nothing in my training or experience thus far had prepared me for such a massacre or the emotions it inspired.

  The landing on the second floor was deserted of bodies living and deceased. I didn’t dwell on the implication: that all the officers in the building had succumbed in the attack. Instead I steered myself into the first room I found with an open door and locked the door behind me.

  “Why would they put grills on a second floor office window?” I wailed softly as I stared in dismay at the windows across from me. I could only imagine the metal bars were to prevent a bored officer from escaping his administrative duties. I should be so lucky as to experience boredom.

  I glanced about the lavishly furnished room and stumbled toward a tall wardrobe dominating one corner. Pushing aside a number of polic
e uniforms hanging therein, I stepped inside and prayed to any being who would listen that the beast would simply scurry away.

  Lady Luck and I were never on the best of terms, for the only thing scurrying away was my hope of surviving the night; the contents of my stomach were also moving about in a most unsatisfactory fashion. The situation deteriorated further, for the wooden stairs creaked mightily as something heavy eased its way upstairs. The pace was unhurried, as if the creature was enjoying the architecture, each creak and groan of each and every stair mocking me.

  On the landing, the insect snuffled about like a hunting dog seeking the trail of its prey, a trail that led to the room in which I hid. I shuddered as the wooden door splintered and cracked under a great weight.

  My mind froze, for I was at a loss as to the course of action I should now take. My hands, while shaking with unaccustomed agitation, were fortunately not as inhibited and they instinctually pushed down on two of the metal fingernails of the fist atop my walking stick. The pressure released an internal spring and a blade exited the other end of the stick with a soft click. The delicate sound scraped against my nerves, but surely the Mantis couldn’t have heard it?

  I prepared myself as best I could, with my walking stick my only weapon, one that struck me as woefully inadequate for the adversary I now faced. I closed my eyes, breathed as deeply as my constricted chest would allow me and distracted myself from my approaching doom by mouthing the words, “Please, if there’s anyone listening, forgive me for all my indiscretions and follies. Most of them were unintentional and the remainder were probably necessary at the time.”

  I paused, breathed again and noted my lungs had relaxed under the deluge of my mental babbling, so I continued silently, “It’s quite likely I’ll die in this wardrobe, which is humiliating enough. And sadly, dismemberment will render my mortal remains unfit for viewing.”