Black Panther

by Ronald L. Smith

  T’Challa looked to the closed door and then back to the hologram. “Father,” he started. “M’Baku…he’s—”

  T’Challa paused.

  I can’t bother him with my troubles. He’s dealing with more important things.

  “What?” his father asked. “What about M’Baku?”

  “He’s just up to his usual antics,” T’Challa said suddenly. “All is well here.”

  The Black Panther’s brow furrowed, and he gave his son an inquiring gaze. “You’re the sensible one, T’Challa. Let him know what has happened. You both have to stay safe, especially now. Someone could take advantage of the turmoil here and—”

  His father’s voice crackled.

  “Father?” T’Challa said, tapping the image. “Hello?”

  The connection went dead in a blast of static.

  T’Challa flopped onto his bed at the embassy. He was drained. His thoughts shifted to his father. He had to get back home.

  The kingdom needed him. When the fighting starts, I’ll be here by Father’s side, not running off to hide in America.

  But what could he do?

  The words of the oath M’Baku took came back to him:

  Darkness falls,

  And He shall awaken.

  Swear to Him,

  And ye shall be rewarded.

  Swear to whom? he wondered. Vincent Dubois?

  T’Challa rose off the bed and walked to the safe. His father had often given him small, unexpected gifts. Perhaps there was something hidden in the box, a token of his father’s affection. Now, more than ever, he needed a reminder of home.

  He knelt and turned the combination, the one he came up with when he and M’Baku first arrived. He listened intently as the tumblers clicked and then released. He reached inside and took out the black box encrusted with gemstones. It opened easily on silent hinges.

  The suit was on top, folded neatly. He picked it up and felt the fabric in his hands, the black material supple and soft. He set it aside and turned back to the case.

  He gasped.

  The bottom of the case was empty.

  His heart sped up.

  “No,” he whispered.

  He turned it upside down and shook it.

  His ring was gone.

  Gone.

  There was only one person who could’ve taken it.

  M’Baku.

  T’Challa paced back and forth in the small room. He couldn’t tell Zeke or Sheila that his ring was missing. He was supposed to be an ordinary exchange student from Kenya, not a prince from Wakanda.

  M’Baku wouldn’t, T’Challa told himself. His friend knew the power and value of that ring. It was Vibranium, his country’s most valued resource.

  Why would he take it?

  There was only one thing to do. He had to go to Gemini’s house again.

  He turned to look at his suit.

  Do not wear it unless you are in an emergency.

  Well, T’Challa thought, releasing a labored breath, this is an emergency.

  T’Challa lifted the Panther suit from the velvet-lined box.

  He felt the mesh of the Vibranium under his fingertips, smooth yet hard at the same time. It almost seemed like it pulsed. Like it wanted to be worn.

  “This is the suit of the Black Panther,” T’Challa whispered. “The suit of my father and his father before him.”

  He let the fabric fall from his hands and unfurl toward the floor.

  “I have to do this,” he said. “I have no choice.”

  He quickly changed into the suit.

  His heart raced the moment his skin made contact with the Vibranium. It clung to him like an invisible glue, a bond that had its history in every Black Panther before him.

  He put on his regular clothes over the suit and slipped out of the embassy, backpack in tow.

  The lights, cars, and pedestrians along Michigan Avenue were a beehive of activity. People were everywhere—shuffling along in long coats, carrying shopping bags and strolling out of restaurants and stores. Street musicians sang, drummers drummed, and several people who seemed to be down on their luck asked him for money. He thought it sad that a nation as rich as America couldn’t take care of their less fortunate.

  He stopped for a brief moment to study a man painted all in silver, standing on a box outside a department store. He stood motionless, with an open suitcase full of coins and bills at his feet. A shy little boy, at the urging of his mother, dropped a handful of coins into the box. The man immediately began to move like a robot, fluidly and mechanically. It was one of the strangest things T’Challa had ever seen.

  He continued on his way, but this time, he did decide to take a bus. After waiting in the cold for about ten minutes, a blue-and-white city bus pulled up to the stop with a hiss. He climbed up the short steps and tapped his card against the reader. A red light flashed.

  “Card’s empty,” the bus driver said.

  T’Challa cursed himself. He looked around, embarrassed, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, but only came up with lint. People were beginning to stare. He heard a few groans from the back.

  “I got ya,” a voice called out.

  T’Challa turned as a man got up and tapped a card against the reader.

  His heart stopped.

  It was the man again.

  The same one he saw on that first day.

  The same one he and M’Baku saw in the park.

  “Thank you, sir,” said T’Challa, looking at the man. He didn’t know where to look—the eyepatch was distracting, and he didn’t want to be rude.

  “No problem,” the man said, and then turned around and stepped off the bus.

  T’Challa exhaled. Who was he? He could be some sort of foreign agent working against Wakanda. But if he were an enemy, he would have tried something—a kidnapping or an assault. Maybe he’s a friend of Father’s. It would be just like him to have someone looking out for me in the States.

  T’Challa took a seat farther down the aisle. The man next to him had a bundle of plastic bags at his feet and seemed to be asleep, his breath coming loud and noisy. No one seemed to notice or care.

  The bus came to a squeaking halt and more passengers got on. In the commotion that followed—people getting up and others getting on—T’Challa got off close to the big Greek church, still nervous and wary.

  The bright lights of Michigan Avenue were replaced by streetlights and dimly lit storefronts. It was in complete contrast to the other side of the city. There were no fancy department stores or people walking out of restaurants, flipping open cell phones and hailing cabs. T’Challa thought it strange that one part of the city could be so vibrant and colorful and the other completely different. In Wakanda, everyone was treated equally and had the same opportunities, no matter who they were.

  He paused.

  How did he know that was true?

  That was his privilege talking. He could get whatever he wanted anytime, but it was certainly different for others. He’d seen it firsthand.

  He shook his head. M’Baku was right: You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.

  He continued to walk, keeping his eyes peeled for any sudden movements—he didn’t want to get attacked again—and ducked into a dark alley and slung off his backpack, then changed out of his street clothes. He hoisted the pack onto his shoulders.

  What would happen if someone saw me in my suit?

  At least it was close to the American celebration of Halloween. He could say he was in a costume.

  He put on his mask and looked up. Glimpses of moonlight shone through fast-moving clouds. He slipped through the alley like a black shadow. Now he really felt powerful in the suit. The material was like a second skin. Tiny beads of light seemed to radiate from it, but they disappeared if he looked at them too long. Perhaps it’s a feature of the Vibranium.

  He spotted the griffin sculpture from a distance, even though the night was pitch-black. The streetlights were out, but he could still see clearly.
How? The suit?

  T’Challa walked around to the back of the house. It was surrounded on all sides by a chain-link fence at least six feet high. He took a deep breath, crouched low, and, in one effortless motion…jumped.

  He landed softly, without a sound.

  He couldn’t believe it. He would never have been able to do that on his own. It was definitely the suit—the Vibranium allowed him to perform a feat like this.

  T’Challa looked around. A soft glow was emanating from each corner of the yard. Some sort of spotlight, he guessed.

  Should I just go up and knock on the back door?

  No. If M’Baku was bold enough to take his ring, he wouldn’t give it back easily. T’Challa’s stomach lurched. His best friend, someone he had known since childhood, had betrayed him. He still couldn’t believe it.

  There were no lights on inside the house. Perhaps there was no one home. He should have asked his father more about the Panther suit. He wasn’t sure of all of its capabilities. He needed to be invisible. “Stealth,” he whispered.

  T’Challa felt more than saw the suit shift to a deeper shade of black. Small wisps of light danced along the fabric and winked out. “Awesome,” he whispered.

  He stalked across the lawn quietly, not making a sound. He heard crickets in the grass, the sounds of insects chittering. Everything was heightened, illuminated.

  A basement window looked promising. It was small but big enough for him to crawl through. T’Challa knelt. “Forgive me,” he said, and kicked in the glass.

  He slid through the window easily, although it was tight. Jagged pieces of glass brushed his suit, but he didn’t feel the slightest tear or cut. He was reminded of the way a speckled rainbow trout slipped from his hands while he was fishing with M’Baku.

  The basement was as dark as a moonless night, but T’Challa saw shapes and outlines of stairs in the near distance. He looked up. He sensed spiderwebs hanging from the wooden rafters. He walked over quietly and took one step at a time, hoping the stairs didn’t creak. He was lucky. Either his weight or the suit’s stealth mode prevented the old wooden stairs from making a sound.

  He reached the top, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

  He was standing in the same room as when he came to see M’Baku. It smelled of clove, old books, and dust. The masks on the wall were cast in eerie moonlight. Tall bookshelves lined the walls. He wanted, more than anything, to flip through some of the books, but he didn’t have time. He had to find where M’Baku slept and search the room.

  Another flight of stairs was off to the right. T’Challa moved a little more confidently. If anyone were home they would have made themselves known by now.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. Several rooms ran along each wall, all with closed doors. He walked down the hallway softly, holding his breath, alert for any sudden movements. A poster on one door showed a group of boys lounging against a metal fence with crossed arms and cocky grins. “West Side Posse,” T’Challa whispered, reading the large red letters. It sounded familiar. They have hip-hop over there? he recalled Gemini asking. West Side Posse? Killa Krew?

  This was definitely Gemini’s room.

  T’Challa took a deep breath, tensed, and turned the doorknob.

  Empty.

  Where are Gemini and M’Baku this time of night? Probably at one of their creepy meetings, he realized.

  The room was dark. He almost flipped on the light switch but thought better of it at the last second. He peered around the room: a bed, a dresser, more posters on the wall displaying musicians and sports stars, and several books on an end table. He walked over to the bedside and studied them. T’Challa was surprised to see several colorful graphic novels, the same kind of books Gemini had heckled Zeke for reading. He lifted the pile of books and set them on the bed.

  An open eye stared up at him.

  It was a book, the last one in the pile.

  THE GRIMOIRE

  OF

  VINCENT DUBOIS

  T’Challa’s eyes widened.

  He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. A relic of the past, right here in Gemini’s room. The cover looked to have been brown leather at one point. The edges were burned, like it had been retrieved from a fire. Some of the pages were stuck together, as if the book had been water damaged.

  T’Challa carefully turned the cover. The handwriting was clear and distinct, but burned and missing in places. Bold capital letters spelled out the chapters:

  THE MAN WITH NO FACE

  CROW SEIZES SCORPION

  THE INVISIBLE EYE

  “Eye,” T’Challa whispered.

  He turned the page. Spots of green mold dotted the paper, but still, the slanted, neat letters could be read:

  This thing called Magick is a fearsome devil, and is quick to fool those who think themselves as mighty.

  The doing is in the belief, brother.

  Believe, and ye shall prosper.

  Your mind is the door through which all wisdom walks.

  If you so believe, so do those you look upon.

  Lay eyes upon your own hand, and let the words come.

  Fix your eye on the one who waits.

  T’Challa looked to the bottom of the page:

  Carpe Noctem.

  “Carpe noctem,” T’Challa whispered, and the Latin came to him easily: “Seize the night.”

  He flipped through the book. Symbols, numbers, and drawings crowded every page. I should take it, he considered. Study it. No. They’d know I was here.

  T’Challa thumbed through the book again. He paused.

  There, at the very back, was another page, also handwritten:

  The Prince of Bones was like me. Someone destined for greatness.

  We share the same beliefs.

  He knew the higher mysteries, and now I will, too!

  I will bring him back, and who will stop us then?

  We are the Skulls!

  We were right, T’Challa thought. Right all along. This had to be Gemini’s writing. It would be just like him to add his own story to Vincent’s journal, like he was preserving it for history.

  T’Challa concentrated on the page again. There was more writing along the bottom:

  Midnight,

  Under the gibbous moon,

  In the damp below,

  Where the arches meet.

  T’Challa cocked his head. He didn’t understand it.

  He set the book down, remembering why he had come here in the first place: My ring.

  He turned away from the bedside, ready to look further.

  His heart skipped.

  Jangling keys.

  Downstairs.

  Someone had opened the door.

  T’Challa slid into a closet full of sneakers, gym clothes, deflated basketballs, and broken lamps. Footsteps sounded downstairs. Someone coughed. It didn’t sound like a kid. It sounded like an adult.

  He could hear his own breathing in the dark. He stood there, waiting for the creak of someone coming up the steps, but instead, a voice drifted up through the floorboards.

  “What of the children? They have sworn to it?”

  “Yes,” a second man replied. “They have. Gemini did it.”

  T’Challa sucked in a breath. He’d recognize that deep tone anywhere. It was Gemini’s father.

  “Your own son?” the other voice asked in surprise.

  There was a pause, and T’Challa thought he heard the sound of a cork being popped and liquid being poured into a glass. “I will not be denied,” Mr. Jones said. “I have waited too long. They are expendable—mere vessels for my work.”

  “And the ring?”

  A jolt went through T’Challa.

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Jones said. “The Vibranium should provide enough energy, but we shall see, won’t we?”

  He has my ring! T’Challa fumed, clenching his fist. And he knows about Vibranium!

  Rage boiled in T’Challa’s veins. More than anything, he wanted to rush downstairs an
d confront them. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know what he’d be facing. He had to wait.

  And wait he did.

  Time seemed to slow down there in the dark closet. T’Challa saw shafts of moonlight at the bottom of the door, heard the ticking of a clock and the bark of a neighbor’s dog. All these sounds seemed to crystallize in his mind. It was as if he could reach out and touch them. Feel them. He remembered reading of how a visually impaired person’s remaining senses were stronger because they had to be relied on more. That’s what it felt like.

  Finally, with T’Challa standing still and quiet, his breath coming slow and steady, he heard the clatter of keys through the floorboards and then footsteps. He perked up his ears. “Come,” Mr. Jones’s voice called. “It is time for the meeting. The Circle cannot be delayed.”

  T’Challa sensed the presence of someone rising from a chair. He could feel it, like a blood pressure cuff tightening around his arm. His father once told him that the Vibranium mesh responded to movement, alerting its wearer of possible threats.

  A door opened, and then closed. The sound of footfalls echoed across the flagstones leading away from the house.

  T’Challa released a long-held breath.

  Whatever was happening, he had to get out.

  Now.

  “You broke into their house?” Sheila asked the next morning.

  Red and gold leaves swirled in a circle on the football field. T’Challa shifted on the hard wooden bleachers. “I had to,” he said. “Marcus…has something of mine.”

  “What is it?” Zeke asked, pushing his glasses up.

  T’Challa hesitated. I can’t tell them the truth. Can I?

  But he had to tell them something. And he had to tread carefully. Mr. Jones had his ring, but he had to let Zeke and Sheila know what he’d heard without giving anything away.

  “I wanted to see if I could find any clues on those Devil’s Traps, but I found something else.”

  Sheila and Zeke leaned in.

  “A grimoire,” T’Challa said, “an old journal belonging to Vincent Dubois. It was waterlogged and burned. There were spells in it, and one of them was for something called the Invisible Eye, but it was written in a very old-fashioned kind of way, and I couldn’t make anything of it. It was all about believing in what you were doing.”