But T’Challa knew the truth, and so did a dozen other kids. They had all watched as the creature called the Obayifo took possession of Mr. Jones’s body.
With Gemini Jones gone, the Skulls no longer had a leader. It seemed to T’Challa that they would have been better off staying close to each other, finding a bond in their unbelievable shared experience. Instead, they drifted apart.
But some of them must have talked about what had happened that night, in the damp below, where the arches meet. There were rumors flying around school about a boy with a sleek black outfit who moved with unnatural speed and single-handedly defeated the creature. But the stories were vague, as if no one could exactly pin down what had happened. It was dark, some said. It all happened so fast, said others.
T’Challa wanted more than anything to put that awful night behind him, so he began to study harder than ever before. He buried himself in schoolwork, taking on extra courses and after-school activities. He even went back to his chess matches with Zeke.
As for M’Baku, T’Challa had no idea where he was. He had stayed that first night after the battle and then vanished.
One week to the day from when T’Challa and his friends ventured into the school’s basement, there was a knock at his embassy room door. He paused, curious.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
There it was again.
Perhaps it was Zeke or Sheila.
T’Challa walked to the door and looked through the little peephole. He drew in a breath.
It was the man with the eyepatch.
The one who had been spying on him since he arrived.
T’Challa’s heart leapt into his throat. He looked around the room for an escape route.
“Open the door, T’Challa!”
T’Challa flinched. He knows my real name!
The voice was strong and deep, and seemed to shake the very door itself. T’Challa stepped back. He scanned the room for a weapon, anything that could help him. Maybe this man was an associate of Mr. Jones. He could be another member of the Circle of Nine!
The doorknob rattled from the other side. T’Challa heard a few clicks, as if it were being picked.
And then it opened.
T’Challa raised a fist to strike, but the man quickly reached out and smothered it with his own, clad in a black glove. T’Challa crumpled under the man’s strength.
“T’Challa,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you. Your father sent me.”
The man released his grip, and T’Challa took a few steps back into the room. He still didn’t trust him, and eyed the man warily. He was dressed all in black, with a leather jacket that looked like it held a dozen mysteries. And then there was the eyepatch, held in place by a band that circled his bald head. The man closed the door behind him.
T’Challa didn’t have many options. Clearly, the man was much stronger than he was, judging by his grip. If T’Challa had the suit, perhaps it could be an even match. But he didn’t. It was locked in the safe just a few feet away.
“Mind if I sit?” the man asked, solving T’Challa’s predicament on what to say. T’Challa only nodded.
The man sat down and looked around the room. “I heard you had some trouble a while back,” he started. “Mr. Jones, I believe. Nasty piece of work.”
“You said you knew my father,” T’Challa said, ignoring him, even though he wondered how this man knew about Bartholomew Jones. “How can I trust you?”
The man crossed his long legs and let out an exhausted breath, as if he had explained this several times before. “Your father is T’Chaka, the ruling Black Panther and King of Wakanda. He sent you and your buddy M’Baku here for schooling. South Side Middle School. You were both doing pretty well for yourselves—at least you were—until your friend M’Baku fell in with the Skulls. And then that whole business with Bartholomew Jones.” He paused and shook his head. “I have to say, you did pretty well. I’d say your first mission was a success.”
T’Challa’s head spun. “How…what…how do you know all this?”
“My organization has some toys that even Wakanda would envy.” He raised a long finger to the ceiling. “Satellites. And some silent surveillance drones. We saw everything. Just consider it a form of backup. I don’t think your father would be too happy if things got out of hand.”
“Out of hand!” T’Challa finally raised his voice. “People almost died out there! Mr. Jones did die out there! And you saw it all and did nothing? Who are you really? Tell me.”
“Sorry for all the intrigue,” the man said. “Your father always did say I go on too long.”
He reached in one of his many pockets. T’Challa tensed, but the man slowly drew out a slim black metal case and flipped it open. T’Challa leaned forward to read it.
T’Challa straightened back up. He’d heard of this man and the organization. “You’re…that Nick Fury? My father’s friend?”
Nick Fury almost smiled. “Well, your father’s friendship doesn’t come easy—but yes—I’d say I’m that Nick Fury. Your father put the word out to S.H.I.E.L.D. that you were coming to the States. He asked me to keep an eye on you but to remain at a distance. So that’s what I did.”
T’Challa sat down on the bed. He shook his head. He should have known his father would have someone looking out for him. He’d thought that exact same thing a while back when he first saw this man, Nick Fury.
“So what now?” T’Challa asked.
Nick Fury leaned forward. “Now we’re going on a little trip.”
T’Challa swallowed.
“Trip? So I’m leaving the embassy? What about M’Baku?”
Nick Fury grinned. “Oh,” he said. “I already took care of him.”
By “took care of him,” what Nick Fury meant was “threw him into an unmarked black SUV and took him to an unknown destination,” the same place T’Challa was now headed.
“Your buddy M’Baku was a little harder to convince,” he told T’Challa. “So I had to be a bit more…persuasive. I found him at Wilhelmina Cross’s house. Told her parents I was his guardian. Took a little convincing, though.”
Serves him right, T’Challa thought, still upset at what his friend had done. He’d never been under a spell. It was betrayal, plain and simple.
“What about my friends?” he asked. “Zeke and Sheila. Will I get to see them again?”
“I believe that can be arranged,” Nick Fury answered.
The trip was long, and the SUV—if that’s what one would call it, as it was longer than most—was tinted with black windows all around. T’Challa couldn’t even pass the time looking out at the city streets. But he did have a few comforts, including every type of snack known to man, dozens of movies, and any kind of beverage he could wish for—from lemonade to hot chocolate. Plus there were video games, which he played on the built-in monitors, but he really wasn’t in the mood for them. Several small screens embedded in the black leather seats showed hot spots and unusual activity in danger zones across the world. T’Challa saw one that read: WAKANDA CALM AFTER RECENT SKIRMISH. He breathed a sigh of relief.
After another hour of traveling, the car finally stopped. Nick Fury hadn’t spoken much at all during the trip. T’Challa did have questions, but to tell the truth, he was hesitant to ask him anything. He wasn’t afraid of him. He was just wary.
Once outside the car, T’Challa peered around. It was dark, and the city skyline was nowhere in sight. The only sign of life was an enormous aircraft hangar with a few people busily running back and forth, working on something that looked like a giant engine.
“Follow me,” Nick Fury said.
T’Challa followed him as he headed into the aircraft hangar. There were nods from the workers and a few grim smiles, but no one spoke. Whatever happened in this place seemed deadly serious.
They stopped at an enormous steel door. Nick Fury pressed a button embedded into the wall and put his eye up against it. There was a click, and the door opened. “After you,” Nick Fury offered.<
br />
The elevator seemed to take forever going down. It was quiet, and not even the hiss of machinery could be heard. Finally, after what seemed like forever, it softly touched down and the door whisked open.
Rows upon rows of computers lined every wall. Men and women wearing headsets sat at terminals, speaking in a dozen different languages.
“Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Nick Fury announced.
T’Challa took it all in with wide eyes.
“Take a good look around,” Nick Fury said. “Tomorrow morning, I’m taking you back to Wakanda.”
T’Challa looked out from the plane’s window, just as he had when he was nearing Chicago. It seemed so long ago now. The gleaming spires of Wakanda’s Golden City came into view, surrounded by lush green forests and sparkling lakes and rivers. T’Challa heard the click of a speaker embedded in the seat.
“We’ll be touching down in just a few minutes,” Nick Fury announced from the cockpit.
T’Challa glanced back at M’Baku, dozing in a seat across the aisle. He had taken the seat farthest away from T’Challa when they boarded the plane. There were several times when T’Challa wanted to tell him to forget that any of this had ever happened—the Skulls, his ring, Gemini’s father. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not yet.
The previous day, Nick Fury had given T’Challa the “grand tour,” as he called it. Every room seemed to hold a mystery—from nanorobotics to artificial intelligence. M’Baku slunk behind him, seemingly uninterested in all the wizardry on display. A few weeks ago he would have been over the moon, but now he seemed like a shadow of his former self.
T’Challa let out a long breath. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Not from the plane—but from the prospect of seeing his father again.
T’Challa noticed the effects of war immediately. Several buildings were badly damaged—shattered windows and scorched black spots marred the city’s most important structures, including the Vibranium Mound. The pavilions that were set up for his departure were long gone, and now the area was full of military weapons and battalions of troops, still on alert.
M’Baku had been whisked away by one of his father’s military aides upon landing. He had shared one last glance at T’Challa before he disappeared. We’ll speak again, T’Challa thought. One day.
When they landed, Nick Fury immediately went to see T’Challa’s father, and T’Challa used the time to wash up and rest for a few minutes in his room.
A knock on the door startled him from sleep.
“Come in,” he called.
The door opened without the slightest sound, and Hunter walked into the room.
In the short amount of time that T’Challa had been away, it seemed as if his older stepbrother had gained three inches’ height. He wore a black uniform with no markings but for a panther’s proud face on the sleeve of the upper right shoulder. Must be the Hatut Zeraze, T’Challa thought, the secret police force. A beret was cocked at an angle on his head, and T’Challa was reminded of Nick Fury.
“Brother,” Hunter said, closing the door behind him. “How are you faring?”
T’Challa decided to try to get things off to a good start. “I’m good, and glad to be back.”
Hunter came farther into T’Challa’s room. He picked up a small wooden panther from an end table and turned it in his hand. “Father says you got into your own little adventure over there, while we were under attack here.”
T’Challa swallowed. He already knows? “It was unexpected,” he said, “but something that had to be taken care of.”
“But you revealed yourself, didn’t you? People know who you are?”
T’Challa didn’t answer.
Hunter set the small sculpture down. He looked around the room as if he had never seen it before, although he had, many, many times. “It’s a burden to be a leader,” he said lazily. “Some people just aren’t cut out for it.”
T’Challa refused to take the bait.
“Maybe you can come by the training camp tomorrow,” Hunter suggested. “You’ll see some of my new recruits. Not all of them will make it into the Hatut Zeraze, but they’ll try.”
T’Challa was reminded of Mr. Blevins and his first day of gym class.
Hunter let out a long breath. “I’ll be seeing you, brother. It’s great to have you home in one piece.”
T’Challa swallowed his pride. He remembered how, in the midst of the trouble here in Wakanda, he had asked his father if Hunter was hurt. He didn’t want that to happen, no matter how much they fought. Maybe they could start anew—try to forget their troubled history. He let out a breath. “You, too,” he said. “It’s good to be home.”
T’Challa hesitated with each step he took, just like he had when the Dora Milaje called him and M’Baku from the forest. Now they stood guard, silent and unmoving. They stepped aside to let him pass, spear points lowered to the ground.
T’Challa released a breath and entered the Royal Palace. The air here was immediately cooler. Torches in the wall every few feet illuminated the way. His father rose when he saw him. “T’Challa,” he called. “Welcome home, son. Come, let’s walk.”
T’Challa was glad to leave the palace. It was so formal, and he often felt like a child when he stood before the king’s throne.
“Nick Fury told me everything,” the king said, leading T’Challa away from the city center and along a forest path. “Why didn’t you tell me of this threat? This man…Bartholomew Jones and these…Skulls?”
T’Challa focused on the forest floor beneath his feet. “I didn’t want to…trouble you. You said I needed to learn how to lead one day. That is what I tried to do.”
“Trying to save M’Baku was a good thing, T’Challa. But sometimes people choose the wrong road, and there is nothing we can do to steer them away.”
They walked a few moments in silence. T’Challa breathed in the fresh Wakandan air. He didn’t realize how much he had missed it. “M’Baku,” T’Challa couldn’t help but ask. “What will happen to him?”
“That is for his father to decide.”
“But you’re the king. You can choose any punishment you see fit.”
The king stopped on the path. “But I am not his father. He will talk to M’Baku first, and then I may pass judgment, if need be.”
T’Challa thought back to all that M’Baku had done, but still, he felt for him. They were friends once, but he sought power and respect elsewhere. Now their friendship was shattered.
A mynah bird made its distinct call, and somewhere far away an answer was returned. “Nick Fury,” T’Challa said. “You had him looking out for me the whole time. I thought you trusted me.”
“I do trust you, T’Challa, but you were a prince in a strange land. I would have been foolish not to have someone looking out for you.”
He did have a point. T’Challa would probably have done the same thing if the tables were turned.
After a moment, his father spoke again. “These friends you found, Ezekiel and Sheila. They know who you are now.”
T’Challa felt ashamed, as if he had let his father down. “I had to be honest with them. They helped me, and followed me where I led them. I couldn’t deceive them any longer.”
“There are times when one has to be true to one’s own sense of honor, T’Challa. I think you made the right decision.”
T’Challa smiled.
They continued to walk, and as T’Challa followed his father along the forest path, he felt a sense of peace. His thoughts were interrupted by the chiming of his watch. He looked down at it. Who could that be?
He pressed the watch face.
To his surprise, the beaming faces of Zeke and Sheila were projected in front of him.
“T’Challa!” they both shouted.
T’Challa looked at his father. “How did they—?”
The Black Panther smiled, a rare treat for anyone fortunate enough to experience it. “I had Nick Fury make a special delivery,” he said. “Now you can keep in touch.”
&
nbsp; T’Challa looked back to the hologram of his two friends.
“This is so cool!” Zeke almost squealed.
“Calm down,” Sheila scolded him.
“You calm down,” Zeke shot back.
T’Challa watched as the two of them jested with each other.
“When are you coming back?” Zeke asked. “We could use some heroes on the South Side.”
T’Challa smiled and looked to his father, who raised an eyebrow and leaned his head into the frame. “You never know,” he said.
Zeke swallowed. His eyes widened. “Is that…Oh my God. It’s the Black Panther!”
“The real Black Panther,” T’Challa added.
“For now,” said the king.
“It’s good to see you guys,” T’Challa said. “Sorry to leave without saying good-bye.”
“It’s okay,” Sheila said. “We understand. But I’ve got one question.”
“What?” T’Challa asked.
Sheila smiled. “When’s the next mission?”
Thanks to everyone at Marvel Press and Disney Book Group for the opportunity to work on this great project. A special nod goes out to Hannah Allaman, a fantastic editor with a keen eye and a creative soul. Your insights really helped me see the story, and for that I am grateful. I’d also like to thank Emily Meehan and Tomas Palacios for their support and encouragement. I would be remiss without mentioning my friend, photographer Erik Kvalsvik, whose photograph graces the back flap on this book and others. He always casts me in the best light. To my family and friends, thanks for your enthusiastic support. And for Julia, this time, more than ever.
RONALD L. SMITH is a former advertising writer and the author of Hoodoo, a Southern gothic fantasy novel for young readers. He is the recipient of the 2016 Coretta Scott King / John Steptoe New Talent Author Award. His second book, The Mesmerist, a supernatural Victorian fantasy, was released in February 2017.
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