by Kai Leakes
An inside liaison-based old team member and friend of theirs was the main bartender. He was a drifter and former truck driver whom they called Dolla. Dolla had come through for them a long time ago when they first were assigned to Sanna. Scanning the place, Calvin inwardly chuckled in thought. If an establishment had the infinity mark in the land, then anyone who could read it knew the rules. In order to keep some balance, the rules had to happen as means to keep an eye on the humans in the world and the things that hunted them or their kind. That didn’t mean shit didn’t go down that wasn’t supposed to.
Music spilled into the parking lot. Thumping bass vibrated through Calvin’s blood, pumping him up. The thing about the music here was, though one might hear a song that makes them drop into a split and shake every orifice on their body, somehow the dirty, sinfulness of it was scrubbed out and left with a neutral feeling. The Prince of the Airways might have inspired much of the provocative music, but his influence was not allowed on neutral land; it was all about free will here and keeping peace.
Flashing their cards, both men walked in with smooth style. Glances from many women and even men honed in on them, during which the sensuality of poetry fused with current music blared around them. Poets spoke on the mic and dancing strippers put Olympic gymnasts to shame as they worked poles like superb artists, enticing the patrons. Tonight was “Seduc-try” night and the house was full of women, men, truck drivers, and more. Poets from around the nation flooded Pink’s as they combined forces with dancers and mashed up a seductive night of poetry and enticing.
“Calvin, dog, what’s real, man?” From his position behind the bar, Dolla gave a quick nod from behind his dark shades. His crossed bourbon tatted arms bulged with lean muscles, while his flashed a smile, signaling where the STL team were sitting.
Calvin reached over to give his old friend dap then glanced around. He saw their standard VIP table was ready for them where some members of the new STL team sat. Strolling their way, both he and Marco breathed in the atmosphere. This was their old stomping grounds and regulars knew exactly who they were.
Taking a seat, he leaned back listening to the music while Marco stood taking off his long black double-breasted coat. A waitress appeared at his side. Her voluptuous creamy chest lightly brushed him while she handed Marco his standard drink: Bacardi Gold in a chilled glass. His boy’s gaze ran over the club at the same time as his was. This was his element, music and a crowd. He thanked the same brunette who had served Marco while she handed him a Heineken and fresh mound of caramel-coated pralines. Dolla had their back.
Music breathed life into the club, two poets on the stage forced his attention, and he easily read their auras. Slayers and Mystics.
“That’s my homies from Cali. The Bad Boys. Reggie and Demetrius Darby. Guess they are doing a layover in the STL,” Calvin pointed out.
“Sí?” Marco asked.
“Yeah, brah. They are sick with it. I learned some of my flow from them. Watch how they control the room with the lyrics, homie. They are working an old spell I taught them. Aesthetic hymns wrapped in sensual poetry.”
“Ay! Carajo wey! You mean the Song of Solomon, Cal?” Marco mused.
Calvin’s eyes softly pulsed, his dimples deepened, and he flashed a lopsided smile before answering, “Fa’sho, punk. Classic Mystic move if you have a gift to manipulate words, like they do, nah what I mean? They can hit all theses with just a few power words. Each word, vowel, syllable they manipulate act as grenades that will implode a tainted or Cursed bastard. No demon or possessed human leaves the joint, ya heard me?”
Marco chuckled lowly. He crossed his thick, muscled arms with a pleased look on his face over the slick method of attack utilized to work in their advantage. “And you developed it?”
Tossing back a couple of pralines, Calvin chewed before replying, “Yeah, your homie right here set that shit up. Was schooled by some old school records I found and shamans tapes Kali introduced me to on YouTube.”
Marco gave an amused laugh. Calvin knew his boy was hitting him with jokes. Playing as if he were a newcomer and didn’t know that info already. Marco respected his power. That Calvin was a master Mystic able to develop healing meds and battle psalms that could take down a tank of demons.
While the Darby Twins also known as the Bad Boys finished their set, the music changed tempo. The brother’s words blended then fused, becoming heated as if they were ready to flip from seducing to hardcore screwing. Lights dimmed; Calvin’s eyes adjusted with the change of the climate in the building. The intensity of the seduction in the club had him being hit with the scent of blooming lotus flowers from the women in the establishment. Steel was between his muscled legs as the music and lyrics flowed on.
The Darby Twins licked their lips with mirror grins before dropping a one-liner that had the crowd erupting in cheers. A wisp between the satin red curtains on the stage revealed a brown sugar, bourbon-hued thick-thigh female with ample, full breasts and an ass that wouldn’t quit. She smoothly moved to slip down the pole from an opening in the ceiling and froze in the middle of it as the music pumped.
“Bourbon Apple Bomb/syrupy sweetness flows/from between the mental crevices associated with your Queenly gates,” blended with the rhythm of the song while the woman worked her magic.
Her skin was silky and shiny from oils begging to be touched. She commanded the attention of the crowd with her gliding hands. She elegantly dropped on her back. Her graceful legs parted in allure and both of her hands caressed her body trailing downward to cup her covered yoni. Her arms constricted to press her spilling breasts while she licked her lips and flicked her tongue out over her hard cinnamon nipples. Money went flying and Calvin saw Marco’s eyes flash in the darkness. Something about her had both Calvin and Marco noticing the marker in her aura. It shone bright the moment she flipped to her stomach, tossing her long jet-black hair to seemingly lock eyes on Marco.
“Maldita Sea! That shit wasn’t there before; are you checking this out, Cal?” Marco muttered.
Calvin leaned forward. He took a deep swig from his bottle while intensely staring.
“You know I did, homie.” Recognition had him quickly swallowing his laughter. He could tell already that Marco’s world was about to be disrupted. “Whoa’na, isn’t that, the waitress, ah, ah . . . Yaya? Yeah! That’s her. Shit, Butter looks to be her stage name, when it should be Mrs. Butterworth’s,” Calvin said aloud with a huge grin. His shoulders shook up and down in laughter and he ducked from Marco’s swing.
“Git’er done! That broad is smooth like butta!” a drunken trucker roared walking by with a beer in his hand. He staggered forward to step to the stage and made it rain on Yaya.
“Watch yourself, homie, don’t fuck around and get popped by the bouncer, feel me?” Calvin warned. He had noticed Marco’s change in his posture the moment Yaya stepped on the stage. His boy had been helping her out for over a couple of years, when she was just a clever electric cigarette–smoking waitress with a confusing but interesting laugh. Time definitely had changed.
Calvin couldn’t lie to himself though. Yaya was that butta. She had a body worth slicing a punk over and a gaze that made any man’s member jump for her attention. His homie had learned from her that she had just moved to STL from Cali and that she was only working here to put herself through law school. She had been working at different strip joints over the course of her life just to pay for undergrad and now law school.
Marco had told him that the idea of her doing that always ticked him off but he couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t some new phenomenon, but the idea that this was how she had to survive never felt right to Marco. Calvin could already tell that now with watching her work the stage, popping her kitty in the face of a hungry demon was finally making Marco realize why. Everything in baby girl’s aura stated that she was Marco’s guide and that this was not where she was meant to be.
Calmly chewing his pralines, Calvin punched Marco’s shoulder to distract him from h
is anger, and then pointed to their right. Wandering in the new leader of the STL crew came to the table and held out his hand in a warrior’s clasp. Dressed in dark denim jeans with casual black boots, a black and gray button-down shirt that was rolled up to show his muscular arms, the six foot five inch brother chucked two fingers in the air in a greeting.
“Shit if it ain’t this Lance Gross–looking mother trucker. Zion, sup, fam.” Calvin stood laughing and pulled him into a quick shoulder hug and sat down as Zion followed suit.
“I’m taller, Calvin dude,” Zion jeered, chuckled right along. Zion gave a handshake that he and Calvin had made up in Chicago as he turned to give Marco dap and the same greeting.
“Sup, my family. Good to see you two old heads finally make it back here. We’ve been excited about the visit for some time now. How’s Sa . . . I mean, the Vessel? I spoke with my pops, but he was vague, with good reason.” Zion quickly changed his language, remembering to keep all intel on lock down. “But before we get into that, I wanted you two to know that we got a lead on some rogue Houses that have gone dark. Remember that crew that killed that Nephilim family and took their daughter years ago?”
Both Calvin and Marco quickly nodded knowing all info was limited in public. “We have one of the team members who had reported them on the squad. She has some new intel to share. Intel she has been effortlessly investigating for a while now, bros. We’ll talk about that some more later but let’s get into this, so what up?”
Calvin gave a curt nod before relaying in code what took place and why they were there. Each word was carefully constructed to sound like they were speaking about sports, missing STL, and the drive down. Zion processed everything with a flash of a frown, his head turned slightly over Calvin’s shoulder, which caused him to give a sidelong glance. A dull pain in his side began to come to life, causing him to lick his lips in the process. A shadowed dancing figure drew his attention; more like demanded his full-blown awareness.
The beat to J. Cole’s “Can’t Get Enough” switched on and the Bad Boys spit out another poem. This time it was performed with a third crew member from the new STL crew and Butta worked it on the stage. Several flourishing tattoos on Calvin’s forearms began to flicker then sparked in Mystic currents while the hairs on his body stood at attention.
There was no ignoring what his senses were telling him: something was about to pop off. “Yo, excuse a brotha for a moment, something don’t feel right. You know what that means.”
Calvin calmly stood then moved through the club toward the bar. Beams pulsed to the music. The Bad Boys finished their set. More poets with dancers grew the crowd’s attention and that shadow made Calvin’s eye twitch. Grabbing a drink, Calvin kept his jade eyes on the individual. He instantly knew who it was, at the sound of clicking and the sight of succinct deep-set swaying curves. Pain shot over his side where his Ghanaian markings lay and a sudden throbbing at his temples marked his annoyance. That broad was doing this to fuck with him and, tonight, he planned to take both arms this time.
Chapter 13
Calvin blended into the darkness of the club. He saw his brother-in-arms Marco snuff out his Trinity then mentally check in with him: “Time to strap up, acere. I’m securing my Guide, Cal. I know you’re handling your shit. See you on the other side.”
“A’ight, homie, hit ya dome later. Don’t get lost in that pretty pretty. Remember that’s your Guide,” Calvin joked, cutting his link before Marco could curse at him.
He took another swig of his drink then headed toward his beckoning target. She stood swaying to the music, lethal dark eyes locked on him. Her hips swayed in a slow siren’s wind. Her thick thighs brushed each other, her braids flipped over her russet shoulder while Kendrick Lamar spit to some chicks about “Poetic Justice.”
Cranial pain had Calvin gritting his teeth inwardly cursing. Is this chick stalking me now? Fuck is she doing here? Anger kept him on his pace. Sigils in the floor, walls, and structure of the land tugged at his Mystic surges reminding him to follow the law of the club. He didn’t give a shit. The rules stated to never feed, never hunt, and never kill, but the rules said nothing about fucking people up with your fist.
Zion interjected his mental, cutting his inner emo party. “Hey yo, I needed to tell you and Marco that I just found out that the girl’s cousin Tweet isn’t working the bar. She’s back in Cali for some family emergency, so we’re clear on that front.”
Marco studied the stage, his gray eyes melting into amber the longer he watched. “Good, it’s always a plan and that just worked in our favor, familia. Sí, Zion, keep everything low-key and ready your team, acere. A’ight, retire a la persona rapido. Move out fast. You good, Cal?”
“Yeah, I got you locked on my right. I see you speaking to your Guide. I have something I’m working on as we speak, keep alert ya heard me?” Calvin didn’t wait to get a reply.
He saw Zion rubbing his hands together, his teeth flashing with a smile that made every woman in the room cross her legs with need. Little homie slid a hand over his low wavy fade giving a signal to his other team member muttering a, “Oh yeah, here we go.”
He calmly walked past the stage and clapped a hand to his heart, coughing. Another signal for the Bad Boys to kick their poetry into overdrive. Calvin had to inwardly laugh. The kid may have been a human Nephilim, a simple Slayer, but he knew that in the kid’s blood flowed a power that made the baddest of demon’s piss and run scared from what he had in store for them. Taking down demons was Zion’s birthright. Like every Nephilim born in Society, either angel, or immortal humans like he and Zion were, they innately claimed it with the utmost respect to the Most High.
Calvin kept his pace nonthreatening while he watched his target; then Zion thumbed his nose and wiped a hand over his mouth. A battle was coming, so everything needed to be in its place. Calvin noted that Zion reinforced the platinum-steel door. He leaned against it with his arms behind him, watching the stage as a pure silver barbed bat slid down Zion’s forearm to rest in his massive hand. At the bar, Dolla shifted to the side to lock down the cash register. Calvin could read the determination in his old teammate’s face. Something had changed in the atmosphere. The fact that Dolla had a sword in his hand, clocking it behind his broad back, had Calvin assessing their surroundings.
With each casual long stride Calvin took, he gave an alluring smile toward gawking women whose physical forms briefly contorted revealing Cursed demons within them. Lights flickered. He glanced around the club to make sure everyone was still lost in the Bad Boys’ performance, putting in a little insurance that he wouldn’t be noticed once he handled his business.
His target still stood holding out both hands swaying to the music. She made note to run her stiletto nails over each arm to show him that she was back at 100 percent while she danced in front of a trucker. The guy could be Hugh Jackman’s twin, except for the gray skin, twin siphon holes at his neck, and now pitch-black soulless eyes. Stupid cunt, Calvin thought. That guy was a goner, was stone cold dead, and there was nothing to do about it. His emissary drew first blood on neutral territory when she wasn’t supposed to. Something was off.
Sweat beading around his brow, Calvin shaped a Mystic blade in his hand then reached out to snatch at his target. “You drew blood on neutral territory. You’re really fucking crazy aren’t you, shawty?”
Irritating clicking ebbed against his ear while his hand twisted the Medusa’s arm. “I think that is the other way around, big daddy. You’re fucking crazy for putting your hands on me, yet again.”
The sharp jab of her elbow hitting his ribs caused Calvin to hiss sharply. He knew she hit nothing but his solid muscle but the pain was still there. “What are you doing here? We put a beating on that ass already and here you are wanting more.”
Music continued to thump in beat. The loud crash, and then thud of a body behind them caused Calvin to whip the Medusa around to get a better view. Unfortunately, as he turned, the Medusa gave a soft chortle then her lip
s touched his own with the light brush of her tongue. Thrown off by the act, Calvin tried to grip her hard but she used the pad of her fingers to brush his jaw line. She pushed him hard at that moment, using her elbow to send a blow against his head while she hissed out, “This.”
The instant impact caused him to hunker down then reach forward to pull her braids back. However, all he received was air and a couple of cuts from the blades in each strand of her hair. Glancing in front of him, he watched the Medusa jet forward in a brisk run. Ahead of them was Marco with his Guide. Marco’s hand rested on the back of a woman they knew as Yaya while they spoke to one another. Yaya was blessed with having metaphoric rose-colored glasses on because she was clueless to everything going on.
The Medusa’s purposeful glare of malice with the sudden scent of poison in the air had Calvin rushing forward in a tackling position. Every prayer in his mind connected with his power to propel outward and cover Marco’s Guide in invisible armor. Anger had him pissed off to the highest level, which allowed him to reach out and snap the Medusa to him. His jade eyes locked on Marco and his Guide.
They quickly disappeared from the hallways. Calvin used that moment to hoist the Medusa up before him. She floated due to his Mystic gifts and he bound her hand in several bands of green Mystic power. With a sharp tug, he settled her on her feet, and then moved her into a dancing crowd. Menacing darkness ebbed through the club, and slightly darkened their surroundings.