Of Fear and Faith: A Witch and Shapeshifter Romance (Death and Destiny Trilogy Book 1)
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Death and Destiny Trilogy, Book 1
N.D. Jones
Baltimore, Maryland
kuumbapublishing.com
Copyright © 2019 by N.D. Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Kuumba Publishing
Maryland
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
Cover design by Atlantis Book Design
All art and logo copyright © 2016 by Kuumba Publishing
Siren-Bookstrand-1st Edition (2014)
Of Fear and Faith/ N.D. Jones. – 2nd Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-7325567-9-9
DEDICATION
Nathaniel Jones Jr. (1944-1999)
Peace.
Blessing.
Love.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Of Beasts and Bonds Cover
About N.D. Jones
Other Books by N.D. Jones
Readers’ Group
PROLOGUE
Oyo Empire, 1500
The sky over the ancient land of Yoruba darkened as the thunderstorm approached, growing mile by mile, village by village, blanketing the sky in unforgiving clouds of anger and loneliness.
Thunder raged behind the clouds, its agonized roar sending animals and humans fleeing for safety.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
More thunder, loud and menacing.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Sàngó, the god of fire, lightning, and thunder appeared in the sky. Bolts of burning, ragged heat surrounded him, setting him apart from the blackness of the caustic sky.
Lifting nothing more than his chin, Sàngó unleashed his bolts.
They spiraled in sonic white waves southward, breaking off in rapid sparks. A moment later, the first shock hit, a second, a third, then far too many for Sàngó to count.
Within minutes, rivers and lakes erupted from their puny depths, a wasted plea to the god who would compel them to free his wife.
More bolts, stronger this time, charging through pathetic watery defenses, finding lake and riverbeds and exploding in guttural cries of fury.
“Return. What. You. Have. Taken.”
The only words Sàngó had ever deemed to speak on this unholy of anniversaries.
The day she was taken from me and locked in an inescapable watery prison.
But the lakes and rivers didn’t respond. No, they only ever heeded the commands of Yemaya, their mother. For all Sàngó’s might, his will was but an insignificant drop of rainwater.
Then the watery voice he knew, all too well, restored the destruction he’d wrought, and whispered, in his mind, with neither gentleness nor malice. And Sàngó’s heart was already drowning in the familiar words—a dousing reply to his fiery entreaty.
Every five hundred years, in the year of Ra, a fire witch born to the Temple of Oya and a water witch born to the Temple of Mami Wata will mark the beginning of the end, but also rebirth. Ma’at demands balance, and these witches will bring both destruction and another five hundred years of peace for humans. All the old will be washed away like sand after an early morning tide. Pray for Oya’s fire witch and her invincible Mngwa, for they will be all that stands between humans and a liquid serpent grave. Pray for Mami Wata’s water witch whose desire for power will know no bounds. Humans cannot know love without hate, good without evil, fire without water, Oya without Mami Wata. The Day of the Serpents will be upon you. Relinquish your fears and embrace the power of faith.
Those words, the ones inscribed on the most ancient caves of the Oyo Empire, were meant for fire and water witches. They were the ones who carried the tale of Oya and Mami Wata. Some of the more foolish among the witches secretly harbored the dream of being the next fire or water witch of legend. But those unfortunate witches wouldn’t be birthed for nearly five centuries.
How many more battles had to be waged before Oya would be returned to him? When would the sun god be done with his game of fear and faith? Sàngó didn’t know. The only truth that had ever meant anything to him was the love he had for his wife, for his Oya. And like the fire he wielded so effortlessly, love was an eternal flame.
Rain began to fall, slowly quenching the deprived land below, and Sàngó refused to call them tears, yet from the mix of rain and dirt sprouted a flower of hope.
There will be two, my dear Sàngó, a mighty union capable of saving us from ourselves. Only then will Oya be returned to you. Have faith.
CHAPTER ONE
Baltimore, Maryland, Present Day
Silence.
Darkness.
Footsteps.
Growl.
“I can smell you, child. You can’t hide from me,” whispered a mangled voice on the other side of the closet door.
Elizabeth Ferrell thought her heart would burst from her chest as those dreaded words smashed through the darkness and found her hiding spot. Sweaty fear rolled down her tiny back, legs cramped and tight from being wedged between the closet wall, dirty clothes hamper, and a toy chest she’d had since she was a girl of five. She was now a big girl of eight, and big girls didn’t hide in closets from imaginary monsters, or so she told herself during the safe light of day.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to reconcile this new reality to what she’d always been led to believe. Unbidden memories flowed forth. Her mother’s soothing words rang in her head, a dead, flat note.
“There are no such things as ghosts, Betsy. Come out of that closet and get back into bed.”
“But Ma, I saw a monster. It had long, pointy teeth, huge claws, a twisted face, and black eyes.”
“Ah, my sweet girl, that’s just your imagination, shadows of things in your room like Elmo here, or your Squishable Pink Poodle over there. All normal once the lights are on, and you can see them clearly. I promise you, sweetie, ghosts, demons, and monsters are all make-believe, like in the fairy tales I read to you. They don’t exist, trust me.”
Trust me.
The closet door creaked. Scratching sounds sent a fresh, cold wave of fear through Betsy. Her eyes snapped open in wild terror. She now knew the truth her mother refused to tell her.
Lies, all lies.
And she would die because of them. She knew that, as well. Her closet would become her tomb, her sarcophagus. She’d learned those two vocabulary words yesterday from a social studies lesson
on ancient Egypt. Yes, a make-believe monster that wasn’t make-believe at all would kill her. The police would find her lifeless body next to her favorite possessions, her treasure chest of birthday and Christmas toys. Betsy shivered, and warm tears fell.
What did it matter? Her parents were dead. Elizabeth was sure of it. She’d heard their awful screams, the ones that woke her, driving her to the closet in search of safety. Yet it was she who now screamed, her cry breaking through the morbid silence of the house when the closet door was suddenly wrenched from its hinges, the monster real, no shadow, no dream, no fairy tale.
“Goddess, save me. P–please.”
Scream.
Silence.
FBI Special Agent Assefa Berber sat at his desk looking over the crime scene photos taken a few hours ago at the Ferrell residence. The Ferrell murders were the fourth slaying of this sort since he’d started working the Baltimore angle of the case. To his shame and frustration, Assefa had achieved little in the six weeks since his division chief had sent him to the city to help the local police.
He flipped through the pictures. Blood-splattered walls. Blood-soaked bed. Broken night lamps and splintered bedroom door. Sliced and diced victims. The photos were nothing more than a reminder of what he had witnessed firsthand a few hours ago when his plans for the evening were interrupted by a terse phone call from Mike.
“There’s been another murder, and from initial reports, it’s our guy. I’m on my way to the hospital. He left one alive this time. Get your ass to the crime scene. The dispatcher has the address to the Ferrells’s home.”
Then the phone went dead in typical Michael McKutchen fashion—abrupt and rude.
Now Assefa sat in his office, peering down at the photos in his hand, seeing them but also seeing all the reasons why he did this work. Growing up in the flat plains of the Sudan, he’d glimpsed the face of death too many times. Admittedly, Assefa’s childhood had been one of privilege and entitlement. As a boy, he’d wanted for nothing. And for far too long, he wore his naïve blinders with pride, unwilling to see the world…and his family through a lens that wasn’t as rosy as he’d liked to believe. No, there was nothing rosy about the history of the Berber family, or their dominance in the Sudan. With shameful clarity, Assefa knew that evil came in all forms, that monsters often wore the skin and smiles of “civilized” men. Yet even a privileged, spoiled boy grows into a man, and a real man cannot feign blindness to the fragile existence of others. A man cannot ignore his calling. And this work, the protecting of innocents from the depraved, was indeed Special Agent Berber’s calling.
Leaving the past where it belonged, he reclined in the black executive leather chair that came with the office. He didn’t know who the chair belonged to, but its extravagance was a stark contrast to the drab, dingy closet of an office with its off-white paint, dented file cabinets and a carpet of indeterminate color.
A minute later, Assefa raised his head, looked at his office door and said, “It’s definitely our guy, Mike,” just as the detective opened the door to his office and entered.
Doorknob in hand, Mike frowned at him, looked at the layers of white paint covering what used to be a window in the wooden door but now served as a cheap form of privacy, and then back at Assefa. “I hate it when you do that,” Mike grumbled, then slammed the well-worn but sturdy door behind him.
Assefa only smiled, knowing from Mike’s entrance he hadn’t had his cup of leftover station coffee—gritty, bland, and hard to swallow.
“You hear and see everything, and don’t tell me again it’s nothing more than coincidence.”
“It’s 9:00 a.m. And you’ve met me in this office at the same time five days a week for the last month and a half. Besides,” Assefa continued, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a can of Lysol, “I smell your cigar in the air the same as everyone else who wonders how you get away with smoking in a non-smoking police station.”
Ignoring Mike’s frown at the familiar pink can, he liberally sprayed the area around his desk.
“It’s called seniority, and no one around here dares come between me and a good smoke, especially not a rookie agent who still smells of his mama’s tit milk,” Mike responded before choking back a cough from the “Summer Breeze” scented spray. “Hell, I only have six months left before I retire and have nothing to lose if the captain decides to suspend me for breaking a rule or two. Shit, he would be doing me a favor if he did, kid.”
Assefa hated when he called him “kid.” He was twenty-eight, and his mother had been dead for almost as long. If he’d ever fed from her breast, that memory was as buried as her remains.
“I don’t think so. You don’t get to retire until we capture the bastard and put him in prison. Or, better yet, in an anonymous grave.” His voice had suddenly turned cold and hard, as cold and hard as the veteran detective sitting across from him.
Assefa knew all about Detective Michael McKutchen, having performed a thorough background check before he set one foot in Baltimore. His division chief and uncle, Ulan Berber, had an understanding with Baltimore’s Chief of Police who, unlike most full-humans, knew of the existence of the Preternatural Division of the FBI and the unique nature of its mission—to serve and protect all life forms from dangerous preternatural beings. Calls were normally made and action taken when unique cases arose that needed a “special touch.”
Two calls were made two months ago, and Assefa’s current assignment was the action, or rather reaction, to the recent Baltimore slayings. Suddenly, he had a temporary partner. One he’d learned was a former soldier, having fought bravely in the Vietnam War, earning himself a Medal of Honor. Becoming a police officer for the urban streets of Baltimore, the desire to protect innocents seemed to fit McKutchen’s personality profile, as did claims of harsh treatment by criminals and officers alike.
Assefa regarded the man with guarded respect, slid to the edge of his chair, and pushed the crime scene photos to him.
Mike plopped his arthritic body in the rickety chair and slowly picked up the photos. Taking the gruesome images before him, his face contorted in a familiar mask of anger.
“This son of a bitch just doesn’t know when to stop. He figures he can do whatever the hell he wants to in my city and get away with it.” Shoving the photos back to him, Mike managed to drop his anger an octave. “The survivor of the Ferrell murder is at Johns Hopkins Hospital. She’s awake and physically unharmed. The night nurse suggested we bring in a psychologist. Her two cents’ worth of advice wasn’t asked for, but I think it’s a good idea. I have someone I trust we can use. She’s a good friend.”
Assefa pondered the man’s words a minute, having caught the soft way he used the word “friend” and the barely-there smile that followed. This was a different side of Mike. One he wanted to explore. Circumstances forced him to work with the man, so the more he learned about the detective, the better.
“I didn’t think you trusted anyone outside of…of…Hell, I didn’t know you trusted anyone, nor had friends.”
“Just because women think you’re tall, dark and handsome doesn’t mean you’re the only one who has friends. Besides, she’s more like a daughter to me than a simple friend. And if it weren’t for this case, I wouldn’t even think of introducing her to you. The last thing she needs is God’s gift to women putting the moves on her.”
Assefa gave the detective his most charming smile, a familiar mask that hid the depth of his feelings, a necessary protection for him and others. The mask came to life the morning after he’d learned that all the rumors about his family were disgustingly true. He’d been eight, and his illusions of normalcy were shredded when he’d overheard his grandfather and father arguing. He didn’t understand all that they’d said that fateful night, but he’d comprehended enough to confirm his greatest fears. And when his father had stormed from his grandfather’s office, Assefa hiding under the secretary’s desk, his father’s words of, “You’re nothing but a murderer. I’ll never take over for you. I’m
nothing like you. Nothing!” had rung in his head for many years to come. One year later, his grandfather was dead. Six months after that, Jahi Berber, Assefa’s father, had done the one thing he’d sworn he would never do. He’d taken over for his father.
Assefa continued to smile at the detective, angering him the longer Assefa refused to be baited.
“Look, Mr. FBI man, she broke up with her dickhead of a boyfriend a few months back, and I don’t want you bothering her. I see the way women swoon all over you. Hell, everywhere I take you women seem to find their way to your side. She doesn’t need that shit.”
Why did he even bother trying to have a normal conversation with the detective? The man was stubborn at best, irrational at worse. And Assefa was pretty sure the woman in question wouldn’t appreciate Mike sharing details of her private life with a stranger.
“You have it all wrong as usual, Mike. Just because women find me attractive doesn’t mean I date them, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I have sex with them.” He felt his good-natured mask slipping just a bit. He didn’t take kindly to being insulted, having his character impugned by someone who knew nothing of him beyond the superficial. “I’m not like that. I haven’t even met this mystery woman and you’re already warning me to stay away from her.”
“Look,” this came out as if Mike was speaking to a recalcitrant child, “her name is Dr. Sanura Williams. She’s a child psychologist and professor at the University of Maryland. She’s the daughter of my deceased best friend and very special to me.”
He leaned forward and gave Assefa the type of stern glare all males feared when meeting their girlfriend’s father for the first time. “Don’t let my age and gray hair fool you, son. I won’t take shit from any man who hurts my goddaughter, including a hotshot special agent.”
Assefa returned the man’s glare, breathing deeply. It wouldn’t do for him to get into a stupid altercation with the detective. The man clearly enjoyed pushing his buttons, testing the boundaries of his patience and control. But Michael McKutchen would have to do more than insult Assefa to break his self-control. Many had tried, none had succeeded.