Retribution, Devotion Page 10

  San was wrong in Calvin’s opinion, but he figured she’d learn that soon enough.

  Chapter 6

  His mind was flickering over the events from the first time he ever laid eyes on the woman he loved. The woman who was his spiritual equal. A woman who was his spiritual wife and the foundation for his ragtag team of Nephilim Warriors. Deeply smiling, musing in his thoughts, Khamun scrambled eggs, chopped organic vegetables, found some smoked turkey, and sliced it while whispering prayers of cleansing over the food, and various cheeses. He never assumed that his birthright to watch her and act as her Guardian would turn into discovering that she was his mate. That she was an Oracle, a vessel with knowledge and power so deep that she would be the link of resurrecting a dying line within Nephilim Society.

  He had his own role but he was still learning what that exactly was. From what he learned from her, he was a Sin Eater, an entity with the ability to take the sins from the Cursed, tainted humans, or any dark agent as his prey, feeding on them to return what was dark back to the light. That was where his fangs came into play as well as his need of Dark blood. He learned from her that he was a being as powerful as she was and that he, with his team, had a destiny to fulfill in saving Nephilim society as she, her siblings, and her Dragon gargoyle did. It was incredible. It was crazy as fuck but incredible. From all of this, his connection to Sanna was growing intense. Which made him wonder, exactly how linked was he to Sanna?

  Talking with his mother was a must since she was no longer the last Oracle, but something in him screamed to read the book and talk with his father.

  “Sup, man, how is she?” Marco inquired while lazily walking in. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and from the lit Trinity rolling between his fingers.

  Trinities were cigarillos blended by three spices used by the Three Wise Men to heal, anoint, and calm others who needed benediction or when in prayer. Trinities were well known to be an immunity and vitality booster. It also calmed agitated gargoyles. However, the small brown cigarillo was still shunned in Nephilim Society by the pompous elitist houses who viewed them as drugs. Like it or not, Trinities could be found throughout Society and it was going nowhere.

  Reaching for the offered smoke, Khamun studied his cousin. Marco was rigid with battle stress and withheld emotions. His hands kept opening then closing in constrained fury, hurt, and self-blame. His eyes held the silent question of if Sanna was okay.

  Shit was hard to watch, so Khamun tried to ease his cousin’s pain while he waited for him to open up and talk. It usually went like this when either of them was upset or needed to talk. The other always coaxed one to say whatever and speak their mind.

  Passing the cigarillo back, he offered a lighthearted punch against Marco’s shoulder. “She’s resting, battle-worn and healing up fast.”

  “Okay, primo, bro, I just wanted to make sure.” Marco paused. Silent questions of remorse flicked in his eyes.

  “It’s good. We did what we could, you know, on some real truth.” Khamun’s voice softened in understanding and concern. “It’s hard seeing your sister like that and not react how we did.”

  “Man, forget that broad. Ella is my twin but fuck her life right now,” Marco retaliated.

  There it was. Just that fast, anger and hurt lit into his cousin’s eyes. Khamun knew why he was here; it was time for another talk, another rehash, more healing, and he was game. He saved the man who stood in front him. A guy he felt was a brother before a cousin as Marco felt the same for him. Saved him and kept his secret from the enemy and Nephilim Society.

  Thinking back, Khamun inwardly recalled their very first meeting. He was a month away from being ten when he found his cousin: cold, wet, teeth clattering as if someone had a card attached to a bicycle wheel and was riding down a hill. Marco sat balled up, rocking, scared, dirty, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. Various scars and burn marks marred his skin while his body convulsed with a frosty vapor misting around him. His wide, frightened eyes flashed between silver then black every time he coughed.

  Khamun had been with his father, learning the city as was necessary of a young Region Prince and future warrior. They were walking the streets when blood recognized blood due to Marco’s blood singing to him like a beacon in the wind. The closer he got to him, the stronger Khamun’s need to help him rang within his spirit, as well as the kick-start to his thirst, which scared him. His father had expressed to never leave his side while on the prowl. To alert him of anything felt dangerous during their tour of the city. But, the pull was too intense of a cry to ignore. Besides, the first law of his people every child learned was to “do unto others, as thou would have done unto thyself,” as the saying goes. So, he had to help however dangerous it was.

  Evading his father was simple. He had learned early in life that he was good at blending into shadows, using the peripheral as a cloak. So, as his father spoke to a Nephilim family living in the Bronzeville area, Khamun simply stepped back into the peripheral, stalled his breath, and searched for the call. He knew it was wrong. Knew it was dangerous to be alone as a child running the streets of South Side Chicago, but he didn’t care because he could hide himself well. He could make others forget he was even there and he would do so now if it meant helping whoever painfully called to him.

  Inching closer, the hairs on his arms stood. Goose bumps traveled down his spine. It began to feel constricted around him, as if the alley were a living entity with its own life as it undulated around him. Legend had it that those born to be warriors in Society were born without fear or that they could mask it very well even at birth. For him, if suddenly felt that this task of his officially had kick-started that trait. Though his body sent him warnings, Khamun walked through unscathed, devoid of fear. Every wall in the alley seemed to reach out at him to claw at him while he cautiously moved forward. Sweat trickled down his burnished skin with the touch of a nearby wall before it snapped back, becoming saturated with fear of him.

  A quiet smirk formed on his young face with his snicker. He didn’t know why he laughed at the darkness becoming afraid of him; he was just a child but amused he was and he instantly wanted the darkness to run.

  “Who are you?” Khamun unobtrusively questioned the cold darkness and the kid sputtered.

  “Not you, dude.” He looked at the darkness while his nostrils flared.

  “Who are you?” Khamun repeated, instinctively knowing what was surrounding him. The rancid stench of the darkness made his stomach clench at its metallic sour smell. “Cursed,” he muttered then looked at the kid. He noticed that the kid now stood from his fetal position. Then swiftly ran into him full on. The kid’s pupils blazed dark. Blunt, small fangs descended, letting Khamun know that he was close to puberty and Khamun stepped out of the kid’s way.

  A sharp, jeweled blade appeared in the kid’s hand slashing at the air. Trying to attack Khamun with a running leap against a wall, he used the wall for an advantage to hit Khamun with an air kick.

  Laughing with merriment, Khamun sideswiped the kid with his hands behind his back. He moved left then right in that same stance before ducking, his short locks flying into his face. Khamun blocked each hit smoothly just like his father had taught him. He watched the kid use various types of martial arts that left him very impressed. This kid was expertly trained to kill but so was he.

  “Dope,” Khamun replied. Respect briefly sparked in his amber eyes. He enjoyed a sparring partner almost as good as him, but something was off about this kid; he seemed sick, battered, and hurt. Sliding backward he frowned. His opponent surprised him by landing a front kick to his chest. With a strained grunt, he held his position waiting for the kid to get close to him again, which he did trying to move past him. Spiraling in a sharp turn, Khamun kneeled to overtake the kid’s space in order to knock him off-balance. With a loud crack, Khamun glared down at the kid, flipping the dagger he had taken from the Cursed kid in his hand. His face contorted into a grimace then he flinched with a glance to ground.

&nbs
p; Throwing the dagger into the darkness with horror, Khamun hissed, “Cursed blade!”

  Suddenly wiping his hands frantically on his pants, he fumed then made ready to kick the kid in a tantrum but stopped in curiosity. This was his first time being truly alone, face to face with a Cursed Nephilim. He had studied them since birth as all children in his Society did and his father had left him in a room with a Cursed, bloodied, physically broken, and held down. He had to stay in that room all night while his father watched, just to become familiar with their presence. But a Cursed child he had never ever witnessed. He was told they couldn’t procreate but here a Cursed child stood, which was crazy to him.

  “Prince Marco?” a lenient yet hard edge voice wisped in the air. Startled the kid looked his way quickly, then at his own self as if reality was coming back. The kid’s name was repeated in the air making Khamun notice that he flinched at being called again.

  In that same moment, Khamun felt the alleyway tremble in agony. The strength of it caused him to almost fall backward when the kid zipped forward slicing at him then running past him again, this time pulling at the darkness. All Khamun could do was watch in earnest. Khamun had a strange feeling that the kid was being followed. Unknowingly, had he paid closer attention, he would have also seen a dead Cursed minion slowly turning into frozen intestinal slush behind the Dumpster the boy was nestled by.

  Chasing on foot, Khamun trailed the boy while they both climbed over fences, moving like jaguar cubs in hunt. The neighborhood swallowed them the deeper they ran into the city. Khamun believed that he wasn’t going to be able to catch up, but something powerful in him seemed to spark with the darkening skies, guiding him on. Skidding to a halt near an abandoned building, he caught his breath noticing the boy named Marco pausing, cautiously casting a glance. Marco pulled out a pair of fresh clothes, quickly slinking into them then straightened his walk. That woman’s voice echoed again and he saw a magnificent lady step from the darkness.

  She stood dressed in glowing barebacked golden draping. Gold asp bracelets adorned her toned arms. Gold twisted hoop earrings that rested on her shoulder gave off a glint due to a streetlight. The heels she wore let off a scent that it carried a poison that could kill his kind in a blink. Nevertheless, there was something about her appearance, something about her that seemed familiar. The way her thick dark wavy hair with a couple of twisted braids fell down her regal back, kissing her ample, firm, and plush rear made his young mind twist in confusion. The candy dark chocolate skin of hers, the sinewy way she moved, drew his attention. She was definitely Cursed, but . . .

  The woman turned to gather Marco in her arms, his hand resting on her swollen belly and Khamun gasped. The moment the sound escaped his lips, he knew he had messed up. The woman swiftly turned glancing past him as if she could see him. Her kohl-lined irises glowed a liquid golden-saffron hue that matched his own golden like a panther in the night shrouded in awareness. Yet he sensed that she couldn’t see his position.

  Rigidly keeping his own eyes locked on her, Khamun couldn’t believe what he saw for a moment. A shimmering tattoo swirled down the side of her neck, which was familiar to him. That insignia made him unconsciously began to step forward when the woman’s pupils pulsed with a power that held him back in force. He sharply heard her urgently speak to him without words within his mind: “Step back, nephew. Do not breach the line. You hid yourself well but your sound let, me track you.”

  For the first and only time in his young life fear locked on to him. This Cursed woman called him nephew, knew he was there, and could mind sync with him.

  “Listen fast and listen closely. My son and I are no threat. These words you are never to repeat to anyone or death will come for us all. You did well in finding my son. Blood recognizes blood. You should know this saying, yes?”

  Khamun acknowledged her in a trance. He couldn’t stop himself. It seemed that the world had stopped and it was only them. The phrase she uttered he had learned only from his father and this woman knew it?

  “Yes, and one day you will know my story but for now, you have found my son. He will need you now and you know where to find him. In a fortnight, I will die and no longer be able to hide what my son is and I need you to take him from here.

  “My daughter, his sister, is too close to her father and I cannot bring her to you but my death will give her a protection she will later learn. Remember these words and tell them. I did not succumb to the darkness. I was strong in my torture and descent. I was the Light in the darkness. Tell them I love them and that they will bring me honor when they are adults. Tell your father, his sister was strong,” she pleaded.

  Khamun’s mouth dropped. The woman moved her locks to the side and showed him the family mark. He never knew he had an aunt. This had to be some Cursed lies. It had to be and he had failed, failed in this test.

  “No! You are awake for the first time in your young life. You have a duty. Listen to your heart, child. Listen to your soul. Listen to our blood. You and I are alike. You and I share the same gift. Please know you are not a danger to your kind when your gift fully grows.

  “I believed it, and then I ran. That was my error for not trusting in my family. My weakness, due to our Society’s inability to accept change and indifference, became my fall. When I ran they abducted me. Violated me with the Dark Bite, and then took me to Miami. But I made up for my mistake for allowing them to make me think differently of myself. Don’t you ever run! Honor us, and fight for us,” she urgently demanded.

  Her striking regal face flashed in his mind. Her inner tears shone like diamond waterfalls against her beautiful bourbon skin. Her tears and the truth of her spirit were the start of his armor and his anger against the constructs of Society. He listened intently while she continued. “I could not take them all down but I did my best. I created allies and more within the Dark Society, which will stay strong, past my death. Tell your father, my dear big brother, of me and he will understand why my children exist and he will know what they are doing. Now stay hidden; dark eyes are watching.”

  A sound like a clicking of a reptile suddenly rang in his ears in that moment distracting him. A girl no more than thirteen years old with waist-length black hair, which held sapphire jewels, was dressed in a matching pale gold dress. She came forth holding the hand of two younger girls, both whom looked like the kid’s age. The elder woman who claimed to be his blood muttered a phrase he had heard his mother use in prayer. The young girl with the long, dark hair flinched as sudden warmth radiating off her as if peace had hit her.

  The same occurred for the two girls dressed in white dresses. One had amber doe eyes, braids, white bandages that wrapped around her limbs and silver nails. The other had an auburn ponytail that ran to the small of her back, a gye nyame necklace and an asp ring nestled on her middle finger. Her colorful fingernails sparkled in the shadows. He knew they were important but he didn’t understand why.

  As he inched closer, quick as a pinch, the putrid metallic scent and dark feeling returned covering the others. It alerted him to the fact that he was watching a gathering of Cursed. The woman he had briefly spoken with turned deathly cold. The familiar sinister feel of the Curse flowed around them and they stepped through an abandoned transit terminal. He noticed that the woman dropped the key she had just used. She had utilized a quick sleight of hand to pull out a copy while they walked away.

  He learned that day that he had extended family. Khamun had also learned that the Cursed had somehow gotten to his family. In that moment, he vowed to help his blood by any means necessary. Anger simmered in his young body. He swiftly ran forward, picked up the key then headed back to the shadows. He had never told his father at that time the full story because he was too confused. But he made sure to learn all he could before that fortnight because he knew he had to get that kid out of that place. It sang in his soul to do so and his kind, Angels, never ignored the commands of their soul.

  “Khamun . . .”

  Mind lost in his m
ental rehashing, Marco’s voice seemed to ring in his mind like that of his younger self. His voice turned into that of a battle-satisfied youth, enjoying his kills and watching his back. “Khamun, behind you!”

  Blood of his enemies manifested before him and he felt the first rip of his maturing fangs descend from his gums. A strength he had no idea he possessed pumped through him. The smells of darkness once making him sick now made him hungry, thirsty to feed. He was so hungry. He was famished. He needed that essence. He needed . . .

  He jumped at the touch of Marco’s hand on his shoulder. Instinct almost had him flipping his brother, the man who was his dark cousin, behind him to protect him from phantoms of the past before remembering where he was. Damn, he had almost lost it. His hands ran through his locks. He glanced around realizing that he still clutched his knife in his hand. Coming back to reality, he saw Marco standing before him palms up. His pupils dilated in anxiety, and then melting into a golden-silver-rimmed hazel shade before flickering back to their icy gray hue.

  “Sup, bro.” Setting down the knife, Khamun realized sparks of his power danced on its silver surface and his clutched fists.

  “You okay, primo?” Marco carefully questioned.

  Trying to get his bearings and remember what he was doing prior, Khamun acknowledged Marco with a reassuring smile. He wiped his hands on his apron, and quickly reached out for a warrior clasp with Marco.

  He then took another hit off his Trinity. “Never been better, fam. Tell me what you want to do, man; what can I do in your opinion?”