I’ve been called to an urgent meeting across town with an associate, the owner of the nightclub in which we met. Do not leave the manor. I’ve left these texts for you. They contain information about your Fae heritage and the Yumboe specifically. Read them to understand who you are.
Severin Crackstone
I noticed the elegant “S” that swooped across the bottom of the page to start his signature. Then I noticed a postscript.
P.S. You are NOT a replacement for Basirah. What we share is new, different, ours alone. I’ll explain everything upon my return.
P.P.S. I apologize for destroying your summer dress and your undergarment. I will replace them expeditiously. You’ll find a suitable shirt of mine in a drawer of the bureau in the meantime.
Heat crept up my cheeks as memories from our last passionate encounter flooded back. I thought of how his hands tore my dress from my body, how his mouth was everywhere at once, and the shocking pleasure when his fangs had pierced my skin. I touched the side of my neck, half-expecting to find wounds, but there was nothing.
With a deep breath, I reached for the nearest book. Its leather binding was soft against my fingertips despite its obvious age. Gold lettering, faded but still visible, spelled out words in alanguage I couldn’t decipher. I carefully opened the cover, with the spine crackling in protest.
Inside, handwritten pages stretched before me, filled with intricate illustrations and text. Some sections were in English, others in languages that looked like Latin or something even older. The English parts had been added more recently, inserted between the ancient passages like modern footnotes to history.
“The Fae of Western Africa,” I read aloud from one of the English headers. “Tracing the Yumboe and Aziza.”
My mother’s people. My people. The reality of it still felt surreal, like I was reading about fictional characters instead of my own ancestors.
I flipped through more pages, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar terminology. One passage caught my eye:
“The Yumboe possess natural abilities of sight beyond the veil, allowing them to perceive events before they manifest in the physical realm.”
My dreams. The visions. Seven had been right. They weren’t random. They were part of my heritage. Further in, I found a section specifically about Yumboe history. “Native to the region now known as Senegal, the Yumboe were among the most powerful Fae clans of Western Africa. Their matriarchal society valued precognition above all other abilities, and their ruling queens often served as prophetic advisors.”
My fingers trembled as I turned to a page with detailed illustrations of winged beings. The faces drawn with careful precision showed high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes with a distinctive amber hue. They looked like my mother. Like me.
I traced the outline of one figure, a female with elaborate braids adorned with gold beads. She held what appeared to be a ritual bowl filled with glowing liquid. The caption underneath, thankfully in English, read:
“Yumboe Seer performing the Vision Quest ritual. The sacred water in the vessel acts as a conduit for prophetic sight, allowing the Seer to direct her visions toward specific questions.”
Control. Seven had said I could learn to control my visions instead of being ambushed by them. Was this how? Through rituals my ancestors had performed?
I set the book aside and reached for another, this one bound in dark green leather with silver clasps. It contained more practical information, descriptions of Fae abilities and how they manifested. I learned that my empathic sensitivity, my connection to nature, my occasional flashes of knowing things I shouldn’t were common Yumboe traits.
The room began to register again as I took a break from reading. Seven’s bedroom was exactly what you’d expect from an old vampire. The space was opulent, dramatic, and oddly timeless.
I inhaled deeply, catching the lingering scent of Seven. It clung to the pillows and sheets, surrounding me like an invisible embrace. Despite everything, my resemblance to his dead wife, I felt drawn to him in ways I couldn’t explain.
I knew it wasn’t just physical attraction, or the thrill of the forbidden. It was something deeper, something that tied magic and destinies I was only beginning to understand.
I gathered the books closer, determined to learn everything I could before Seven returned. If I were truly half-fae, a descendant of powerful yumboe seers. I needed to understand what that meant. For me, for my future, and for my missing mother. I turned back to the ancient texts, searching for answers in the wisdom of ancestors I never knew I had.
I squinted at an illustration of a ritual circle, trying to decipher the strange symbols drawn around its edge. The grimoire called them “warding sigils,” but gave no explanation of what they actually did. After an hour of reading, I had more questions than answers. I needed to look up some of these terms. I reached for my purse, digging past the golden glasses to find my cell phone. When I pressed the power button, the screen remained stubbornly black. Great. My phone was dead. I needed a charger, and I needed one now.
I glanced around Seven’s bedroom. Surely a vampire who’d lived for centuries would have caught up with modern technology, right? The contrast between ancient and modern in his home suggested he wasn’t completely stuck in the past.
Wrapping the silk sheet around me, I slid off the massive bed and began my search. The writing desk seemed promising, but its drawers contained only fountain pens, wax seals, and yellowed parchment. The bedside table held a leather-bound journal, a silver dagger, and an antique pocket watch, but no cell phone charger.
I moved to the imposing bureau against the far wall. The third drawer, the one Seven had mentioned in his note contained clothing as promised, designer shirts with tags still attached.
The first drawer was filled with cufflinks, tie pins, and watches worth more than my college tuition. The second contained neatly folded handkerchiefs monogrammed with an elegant “SC.” Seven’s initials. The name still felt strange tothink, let alone say aloud. He’d been “Seven” since I met him, the nickname more fitting for the dangerous, seductive vampire who’d turned my world upside down.
I checked the remaining drawers, finding nothing but meticulously organized clothing. My frustration mounting, I turned to a sleek cabinet tucked in the corner that looked more modern than the rest of the furniture. Bingo. The top drawer held an assortment of electronics—wireless earbuds, tablets, and, thank God, a charger for an iPhone.
I plugged it into a nearby outlet and connected my dead device. Soon the screen lit up with the charging animation, and I sighed with relief. My relief was short-lived.
As soon as my phone had enough power to function, notifications began flooding in. Six missed calls from Dad. Twenty text messages. Three voicemails. Four missed calls from Brooklyn. Two from Miss Ellen. What the hell?
