I jerk up my arm, and only the press of my barrel against his forehead prevents him from colliding into me. From crushing me to the floor or into the wall.
Doesn’t prevent him from wrapping his huge hand around my throat and squeezing. Or jamming his own gun under my chin.
No woman, man, or god puts fear in me. But I’m looking into the nearly black eyes of a demon. Of the monster they call him. So a tiny trickle of alarm worms its way through my belly. But that’s not the dominating emotion.
No.
Pain.
For him.
For me.
For motherless children.
Yet I don’t drop my weapon.
Because Aisha Diallo didn’t raise no fool.
“You pull that trigger, you don’t find out what I know,” I lowly remind him.
“Talk. Now.”
Neither one of us lowers our Glocks, but I have great arm strength, and it won’t be the first time I’ve held a conversation at gunpoint.
“Twenty-four years ago, Abena hired a mercenary by the name of Ghoul for a job. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him;only reason I have is because my mother told me about him when I was thirteen,” I say, not waiting for him to answer. “Apparently, he was legendary in her and my grandmother’s time, but by the time I was a teen, he wasn’t talked about anymore. For good reason. He’d become a cautionary tale. And that’s the only reason Ma told me the story.”
“Eshe,” he snaps.
“Ghoul worked for a shadow organization of assassins. They didn’t have allegiance to any one family, only to money.”
“You mean the organization Creed.”
I nod. Well, as much as I can with a gun jammed under my chin.
“Yeah.” I’ve always wondered if the Huntsman worked for them. It’s the one thing I could never discover about him. “Abena contacted Creed for the job, and they assigned the hit to Ghoul. Even among mercenaries, he was revered. He never failed, never missed. But it’s said when he discovered what the job entailed, he refused to do it. See, Abena wanted the son of a rival family murdered. But not just him—his pregnant wife, too. They used to be lovers, but he dumped her when he fell in love with another woman and married her. Finding out they were having a baby was the last straw for her, and she wanted both of them dead. Didn’t fucking matter that she could’ve started a gotdamn war over that shit; she wanted revenge over not being chosen. And she wonders why my grandmother appointed Ma to be her successor.”
I shake my head, disgusted.
“I thought Abena was the oldest. That could be why she believed she would be queen,” he says, his tone begrudging, as if he hates even voicing it. Hates being invested in my story.
Again, I shake my head.
“We don’t work like that. We are matriarchal, but the Mwuaji isn’t a hereditary monarchy. The reigning queen chooses her successor from the strongest, most capable leader. The majority of the time, that’s from her daughters, but not necessarily. Abena was the oldest daughter, and yeah, she felt entitled to thecrown and hated my mother for receiving it. But when she did something like put a hit on the heir to a family for some petty bullshit, it was crystal clear why to everybody but her.”
“So your aunt’s a petulant bitch. I still don’t see what this has to do with my mother.”
“Don’t you?” I pause, but when he doesn’t say anything, I sigh. “Ghoul was your father. And—”
“You’re a fucking lie.”The words are barely a murmur, but from the shove of tendons in his neck against his skin, they might as well have been roared.
He drops his arm, the Glock disappearing from under my chin and his hand from around my throat. Though no sound emanates from him, he stalks across the room like a wild animal let loose from its cage after years of confinement. His long, powerful legs eat up the space of the room, and when he reaches the opposite wall, he rears back an arm and rams a fist through it. Drywall and dust coat the air. The blow doesn’t seem to release the storm of rage and pain inside him. No, if anything, he goes harder.
The gun falls to the floor, and he drives his other hand through the wall. Blow by blow, he punishes my den wall until plaster litters the floor at his feet.
I’m already itching to clean that up.
I would almost rather he yelled, howled his agony at the ceiling. Not that I give a flying fuck about my wall. It’s just… hearing it would’ve been less painful than that violent yet utterly silent display.
