Her brow wrinkles, her mouth turning down at the corners. Oh, and I thoughtIwas a brilliant actress. This ho might be Angela Bassett.
“And what business could possibly be more important than an audience with your queen? Because that’s what I am, Eshe. I’m your aunt second and your obafirst. And when I call you”—she leans forward, pinning me with a dark, glittering glare—“I don’t care if God Himself has a burning fucking bush in your face, you tell Him to hold that goddamn thought and get here to see what your oba needs from you. Do we understand each other?”
Wheeew, shit.
I want to kill her.
Ineedto kill her.
Three point four seconds. That’s all it would take for me to run up those black steps, snatch my karambit from its sheath, and slit her throat from ear to ear. No gun. No gun for her. I want to bathe in her blood. Want it coating my hands, my arms, staining my nail beds. I want to smell it, fucking taste it as it splatters my mouth and eyes.
I’m a monster. I’ve accepted that—I did long ago.
But for her, I’m willing to become something worse. Something so soulless, even monsters hide from it.
“Easy, Eshe. Easy,” Kenya murmurs low enough that only I hear.
Her honeyed Southern drawl doesn’t completely tame the bloodlust howling in my mind, but it does tug a leash, and the crimson film in front of my eyes slowly lightens to a pink. It’s the gleam of satisfaction in Abena’s dark eyes that douses the rest of the murderous rage that nearly consumed me and would have had me commit suicide by queen’s guard. Because that’s what it would’ve been. Make no mistake. I would’ve gotten Abena. But even with my Seven, I would die. There would be no saving me.
That’s the law of the Mwuaji.
Assassination of a ruling queen means death.
Some days, though, I’m willing to accept that punishment. As long as it means taking Abena with me.
But then I remember my mother’s wish and will for me.
You’re going to be a gotdamn force to be reckoned with and a better oba than me and your grandmother.
Then, it doesn’t matter what I want… doesn’t matter that deep down, I don’t feel worthy of oba, don’t feel worthy of fucking breathing, much less following in my mother’s footsteps… I have to keep fighting to give Aisha Diallo her dream, make sure her desire comes to pass.
“Do we understand each other, Eshe?” Abena snaps.
“Sure thing, Auntie,” I practically purr.
“Good.” She falls back in her gawdy chair, crossing her long leather-clad legs. “Now, like I asked the first time, what business was more important than attending your oba?”
“Auntie, you’re not going to believe this, but”—I pause for effect because yeah, my ass is a whole drama queen in these streets—“I was attacked.”
“What’s new about that, Eshe? It’s not like you have a shortage of enemies out here gunning for you.” She smirks, and the room fills with murmurs of agreement and laughter.
Was that shit supposed to hurt my feelings?
“Now, now, Auntie. No need for flattery.” I grin, and Siennabadlycovers a snicker. “But I’m dead serious—no pun intended. Somebody must’ve put a hit out on me, because the Huntsman himself came after me.”
I ignore the ripple of shock, various versions of “the fuck?” and rumblings that move through the throne room. I don’t give a damn about none of that as I stare her right in her eyes, without blinking. Letting her see that I know the truth. Letting her see that bysomebody, I mean her ass.
Letting her see that she just shot the first volley in a war that I have every intention of winning.
To her credit, nothing in those strong Diallo features betrays her thoughts. No, she waves my words off with a flick of her long fingers and a low chuckle that I’m certain tricks everyone watching into believing she’s unbothered.
But they don’t know her like I do.
They haven’t studied every mannerism, every habit as if their lives depended on it—because mine does.
I have.
And just like when she stood over my mother’s body nine years ago, her eyes betray her. The lashes lower slightly, but those dark eyes momentarily shift away from me, and I follow their direction.
