Maman reached across the table and placed her hand over his. The contact was so unexpected that it caused him to look up and meet her gaze.
“You know I wanted to help you with your Valynda, don’t you?”
Odd how they’d all said that and yet no one had done a damn thing. Rather, they’d just stood by and let her die. Stood by and watched him suffer.
Pain rose up inside as he felt the anguish, raw and hungry, gnawing like a sick madness in his gut. There was nothing worse than to love someone and know they needed you and not be able to get to them. To know you could have and would have done something had you been there.
Unlike the ones who’d gleefully remained on the sidelines and taken pleasure in the suffering. Or worse, those who’d gloated over it. Surely, there was a special place reserved for eternal torment for those bastards.
And it took everything he had not to lash out at the goddess he considered a second mother. But then she wasn’t his real mother, and this proved it. His real maman would have never allowed him to hurt like this. She would have done something to help them.
That was the difference, after all.
No mother would stand by and see her child suffer. It wasn’t in them.
“Merci, Maman.”He choked on those words. They were as false as the ones she offered him.
Nibo took a deep breath and rose slowly to his feet. With one last shot of rum, he lifted his hat and headed for the door, unable to stand the false company for another heartbeat.
As he left the stifling hall, he heard the petro in the street as they argued for the war they wanted.
It figured that his brother would be among them, egging them on. If ever there was trouble, his brother gravitated toward it like a bear chasing after honey, bees be damned. It’d ever been his nature to cause conflict.
“He came from the womb trying to choke himself on my umbilical cord!”As a boy, Nibo had thought his mother hysterical whenever she’d denounced Qeenan’s behavior with those words. But as they’d grown older, he’d begun to wonder if the story hadn’t been true.
His brother was just that contrary.
And that suicidal.
Shaking his head, he watched the group that appeared to be entranced by his brother’s rampant stupidity. Proud in bearing, Qeenan had the outline of a skull painted over features that were identical to Nibo’s. His black coat was ragged with ribbons of bloodred and purple trailing from it as he railed against the others.
But then that was what Qeenan did best. Complain. Everything was always unfair. To a ridiculous level.
So much so that even before Nibo’s death, back when he’d been engaged to his Aclima, Qeenan had gone out and claimed Aclima’s twin sister, Avan, as his fiancée. Yet even that hadn’t satisfied his ever competitive brother. Nibo couldn’t even begin to count how many times Qeenan had found Avan lacking, even though the sisters were identical in looks. Within a year, he’d turned a sweet, precious girl into a harping shrew because of his endless and needless comparisons.
But then ruining people and their lives was Qeenan’s specialty.
“I’m telling you, brothers and sisters, our time is here. The time is now! Our followers are crying out to us, more and more, every day. And we must act! We grow stronger, while the others grow weaker. We rise with the Malachai and we can own this world!”
“To all things there should be balance.” Papa Legba rose to stand at the top of the stairs that led to the main hall where he kept wise counsel. “We are only spirits. The Bondye teaches—”
“The Bondye sleeps!” Qeenan growled. “As do all the gods. They don’t care what happens in this world or to our people. This is why we must make sure our wrath is felt and that we teach them to respect us!”
Nibo sucked his breath in sharply as he remembered a time before when such rebellion had been spoken.
It hadn’t worked out for those participants either. Such things never did. While there was a time and place to shake up the system, there was also a time and place for negotiation. That was the secret of life. To know when to speak and when to fight.
Never strike at a trained warrior or natural-born fighter when you thought them weak or when they were down, as that only motivated them to defeat you. Like the Malachai. And never fight if you didn’t have to. That had always been his brother’s biggest mistake, like the day Qeenan had killed him. He had yet to learn the art of finesse.
Strike fast, with a heavy blow, and run—that was Qeenan’s motto.
The trouble was, if your enemy got up, and they would, they came at you with everything they had, and you had no choice but to keep running and then die tired once they caught up to you. And catch you they would. Because they would be more determined than ever to ruin you for blindsiding them.
It was why the two of them warred to this day. Nibo had done nothing to warrant Qeenan’s hatred. Other than breathe. He’d even tried to make peace, but there was a hatred inside his brother’s heart that he’d never understood, and he was grateful for that.
“We are not to start this fight, Qeenan!” Legba swept his gaze around the gathered petro spirits, and the handful of rada who’d come out. Roughly fifty different members of the nanchon had gathered to argue whether they should join Adarian’s army or sit the fight out.
Qeenan saw him over the crowd. “Nibo, you’ll join me for this fight, won’t you, brother?”
