Chapter Six. Eshe #2
Fixing a smirk on my face, I slowly saunter past Abena’s guard, meeting the gazes fixed on me, arching an eyebrow until some of those slide away, unable to hold my stare.
Others smile while more give me cautious, wary stares, afraid to incur the wrath of Abena by appearing too friendly to her niece but not wanting to be out-and-out disrespectful because, well … dying ‘n’ shit.
“Hey, Auntie.” Ah, RIP Erik Killmonger. He was the gift that kept on giving.
I pause just in front of the steps leading up to that ridiculous-ass black chair, dais, and mirror.
My mother and grandmother didn’t need all this bullshit to remind people of their rank—their manner, their carriage, how they fucking ruled did all that, not some weak-ass relics.
“You summoned.” I dip into a deep, sweeping bow that is so courtly, it belongs in Versailles—and no one with a working brain cell would consider it respectful.
If petty had a face, that pretty-faced bitch would be moi.
“Eshe,” Abena grits out. As she rises, I note her ringed fingers gripping the arms of her chair so tight, her light brown knuckles are damn near white. My smirk widens until I’m showing all thirty-two teeth. “Yes, I called you here. Two days ago.”
I shrug, lifting my hands and pulling off my gloves.
In my peripheral vision, I catch my Seven taking silent posts on either side of me.
Abena doesn’t miss them either, her full lips thinning and shoulders stiffening.
But short of ordering them out of the room, there’s nothing she can do about it.
And if she demands they leave, then she would have to send everyone else out, too.
The throne room is full of Mwuaji kapteni, not just mine.
Not my fault mine would air this muthafucka out and play hopscotch in the blood before the rest of them could even reach for their weapons.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone all mmm, not sorry. “But I had a little unexpected, uh, business come up that I had to handle before I could come here. You know how it is.”
I look her dead in the eye as I stuff my gloves in my jacket pocket. Because she gets exactly what I mean.
Her brow wrinkles, her mouth turning down at the corners. Oh, and I thought I was 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 oba first. 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.
I need to 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 Sienna badly covers 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 by somebody, 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.
Of course.
Her Mirror, who’s never far from her side, glances at her. And for so quick a second that most would miss it, their gazes meet, communicate. I’m not most. And I can only imagine what that silent communication held.
“Do you really expect me to believe the Huntsman came for you? If that shit actually happened, you wouldn’t be here to tell the story.
That man doesn’t miss. And as good as you believe yourself to be, you’re not that damn good.
” She laughs again, and as expected, everyone joins her like the good lackeys they are. “Try again, Eshe.”
“Now, normally, I would agree with you. Not about me not being that damn good, because”—I roll my eyes, scoffing—“c’mon, stop it.
Yeah, I am. But I would usually agree with you about the Huntsman not missing his target.
Yet there’s a first time for everything.
’Cause here I am. Alive ‘n’ breathing ‘n’ shit.
Still…” I scratch my temple, balling my face up as if in deep thought.
“There’s one thing I can’t figure out for the life of me.
I mean, I’ll be the first to admit I can be a little …
difficult. But the Huntsman? Like, who did I piss off that bad to put that mu’fucka on my ass? ”
I shrug, glancing over at Tera and Nef as if they have the answers to my questions.
But Tera shakes her head, and Nef just stares at me.
Not that I expected an answer from her anyway.
She’s not a talker. Most people take her silence and refusal to meet their gaze as shyness.
But most people also don’t realize she’s too busy seeking out vulnerable parts of their bodies in which to stick her favorite blade to speak or look at their faces. Their bad.
Abena heaves a sigh. “I’m bored. And not that I’m calling you a liar, Eshe, but—”
“My bad, Auntie. But no worries. My long story just got shorter. He showed up, tried to kill me, but I got the drop on him first, blah, blah, blah. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say I didn’t get a chance to ask him who put the bounty on my head, because I was too busy killing him.
Ding-dong, the Huntsman is dead. Huh.” I tap my bottom lip.
“I think I like the sound of that. No wonder that shit is so catchy.”
A deafening silence fills the throne room.
The only sound is the wind from outside the building and the tree branches lightly scratching against the windows.
There’s not even the faintest sound of breath to break the consuming quiet.
I don’t turn around to take in the reactions of the others in the room.
No, my sole focus and rapt attention is centered on Abena. With a sick and perverse glee, I study every minute flicker of emotion she battles to conceal. Battles and fails.
Fury.
Shock.
And fine traces of fear.
Fury, because the Huntsman failed and I’m standing here when I shouldn’t be.
Shock, because I’m announcing a bald-faced-ass lie that I killed the most feared assassin in our world, and she’s aware of it but can’t contradict me, because then she would be outing herself.
And fear, because she knows I’m as unpredictable and unstable as they come, and that scares the fuck out of her.
I smile, and damn if she doesn’t flinch.
“You killed the Huntsman?” She lets out a loud crack of laughter. Shaking her head, Abena leans forward, her long fingers curled around the arms of her chair like claws. “You expect all of us to believe that you accomplished what no one before you has ever been able to? There’s no way in hell—”