Chapter Seventeen. Malachi
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Malachi
The last time I stood in this throne room, it was to accept the job of hunting down and assassinating Eshe Diallo. Now, just days later, I’m here again, but as the sacrificial lamb for Eshe instead of her killer.
Fate, that bad-bodied cunt, has a fucked-up sense of humor.
Pain hums through me, a constant companion that at times talks louder, its voice more annoying, and at others murmurs to me in a low whisper.
Blood cakes my clothes and skin. Last night, Abena had someone come in and do the bare minimum in patching up my wounds.
As in throwing butterfly bandages on injuries that clearly require stitches.
But she can’t have me bleed out before killing me in front of Eshe and everyone else she’s gathered for this sick-ass sideshow.
This bitch need to get Iyanla to fix her mu’fuckin’ life.
And for me to say that shit, it’s saying something.
The air of … gaiety in here is disturbing.
Like we’ve transported back to some French court with frivolous nobles and silly jesters and the one reigning supreme is the biggest joke of them all.
Abena sits on that ridiculous ebony chair rimmed in silver and diamonds with the crown of blades fashioned on top of it.
Is it lost on everyone but me that she had to give herself a crown just like she had to steal it?
Because earning one was beyond her. She doesn’t have the disposition or heart of a real queen, so she had to kill for the crown, and here she is, prepared to murder again to keep it.
Yeah, a joke.
As if she feels my eyes on her, her head turns in my direction.
She has me propped up against the far wall, a guard on either side of me—soldiers from the night before—while waiting on the festivities to begin.
The multitude of eyes on me crawls across my skin like a parade of ants, and I can’t say I blame them, given my condition, and that, until I was marched in like a prize fucking pig, they all thought I was dead.
Not every day you see a dead man walking.
A smile curves her mouth.
I stare at her, let her glimpse the fury and hate howling like a hungry wolf inside me. Let her see her death.
And I watch that smile bleed from her face.
Yeah. I might die today, but fuck if I’m going alone.
“Show some fucking respect,” the soldier on my right snarls, then jabs me in my wounded hand.
A back draft of red fire rolls up my hand, through my arm, and into my chest, stealing my breath. Sweat dots my skin under my replaced shirt, and my gut roils with bile.
But I don’t flinch, don’t move except to shift my gaze from Abena to him.
His light brown skin reddens, and fear creeps into brown eyes even though he tries not to show it.
Tries and fails.
“Simeon,” the one on my other side snaps.
“He’s chained and not a threat. We’re above that shit, and it’s not what we do.
It’s not who the fuck we are,” she says, almost to herself.
I catch the barest thread of self-disgust in her voice, and I remember her.
She’s the soldier affected by the killing of her own the night before.
Yeah, she might want to tighten up, or she won’t last long—like her friend.
“Now, we’re here to guard the prisoner, nothing else.
Keep your hands to yourself and fucking guard. ”
Simeon’s jaw clenches, works back and forth like he wants to say some shit, but ultimately, he gives her a sharp nod and mutters, “Yes, ma’am.
” Then his whole face perks the fuck up as he turns toward the back of the throne room.
“Oh shit. She’s here. I can’t believe she’s actually here.
” He shoots me a look, his dark eyebrows pulling down over his nose. “She came for you.”
Though my mask doesn’t slip, the same confused wonder that fills his voice winds through me.
Confusion. Awe.
A terrible, deep fear for her.
And a wild, blinding … shit. No.
Why is she here? What the fuck is she thinking turning herself in for me? Not for me. I’m not … Fuck.
The female soldier grips my forearm, holding me in place, and I didn’t even realize I’d moved, shifted forward. I glance down at her, and she gives me the smallest shake of her head. It’s nearly unnoticeable.
Then she dips her chin again—it’s so slight, it’s barely there. But it is, and I turn my attention back to the wide double doors.
And Eshe.
If Abena or anyone in this throne room expected her to be cowed or humbled walking inside here, Eshe disappoints them.
Pride swells inside my chest, and though not twenty-four hours ago, I told her she wasn’t mine, this feeling in my soul doesn’t give a fuck.
Dressed simply in a long-sleeved black shirt, jeans, and boots with her dark auburn curls brushing her shoulders, she calmly strides inside, shoulders straight, head up. She doesn’t glance around, her gaze forward, her gait confident, unfaltering.
And though four armed guards flank her, it’s obvious to everyone in this room she’s a queen.
The only queen.
And from the fury glittering in Abena’s eyes and twisting her mouth in a snarl, she knows it, too.
The mass of people crowded into the room parts like a swollen sea before a prophet waving a staff, and she walks right down the middle, not stopping until she stands before the steps of that gaudy throne and its gaudier owner.
Only then does she look away from Abena, and it’s to find me. As if she knew where I stood the entire time, her hazel gaze locks with mine, and the impact of it sends a seismic ripple through me.
Mine.
That’s what those jeweled eyes whisper to me. And in this moment, I have my answer about why she’s here. Why she’s turned herself in to Abena.
Because I’m hers.
The pain in my body ratchets down, drowned out by a buzzing, hot electrical current. When she looks away from me, returning her scrutiny to her aunt, I’m left with the handprint—the soul print—of that stare.
That eerie-looking muthafucka with the snow-white dreads strides into the room from a side entrance and approaches Abena, climbing the throne and bending down to whisper something in her ear.
She nods, not removing her stare from Eshe.
After a moment, he straightens and descends the steps before taking up a position directly beside her chair.
“You summoned me here, Abena,” Eshe announces in a clear, even voice, spreading her arms wide. A smile curves her soft, full mouth. “Here I am.”
“That’s ‘oba’ to you. ‘Here I am, oba,’” Abena says, leaning back in her high-backed chair, fingers curled around the arms.
She’s trying to seem unbothered. But goddamn, Abena’s bothered.
She obviously expected Eshe to come in here crawling on her hands and knees, humbled and begging for mercy.
And it’s fucking with her bad that shit’s not playing out like that.
Especially in front of the congregation she’s gathered to worship at her altar.
They stare at one another, and you could hear mice fuck in this shit.
The tension prickles my skin, tickling my exposed wounds, making them itch.
Then, like a small ripple in a too-still pond, the murmurs begin.
Soft, at first, but gradually gaining volume.
Eshe doesn’t appear disturbed by the noise; she doesn’t twitch or so much as glance behind her.
But Abena …
A dark, twisted pleasure bends and kinks inside me. Abena searches the room, breaking that visual standoff with Eshe. And I don’t know about anyone else, but in my book, round one goes to Eshe.
As Abena’s pissed-off gaze lands back on her niece, I’m thinking it does in her book, too.
“Put her down on her knees,” Abena coldly orders. The guards on either side of Eshe hesitate, a wariness creeping across their faces. “I said, put her on. Her. Fucking. Knees.”
They move at the snarled order, grabbing Eshe’s arms and shoulders. When they can’t immediately force her down, one kicks her in the backs of the knees, and that takes her to the floor.
I stiffen, muscles coiled, and I’m ready to spring if they touch her again, cuffed and all.
Once more, the female guard grabs me, this time just above the heavy, thick cuff on my wrist. I snatch my arm from her, and the motion must catch Abena’s attention because she looks in our direction, and triumph gleams in her eyes, lights up her face.
“Now that you’re where you belong, where a traitor belongs,” Abena purrs, leaning back and tapping her long red nails on the arm of the chair, “we can begin.” At the word traitor, the whispers stir again, and Abena holds up a hand, silencing them.
Her dramatic ass should’ve been an actress since she seems to thrive on this shit.
“I’ve called your olori Eshe Diallo here today to face the most serious charge against our family: treason. How do you plead, Niece?”
Even on her knees, with the guards’ hands clamped on her shoulders, she doesn’t cower.
“That depends,” Eshe says.
“Oh, this should be good.” Abena shakes her head and waves a hand toward me. “When the evidence of your lies stands right there in front of everyone. Did you or did you not declare right here in this throne room that you’d killed the Huntsman?”
“I did.”
“So you admit you lied.”
Eshe shrugs. “Again, that depends.”
The arrogance seeps from Abena’s face, and her lips twist into a snarl, her eyes narrowing. Despite the situation, I suppress a snort. It’s almost fucking comical, Eshe’s ability to drive a person crazy.
“Look around you, Eshe. No one finds you amusing. No one thinks treason is a joking matter. Is betraying your family something you take so lightly?” she sneers.