Chapter 11
Predator. My instincts scream the word as Genevieve prowls—it’s the only word that fits—around the sitting room, going from window to window, her body coiled with tension.
Her fists are clenched by her sides, her eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.
My lower belly dips every time I catch that sexy, intense expression.
It’s not the same agitation as before, those rare times she’d lost a little bit of her control back in school.
The very first time, she’d been working part-time for a laundromat.
Her oga had ordered her to dress and act more feminine or he’d dock her already pitiful pay.
She’d quit on the spot. But that comment had apparently been the last straw on top of a whole lot of other bullshit.
She’d been pacing just like this as she’d relayed what had happened, trembling and furious—clenching her jaw so hard I could practically hear her teeth grinding.
My hairs had stood on end, just like now.
And just like now, I’d been afraid if I didn’t find a way to help her calm down, she’d end up doing something that would have her thrown in jail.
That fear had me grabbing her boldly by the nape of her neck, and pressing her forehead hard against mine. Holding on tight and ordering her to match my breathing. It had worked like a charm. Over the years, those rare times when she’d lost it again, it had worked perfectly then, too.
I don’t think it’s going to work now. This is a different kind of restlessness. It’s the tension of an animal trapped for too long, coiled tight and ready to rip its way out.
My heart is beating fast, though I’m managing to control my breathing—not that I have a choice, since I’m getting ready to cleanse the house and hopefully, in the process, untangle the dagbato.
It hadn’t properly sunk in, the fact that Genevieve isn’t human, until she’d said the name out loud.
Legbaju.
Like bush babies and Lady Koi Koi, though not as popular, the legbaju is a Nigerian, Ibiiom-specific supernatural creature—a fabled monster parents use to keep their children in bed at night.
The legend goes that the legbaju only feeds on the hearts of living things. Once a legbaju eats the heart of anything, human or animal, it can take its shape, making it the perfect hunter; a literal wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I glance at Genevieve again.
She’s standing in front of one of the windows, gripping the bars so tightly her knuckles are protruding. Or … I squint, pushing my glasses up my nose. No, those are just her knuckles, the bones thinner and sharper, pressing so hard against her skin I’m afraid it’s about to split.
I look away quickly, trying to focus.
The lilac candles I’d already laid out aren’t just for protection against shanndes, demons, and other sorts of supernatural evil, they help with cleansings as well.
Typically, for a successful cleansing, I should be in the heart of the house; not the literal centre, but the place where the house’s eshé is the strongest.
The sitting room feels like the right place, but unless I step into every single room in the house with my candles to check, I can’t be sure. Since I can’t do that without risking another attack, I’m going to have to double the effort to make sure the cleansing is strong enough to be successful.
“Can I have the windows open, please?” I say softly, not sure who I’m talking to; the house, the shannko, or hell, even the dagbato itself. “That’s if you’re the one keeping us in here. You can keep the bars locked if you’re so inclined.”
After two seconds, the window panes disappear from their frames. If I hadn’t been looking, I wouldn’t have noticed.
Genevieve inhales a raw, greedy breath. Her breathing doesn’t sound normal. It sounds—its making my skin break out in goose bumps. I frantically ignore it.
Since the house had so readily obeyed, it makes me wonder once more if it really is the thing keeping us here.
Perhaps, because of Genevieve’s grandmother’s shannko, the house obeys her will, still—or maybe she’s outright manipulating the house’s eshé for her benefit, keeping us locked up until I’ve untangled the dagbato, and Genevieve has fulfilled her request to renew the deal.
Four white candles. Four yellow. This time placed nearly six feet from where I’m standing.
There are two thick gold bangles with eight tinkling bells—dark cowrie beads sitting in perfectly oval shells made from polished wood—on each of my ankles and wrists.
I upend one of my velvet drawstring bags in the centre, mulchy earth forming a small heap on the marble floor.
I spread the earth in as perfect of a circle as I can make it, bells tinkling.
There shouldn’t be enough for the circle to be more than four inches in diameter, but it keeps going the more I spread until I’ve formed a three-foot-wide circular carpet.
My crocs are off my feet, my toes digging into the familiar dirt.
As usual, I face the south, where my village—and the connection to my ancestral eshé—is the strongest.
A whispered incantation, and a small flame bursts to life in my upheld palm. Another incantation sends the flame flying to the eight candles, lighting them with a snap.
I take a deep breath to centre myself.
Genevieve, and the rest of the world, are forgotten.
The song comes from deep inside me; a prayer for my ancestors to use my body as a vessel to purify this house, to leave both it and I clean when the song comes to an end.
I let it build until I’m shouting, the melody and the words filled with power.
The dance builds just as slowly, starting from my belly, then my hips, then my hands and feet, the tinkling of the bells coming in perfect harmony and rhythm.
The carefully choreographed movements help with the cleansing, helps pull the poison from the earth in a pathway through my body that will leave me unharmed.
I keep to the circle as I perform the rite, the steps so ingrained I don’t have to think about it.
The eshé of the house, so much like the forest back home, comes to life underneath my feet. I don’t falter when I smell that festering rot, when it clings to my nose and the back of my throat.
I’m too entrenched in the ritual to react to the alarming depth of it, letting my body be the vessel to untangle the decay, then channel it out through the open windows to scatter and weaken in the earth’s light—sun, moon, or stars; all are enough to destroy the expelled fumes of a poisoned spiritual current.
I don’t know how long I keep going.
Keep dancing.
Keep singing.
Keep breathing.
Until it hurts. Until my arms and legs start to shake. The tinkling no longer matches the rhythm of the song. My throat is too dry to keep my words clear and firm.
The rot builds, fills me up until I want to vomit, then rapidly disperses as I spread my hands and fingers in the air at the end of the dance, flinging something invisible toward the open windows.
I do it, over and over and over again, but it’s endless. I’ve never cleansed a house with a decay this vast. I cut off an infected root, and the rot spreads to ten more, clinging savagely to life.
Despite my exhaustion, every inch of my body screaming with pain, I perform the ritual one last time, making sure I end it properly. When the song and dance come to an end, my hands outstretched, I immediately collapse to my hands and knees with a short cry of pain and relief.
At some point, I’d shut my eyes. I open them now to find that it’s dark outside, so dark I can barely see further than a few feet. The windows are still gone, though the bars stand firmly in their place, no openings in sight.
“F-Fuck,” I whisper shakily, my voice no more than a croak. My hands fist the soil underneath for some comfort.
I look up in search of Genevieve, wondering why she hadn’t turned on the lights.
Everything in me goes still.
There are multiple bright dots like embers glowing in the darkness, in the direction of the archway leading into the kitchen. I’m hoping the angle I’m kneeling makes them seem higher than they should be, but I know, deep down, I’m wrong.
My vision adjusts bit by excruciating bit until I just barely make out her shape.
She’s a shadow in an ocean of shadows. Is her form rippling and morphing, or is it a trick of the darkness?
Slowly, I get to my feet. My legs and thighs protest at the movement, reminding me how long I must’ve been dancing.
I’m not sure, but it feels like it must be close to midnight; I’d been dancing for nearly twelve hours.
Fuck. If I’d known—or my mother had known—how deep this rot would go, she’d never have let me come here alone.
Some cleansings require more than one oerhwu; it had been one of my mother’s non-negotiables.
It’s why I don’t tell her about any of my cases with new clients until afterward. Why I hadn’t told her about this one.
It’s time. Whatever deadline the dagbato had set for its sacrifices, it’s clear that Genevieve’s next ten years are up. My pulse flutters at the base of my throat.
There are no sacrifices here. What is she going to do? The house is still on lockdown.
There’s only me.
If she doesn’t present her sacrifice, the dagbato will take her life as payment.
I don’t want to force her, but if this is her choice, she’s going to have to accept that I’m the perfect candidate.
The only candidate. Maybe the house—or her grandmother’s shannko, knows this, too.
Maybe her grandmother knows of my “gift”, and she doesn’t want Genevieve to kill an innocent.
She knows, just like I know, that Genevieve would never be able to live with herself if she does.
The shadow in the archway remains unmoving, those multiple, glowing red eyes fixed unsettlingly on me.
“Genevieve?”
The embers brighten. There’s no response.