Rise of an African Elemental: A Dark Fantasy Novel (African Elementals Book 4) Read online

  Rise of an African Elemental: A Dark Fantasy Novel

  By Alicia McCalla

  Copyright © 2015 By Alicia L. McCalla

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For permission, contact the author at www.aliciamccalla.com.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States by: ffpincolor LLC, Atlanta, Georgia

  Contact the author at: www.aliciamccalla.com

  Cover by: Karri Klawriter artbykarri.com

  Formatting and layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Rise of an African Elemental: A Dark Fantasy Novel

  This is the fourth episode of the African Elementals series.

  An ancient evil is drawn to the shores of America where good people have forgotten their history, power, and strength.

  When Shania Moore’s dreams of a serial killer draining the souls of African American girls in a bizarre ritual turns out to be real, she knows her daughter, with an unusual ability, is in danger. Shania packs up everything and flees from Detroit to Atlanta. She doesn’t know that strength will be found in the arms of the white man whom she lied to and left at the altar ten years earlier.

  Deacon Kilgore does not know he’s a descendant from a Norse god, and that he’s a guardian for an ancient African goddess. When his beautiful ex-girlfriend shows up, he almost walks away. She had broken his heart and lied to him about aborting their baby. But when he sees the sweet, spirited young girl with violet eyes reminding him of his dearly departed mother, he can’t help but defend them both. Can he forgive the woman who ripped his heart out?

  There’s more than their daughter’s life at stake. If Shania and Deacon fail to thwart the ancient evil, the very fabric of existence as they know it will be destroyed.

  The African Elementals Series (Dark Fantasy Series)

  Origins of an African Elemental (1, 2 & 3 boxed set)

  Mawu: A Short Story (1)

  Iniko: Villain Novella (2)

  Flee: A Short Story (3)

  Rise of an African Elemental (4)

  Mark of an African Elemental (5)

  Would you like to catch up on this series?

  Get Alicia McCalla’s Starter Library in ebooks for Free!

  2-short stories and 1 novella

  Sign-Up as a Subscriber to receive Origins of an African Elemental.

  Click the link below:

  http://eepurl.com/bhBDWb

  4-stars for Iniko

  “An Intriguing Diverse Story.”—Notebook Blogairy

  5-stars for Flee

  “I was on the edge of my seat.”—Sandra

  5-stars for Flee

  “I really enjoyed the Afrikan elements.”—Zani

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to acknowledge a few people who helped bring this book and series into the world. Appreciation to my accountability partners, Carla Fredd, Piper Huguley, Seressia Glass, and Vanessa Riley—you all keep me sane. Special thanks to Kim Benefield, Sheddel Johns, Noelle Pierce, and Vershawn Young who read some of the earlier drafts of this story and offered helpful suggestions. I’m totally indebted to my critique partner and writer buddy, A.D. Koboah—I appreciate all of your thoughtful ideas. Of course, thanks to my developmental editor, Jessa Slade, for helping me dig down deep and create this series. Special thanks to my sister, Valerie Whitfield and my cousin, Kristina Nunn for helping me believe in myself during my fearful moments. Love and appreciation to my hubby, Howard McCalla and my son, Asante McCalla—the two of you are my world. Finally, thanks to all of my readers and supporters. Without you, I’m not sure where I would be. Keep me motivated with your positive thoughts and kind words. You are sincerely appreciated!

  Dedication

  To my Grandmother, Connie Thornton Campbell, who has always supported my muse.

  Table of Contents

  Rise of An African Elemental Description

  Dark Fantasy Series

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Get Alicia’s Starter Library

  A Note From Alicia

  Discussion Questions

  Next Book In The Series

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Shania

  Shania tossed and turned, sweat pouring down her back.

  Fanatical drumming and Swahili words drifted into her sleep.

  Damu. Blood.

  Her body trembled then went still, immovable.

  Hofu. Terror.

  The old folks would say she had a “witch” riding her back. The drumming rumbled like thunder in the distance. Shania tried to force her fingers to move but was paralyzed, except for her eyes which rolled from side to side. The Swahili words quieted to a ghostly hush.

  Kifo. Death.

  Shania’s spirit rose from her body, disconnecting with a painful twist. She watched her sleeping self in the motel bed. She studied her dark brown skin. She was twenty-eight, but didn’t look a day over eighteen. Her thin, curvy body with flat stomach resembled a model’s. No one could tell she’d been a teenage mother and now had a ten-year-old daughter. She had the youthful genes of her mother and grandmother.

  Nana. Her essence shivered in remembrance. Her eyes were puffy from all the crying after the death of her grandmother.

  She missed her Nanabaa dearly. Her grandmother would have known what to do now. As it was, Shania could tell she’d been on the run. Her normally perfect dress and appearance were disheveled. She’d always prided herself on her earthy attire and practical intelligence. As the youngest black woman instructor at her job, she tried to keep herself looking appropriate, but from what she saw, she looked a hot mess.

  Shania studied her own face again. Her thoughts went to the punch received by the hands of her ex. She stretched to soothe the swollen bruise on her jaw. Wait, what’s going on? She reached helplessly for her physical form, but her hand slid through her flesh. Is this a nightmare?

  Shania recoiled and inadvertently smacked her spirit self in the face. Strange. She had substance on this plane. She hugged herself, pressing in her sides to become as small as possible. Unable to reconnect, her essence floated…unsure. She drifted toward her grandmother’s parting gift, a West African box.

  It was a deep rectangular-shaped box, able to fit across her lap and made of African Mvuli wood. Smoot
h, but tough, with a rich dark tanned coloring. It had an ornate lock with little symbols called Adinkra symbols carved along the sides, made of various shapes and sizes.

  Her Nana would say the box was filled with African magic, but Shania believed these were just stories—until now. As if by silent command, the top blew open and glowed, summoning…no…forcing her to travel time and space to an abandoned neighborhood in Detroit. Shania tried to twist and jerk away so her soul could return to the safety of the motel room. Her vision faded into splotchy blackness then refocused into an oppressive assortment of mind-blinding flashing lights.

  Shrill police sirens commanded her full attention. She shrank, resisting, until a muffled voice fractured her being as if she were the debris from the aftermath of a terrible explosion. Insane drumming returned, louder. She shielded her ears.

  Spots flashed in her vision and she tensed, trying to remain steady. Her thoughts scrambled. She sucked in her cheeks, gasping for air. Shania rubbed her eyes in disbelief. She’d materialized in a crime scene as a voiceless witness to a horrible injustice:

  “Little black girls generally are not taken by serial killers. Just because you found a note and a flower doesn’t mean she’s been abducted. Are you sure Nia isn’t with her friends?”

  The policeman’s pupils dilated when his lips curved into a sneer. Grieving parents shouldn’t have to deal with this jerk.

  He kept pressing with his degrading attitude. “Everyone says she’s wild and uncontrollable. Could be a joke.”

  His demeanor changed, as the flickering of the red and blue lights from his vehicle caused nightmarish shadows to form on the abandoned boulevard houses in Northwest Detroit—skeletons of cramped, tall two-story city homes built for a motor car industry that had seen better days.

  He lifted upward on his toes, glanced around, and dug into his bottomless pocket, spilling white powder down his pants leg. Shania’s stomach jerked in warning, but she ignored it since she was already too absorbed into the fragmented scene.

  Most Detroiters knew it was unusual for a police officer to be in this long-lost neighborhood, at night anyway. Shania studied the shifty cop. He can get away with whatever he wants and no one will know.

  Shania frowned, swallowing hard.

  An image of his brown-skinned wrist, tattooed with a red and black crossroad, blazed in Shania’s sacral third eye as the dangerous white powder blew into the faces of the devastated parents. Shania tried to escape, but her body became heavy. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest constricted.

  She hollered out for the parents. Bring back our baby girl!

  Shania tried to smack his smug face. Too late. The parents succumbed completely. Their eyes blanked, primed for hypnotic suggestion. Drums boomed as if preparing for a battle.

  The policeman’s wheedling laugh became a fractured whisper as Shania’s spirit was dragged, screaming, down a hellish tunnel that led to Nia’s real-time ritualistic murder.

  Rather than hovering over the scene as a silent observer, Shania’s soul fused with the child’s, a soul-to-soul connection that she could not free herself from easily. Shania’s core turned cold. A white man loomed over her, a needle in one hand, a red hibiscus flower in the other. Shania shuddered with the confusion and fear only a child, lost and alone, could feel.

  She flinched as the needle pierced her lip. No, it was Nia’s lip, but Shania gasped for breath with the girl as her nose burned with the stench of rotten eggs. The white man’s eyes glittered as he plopped the flower over her partially-stitched mouth as if it floated atop a pitcher of sickly sweetened lemonade. Hibiscus flourished in West Africa and survived slavery’s Middle Passage to America. The simple beauty was intended for healing, not for this heinous ritual.

  Nia gagged.

  Shania’s essence shifted from the child’s tortured mind and into the murderer’s. Queasiness gave way to revulsion, making Shania feel as if she had been turned downside up. Thick dark magic clawed through her body, forcing Shania to connect with the disgusting giddiness the white man’s actions gave him.

  The killer’s thoughts buzzed like thousands of carnivorous horseflies. He wanted the young girl to touch him, willingly. He wished to relieve the hard mass growing between his thighs, but he waited for a taste more delectable. He held off for pure ecstasy. His pale hands trembled with excitement as he ripped her panties.

  Shania’s spirit fought its way out of his diseased thinking and back into the young girl. She tried to comfort her, give her warmth, but the tiny child shivered. She was cold, naked, and exposed.

  Nia had thought it was safe to ride with the priest who was at her after-school program to talk about making good choices, but she’d been wrong. The priest’s brown hair with scattered gray made him seem innocuous. At a different time, his deep-set sorrowful eyes offered peace, but now bulged as the maniac raised a dagger with jagged edges.

  Although she was paralyzed, tears streamed down her face. Slowly, he dragged the dagger down her naked form, hurting and scraping her skin until he found her intimate space, gouging, carving, and cutting like he was wrenching open a precious oyster. Pain flooded between her thighs and she screamed, choking on the flower stem.

  He yelled in glee, “I got it! I got it!”

  Shania’s consciousness disconnected from Nia’s and hovered over the scene, as three African women with bewitched, vacant eyes, dressed in red and black tribal cloth, moved in an enthralled tandem; finishing the bloody clitoridectomy by tightly sewing up the child’s vaginal opening.

  Shania couldn’t tell if there was anything behind their haunted eyes; if they truly understood the insanity of their actions. The killer’s voice sounded harsh and foreign, but the ritualistic words were West African, similar to words her Nanabaa used, but the way he said them sounded blasphemous.

  Shania’s empathy poured into the girl, and she once again attached soul to soul.

  Hot urine and blood gushed. The deranged priest cursed in broken English. Was his original language Irish or Scandinavian? “You von’t be a nasty l’ttle ’hore—I save you.”

  He shoved the women out of the way, and finished the ritual by sewing a second hibiscus flower into the folds of her vaginal lips. He took his iron dagger and sliced her throat as if she were a small animal to be sacrificed to his evil Gods.

  Drums wildly thundered.

  Shania seemed trapped between her connection to the girl’s essence and her own existence. Nia wasn’t much older than her own daughter, Lydia. Her heart burst over her inability to save this child.

  The faint voice of the police officer talking to Nia’s parents returned. “She had to be on drugs. You lost her to the streets at only twelve years old. You know black girls. It’s a part of growing up in the hood. Go back inside and forget you ever had a daughter. She was worthless anyway.”

  Nia’s life drained through the wound on her neck. As if the torture wasn’t enough, the killer used a red-hot knife to brand her sewn vagina with his mark, which was a mark that signified ancient chaos. Shania remembered it from one of her grandmother’s stories. It was an eight-pointed star with horns nestled atop a crossroad, symbolizing Loki intertwined with the African god, Eshu.

  Nia was too far gone to scream. The pale-faced man moved closer to her mouth waiting for the final breath.

  Shania saw him through Nia’s eyes, up close, smiling. “You l’ttle Black American ’hore can go back to Africa, but your magic stay vit’ me.”

  Nia died, but that was only the beginning of her agony. Her spirit lifted from its decimated shell, but the priest would not be denied. Her magical soul belonged to him in his demented dimension. Nia tried to escape to God’s grace in Heaven, but the priest’s mouth formed a swirling crimson light that sucked her essence back from Jesusꞌs promise and into his gaped-open hell. Nia tried to swim uphill against the current, toward safety, far from the priest. Her soul stretching…reaching.

  The girl’s particles were engulfed by a typhoon-sized spiritual wave that
drowned her in a devouring cyclone. The final image was of Nia’s neck snapping through the hole like the head of a broken baby doll caught in the middle of a tornado. The priest climaxed several times while he devoured the child’s magical force.

  The soul-to-soul connection shattered. Shania drifted aimlessly within the magical energy of souls that had been eaten before.

  Shania’s mind raced. Where am I?

  Broken images of thousands of black girls, trapped for centuries, filled her thoughts. The drums became oppressive. Her stomach knotted. She dropped to her knees.

  Nanabaa’s stories were true. Shania now understood that this was a Soul Eating Priest. He recycled other girls’ magical energy into one child’s corpse, to keep it viable until...

  The staccato rhythms of the West African lullaby lulled Shania into an eternal slumber that threatened to steal her energy in the frozen darkness.

  Nkwihoreze ibyandongo ayiwe, ayiweibyandongo. I will comfort you, my baby.

  Nia, along with the spirits of other black girls, was trapped inside an empty corpse. The lullaby continued to try to hypnotize the lost souls.

  Nkwihoreze ikobondo humm, hum, ayiwe ayiwe. Take away your sorrow, my little one, my little chick. The nights are calm with you at my side, my baby.