Summoned.

Hi folks! Here I present you with an unfinished first draft story I have had sitting around in my space. The story below did not work. It is not the story I had planned to write and I hate the ending.

For our purposes, please enjoy what it is and next week over at Patreon. We are gonna tear it apart and figure it out. Brand new feature at Patreon.

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The woman sits so still on the steps of the vacant building the rats scurry around her without fear. Her head bobs slightly to the music in her head, deep heavy bass running a low counter to her slow steady breathing. Every now and then one of the rats perches on her foot and stare up at her. "Go home." Her voice is low and gentle but firm. The rat tips its head and squeals, it and the others run away on their silent little feet.

She rises fluid and silent, her hand reaches for her blade, her eyes find their mark. The dark clings to her as she steps down to the sidewalk. Shadows caress her bare brown arms and when the man sees her it is too late. She presses the blade against his side, "hi Perry." The man is paralyzed, inanely he thinks of a mongoose with a cobra. It takes all of his self-control not to burst into hysterical laughter.

She watches him, waits him out. "Look, Michelle I- shit I mean...you." He trails off as she shakes her head. "No. Don’t bother lying. What did I tell you last time?" In another life the moment would be sensual. The street lights gleaming on her bare shoulders, her plump glossy lips so close to his, he has an erection and wants nothing more than to disappear.

"You said you’d kill me." The last word eases from his lips as she eases her blade into his flesh. No jabbing, no fight. As she steps back the man, the shell of a man hiding a thing of the Pit bleeds and fades until it Is gone. She replaces the blade and watches. When the shell and the demon are gone she rolls her shoulders and looks up the block at a house party going full tilt. She can smell cheap weed, hear the laughter and thumping music. Her curiosity, what if it she has presses her into taking a step. Duty calls her back and she turns away heading into the darkness and back to her keeper.

She is only beautiful because her keeper makes her that way. She is smooth dark brown, thickly muscled and curvy. Every night he sits and watches her shave her head with a straight razor, unnecessary because her flesh can change with a thought. It is his pleasure. She is his pleasure.

"Michelle, baby how did it go? You get him?" She gives him the smile and sexy tone he wants. "Yes. I slipped it in on his breath. He didn’t fight. He died with a hard on." Her keeper is pleased, he vibrates with fear and desire, she can smell the dueling natures of these things on his breath and stands still. She has become aware that eventually he will take what he wants, she has no opinion about the act itself, she only desires to know when the moment will come.

He backs away and she waits. “What’s wrong baby?” She turns to look at him, he swears there is a quizzical expression on her face, there is not. “Nothing. I am only waiting for your next command.” He smiles at her paternally and gestures, he is a kind keeper. “Why don’t you go to sleep. I will call when I need you.” He feels magnanimous, giving and ready for her thanks. She gives her thanks, in access to her flesh vessel. He pretends he is a good lover; she does not care.

When he is done with her, she returns to her nganga. She returns to the dirt and sticks inside; her essence strokes the smooth insides of the cauldron and some part of her remembers the priest who put her in it. “I care for you but you cannot be here, doing this work. I am sorry for calling you for this.” She went in willingly; the priest was one of her descendants. He was so pretty with his wide dark face and mournful round brown eyes. She had made fine children. The nganga was the only home she had left.

Before she went in, she reached through the ether to stroke his locs. “You did no wrong my son. Goodbye sweet child.” The relief washed over and through the man as her essence sunk deep into the home, he’d made for her. Outside of her iron home things did not go well for her heirs. War came to their ancestral home in the Congo, some of her heirs fled while many others died. The next war decimated those who bore her eyes or smile.

Children who may have lived and done the work to know her died or became Christians. They forgot about her and her home. For years she sat unbothered and gathering dust in a warehouse of collectibles left in the home of some White European. In her rest she's been all over the world, her home coveted, admired and passed around like a simple decoration.

Her current keeper believes that the spirit is his slave and that he, the ersatz Palo Mayombe priest is the master of the domain of the nfumbe. She understands his view that her position in this modern world is one of subservience, he sends her out to kill the demons and other things of the pit and he takes money. Wet work she heard him say once but, really it rarely was wet. The death of the demons and other things was dry. They didn’t exsanguinate like a sacrifice they desiccated and left her unsatisfied.

"Michelle, wake up. Time to work baby." She wakes from her doze and eases out of her home, tonight he wants her sweet looking. She materializes with braids and red lips, short shorts and a strong curvy body. Her skin is not dark enough for her own liking but, it matters little. He examines her and smiles. "I'm ready to work." He always leaves her accent;. he finds it exotic and mysterious.

There is another man, this one is a true Palero. The current of his power washes across her face like a warm breeze. She smiles at him, "hello sir." The man examines her and smiles back. "Good evening madam spirit." Her keeper has no real power, he cannot feel the current of familiarity and strange solidarity that runs between her and the Palero.

The Palero and her keeper converse quietly as she stands waiting. There is an exchange of money and two more men enter, strong dark men who look almost as if they could be her distant descendants. Deep dark boys with shy white smiles, broad cheekbones and the same glint of blue in their Black skin as she and her family had- he is pretty to look at and she appreciates the opportunity to look on such a fine man.

The man won't look at her directly and it makes her smile. "Don't be afraid my son. I would not hurt you."

"Ashe."

She smiles, the boys are sweet things. Just beginning to plumb the depths of their own power. She walks over and examines each before kissing their cheeks, their sweet and sour boy stink takes her back to the sweet stink of her own sons and she is thankful. "Madam, you must return to your rest. We will keep you safe."

The gentle roll of the Palero's voice eases her mind and she returns to the dark and iron scented peace of her Nganga. Outside, the business is drawn to a close and the boys, the ngueyos carry the nganga out and the Palero nods to the other man. "I'll take good care of her."

Time passes, she is there and not. Away from the faker, her spirit has no need to wander. Time passes as it does, she dreams of her children and when the Palero calls she comes, carrying the same sleek dark-skinned form. “Yes?” He smiles at her; his offerings are fresh and wet. There is no reek of lust or greed on him. “Welcome back, do you still want to be called Michelle or should I call you something else?” She thinks about it, shrugs.

“Michelle is okay. I don’t remember my name. Is it time to work?” The Palero sighed and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. His body language puzzled her, the other one, the lesser palero never exhibited such behavior. She’s confused, there is a moment of fear, a shimmer of something in her flesh, she is afraid he is upset and will return her to the other. With the other, it was easy to move his anger. She began to take off her tank top, he holds his hands up to stop her.

“No, no not that. Listen, what do you want to do?” it is such an odd question; she stills her physical self to ponder it. “Want? What do I want to do?” My new Palero just watched her, his hands folded in his lap, no sign of misplaced lust or anger at her confusion. She moved around the room, touching his things, examining his ofrenda. “Who is this for?” She let her fingers dip into the secret heart of a barely open rose, she liked the soft powdery intimacy of it.

“Those are for my Mother. She loved pink roses, the chocolates are for my father.” He went down the line, he spoke about his dead with deep love and respect. “I want to remain here. With you and your sons.” His pleasure is her own. She had the opportunity to go home and see but, there had been no home. He waited for her to say more.

She turned to regard him, he stood there his back straight his face composed and she still noticed the bashful set of his bare feet, one over the other, his long toes worrying the top of the opposite foot. She turned to give him relief, hands clasped behind her back. “Listen. This, thing we have here is not the old ways. You are not like the others. I will be with you forever. I want only two things."

Promises to the nfumbe could not be made lightly. While he thought, I partook of his offerings. I delighted in the tastes and textures of the foods of the modern world. Time passed. It didn’t matter how long. Without the constraints of her former “master”, she saw much of the world. She partook of the offerings of the Palero and his sons, she began to see the new world and appreciate it.

“Okay, what do you want?”

“Your name. And a period of time, to deal with my former keeper.”

She allowed him to take her small hands in his, he leaned down and breathed his name into her and set her on her course. She would return to him, time and again.