In this much anticipated follow up to New York Times bestselling Beasts of Prey, Koffi’s powers grow stronger and Ekon’s secrets turn darker as they face the god of death.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and first two chapters of Ayana Gray’s Beasts of Ruin, which is out July 26th 2022.
Koffi has saved her city and the boy she loves, but at a terrible price. Now a servant to the cunning god of death, she must use her newfound power to further his continental conquest, or risk the safety of her home and loved ones. As she reluctantly learns to survive amidst unexpected friends and foes, she will also have to choose between the life—and love—she once had, or the one she could have, if she truly embraces her dangerous gifts.
Cast out from the only home he’s ever known, Ekon is forced to strike new and unconventional alliances to find and rescue Koffi before it’s too late. But as he gets closer to the realm of death each day, so too does he draw nearer to a terrible truth—one that could cost everything.
Koffi and Ekon—separated by land, sea, and gods—will have to risk everything to reunite again. But the longer they’re kept apart, the more each of their loyalties are tested. Soon, both may have to reckon with changing hearts—and maybe, changing destinies
CHAPTER 1
The Master Of Thornkeep
Koffi smelled the blackberries first.
Saccharine, tart, it was their cloying scent that lured her back to consciousness. Slowly, she opened her eyes. A groan began low in her throat, very nearly passing through her lips, but instinct caught the sound before it could escape. In the silence, a realization settled on her skin like motes of dust.
She didn’t know where she was.
Life returned to her fingertips, and Koffi let them explore, taking tactile reconnaissance of her surroundings. From them, she gathered that she was lying on something soft—a bed—with linen sheets bunched at her waist. Her head rolled to the left, pressing one cheek against the cool pillow beneath her; she paid for that small movement instantly. A stab of pain throbbed at the base of her skull, and her eyes watered. Seconds passed before her dulled vision sharpened again. Even then, she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
She was in a large bedroom, one she’d never been in before. Its walls—at least, those visible in the dimness—were a cool slate gray. Squares of buttery light dappled the vaulted ceiling overhead, which she took to mean it was morning. A glint to her left caught her eye, and she noted a bone-white nightstand beside the bed. There was a gilded serving tray on it, laden with food. Her eyes took in the sliced bread, the tiny bowls of jam, cheese, and fruit, and her mouth watered.
A feast for a king, she mused. She was still staring at the food, considering, when she heard it: the soft rustle of fabric. She stilled.
She was not alone.
At first, she didn’t understand how she had not immediately noticed the two people standing on the opposite side of the bedroom and facing a massive bay window with their backs to her. But as the seconds passed, she did understand; she hadn’t noticed them because they stood with near-perfect stillness, two statues silhouetted in sunlight. The man was tall, muscled, and lean, with skin like sunbaked clay and cropped black hair. Beside him, the woman was much shorter, with brown skin a shade darker than his and a springy black Afro. His kaftan was river blue, hers was marigold. Without warning, the man spoke.
“How much longer should we let her sleep?” His voice was low. “We’ll wake her soon,” the woman murmured. Her voice was lilting. “He’s expecting her.”
Koffi stiffened on the bed. She was almost certain that these people were talking about her.
Abruptly, the man began to pace. Koffi couldn’t see the details of his face, but his movements reminded her of an agitated lion contained in a too-small cage.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said between steps. “It’s been years since he brought a new one here—why would he start doing it again now?”
“I don’t know,” the woman replied. She was still facing the window.
The man stopped, and Koffi finally saw his face properly in the light. Every one of his features was smooth and angular, as though carved by a practiced sculptor. He had a long, even nose, ochre eyes framed by thick black brows, and a knife-sharp jawline. Only his scowling mouth looked out of place.
“He said nothing to you?” he asked the woman. “Nothing about where she’s from, or what order she belongs to?”
Finally, the woman turned. Even in profile, Koffi knew at once that she was beautiful too. Her face was soft, defined by full pink lips set below a short, rounded nose. She was frowning.
“He tells me as much as he tells you,” she said. “All I know is that we’re to bring her to the main hall. He didn’t say anything else.”
Koffi swallowed.
“And how are we supposed to do that?” the man asked. Koffi watched him massage the bridge of his nose. “She’s still unconscious.”
“We can’t take her to him in the clothes she’s wearing,” said the woman. Koffi noticed she’d lowered her voice. “They’re filthy. She’ll need to change them.”
Koffi’s pulse quickened. She’d hoped for more time to form a plan. Her eyes searched the room, desperate. The only other furnishings nearby were a vanity and a divan in the far-left corner, neither of which could be used as a weapon or shield. These people, whoever they were, had the advantage. She’d have to move quickly to catch them off guard.
Think. Think.
A shaft of golden sunlight drew Koffi’s eyes back to the serving tray on her left. Just beside it, there was a silver butter knife. She took a slow breath in, bracing herself, then closed her eyes and tried to envision what she was going to do. If she moved over slightly, she could reach the knife. And if she could reach the knife . . .
“Okay.”
Koffi’s eyes were still closed, but to her right she heard the man’s voice again, closer. She shifted subtly to her left.
“Kena, maybe you should be the one to—”
Koffi lunged, rolling off the bed and snatching the butter knife from the tray in one less-than-graceful motion. She regretted it almost immediately; an explosion of stars erupted in her head and blotted her vision, but her fingers wrapped tight around the knife’s tiny handle. She focused on its feel, the cool of its metal against her palm. The room tilted violently from side to side like the deck of an ill-fated ship at sea, and she stumbled. This time, a groan did escape her. She still couldn’t see, but she heard a gasp. Then a male voice.
“Oh. You’re awake.”
Koffi blinked hard, trying to quiet the percussion in her chest as she fought to remain calm. Her ears were ringing, there were still flashing spots in her vision, but she saw that the man and woman who’d been standing at the window were now just on the other side of the bed, looking at her with shared concern. Upright, she realized they were both younger than she’d first thought; not a man and a woman, but a boy and a girl, each about sixteen—her age. It was the former of the two who broke the silence.
“So,” he said with one brow raised. “I take it this means you didn’t like the welcome breakfast?”
Koffi didn’t pause to consider the question. “Who are you?” Her voice was a throaty rasp, as though it hadn’t been used for days. That scared her. She glanced back and forth, trying to keep her eyes on the boy and the girl at the same time, but the effort was dizzying. Her grip on the knife tightened, but to her faint annoyance, the boy only gave it a cursory glance before smirking.
“Is that really necessary?”
“It is when you’re trying to take my clothes off.”
“We weren’t trying to take your clothes off,” said the boy with a note of exasperation. He paused, then smirked. “Well, I mean, technically speaking . . .”
“You have five seconds.” Koffi didn’t know whether to be irritated or terrified by the boy’s nonchalance. “Tell me who you are, where I am, and why I’m here.”
“Or what?” The boy’s eyes flicked to the knife again, visibly amused. “You’ll butter our toast?”
“Zain.” Up to this point, the girl hadn’t spoken; now she was glaring at the boy. “I think it would be best if you left.”
The boy—Zain—considered a moment before he shrugged and headed toward a pair of double doors on the other side of the room. He muttered something that sounded distinctly like “butter knife” before closing them behind him. Koffi exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” said the girl. She was looking at Koffi the way one might look at an injured animal, but like the boy, she seemed unfazed by the butter knife. Koffi sighed, then let it clatter to the ground.
“I know this is all probably very overwhelming,” the girl continued gently. “But Zain and I aren’t here to hurt you, we—”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Makena,” she said. “Yours?”
“Koffi.”
“Koffi,” Makena repeated. “I’m a daraja, like you.”
Daraja. Koffi felt the word strike against her like a flint to stone, pulling others to the forefront of her mind. Daraja. Bridge. Splendor. They were disjointed, but familiar; she just couldn’t remember why.
“What order are you?” Makena asked. “I’m in Ufundi.” Koffi stared back at her, confused. Makena seemed to be asking the question earnestly, but it didn’t make sense. “Um . . .”
“That’s all right.” Makena waved a hand. “We can talk about that later. But for now . . .” She glanced toward the double doors before offering an apologetic look. “You do need to change your clothes.”
Koffi looked down at her own body for the first time since she’d woken up. Her burlap tunic was covered in dirt and grime, but she had no recollection of how it’d gotten there.
Why? Why can’t I remember?
“I have something for you to wear, actually,” said Makena. “If you’d like.” She crossed the room and stopped before the divan; Koffi noticed something neatly folded on it. When Makena turned back to her, she was holding up a sleeveless dress. It was long and sweeping, cinched at the waist. A geometric black-and-white pattern covered the wax-print fabric, and golden stitching embroidered its hems.
“I made it,” Makena murmured. “I . . . hope you like it.”
“I do,” said Koffi. “It’s really nice.” That was an understatement, but they were the only words she could summon. With certainty, she knew that she was awake, and yet this all still seemed like some distorted dream. She felt removed, unfocused, as though she was grasping at spider-silk threads of memory and trying to braid them into something logical.
Makena laid the dress on the bed. “I’ll call for a cloth and water basin to be brought up so you can wash,” she offered. “But you’ll need to be quick, we don’t have much time.”
“Why?” Koffi tensed. “Where are we going?”
Makena shot a furtive glance over her shoulder as she headed for the bedroom doors. “To take you to the main hall. The master of Thornkeep doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
***
Koffi’s heart thundered in her chest as Makena led her down a narrow hall.
Like the bedchamber she’d awoken in, everything around her was carved from the same slate rock, which did nothing to fend off the chill in the air. Around her, a pervading darkness held firm, interrupted only by the cracks of pale light that came from arrow-slit windows. Koffi was tempted to peek out of each one they passed, but she forced her gaze to stay fixed ahead. With each step, more questions filled her mind, and it unnerved her that she had answers to none of them. How had she gotten here? Why was she here? And why couldn’t she remember anything from before this morning? Makena’s words echoed in her head.
The master of Thornkeep doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
This place was called Thornkeep, she had gathered that much at least, but who was its master, and what did he want with her?
They passed into a new corridor, one with a large window on its left that allowed morning light to breach the dark. Makena walked past it without stopping, but this time Koffi stole a glance out of it. Her breath caught.
The lawns outside the window were lush in the extreme, an immaculate expanse of emerald-green grass. Every few feet, tiny ponds trimmed in alabaster stone decorated the grounds, their glass-smooth surfaces reflecting hues of azure and indigo in the sunlight. Her eyes flitted left and right, trying in vain to count the thousands of flowers arranged alongside the arbors and gazebos, but it was impossible. She noted that every single flower, despite its size or arrangement, was some shade of blue, reflecting the sky above.
“Thornkeep’s east garden,” said Makena. She’d stopped to stand at Koffi’s side. “Also called the Blue Garden. There are three others on the grounds, but this one is my favorite.”
Koffi nodded, though she barely heard Makena’s words. She was still taking in the scene before her. Thornkeep’s east garden was unquestionably beautiful, but the longer she studied it, the more acutely she felt an unease. Her gaze drifted past the ponds and plots of flower beds, then stopped at a line of neatly planted trees clearly meant to mark the garden’s end. She recognized those trees at once—only acacias had that gnarled, thorny quality about them—but they weren’t what held Koffi’s eye. It was the wall of heavy mist that hung around them. Most of the acacias’ tops were obscured by it, a thick pall of unmoving silver-white.
Even from this distance, Koffi imagined she could feel the mist’s coolness, the damp that would have clung to everything it touched. She shivered.
“That’s the Mistwood,” said Makena without prompt. “It marks the border of Thornkeep’s grounds.”
Koffi didn’t respond. She couldn’t explain it, but something about that mist, those trees, held her in place, as though daring her to watch a second longer. A beat passed before Makena spoke again.
“We should keep going,” she said. “The main hall’s not far.”
In silence, they left the corridor and continued on. When darkness fell over them once more, Koffi’s muscles relaxed. She felt an inexplicable sense of relief the farther she got from the window and the sight of the mist, but she didn’t know why.
Makena stopped again a few minutes later, so abruptly that Koffi nearly ran into her back. When she looked up, she realized that they were now standing before two enormous blackwood doors trimmed in a dull gold paint. Directly next to them, Zain was standing at attention. He offered them a cheery wave, and Koffi answered it with a frown before she could stop herself. Zain chuckled.
“Glad you could make it, Butter Knife.”
Koffi didn’t dignify the comment with a reply, and tried to keep her eyes trained on the double doors, but that was made harder when Zain moved to stand directly beside her, so that she was sandwiched between him and Makena. He was at least a head taller than her, and when he leaned toward her, their shoulders brushed. A smell like freshly laundered linens filled the air.
“A word of advice,” he said under his breath. “Try not to threaten anyone with cutlery.”
Whatever words Koffi had been planning to say back died in her throat as the doors before them swung open. Makena and Zain moved first, passing through them with an easy grace. Koffi took a steadying breath before she stepped into the room. Almost immediately, she faltered.
The room was the grandest she’d ever seen. A lake of white-veined black marble made up its floor, and a line of towering arched windows on two of its walls flooded the room in rose-gold sun-light. There was little in the way of furnishings here, but Koffi’s gaze caught on a single object directly opposite her: a tapestry hung on the wall. It was a massive piece, at least twice her height and many times as wide, and featured at its center a great, swollen hippopotamus. The creature’s skin was brown and shiny with wet, its tiny eyes beetle-black. It seemed to be staring right at her as it stood against the backdrop of a faded marshland baring its white tusks, each one longer than her arm. Koffi looked away from it quickly, disturbed. Something about that tapestry, about hippopotamuses specifically, had stirred another memory within her, but it left her as quickly as it’d come.
“Over here.” Makena glanced over her shoulder, keeping her voice to a whisper. “I see a place to stand.”
Koffi followed until the three of them stopped near the room’s center. She turned and, for the first time since entering, realized that they were not alone here. Clusters of people stood together all over the room, and every single person was staring at her. In stolen glances, Koffi took each one of them in. To her right, there was one group of young men and women dressed in blood-dark red; to her left, a second group donned shades of green. She noted one huddle of people swathed in gauzy blue fabrics very similar to Zain’s, and still a fourth group who wore pale yellows like Makena. The people farthest from her were dressed in deep violet, and she tried not to think about the fact that—in addition to looking like the most athletic people in the room—they also looked to be the most menacing. One of them openly grimaced at her, and she flinched, immediately annoyed at herself for doing so.
Do not show fear, she commanded her body. Do not look afraid.
“It’s all right,” Makena whispered. “No one here will hurt you.”
Koffi didn’t take any comfort in those words. She was too busy wading through even more questions. Who were all of these people? Was the master of Thornkeep among them?
Abruptly, the set of double doors she, Makena, and Zain had just walked through opened a second time; at once, every eye that’d been trained on Koffi shot to them instead. On either side of her, Makena and Zain both straightened. Even Koffi found herself watching, waiting.
Several impossibly long seconds passed before a man entered the chamber alone. He was tall, with dark, ochre-brown skin and curly black hair barbered to a low fade. He looked old enough to be Koffi’s father. She noticed that, unlike everyone else in the room, he wasn’t wearing a colorful garment; rather, his dashiki was a modest black-and-white pattern, not so unlike her own. He said nothing as he moved forward in long, confident strides. One by one, every person in the room bowed their head. There was an unspoken authority about this man, worn like a mantle to which he was well accustomed. Even Koffi found herself lowering her gaze as he approached, his sandaled footfall impossibly soft against the marble. She was staring at her own feet when she heard the words.
“Good morning, Koffi.”
An arrow of heat ran the length of Koffi’s body, as sudden and quick as a lightning strike. She felt a nudge against her arm, and swallowed hard as her bowed head seemed to rise of its own accord.
Slowly, Koffi lifted her gaze and locked eyes with the master of Thornkeep.
CHAPTER 2
Little Mouse
Ekon was counting again.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.
He stood alone at the window of an old apothecary, its sagging ceiling so low that it nearly brushed the top of his head. Of course, he hadn’t known when he’d first arrived that it was an apothecary at all, but now he saw the signs everywhere. He counted forty-six, forty-seven . . . forty-eight dusted jars stacked along the built-in shelves, their liquid contents murky and ominous. In one corner of the room there was a small hearth, in another there was a wooden table with two chairs, the kind a couple might have sat at long ago after a hard day’s work. It was impossible to know exactly how long it’d been since the shop had been operational, but the sour-sweet blend of old ointments, salves, and dried produce long gone still staled the air. He inhaled, and nearly retched.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.
He drummed his fingers against his side, counted the dust motes gathered on the window’s mud-brick frame, the spidering cracks that ran along the room’s walls like line-thin serpents.
Only when he was finished did he actually look outside, taking in the torrent of rain pouring down just feet away from him. He took in its smell, its sound, tried to find a cadence in its steady patter.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.
Between the drops, he envisioned the faces of three people—not six, not nine, but three. Always three.
One. He imagined a girl with chestnut skin. She had a heart-shaped face that framed a small, broad nose and full lips, and there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. That was Koffi, his friend.
Two. He imagined a young man who looked a lot like him, but different. His face was composed of night-sky eyes set even above a long nose with the precise top-fade haircut befitting a warrior. That was Kamau, his older brother.
Three. He imagined an old man, one with unruly white eyebrows and a mouth crinkled with laugh lines. Ekon shivered as that face transformed, as the smile turned wicked and cruel. That was the man who had been his mentor, Brother Ugo.
No. Ekon corrected himself. There was no Brother Ugo. Brother Ugo had never existed.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.
He tried to repress what he knew would come next, the threads of new memory knotting themselves in his mind. He caught quick glimpses of imagery, snatched fragments of the words it still hurt for him to recall.
I knew you would be different, knew you wouldn’t fail me, whispered the old man. In his head, Ekon saw himself standing in a beautiful garden, watching the flowers wilt and die. The muscles in his throat constricted, and he made himself count until they relaxed again.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.
You were the perfect combination. The old man’s voice was reed-thin in his ear. Keen, desperate for approval. It made you easy to mold into what I needed.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.
Brother Ugo hadn’t been real.
Ekon screwed his eyes shut and counted faster, focusing on the numbers. Numbers never changed, numbers stayed the same, numbers always made sense—except that now they didn’t. Brother Ugo had been an impostor; how many signs had he missed? The old man had been behind everything, and how many clues had been right there all along? Sometimes, Ekon counted none; other times, he counted three thousand. His fingers tapped a faster beat against his thigh. When a clap of thunder boomed overhead, his breath grew shallow, and his vision tunneled.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two—
“You shouldn’t be near the window.”
Ekon turned, his head snapping in the direction of the croaking voice that had just pulled him back to reality. An old woman was standing a few feet away, watching him tentatively. White hair peeked out from her headwrap, and there were deep lines in her face. Even after three days together, Ekon still hadn’t gotten used to how quietly she moved.
“It’s not safe,” she went on, glancing over his shoulder. “Someone could see you.”
Ekon took one large step away from the window. “Sorry.” Themba was still looking at him with a shrewd expression. “You’re sure you want to go?”
“Yes.” The tunnel vision was getting better now. Ekon forced his heartbeat to settle. “I’m ready.”
One of Themba’s gray brows rose.
“You’ve healed from the splendor poisoning fast.” She tutted. “But you’re still recovering from your physical wounds.”
Ekon stood straighter. In the last two days, most of his scrapes and cuts had begun to scab— notably, the tender skin under his jaw was almost clear of bruising—but there were other wounds beneath his skin, the ones he couldn’t see but felt every time he moved.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
Themba’s lips pursed like she’d just sucked on a lemon. “It’s risky . . .”
“Themba, please. I want to go. I can carry more than you.” He wished there was a way to explain the way he was feeling, but he didn’t know how to say aloud that, now more than ever in his life, he needed to feel capable, competent, useful. He held her gaze a beat, and perhaps she saw the unspoken words in his eyes, because her expression abruptly softened to one of reluctant resignation.
“Keep your head down and your hood up,” she said, “and take this.” She withdrew a small coin purse from her tunic’s pocket and pressed it into his palm.
“Themba.” Ekon looked down at his hand as she curled his fingers over the purse. “I can’t take this.”
“You can and will,” she said sharply. “You’ve got no way to pay, and we can’t risk stealing or bartering, not with the way things are right now.”
Ekon swallowed. There was a fierceness in Themba’s eyes that he recognized, and he realized they were just like Koffi’s eyes. Of course they are, he reminded himself. They’re related. Three days together hadn’t been enough time to process that.
“Take your time, and practice caution. Stay hidden if you have to,” Themba continued. “And remember, if you even think you’ve been seen—”
“I won’t be,” said Ekon. He didn’t let her finish the sentence because he knew what the old woman was going to say: If you even think you’ve been seen, don’t worry about food or supplies or me. Save yourself.
Except that that wasn’t an option, not now. One-two-three, Ekon counted. This was technically his third day with Themba, and his presence here had depleted her food supply. They were out of options, and there was no room for error.
He didn’t wait for Themba to say more as he grabbed an empty sack and a still slightly damp hooded cloak. It was too small for him, but it would have to do.
“I’ll be back,” he said over his shoulder. Then, without waiting for a reply, he swung the shop’s door open and charged into the torrent.
He was soaked in seconds.
Mud and ankle-deep puddles sloshed around Ekon’s feet as he joined the steady flow of people moving purposefully in the rain. Overhead, the pewter-gray sky with its spidering black veins suggested early evening, but in reality it was only midday—another consequence of monsoon season. Ekon slipped in the mud, scrunching his face as he accidentally bit his tongue and drew blood. It was hard to believe it now, but he’d once liked this time of year. Monsoon season in Lkossa was a headache for the brothers of the Temple of Lkossa, thanks to an uptick in beggars seeking refuge in the temple, but Ekon had looked forward to it. Heavy rains meant no drills or sparring practice on the temple’s lawns were possible, so those hours had been repurposed for the things he preferred—quiet hours spent in the library, occasional paper-boat races with his brother. Those moments now felt ripped from another life, a life that was gone.
Ekon veered right, taking a sharp turn down one of the narrower roads that fed into the main markets. It wasn’t technically the fastest way to get there, but it was safest; he couldn’t risk being followed even in the Chafu District. The throngs of people began to thicken as he reached the markets, and he was careful not to walk too fast or too slow. He heard the telltale sounds first—the violent flapping of tents in the wind, intermingled with the cries of peddlers shouting their bargains. He glanced up and counted.
There were sixteen tents arranged, four on each side, to form a square. Earlier Themba had told him what they needed, and Ekon wasted no time moving through the market to procure the items from her list. He bought secondhand water gourds, two cheap burlap sacks, and an assortment of dried meats and fruits. It reminded him that, not so long ago, he and Koffi had been here together in this market, preparing for their hunt in the Greater Jungle. That felt like another life too. He’d just grabbed the last of the items on his list when two voices rose above the din.
“Shame they didn’t allow for a stoning.” The first weathered voice came from an older-sounding woman. “I’ve got a good arm for it.”
Ekon’s ears perked up as he slowed, eyes searching through the crowd. They eventually landed on two women standing beneath a covered stall, clearly waiting for the rain to let up. He’d been right in guessing that the first woman he’d heard was older; gray hairs streaked her waist-length braids. The woman she was standing beside looked slightly younger.
“I think it’s better that Father Olufemi destroyed the beast in private,” she said, bowing her head with reverence. “It was an evil creature, a demon.”
They were talking about the Shetani. Ekon looked away but couldn’t stop himself from stepping closer to listen. His palms grew clammy as he recalled all that’d happened just days before. Koffi. Brother Ugo. Adiah. The battle in the sky garden.
“I suppose it was,” the old woman agreed. When Ekon stole a glance in her direction, he saw she was nodding slowly. “Gods bless the Sons of the Six. I don’t know what we would do without them . . .”
Ekon moved away from the women, trying to ignore the fresh anger roiling in his stomach. Of course Father Olufemi and the Sons of the Six had found a way to cover everything up. By saying the Shetani had been destroyed privately, their integrity was protected. There was no longer a monster terrorizing the city, and it would be the warriors who received the credit for its demise. Lkossans would never know the real truth, that there had never been a monster at all, only men with horrid secrets.
And you were one of them, whispered a voice in Ekon’s head. For years you trained with them, lived with them. They were your family.
Ekon felt that churning anger turn into something else, a sudden wave of nausea, sour on his tongue. He knew it wasn’t real, the taste of shame, but it was still difficult to swallow. He thought of all the years spent watching and admiring the Sons of the Six, volunteering to clear their plates and clean their weapons. How many nights had he cleaned daggers used to cut down children, cleaned the plates of murderers?
How many signs had he missed?
In the pelting rain, his breath began to grow short, more labored. There was a familiar tightness in his chest that made it harder and harder for his lungs to expand, and his mouth went dry as he recognized the preliminary signs of a panic attack. His hands balled into tight fists as a darkness crept into the corners of his vision, and he ground his teeth together, frustrated.
Not now, not now, this can’t happen right now.
He couldn’t breathe anymore, there was an old man’s laughter in his head, cold and mirthless, the din of the market was fading, he felt as though he was on the verge of falling . . .
And then something caught his eye.
The black fuzziness at the periphery of Ekon’s vision receded like a tide as his gaze zeroed in on a girl a few feet away from him. Her skin was the color of a marula tree, her face a composite of two crow-black eyes, a wide nose, and bowlike lips. A cloak covered most of her head, though its hood was pushed back just enough to see a hint of curly black hair. At first, Ekon wondered what about her had caught his attention, but then he understood. There hadn’t necessarily been any one thing about the way the girl looked that had made him notice her; it was because of the way she moved. Everyone else in the market was milling about, unhurried in their browsing, but this girl walked with purpose, her eyes set straight ahead. She stepped around two textile merchants, and Ekon noted that she was carrying a small satchel on her shoulder, one she seemed intent on shielding from the rain.
She had just passed the place where he was standing when he noticed something else. At once, his gaze narrowed. Some feet behind her, hanging far enough back to avoid detection, two men were following the girl, their eyes fixed steadily on her back. Ekon tensed. He could guess what kinds of men those were and what they had in mind for the girl.
Stay where you can be seen, he wanted to tell her.
His heart sank as the girl did the very opposite, turning onto one of the side streets leading out of the marketplace and disappearing behind a corner. He watched as the men quickened their steps and followed.
It’s not your business, said the practical part of his brain, the one still thinking of his groceries. It doesn’t concern you. Get back to Themba.
That voice in his head was right, the better thing to do—the smarter thing to do—was to turn around, but then, without warning, his feet began to move, propelling him in the direction the girl had gone. He walked down it quickly, turned the same corner, and stopped.
“Come on, girl, we’re not asking for much,” said a gravelly voice. “Just share what’s in the bag and we’ll be on our way.”
Ekon pressed himself against the wall. The alley he was looking down was a dead end, and he could now see that the girl from the market was backed up against it, clutching at the strap of her satchel. Her dark eyes were flinty, but the tremble in her chin gave her away.
“Back off.” Her voice was too shrill to have any bite. “I said no!” “Or what?” said one of the men. “You’re going to do something, little mouse?”
He made a grab at the sack, and the girl swiped, smacking his hand away hard. The man hissed, while the other chuckled.
“Ah, our little mouse has the spirit of a viper,” he said. “At least that’ll make things interesting.”
The other man was not laughing. He lunged, and the girl jumped away, just barely keeping her sack out of his reach. Almost immediately, she had to swivel in the other direction as the first man tried to snatch it. Back and forth, the men began taking turns grabbing at her. Ekon’s heart sank. He’d lived in Lkossa long enough to understand what they were doing. There was a reason men like these were called “street hyenas”; they worked the same way real hyenas did, toying with their prey and wearing it down before they made their kill. He had no doubt this girl could hold her own against just one of them, but she was no match for a well-practiced strategy. One of them swiped again, and her dark eyes took on a wild, frantic quality. Ekon’s heart seized. She looked more and more like a trapped animal.
He let his own sack slip from his fingers as he stepped forward. “Leave her alone!”
All three of them—the two men and the girl—looked up in equal surprise. It was one of the men who spoke first.
“Who are you?”
Ekon swallowed. “I said, leave her alone.”
The second man looked back and forth between Ekon and the girl before cracking a toothy smile. “Looks like the little mouse has a boyfriend.” He regarded Ekon with amusement. “This should be entertaining.”
“He’s scrawny, barely a man,” said the first. “We’ll make short work of him.”
Barely a man. They were only words, but Ekon felt each one like a stab between his ribs. He winced at them and felt something waking in the deepest chamber of his chest. The words echoed in his mind.
Barely a man.
Days ago, Themba had found an old tunic for him to wear. It was clean, plain, and on the whole it fit well. Ekon only now realized, though, what that tunic meant. He wasn’t wearing the uniform of a Son of the Six anymore; he was no longer looked at as a man.
One-two-three.
The muscles in his jaw ached and his nostrils flared as he watched the smiles slip from the two men’s faces.
“Easy, boy,” one of them said, holding up his hands. “We don’t want any trouble—”
Ekon didn’t give him the chance to finish his sentence. With both hands, he shoved the first man in his chest as hard as he could, watching with satisfaction as he tripped over his feet and then ran. In his periphery, he saw the second man start toward him, but Ekon was faster. Years of training at the Temple of Lkossa returned to him like an old friend, familiar.
Deflect. Disarm. Dismantle.
With ease, he dodged the man’s clumsy attempt at a right hook, feinted, then countered with a cross and a series of jabs. Ekon heard the breath leave the man’s body, the telling click as his knuckles connected with a jawbone. Pain ricocheted through his hand. The man dropped to the ground, moaning as he curled into a ball and tried to cradle the side of his head, but Ekon still fell upon him, pressing his knee into the man’s torso so that he couldn’t escape.
“Barely a man,” he said through his teeth. “You’ll see for yourself who’s barely a man.” He brought his fist down, and at last he named the monster coming to life in his chest; it was rage, and it roared its approval as his fists rained down on the man, blow after blow.
I trained you well.
Ekon stopped, cringing against the voice that had entered his mind. It sounded like Brother Ugo’s.
Young and athletic, smart and meticulous, said the old man. You were the perfect combination . . . easy to mold into what I needed.
Ekon reeled, nausea climbing up his throat. He blinked several times, until Brother Ugo’s face was gone. He took in his surroundings, then looked down. The man was still pinned beneath him; his face was unrecognizable, his breath shallow. Ekon stared at his own hands; they were bloody, and they ached. A sheen of sweat slicked his brow, followed by a clammy chill. In the darkness, Ekon’s eyes wandered. Then they settled on the girl.
She was still standing at the end of the alley a few feet away from him, motionless. Ekon had expected to see some hint of emotion on her face—fear, or perhaps even repulsion—but he saw none there; the girl’s expression was utterly neutral. She’d pulled the cloak’s hood back over her face and hugged her satchel to her chest. Several seconds passed before Ekon slowly stood. The girl tensed.
“It’s okay.” Ekon raised his hands quickly, all too aware that he was standing beside a man’s unconscious body. “I . . . I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to help.”
Without warning, the girl sprung to life, moving faster than he could ever hope to. In one moment she was cornered at the end of the alley; in the next she’d turned on her heel and vanished around the corner, leaving Ekon alone in the dark.
