Saved and SAINTified, page 52
“What have ... you ... done?!” Nizsm choked out. “What ... have you ... done ... to my sons?!”
The door continued to rock and roll, and the pounds grew louder as ill-fated attempts to enter the fortress failed.
“You never once thought,” Saint continued on with his tirade, ignoring the desperate man, “that I could be smarter than you, stronger than you ... better than you!” Saint tapped the side of his temple. “I’m always thinking but more importantly, I accept my weaknesses and my downfalls. I had to, because power addiction and blind hatred will get ya destroyed, man. Your reign of terror is over. Your weaknesses are my weaknesses, dear cousin, and the worst of them all is ego.”
Nizsm closed his eyes, no doubt realizing his time was up. He’d mistaken him for a bumbling buffoon, an American fool with inferior Asian blood. The product of a soft-spoken, eccentric Korean mother growing up in the inner-city of New York and an Egyptian father whose family had fled for a better life only to discover they’d entered America’s dirty little secret—the South Bronx, declared a poverty and violence ridden warzone. But that place had taught him well, and helped prepare him for this very moment in time.
Nizsm felt himself invincible before this humiliating finality. His inability to even accept the possibility of defeat and a complete lack of humbleness was the one thing that led him astray, and it fell beautifully into Saint’s lap. He’d found and detonated, Nizsm’s atomic bomb.
Saint locked his hands tighter around Nizsm’s long neck; the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed underneath his bloodied skin as he swallowed nervously. Saint was hell bent on making this quick. No need to stretch out the inevitable; he wanted the fiend dead and with that, he looked down at Nizsm and quickly twisted the muscles, bones and ligaments to the far right, snapping Nizsm’s neck like a wispy twig on a dying, brittle tree...
CHAPTER 19
Xenia woke up in a cold sweat. A mother’s tuition was the next best thing to psychic abilities and, to some people, they were one and the same. She leapt out of the bed and through the door, storming down the hall to her children’s rooms, one by one. Each room was cool and empty. Xenia moved quicker as she hauled tail to Beset’s bedroom, her long, black satin gown flowing wildly as she walked.
She rapped on the door, and waited impatiently. After no answer, she turned the knob and entered. The entire room smelled of strong sage. She looked around in awe. She hadn’t been inside the room for at least two days, and it looked nothing like before. Feathers, glass jars filled with unknown powders, and colorful stones were all over the room. Xenia’s eyes darted from one end of the room to the other. Beset was gone and so were her children. Walking further inside, she noticed the swirls of smoke from the sticks of incense and recently blown out white and black candles.
What the fuck is going on in here and where are my babies?
She exited the room and headed down the steps, soon sighing with relief when she saw her two boys engaged in conversation with their grandfather, Beset sat at the kitchen island with a glass of water and Lawrence and Jagger huddled close, whispering secrets.
“What’s going on?” she asked as she crossed her arms over her chest, looking back and forth for Isis.
“Xenia, it appears that your sons, as well as your father-in-law and Saint’s friends here, believe that someone is approaching ... someone who shouldn’t be. Hassani had a dream and Dakarai knows their comings and goings,” Beset answered. “We didn’t want to wake you just yet.”
“Wait, where is my baby though?” Xenia asked frantically. “Where is Isis?!”
“I hid her away, Xenia.” Beset stood and cupped Xenia’s arms. “She is safe and no one will find her until it is time.”
“But where is she? I need to know!” Beset pulled Xenia aside and whispered in her ear.Xenia grabbed the old lady and whispered a question back to her. Beset obliged with an answer and patted her back, which helped Xenia calm down.
“Okay, what do my children have to tell me?” she asked in a level voice.
Saint had pulled her aside one evening and told her in great detail of the boys’ abilities after the infamous ‘flying robot’ incident. She knew there was more to it, though—a mother always knows. They were too young for such things, yet it was happening anyway.
Snatching her out of her thoughts, Dakarai stood in the middle of the room and held his head high. Like a radio announcer, he gave another report. Some portions were difficult to understand. To help him along, Beset ushered him over to the table and handed him a box of crayons and a stack of paper, allowing him to draw pictures of what he was seeing and hearing as well. The blood drained from Xenia’s face as she picked up the last piece of artwork. In brown, Dakarai had drawn two tall stick men with frowns on their faces, one holding a bag and the other, a long knife. The paper fell from her hand like a feather to the floor.
“I think it’s best we all stay here in the kitchen, together,” Lawrence urged. I will grab some blankets and pillows for the boys and...”
“Can you bring down my robot?” Hassani said with a yawn. “He’s in my room, by my chair.”
“I sure can.” Lawrence grinned down at him before disappearing up the steps...
****
Saint stepped over the still unconscious woman and opened the large stone and steel double doors. A thin trail of light poured out, enveloping him in gold. He wasn’t surprised when he was immediately thrust into an angry crowd, face-to-face with Nizsm’s wives and remaining children. No one said a word. They just backed up and stared at him, their faces twisted and their energy hard to read.
No one dared try to stop or attack him, not even Nizsm’s own father, Osiris, who made his way through the flock, click clacking his cane along the way. The old man was mourning, but he’d prepared for such an outcome. His face said it all.
Saint had killed this man’s eldest child—he’d killed his own cousin, a man as strong as he— so he deserved respect on that alone. It didn’t mean they still didn’t want to form a lynch mob and provoke him into a violent frenzy, but they knew better. Saint’s energy had grown instead of diminished and anyone who dared to step to him would be wiped out faster than a cockroach on the bottom of a shoe—swiftly, harshly, and without concern.
Lost for words, he looked into the small crowd, smelling their fear and abhorrence, except for one—and he was not sure who the owner of the backstabbing heart was, but he also detected one sigh of appreciation. The energy was female and cloaked in mystery. He searched for her, but who ever it was, she hid it well.
Despite the power surge, his soul was tired. He stumbled past them into the bright, morning sun, ready to get back home as soon as possible. But when Saint stepped out into the Egypt dawn, he couldn’t hold back a gasp. A sea of people surrounded Nizsm’s home, their faces glowing with unknown intentions.
“Oh, shit,” He whispered as he reached in his pocket, gripping the gun he’d confiscated from the wife. The energy was spastic. So many thoughts and ideas swirled in him that he could barely understand anything being shared. One thing he knew for sure, however, was that they were all family—all Angel Children. He stood there with the blood of their leader on his hands.
No gun is going to wipe out of all of these people. I’m going to have to fight ... every ... last ... one ... of ... them! He gritted his teeth and stood back. I need to get back home to my family!
Just then, a voice came from the crowd. “Is it true?!”
Saint looked in the crowd, seeing a short, frail man approach him. He stood on guard, aware that looks could be deceiving.
“Is what true?”
“You killed Nizsm? We heard and felt it. Are we mistaken? I don’t believe so! It was you, wasn’t it?!”
He held back, wary. With them all talking at once, confusing him, and his energy depleted—he was barely able to hold himself up, let alone figure them out.
“He is the father! His daughter is the Princess of Life! He is our leader!” a woman’s voice screamed.
“He is! We saw you go in, sure you’d never come back out. We’ve been waiting for you for so long!” someone sobbed.
“You’re one of us! Thank you, Allah!”
Then people began to talk on top of one another, approaching him steadily, quickly, shocking his senses. The sea of brown, tan and dark faces descended on him, their arms reaching out, their eyes full of hope. Different people speaking various languages—some he could understand, others he could not.
A man tugged his arm, and spoke in Arabic. “Thank you,” was all he said as tears ran down his face. He fell to his knees, grabbing Saint’s ankles and kissing the top of his sand covered shoes. Saint looked around, a mixture of horror, relief and sadness taking over.
“Don’t...” Saint whispered as he looked down at the man who continued to shower him with affection and devotion. But the man didn’t listen. Saint repeated his request in Arabic and the man looked up at him and stopped. Saint helped him to his feet.
“Look, my Arabic is rusty, I’m sorry. Do any of you speak English well?” Several hands went up in the crowd. “Okay, you there.” Saint pointed to a man, as tall as he with prominent cheekbones, a short, dense black beard and sunken hazel eyes. “Come here please, and help me.”
Then man rushed to him, an expression of pure admiration on his face. Saint hugged him. He could feel the man almost buckle from his touch. “I need you to help me, okay?”
The man nodded. “Yes, yes, anything for you!”
“Everything I say, repeat it back to these people in Arabic, okay?”
The man nodded again.
“My name is Saint Aknaten, and I’m from the United States.” He waited while the man translated his words.
“Some of you may know my father, Osaze Aknaten. His father and mother were born here, in Egypt.”
A few people looked around, talking and nodding their heads. His newly hired interpreter leaned over and whispered, “Some of them knew of your grandparents. Some know your father. They didn’t know you were his son.”
Saint nodded.
“You can thank Beset Muhammad for this.” The whispering abounded now. “If it were not for her, I doubt this would have ended as well, not without a miracle. She risked her life to help you.” After the interpretation, the crowd began to clap.
“You all have been suffering under the cruel hands of Nizsm. We are all Angel Children. No one, except our Creator, has the right to rule over us and determine our destiny. These rules should not be in place. Your freedom shouldn’t be contingent upon whether a little girl is born every two to three hundred years. I want you to rule yourselves. Let the Creator be your governor. I don’t want power over you.”
When the man spoke in Arabic to the crowd, the grumbling began, coupled with obvious confusion.
“Some of you don’t understand. You deserve to be free, on your own. You have a right to make your own choices, form your own opinions. I want you all to organize your own council. I want you to organize your own government, and appoint people via voting! You the people will decide who is in charge! I will order this into law, and it will be the last one I pass.”
Applause broke out.
“My wife did in fact give birth to the Princess of Life, my daughter. Your suspicions were correct that she had been born, despite Nizsm trying to keep you from the truth and wishing death upon her. However, I will be asking her permission to ban this procedure. This isn’t right. I want you all to never be in this position again and no father, no daughter, should have this sort of pressure on them. She deserves to have a normal childhood, and I,” Saint shrugged his shoulders, “I just want my little girl. I don’t want power and prestige over people, to run your lives and every move. I only want my family and my career—that’s all that matters. This dictatorship and you all living in fear, it ends now!”
The crowd went wild, cheering, stomping and dancing.
“There is nothing in divine law that states that this is the way it should be. These rules were made by man and when initially done it was to help keep civility, but just the opposite has happened. It has backfired due to greed. The original forefathers and foremothers, our Egyptian Angel Child Ancestors, did this to maintain order and peace. They were good men and women. They did not fathom that the karmic rules would not be abided by and worse of all, ignored and abused. Well, no more. We won’t take a chance on that again. Make your own Parliament. I will assist you and I have the utmost faith that my daughter, Isis, will approve everything I am saying. Start getting yourselves together, brainstorming and strategizing. I vote this approved. You are free!”
More applause broke out and the people scattered about, most of them, ambushing him with plentiful hugs and kisses. Saint politely pulled away from the overzealous crowd.
“I must leave. I will leave contact information with...” He looked at the smiling man beside him.
“My name is Aahil,” the man offered.
“With Aahil, here.” And with that, Saint exchanged information with the man, who grabbed him abruptly and hugged him. Saint struggled against his grip, smiling sheepishly when the man finally released him. “Aahil.” He took his arm. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” he nodded happily, tears streaking his face. Saint started to walk away, only thoughts of getting home on his mind.
“Dr. Aknaten.”
Saint turned back toward him.
“You saved our lives!” The man’s voice trembled.
Saint smiled weakly, waved in acknowledgement then took off running from the damned place with all of his might.
****
Some time later...
“Do you have everything now?” Jagger grunted as he escorted Xenia back into the kitchen.
“Yes, thank you.”
She’d stated she needed to use the restroom and it had to be her own private bathroom—the one she and Saint shared exclusively. Though the request was odd, he didn’t delve too deeply. Shrugging, he figured anyone in love with Saint had to be an oddball themselves, a very beautiful oddball she was, nevertheless.
He couldn’t help but envy Saint as he looked at her playing with their children. It was obvious she was nervous, darn right scared to death, but she saved face for her children’s sake. He admired her luscious, full lips, toned but curvaceous figure outlined under the clinging fabric of her gown. He knew his thoughts were inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want Xenia for himself; he was simply admiring the man’s tastes. Saint had himself a winner. He saw the adoration for her husband in her eyes.
He smiled inwardly, happy that he now had a chance to feel what Saint and Lawrence did. Slowly but surely, his relationship with Traci was growing. It was still difficult for him, but her award winning personality and zest for life made it so much easier. He had finally admitted, at least to himself, that he had a thing for all women—sistas included. Saint had him pegged the first day they met and though Jagger didn’t enjoy being put on the spot, he did appreciate the man’s straightforwardness. He also had a good eye; Traci was no wallflower or anything to snub. Saint had expensive taste in items and ladies, and he always made sure he suggested the best to his closest friends and family.
They hadn’t consummated the relationship yet—Jagger was working on it, but he also wanted to make sure his heart was all right beforehand, because he knew, once they did that, it wouldn’t be just fucking, it would be making love. And to him, that was serious.
She was different than all the rest he’d met over the years. He hadn’t been in love since the ex. Now, all that was changing…
Jagger was suddenly thrust out of his thoughts when he felt a glare from across the room. The younger boy—his scorching golden eyes glowed as if they were powered by a yellow gas flame, just like his father’s. A disconcerting smirk appeared on the lad’s face.
Deaf mute ... sneaky little bastard. Jagger smiled. I’ve never seen one this young before. Nothing strange about him in the least ... looks like an ordinary little kid. But cha gotta watch ’em, they will throw you off guard. Psychic crooks and telekinetic escape artists—you can’t block ’em once they reach maturity, but they can block you easily.
He felt the magnetic pull as Dakarai tried to play hopscotch with his thoughts. He was breaking in, and Jagger hated it. So he concentrated with all of his might, hoping that with the special wall of mental static he’d built, the mute would become overly-exerted, and he’d seek other prey.
His plan worked. Dakarai turned away, apparently bored with the game Jagger was playing, not because he couldn’t win, but because his attention span was rather low. Jagger had to admit that he, too, was a little jealous of the power Dakarai had, although he’d never admit it out loud. It seemed that his weaknesses were leveled out by this rare skill. He’d never grow up and be like his daddy, but he had this—this one card to play, time and time again, and what a creepy, yet beautiful card it was...
****
Saint fidgeted nervously in his seat on the plane. He tried to not bring too much attention to himself, and he’d already been held up in customs.
Fuck! Let’s go already! He looked around and out the window frantically, as if that would somehow make the plane taxi down the runway faster. He felt helpless again ... just like when his mother came to him in a dream all those years prior, warning him that his Queen was slated to be murdered. He’d raced from New York to California, but now, he had less control. He was in a totally different country and the slightest mishap would have him delayed yet again. He sulked, leaning back into his seat.
Osiris’ energy, heavy and dark, stayed with him—the man was in bottomless bereavement. Nizsm’s family had gathered his and his son’s dead bodies, as well as his incapacitated wife, and taken them from the room. Nizsm was put him into a separate room, lain amongst flowers. None of that would matter—Nizsm was going to hell and everyone knew it. He’d broken too many karmic laws, disobeyed their Creator time and time again, and shamed the Angels that had created him, in love. Worst yet, his remaining children would be tarnished from the ordeal. No amount of flowers, kisses, tears and pleading would save his tattered soul. He’d get the same treatment he’d given others and the same forgiveness he’d bestowed—absolutely none.
