Sin Eaters: Devotion Book One (4 page)

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Authors: Kai Leakes

BOOK: Sin Eaters: Devotion Book One
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Marco chimed in with restrained anger, “
Comprendo. So we don't let 'em know what we are, but they get to meet the men behind the business. Let's do this. I feel their asses surrounding the guides, bro. We need to move out.
”
Khamun clenched his fists, sitting back and thinking, while a nerve in his jaw began twitching. He zoned out as he thought over the whole game plan. “
Okay, this is what we do. We wait some days to let them know who Protection Corps is. I need to hunt those bastards. We need to hunt them bastards. They stepped over into my territory . . . our territory.
”
Marco flashed a brief dimpled smile, and his fangs lengthened. His grey eyes darkened, and he heard Calvin load his gun and strap it to his back, while adjusting himself on his bike.
“A'ight! Slayer to Stalker, blood to blood, time to make it do what it do,
familia
!” he shouted out loud.
Driving off from their complex, Calvin glanced over his shoulder as he watched the massive building cloak itself in a mirage-like shimmer, appearing as a destroyed shipping dock. He had to remember to thank his adopted sister, Kalika, for choosing a great spot when she came back from India. Kali was their local tech Mystic and Slayer. She wasn't a traditional Mystic, which always made her feel like an outcast, but that made her perfect for this house full of outcasts.
Calvin couldn't wait to see his sis again. He still recalled how they had fallen into each other's life back in Harlem at the park eleven years ago. That meeting was the catalyst in learning that he was an Immortal. More than that, in this new life of his, he was now a partial Mystic, something he didn't realize he'd come back as. All of his lives, he could remember being trained as a Slayer. He even remembered being gifted with immortality in the bayous of Louisiana.
It made him smile and tighten his large hands on the handlebars of his cycle in fury. That life didn't give him the happy memories he wanted, except for being gifted, but it was what it was—life. Now, he could only trip over how his lives had evolved. Outside of being a protective big brother to Kalika, he was a young thirty-year-old music producer. That was his thing. In all his lives he could channel the emotions, the history of people gone, which helped him define his sound and produce the type of music that always left a positive message in your heart, while making you kick it in the club, if need be.
His bro's called him the Poet, the Renaissance man, or Mr. Black Panther, and he was cool with it. He was about his music and his family. Do or die was his motto. Mess with either, and you messing with death. He was an old-school Slayer. Hell, he had come up with many of the tactics of hunting from back in his old lives in the bayous, in Harlem's roaring twenties streets, and as a 'Nam vet who'd joined the Black Panthers. He was about survival and the hunt, and he knew he was the go-to man about it all.
Calvin was a lean six eight, hazelnut-hued, football player-built brother with soul-searching emerald-colored eyes. He had to laugh when he thought about his eyes. Them eyes right here messed up many a woman's sexual walls of protection, had him breaking them down like a train. His eyes marked him as a Mystic, and he was a damn good one at that.
Despite the fact that he was born and raised in Harlem, it was commonplace for many Immortals, or Disciples as they were called in Society, to still make a second home in the birthplace of their first life, and the same was true for Calvin. He spent many summers in “Nawlins” visiting his grandmother, who in the Nephilim Society would be called a Prophet, a human male or female, gifted with the abilities of a Mystic or just a Seer. Some kept the history of the Nephilim Society; others were just Guides and helpmates to innocents or Vessels.
These lessons were taught well to him and Kali. The family motto of them all ran deep in their minds. So they learned the rich history of their family and relatives. Kali and he both trained and spoke with their cousin Bishop, or Unc as Calvin always called him, who was like a second father to them both. They met and played with their close-in-age cousins, Sanna, Darren, and Amara, while keeping the Nephilim part of the family tree quiet from his young human cousins for their safety, as was typical in the Nephilim Society. It wasn't uncommon to have human family out there in this massive world.
Spending so much time in New Orleans left him with a mixed an accent that blended into a sensual drawl that helped liquefy many females when he sang or spat his rhymes. He had to thank the Lord for that gift; it also helped lure many Cursed females to him, as an expert Slayer should be able to do.
Calvin pulled off his skull cap and narrowed his eyes, scanning the darkness before him. Observing the quiet downtown city streets of the Lou, he ran an idle hand over his low-cut fade, which had swirling African spiritual protection symbols artfully and carefully cut on one side of his hair in a part. He inhaled sharply and silently sent a prayer chant of protection over his brothers and the guides they intended to keep away from the Cursed. He put his cap back on and rolled out as the light turned green.
Khamun closed his eyes as he sat outside his Guide's mother's house, the cool night air idly flipping his locks. He rolled his shoulders as he heard Calvin pull up, hop off his bike, and quietly get in the backseat of the Escalade as if he hadn't a care in the world.
One of the first rules younglings were taught in Society was, silence is golden, and the Attacker, or the Reaper as he preferred to be called by his bro's, took that rule to heart. It was what fed them, kept them on their toes, and helped him find his prey, oh so well, and tonight wasn't going to be any different.
Picking up his cell, he punched three digits and waited. “Lenox, relocate the contractors to the Nile building. Yeah, they overstepped the boundary. You know what to do.” Disconnecting his cell phone, Khamun motioned for his brothers to move out, informing their minds that they would take out the Cursed watching the Guide's house. He closed his eyes as Calvin inhaled sharply and whispered a teleportation prayer.
Landing in the back of an empty house, he heard his bro's land at the same time in different sections of the quiet neighborhood surrounding Cursed entities. He smiled. It never stopped to amaze him how his senses responded to the hunt. It was mind-blowing, almost addictive.
Quietly stalking, he scaled the side of the house, propelling himself upward, and stood on the roof in a low crouch. The adrenalin in his system made the muscles in his body twitch with anticipation and a slight calmness as he inhaled the cool night air. Cutting into the night, his amber eyes sliced through the darkness and slightly glowed with the touch of the moonlight.
At twenty-nine, Khamun was a Reaper. He had no other term to call it, because he still didn't know what he was. No one in Society, not even his own parents, could understand his extra abilities. So the first time he went on a hunt, which wasn't purposeful, and he fed from his first victim, he had decided to never tell his parents that their dear son was something unheard of.
His wings expanded into the night as he flew in the air, gliding into a leap, and landed on the top of a nearby car. He descended so lightly, not a sound was made as he jumped off and sprinted to the back of his Guide's house without the Cursed knowing. Skidding to a halt, his fangs crested as he crouched low behind his Guide's mother's garage.
The air near the garage was filled with a putrid smell, and he knew a Cursed Gargoyle was near. Extremely near. His gloved hands fisted. He was tempted to retrieve a blade but opted to use his hands for the kill. He loved the feel of a Gargoyle's flesh tearing in his hands as he sent the beast back to hell.
Resting a solitary hand on the soft grass, he was furious as the energy of the land let him glean what had occurred. They brought Gargoyles, which meant the S.O.B.s were on a mission to reap havoc. It wasn't making sense. What was it that had a team of Cursed ready to kill his Guide? Usually, it was a simple Light-versus-Dark scuffle, an I-want-what-you-got war when it came to Guides, but this was different. This was more than one Cursed warrior here; it was a small team.
Coming back to reality, he clutched the grass and clucked his tongue as a nerve ticked in his jaw. Well, this was just interesting. He knew many parts of the Lou had areas where old slave and forgotten graves used to rest, or old church plots, but this was more. This was both. He grinned.
His Guide's house happened to be resting on old holy land blessed by Native Americans, then later the Church through the generations. He could read the history and feel the pain of the past in the souls being cut off too soon due to bigotry, fear, pure animosity, and more.
His Guide's mother chose a proper house location, and now it was time to handle what they came to do. He felt his brothers in the midst of the fight already as he waited for the Gargoyle to come his way. Rolling his sleeves up, intricate prayer symbols swirled on his forearms as he kept a palm flat on the land and another resting against the garage.
 
 
Marco was on a mission. He felt his cousin searching the neighborhood like a mad man. He reached for the barrel that was securely strapped on his back and moved quietly yet quickly, shielding himself in the shadows. He wondered if she was here. He couldn't deal with the actions he would have to take if she was.
He eyed a Hunter who had backed up into his way. He stopped in the middle of the street then slowed his stride to a deliberate stroll, lighting a “trinity,” as they called it in Society. Trinities were rumored to be named after the three wise Disciples who'd first introduced the rejuvenating three-spiced herb anointing, and healing, non-addictive cigarillo to Society.
Putting the trinity out, he kept it in his mouth as he slightly nodded to the Hunter, who kept looking at him. His eyes scrolled over his staring target, and he kept his cool, silent and assessing. This was a female Hunter, dressed in dark colors that accented her deep-swept curves. He almost hissed when he saw a white collar adorning her neck, because this let him know the House she represented, another thing that marked her for death.
Marco chuckled softly and crossed his arms over his hard chest as he walked around the Hunter. His voice lowered into a drawl as he let his accent roll off his tongue, “Ey, so how long do we have to be out here watching like this?”
Marco had to laugh because the Hunter was still confused. He loved newbie Hunters who still couldn't tell if he was Light or Cursed. He watched as the newbie shrugged and returned her attention back to the house. His eyes stayed focused on the Hunter and the house as he stepped closer.
The intensity of the closeness made her finally speak. “She a potential, waiting for the word to get her.”
Marco rocked back and forth on his heels, chewing on his cigarillo, his hands calmly sliding in his pockets. “Aw, like you were
chica
, huh?”
Within a span of a heartbeat, before she could reply, Marco reached and grabbed the Hunter by her delicate neck and whispered, “Shhhhhhh!
Escucha
. Play with me.” He felt her struggle while he dragged her from view.
She tried a swift kick to his head, which he promptly blocked, still gripping her neck. Her sharp grunt and growl revealed her fangs as they glinted in the night with each jerk of her body.
As she twisted, he held her tighter then turned her to face him. His voice dripped with an icy, malicious drawl. “Let me tell you who I am. I am the grey, and you are no more.”
Recognition lit her eyes as they flashed red, and she pushed to attack, rasping, “Traitor!”
Kissing her angry lips, he blew the smoke from his relit trinity into her mouth and watched her choke on it. Her eyes widened at the assault of blessed smoke. She screamed, and he let her go. He stared in deep contention as she clasped at her throat, while still trying to attack him.
Re-crossing his arms over his wide, solid chest, he sighed and continued to watch with a bored expression on his face as she fell to her knees and looked up at him. Her wide eyes flashed with frozen fear.
Marco kneeled down before his target and blew more smoke in her face and pushed her head to the side, exposing her neck.
The frightened Hunter reacted in innate fright-flight reaction, reaching out to claw his face.
Unfazed, Marco's bite was quick like a cobra's and purposely painful. The Hunter paled, letting out a final scream as white light exploded from the street and side of the building where they were, dissolving her into ash and ambers.
Standing, Marco licked his lips. He savored the taste of her sudden fear of the Light he had poured into her system. With that bite, he was able to connect to that fear of the Most High unto her soulless body, spreading it through her tainted body.
Turning to walk away, he placed his trinity in his mouth and hummed, “As they say, give up the ghost. Let her know that when you see her again in Hell, bella.”
 
 
Calvin landed with a thud, cracking cement, as an Anarchy Snatcher blasted him with a punch to his chest.
“Dayum!” escaped his lips as he flipped forward and rolled into a low crouch, holding twin scythe blades in each hand. His massive shoulders shifted as he rolled his neck, cracking it. Working a prayer spell into each blade, his emerald eyes softly glowed, as did his tats on the back of his cocoa-rich neck and shoulders. He slowly rose to meet the Anarchy Snatcher coming his way.

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