The First Male (45 page)

Then, he stopped struggling.

He stood in the center of the room, looking longingly at Brooke with his sad eyes. Her tear-stained face was streaked black with makeup. She brought her hand up to her lips and blew him a kiss and he smiled.

“I remember me. I remember. Thank you,” said Simon, resigned to his fate.

“I don't wanna die. Grandmother, save me. I renounce the dark! I renounce it!” Eli screamed, just before he collapsed at her feet. He hit the floor hard, his eyes frozen open with shock.

He was dead.

Then, Simon dropped to the floor.

Dead.

Thomas felt his head spin violently as the force that gave him life was ripped suddenly from his body. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed dryly, expelling flaky gray material from his lungs. Then, he looked at his forearm and watched helplessly, in horror, as his flesh quickly wrinkled and crumbled from his arm. He peered into his mother's face, smiling innocently even as his body began to disintegrate into gray ash. A gentle breeze arose inside the cabin, scattering his remains across the wooden floor.

From ash he was conjured; to ash he returned.

C
HAPTER
30

B
rooke sat in the solarium of the house that used to belong to Clara and sipped a cup of Addie's special tea slowly; she savored each flavorful drop. There was something about the sweetness of the drink that made her think of sweet times she spent with Simon. The rich aroma of the beverage filled her nostrils and relaxed her body. She peered out of the window into the warm light of day, which illuminated the room as if it were glowing.

Over the last few months she had learned to love the sun, the light.

She blew the steam that rose from the cup and watched it fade into nothingness. She was alone in the house, but she never really felt alone. She felt protected by the ancestors that inhabited the house; sometimes, they spoke to her. Sometimes, she spoke back. She wasn't afraid; after all she had seen, fear was no longer a part of her.

She had come a long way over the last six months; a long way, indeed. After the ordeal in the cabin and the death of Simon, she withdrew into herself for days. She shut out the world, but she couldn't shut out the voice that whispered in her head, the voice that called her
Mommy
.

She looked down at her swollen belly and missed Simon; at least the Simon that she knew. Before things became so bizarre, she
had imagined being his wife and carrying his child; only part of her dream came true.

“Hello, my dear,” Addie said as she entered the room. “May I join you?” Addie's face was luminescent, youthful.

“Of course you can.” Addie moved over to where Brooke sat and poured herself a cup of tea. She sat upright in the chair, as a proper lady would.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I'm good,” Brooke said. “Really good; the baby's been kicking a lot.”

“What has she said?”

“She told me her name—Genesis. She likes to be called Jenny for short.”

“Genesis; as in—the beginning?” Addie said with a question in her voice. “I guess it
is
time for a new beginning. I like it.”

“I'm glad.”

Addie sipped her tea, slowly. “I may have Clara's seer powers, but I can see nothing of Genesis—the offspring of The One; nor is there anything written.”

“We know how well the prophecies worked with Simon,” Brooke said sarcastically.

“She could be the most powerful witch in the history of the world.”

“Or, she could be the most gentle soul that has ever walked the earth. I can feel the love she has. I can feel it. She
is
love. I want Jenny to live a normal life.”

Addie sipped. “Is that possible? We don't even know what she is.”

“She is her father's daughter; she's my daughter—your great-granddaughter.”

“What does she want?” Addie's voice was void of emotion as an uneasy peace settled into the room.

Brooke exhaled. “She simply wants to be born.”

Addie continued sipping her tea, slowly.

Brooke took a long sip and smiled at Addie. She turned her attention to the bright summer day that existed on the other side of the window. She felt Jenny kick a few times and Brooke placed her hand on her belly, as if to soothe her unborn daughter, who spoke to her. Brooke wasn't quite sure what it meant, but her entire body stiffened when Jenny's thoughts entered her mind. Jenny projected five stolen words: I AM THAT I AM.

A
BOUT
L
EE
H
AYES

Lee Hayes is the author of the novels
Passion Marks, A Deeper Blue: Passion Marks II, The Messiah
and the editor of
Flesh to Flesh: An Erotic Anthology
. He currently resides in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. He can be reached at
[email protected]
, or via Facebook at
www.facebook.com/leehayeswriter
. Please visit his website at:
www.leehayes.info
.

A
LSO BY
L
EE
H
AYES

Passion Marks

A Deeper Blue: Passion Marks II

The Messiah

I
F YOU ENJOYED
“T
HE
F
IRST
M
ale,”

CONTINUE YOUR WALK ON THE
D
ARK
S
IDE WITH

The

MESSIAH

B
Y
L
EE
H
AYES

A
VAILABLE FROM
S
TREBOR
B
OOKS

PROLOGUE
IN THE BEGINNING
 . . .

Jazz McKinney

T
he buzzing sound of flies will resonate in his ears
forever
. That annoying, dissonant sound caused by the rapid vibrations of tiny wings that had stolen the peace from countless languid summer evenings was the only thing he could focus on, as he lay battered and bloodied in a field of orange, yellow, and blue. Stunning summer hues dotted the landscape on the grassy knoll as his world morphed from living colors to a gray and mangled mesh of madness. Jazz McKinney struggled to keep his eyes open, but he knew the uncontrolled swelling would soon blot out his vision and his view of the world would darken.
Maybe forever
.

Yet, given that grim reality, that buzzing sound kept him holding on to life.

That ceaseless buzzing—a sound that rang louder than his own listless voice—numbed the pain of the million ant bites, which stung his limp body. Each time he opened his mouth to scream for help, the sound rang hollow; not even a decibel and barely a whisper. So, he sent his silent prayers to the heavens and hoped that God was listening.

He remembered trying to scream, but there was no sound. He remembered trying to move, but the only movement was the involuntary shooting pains that kept him immobile.

Though he often thought it cliché, his life did indeed flash before his eyes. Sadly, all he could see was the nameless faces from a thousand midnight encounters. He had taken residence in a world created by
fantasies and actions without consequence; a reckless world where instant gratification was like sweet nectar and remorse simply didn't exist.

He mentally erased their faces at the conclusion of a lustful rendezvous, often never knowing their names. Now, those same strangers who had been his one constant in life, were poised to be his one constant in his death. Oddly, a death he invited in part to a late-night “craving.”

He didn't imagine his body would survive very long in its present condition—broken and battered.
And isolated
. In his moment of ultimate desperation, when all seemed lost, something more meaningful should have filled his head. He should have been focused on life after death and his final resting place in eternity, yet he could not free his mind of their faces. And that buzzing. That damned buzzing tormented him.

As he lay there, blood oozing from his busted body, the hollow faces spiraled around his head in a choreographed ritual of torture.
Go away
, he thought, but the reflections of his misdeeds were permanent fixtures in his mind. The images were so real to him in those fevered moments that he wanted to reach out and touch their ethereal silhouettes, but he didn't have the strength.

The nasty flies were drawn to his rotting flesh, which would soon sizzle in the intense summer heat when the sun took its rightful place in the sky. Jazz feared they would devour him and leave no remains to be claimed; all that would endure after he faded would be naked bones. The moonlit brutality he experienced at the hands of a stranger now gave way to a dazzling daylight despair. His fears of dying in an abandoned field and the intensity of his pain did not fade when the sun majestically rose.

As he lay prostrate in the field, the events that led to his predicament replayed in his head but he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to relive the attack. He wanted to pretend it never happened, but each time he attempted to move, the pain forced him to remember. Each time he looked around at the weeds and flowers and dirt and broken glass that surrounded him, he could not deny the attack.

Jazz vividly remembered what
he
did to him. He could still feel every thrust, every fist, and every kick as his body continued to throb with waves of pain.

He remembered
his
deranged laughter, which ricocheted in the night.

He remembered crying out, only to be answered by a kick to the face.

He could still see and feel the boot that caused blood to gush from his nose. It was a Timberland.

Jazz remembered the incoherent prayers that escaped from his attacker's twisted mouth while he lay in the field.

Jazz remembered begging
him
to stop and apologizing profusely for his actions, but that only caused laughter to swell and spill from
his
vile mouth.

Naked, dizzied, and pleading for his life, he remembered staring up into the dark sky as his vision blurred, while his attacker's voice shifted between manic states of rage and calm. Even as he lay bound in the field, he remembered. He could not forget. Jazz bore the shame of his lust and tried to imagine being somewhere else. He tried to imagine this was someone else's nightmare instead of his own. But the details of the night's betrayal raced through his fleeting consciousness like strong river currents.

The evening started with such promise but ended in such despair. Pain, visions, voices, and memories splashed on the canvas of his mind. He fought to push them away, but they stood their ground, refusing to leave, scrambling and heightening his anxiety. Scenes of torture traded places with apparitions of bliss; visions of violence exchanged posture with images of pleasure. After all, Jazz was facing his senior year in college—a year of promise and partying; not his death.

His roommate Montre had gone home to California for the summer and left him in Washington, D.C. to fend for himself. He felt partially betrayed since the duo had discussed subletting an apartment for the summer and working at Fashion Centre at Pentagon City to pay the bills. Jazz had envisioned a fun-filled, carefree summer. He wanted to run wild in Chocolate City and let D.C. know it had been graced by his presence.

He wanted his last summer in the city to be seared in a blaze of glory. He wanted to leave the men saddened, wobbly, and shaken, but happy that they had experienced his magic, if only for a small moment in time. So when Montre told him he had to return home to help take care of his ailing mother, Jazz was disappointed, but he understood.

He was thrilled at the thought of graduating and moving to New York City thereafter to jumpstart his stagnant modeling career. After years of local modeling, he told himself he'd give the Big Apple a two-year try and if it didn't work out, he'd get a job using the degree he was earning in mechanical engineering.
Quite an accomplishment for a disavowed stepson of a preacher
, he thought.