Blood Rising

Book 2: Blood Saga

by Markus Redmond

Genres: African American Historical; Horror; Alternative History sci-fi

Synopsis

In a brilliantly terrifying blend of supernatural horror and alternate history for fans of Ryan Coogler's Sinners and readers of Victor LaValle, Tananarive Due, and Stephen Graham Jones, a vengeful vampire tribe formed of formerly enslaved Africans wages war across the Southern colonies in the ultimate battle of blood and betrayal.

Kwadzo Okoro never believed the bloody legend of Ramanga was real. Now, he stands as the leader of a new Ramanga Tribe, one that sieged the Barrow plantation in a storm of righteous carnage, liberating its formerly enslaved Africans. Reclaimed as the Crimson Plantation, it is now also home to the wronged Natives who fearlessly aligned with the Ramangans.

But Kwadzo knows that freedom is not secure. Bartholomew and Constance Crabtree, the most influential slaveholders in the region since the demise of Big Jim Barrow, are galvanizing the Lakeside community to strike back—violently. The threat they pose, however, pales in comparison to the insidious menace of Penelope Knudsen. Her white-hot hatred, now fueled by Ramangan blood, and an ability to survive the sunlight—a power Kwadzo doesn’t have—threatens to upend Kwadzo’s advancement of Ramangan might throughout the colonies to free his people.

But the gravest threat comes from within: Rafazi. His blood fathered the rebellion, but he will not take orders from his own creation. And when Rafazi makes a deadly deal with the Crabtrees, Kwadzo is forced into a battle with his maker that he may not survive, while the everlasting freedom of every enslaved person in the colonies hangs in the balance.

In Carolina and beyond, a reckoning is coming that will change the colonies forever.

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Kwadzo Okoro stood on the covered porch of his manor as night was quickly becoming day. The grand white façade of what used to be called Barrow Manor had been painted over in a brilliant crimson red. Much had changed in the thirty days that passed since the bloody battle waged inside the manor’s walls. Still, vigilance was necessary. Ramangans were stationed around the perimeter of the property now, and Native warriors would take their place once the sun had arisen. The fighters of Ramangan Blood had warded off two blistering attacks from Lakeside townsfolk since the fall of Big Jim Barrow, and Kwadzo was sure there would be more. Still, there was a sense of peace in the knowledge that the man was no more.

From the handful of runaway slaves that trickled up to his doorstep in the weeks that followed the victory, he’d learned that a few other Lakeside plantation owners had perished in the manor battle. The slaves had heard rumors of vicious but triumphant Ramangans killing their masters. Some took the opportunity to run but were hunted down by overseers. Others remained too frightened to leave, and save for a very small number, most were even more terrified of the Ramangans. There was no telling what would happen as word spread beyond Lakeside, but Kwadzo knew he needed to stay ready for whatever was to come.

“’Twas a lovely night!”

Rafazi was dressed in a finely tailored suit with elaborate embroidery and in full Ramangan form. He used a spun-silk handkerchief to wipe the excess blood that trickled from his lips. The libertine disposition Rafazi had taken over the course of the past month amused Kwadzo to no end.

“How would you know?” Kwadzo chuckled as he shook his head. “You’ve spent your night in a bedchamber with women and blood.”

“As I said, ’twas a lovely night.”

They shared a chuckle at Rafazi’s comment while he replaced his handkerchief. “Seems a shame to cover my skin with clothing. The Blood makes it glorious, especially in Ramangan form. Humans have such difficulty resisting the touch of it.”

“And where did you get such finery?” Kwadzo asked, taking the lapel of Rafazi’s jacket between his fingers to feel its smoothness.

“There are talented tailors among us, capable of far more than just whittling down Ol’ Barrow’s clothes to fit, which you seem perfectly fine with. The only finery you wear is that little trophy on your finger.”

It was true that not everything in the manor was lost before Kwadzo extinguished the fire that raged through it. Even now, he wore the altered pants—held up by two straps of cotton the tailors had fashioned with brackets that attached to the waistband of the garment in the front and back to keep them in place—and ill-fitting shirt of the man who once called himself Kwadzo’s master. But the ring of ruby and gold was his favored prize of victory. The ruby on his finger shimmered in the waning moonlight, and as he always did since he claimed it from Big Jim’s finger, he got lost in its sparkling redness. It reminded him that he would never be owned by anyone ever again.

“I prefer something that befits my station,” Rafazi said, his words shifting Kwadzo’s focus.

“And what station is that?”

“Master, of course.”

“There is a part of me that envies you, Rafazi.” Kwadzo laughed heartily.

“Envy is wasted energy, my friend. Being a leader does not mean you must lead every moment. Our people are strong. So are the Natives. They know what to do. You have earned the right to enjoy your victory.”

Kwadzo didn’t respond. Rafazi was no leader, he had said so himself. There was no way he could know the burdens that weighed on the head of a leader. Kwadzo gave silent thanks for Gertie. Only she could help quiet his mind, even if his quieting hers aided in the task.

“We come to stand guard.”

Nez arrived with a large group of hulking Native tribesmen in tow. Kwadzo owed the young man a debt of gratitude. Had they not crossed paths and come to their mutually beneficial agreement, neither the crops nor the manor would have reached the level of repair they had so quickly. Working together, their collective peoples were a formidable foe against the colonists.

“There is still a bit of time before the sun rises,” Kwadzo said to Nez. “Do your men need food or water before they stand guard?”

“No. Ready now. My people go to kitchen yard, offer blood,” Nez said as his men assumed the positions of the guarding Ramangans, who languidly made their way back toward the manor.

“And, may I say, it is delightful,” Rafazi said with a smile, one he tempered under the glare of Nez. “And we are extremely grateful to you and your people for your sacrifice.”

Kwadzo clocked Nez’s wariness. He had been instrumental in helping the chieftain of his tribe come to an agreement with Kwadzo for their peoples to share the land, and more than a few of their number had voluntarily gifted their blood in gratitude—and, Kwadzo suspected, in the interest of keeping bloodlust at bay. But trust between the two peoples, between Nez and Kwadzo, was still not absolute. It was clear that more than a few of Nez’s people were not comfortable with Ramangans, and while things were steady now as the situation was mutually beneficial, there was no telling how long their alliance would hold.

“Please, Nez,” Kwadzo said, hoping to help remedy the situation. “Do come inside. Let us feed you, quench your thirst with wine and ale.”

A growl of pain sounded before Nez could answer. A blur rushed onto the porch and became a Ramangan, wincing in pain from his smoking shoulder. As the light of the sun began to break through, the remaining Ramangans used their blurs to escape its rays, racing into the manor as the Indigenous warriors stood ready in their place.

“Kwadzo? You hear that?”

Kwadzo focused his hearing as he looked out at the thicket of trees across the road from the manor with Rafazi. Kwadzo’s eyes narrowed, and his Ramangan sight caught a group of five white men moving through the trees, armed with bows and arrows.

“It’s another attack. Five of them in the trees,” Rafazi said, his eyes now glowing red.

Nez’s brow crinkled in confused awe. “How you see in dark?”

A grunt of pain came from the perimeter as one of the Native warriors fell to the ground, an arrow stuck in his chest. Another arrow followed, this one slicing into a column on the porch mere inches from Kwadzo’s face. As he pulled the arrow out of the beam, Rafazi backed away with a shudder.

“Silver …”

The arrowhead was indeed made of silver. Kwadzo resisted the urge to touch it, forgetting for the moment that silver had lost its effect on him ever since he had absorbed the manor fire. “Why are they using bows and arrows? The last two attacks came with fire, guns, and chants from far more than five.”

“Maybe it’s just a few angry small farmers. It doesn’t seem like an organized attack,” Rafazi said.

“I go with men,” Nez said. “Capture white men. Bring them to you.”

Kwadzo nodded as Nez rushed off the porch and collected the warriors guarding the front of the property to run after the white men in the trees.

“Come, Kwadzo,” Rafazi said. “The sun is upon us.”

He rushed inside the manor, but Kwadzo remained, his blood stirring. Something was off.

And then he smelled the smoke.

It was coming from inside the manor. Kwadzo spun, his blur racing through the house, which still had several rooms in a state of disrepair—including the parlor room, where two white men were throwing furniture on a pile while a torch-wielding third was setting it on fire. At the sound of screams, he saw three more white men swinging swords, keeping a few of the newly turned Ramangans who surrounded them at bay while the African humans tried to hide in their panic. The surrounded men swung frantically at those Ramangans only to miss their speeding blurs. Though those of the Blood escaped the blades, they would quickly reposition and hold the circle, effectively keeping the sword wielders contained. The five outside the manor had been decoys.

“Y’all demon niggers may be fast,” one of the sword wielders shouted, “but this here silver’s gonna cut y’all down to size and send y’all straight back to hell!”

Kwadzo felt the sting of a blade cut through his midsection before he looked down and saw the sword, covered in his blood, sticking out of him. He muffled his groans of pain as he heard five of the white men laugh.

“Ain’t think we’d come for you in the daytime, did you, nigger?” the sixth man behind him asked, the one who had plunged the sword in his back. “Don’t you worry none. There’s more of us comin’. How’s that silver feel, nigger? We gonna kill you and burn this place down with y’all inside. Then we gonna put things back the way they was ’round here.”

“KWADZO!!”

Gertie’s voice. She stood ten feet away from him, her face covered in shock and tears, staring at the blade embedded in him. Fanna was at her side.

“We gonna kill her, too,” the white man behind him whispered.

Get Gertie somewhere safe, Kwadzo communicated mentally to Fanna, who disappeared with Gertie in her blur as a new throng of white men rushed through the house armed with rifles, torches, and blades. He could feel a heat growing behind him and clocked the confused faces of the white men rushing toward him.

“Why ain’t the silver doin’ him in?” one of the men behind him asked another. With a smile, Kwadzo took his Ramangan form—his eyes grew red as his brow extended over them, becoming engorged. His facial veins became visible beneath his skin; his jagged teeth and fangs came out of hiding, as did the razor-sharp edges on his fingertips. With his blur, he reached his talons into the mouths of the two men that used the most disparaging word to insult him and his people with and ripped their tongues from their mouths. As they screeched and sprayed blood from their mouths, Kwadzo stretched out his arms, thrusting his weight backward and falling into the fire, taking the two white men who were at his back with him. The sounds of the men screaming and of more white men running through the manor wreaking havoc were drowned out by his own shrieks as the fire overtook him.

The pain was searing. He shut his eyes tight and felt death take hold of the two white men at his sides as the clothing he wore burned away. The pain was intense but familiar, almost annoyingly so. His mind raced with thoughts of his people, of Gertie. But he could not simply lie here and burn. White men were rushing through the house—his house—who needed to be stopped. He knew it would be much longer before the pain from the flames would give way to a feeling of fullness. He felt the process within him accelerate as his body began to absorb the flames that engulfed him, and when he opened his eyes, his vision had gone a fiery orange.

Kwadzo was no longer covered in flames, though the bodies of the dead men behind him continued to burn. He was naked, but he didn’t have time to care. He rose to his feet and looked down at the bright orange-and-red cracks crisscrossing the entirety of his skin. He tore the sword from his frame with a mighty howl and felt both his blood and fire repairing the wound. Fire once again coursed through his veins—he could feel it circulating through his blood, just as it had before, but this time it was different. This time, he was prepared for it. He knew what to do with it. The pain had been less than it was before, and the flickering orange in his eyes lessened when he wanted it to because he controlled it.

He could control all of it.

With flame bursting through his veins, Kwadzo opened his mouth wide until it filled with fire. He unleashed it in a ball, followed by another, and then another, aiming his flames at the white men who had invaded his manor. They screamed in torture as Kwadzo focused his balls of flame precisely where he wanted them to go, blasting the men in their knees, chests, and backs, careful to keep the flame away from his people, human or Ramangan, who did battle against them. The white men were few and his work was quick; there had been eleven men in total who had entered with malicious intent. Eight survived.

Kwadzo and some of the other Ramangans rounded up those survivors in their blurs and dropped them together in the center of the foyer, each of them moaning and whimpering as they did their best to pat out the flames they had been scorched with. The Ramangans were careful to stand back and away from the beams of sunlight now streaming through the windows at the entrance as the white men stared up at Kwadzo with awe and dread.

“It is not my intention to kill any more citizens of Lakeside,” Kwadzo said, standing over them, nude, his eyes still flickering with orange flame, fire moving through the orange-and-red cracks covering his skin. “But a man has the right to defend himself in his own home.”

“You ain’t no man, and this ain’t your home!” one of the men yelled, his voice shaking.

“I may no longer be human,” Kwadzo said with a smile, “but this is most certainly my home. The sooner you and your people accept that, the better off we will all be. So, I urge you to do so.”

Nez and the Native warriors came running into the foyer, dragging five battered and beaten white men with them and a new stream of sunlight through the open front door of the manor. Kwadzo and his Ramangans took another step back to remain shielded from the sun’s rays as Nez, his warriors, and the defeated white men stared back at them, slack-jawed by Kwadzo’s appearance.

“Your eyes,” Nez whispered in near reverence, “carry fire.”

The comment made Kwadzo acutely aware of his nakedness, but it was too late to make any attempt to cover himself. Instead, he blinked, causing sparks to flicker in his eyes.

“Yes,” Kwadzo said. “It seems a new ability has presented itself. By the Blood of Gamab, fire runs through my veins, which also accounts for my lack of clothing.” Nez and the Natives gawked at him while the white men they’d captured trembled. It was far too much to address now, and he had no intention of doing so. “Are these the men who attacked from the trees?”

Changing the focus was essential to Kwadzo. He was still getting accustomed to his growing powers, and he didn’t have a full understanding of them. He could not afford to engage in discourse about them or what they meant with Nez. What truly mattered was that these white invaders, who had to be dealt with, had seen what he was capable of, and he saw this as an opportunity to send a message.

“Yes,” Nez thankfully answered. “Trick us while more white men come.”

“From the looks of them, your men have already taught them a valuable lesson. Thank you. You can let them go.” Kwadzo was not surprised by the murmurs and gasps that rose in the room.

“You lettin’ us go?” one of the captured men asked.

“Yes. And in light of this leniency, it would be wise of you to stop your attacks. You will never be able to truly fathom what was done to us on this plantation. Unspeakable things, savagery beyond measure, and we had no recourse against it. What we have become is the consequence of that savagery. Let the fate of the Barrows be your lesson. We do not aim to return the horror that was shown to us in great measure, but we are more than capable of doing so. We wish to find our place in society peacefully. But if you continue to attack us, you will be forced to reckon with strength and force far greater than your own. Now go.”

The invaders began a collective scramble to leave. A few of them were fixated on Kwadzo’s naked form and member as they went, causing him to shake his head. Seconds later, one of the humans placed a large tablecloth over his shoulders, with which he covered himself.

“You think they come back?” Nez asked Kwadzo.

The answer was one of inevitability.

“Yes.”



Bartholomew Crabtree loved the sound of his wife’s giggling. It was light and airy, endearingly so, and just a bit conspiratorial, like she was keeping a delicious secret. Of course, Bartholomew knew all of Constance Crabtree’s secrets. He knew what made her laugh, what made her cry, what gave her pleasure.

“Again, my sweet?” he asked his wife as her giggles increased.

“Again, and again!” Constance shrieked with joy. Bartholomew smiled at her with glee. He was very much in love with his wife, her portly frame in particular. He loved how much of her jiggled when she was this delighted. Constance was both statuesque and Rubenesque. A slight man himself, Bartholomew reveled in the feel of her plentiful flesh and regularly smothered his face in her ample bosom. She would run her fingers through his dark, thin hair and giggle. Just like she was doing now as she handed him a jug filled with lime juice.

Bartholomew poured the lime juice over the bare back of the man who stood in front of him. The man’s back was covered in open, bloody wounds and the initials BC were branded into his shoulder. The man bellowed out in torment as the juice seeped through his wounds.

“Scream, nigger, scream!” Constance shouted in glee, clapping her hand against a long, flat wooden spoon, giggling louder. It all brought Bartholomew a sense of joy. This was supposed to be punishment for a slave who had stolen sugarcane from the fields. Bartholomew was supposed to be angry about the theft, and on some level, he was. But he was far more jubilant at the thought of inflicting pain and humiliation than trying to teach his slave an unforgettable lesson.

Perhaps it was fitting. Bartholomew never reprimanded his slaves inside the manor, and certainly not in his dining room. It was an elegant space reserved for his most illustrious guests. Velvet covered the huge cherrywood table that sat under a crystal chandelier filled with lit candles, coating the entire room in a sparky golden glow. Each place setting was immaculate, complete with fine chinaware, polished silverware, and crystal goblets. It was certainly no place for a mongrel like Shep. Shep, the ingrate, stealing sugarcane from the fields and claiming hunger as his reason for doing so. Bartholomew had fed him just yesterday! Well, if the slave thought it was fine to take what did not belong to him, Bartholomew reckoned he might as well elevate the experience of Shep’s delusion.

So, after an appropriate flogging for the offense, Bartholomew chained Shep’s ankles up in bilboes that were bound to a chair at the dining room table. Shep’s blood dripped onto his Persian rug, which was annoying but worth the frustration for what he had planned, and for the joy it would bring Constance.

“Thought you could steal from me, did you?” Bartholomew barked at Shep. The slave trembled from the torture Bartholomew was doling out, and the excess flesh on his plump body quivered almost as much as Constance’s did when she giggled.

“You ain’t fed me!” Shep growled back. “I’s starvin’!”

“You! Ate! Yesterday!” Constance screamed deliberately, punctuating each word with a punch to Shep’s head. “How dare you still be hungry, piggy!”

“No matter. We’re going to remedy your hunger tonight. Hany, what is taking so goddamn long?”

In the corner of the room, a filthy female slave squatted and strained over a chamber pot. She was dark and disheveled; Bartholomew could smell her stench from across the room, and it only grew stronger the harder she strained.

“Woo-wee! Your shit stank, Hany!” Shep exclaimed despite his current position.

“You hush up, Shep!” Hany shouted in distress before Constance rushed to her, smacking the slave in the back of her head.

“Don’t you shout in my house!” Constance snarled at her. “You’re lucky to even be in it! You wouldn’t be unless it was for my amusement, and your yelling is ruining my fun. Now do what you were brought in here to do and get it done quickly!”

The reprimand was followed by two plops, the sound of which returned the smile to Constance’s face. Bartholomew winced as his wife waved Hany away and brought him the chamber pot.

“That is truly rancid,” he said.

“Yes, it’s perfectly fitting,” Constance said, using her long wooden spoon to ladle out two logs of Hany’s excrement from the chamber pot and placing them on the plate in front of Shep, who gagged at the smell.

“Well, what are you waiting for? I thought you said you were starving?” Bartholomew said, to the elation of Constance.

“You dare have the gall to steal from us yet turn your nose up to what we give you freely?” she asked gleefully.

“But this here is shit, boss!” Shep whined. “Stank shit! And it got some blood in it!”

“You eat it, or eat nothing at all,” Bartholomew hissed as Constance poured the liquid remnants from the chamber pot into the crystal goblet next to the plate. “Now, pick up that spoon.”

“A little something for you to wash down your shit loaf with!” She cackled.

“But boss …”

“Pick it up!”

The fierceness in Bartholomew’s voice made Shep jump, and with a grimace, he picked up the piece of silverware. His hand shook as he moved it to the plate, and Bartholomew found himself cackling right along with Constance as the two hovered over the slave, anxiously awaiting his first bite. When it was finally taken, the couple erupted in laughter as Shep immediately retched across the table.

“Steal my sugarcane again,” Bartholomew finally said, “and shit loaf is all you’ll ever eat.”

He took his wife’s hand and led her out of the room while Shep sobbed over his predicament. He was Bartholomew Crabtree, for heaven’s sake. The sugar plantation he owned with his wife was far and away the largest and most profitable one in New Dover—hell, in the entire province of Carolina. The only planter he knew of whose wealth and slave count rivaled his own was James Barrow a couple of towns over in Lakeside.

There had been rumor of an uprising at the Barrow Plantation; there was even talk that his slaves had somehow become possessed by demons, and still others had gone so far as to say the slaves themselves became bloodthirsty monsters—vampyres—who’d laid waste to the manor and the entire Barrow family.

Rumor so easily became the nonsensical, especially among slaves.

Still, any rumor of an uprising was dangerous. It was a well-known fact that niggers were ignorant creatures, so they could not be depended on to discern fact from fiction. If niggers heard about others revolting successfully, they would develop the idea that they, too, could revolt. Which was why it was important to Bartholomew and Constance to instill in their slaves a sense of reality.

That message was sent with clarity this night. Slaves talked among themselves. They would hear about Shep’s punishment.

Neither he nor they would step out of line again.

Besides the jobs they were acquired to do, slaves were toys, vessels of amusement. So close to being human, and yet, not quite. Bartholomew found much enjoyment in pushing the boundaries of his perversions onto them and had found a kindred spirit in Constance. The daughter of a wealthy French planter, she too understood the entertainment value slaves possessed. She bored easily, but perversion kept life fun and full of surprises. Yes, a firm hand was necessary, but wealth and power were such grand privileges. They were not to be squandered by dour dispositions.

Perhaps if Barrow had come to understand this in time, he wouldn’t be in the predicament he’d found himself in, whatever the truth of that quandary was. Bartholomew and Constance had sent an overseer to Lakeside to assess the situation. While he did not believe the poppycock about vampyres, demonic forces, and such, uprisings did happen.

If the account of this one was to be believed, this particular rebellion happened on the night of the Mistress Barrow’s soirée. Owners of some of the larger Lakeside plantations were present and summarily slain along with the Barrows. Bartholomew surmised that though family members and even opportunistic overseers may have stepped in to take over unattended-to farms, he and Constance would have no problem appropriating the land and its slaves for themselves with a bit of persuasion. If Barrow really was dead, that left six thousand acres unaccounted for, not to mention a throng of slaves to be acquired. If there had been an uprising, he was certain he and Constance could set things right and add to their considerable wealth at the same time.

And have themselves a bit of fun in the process.



The gentle glow of soft flames filled Kwadzo’s field of vision as he stirred and opened his eyes. In this large bed, in what used to be Ol’ Barrow’s bedchamber, Kwadzo had been watching Gertie fall into a deep and peaceful sleep for several nights now. Though he no longer required sleep, closing his eyes while lying next to her sleeping form brought him serenity. He knew no greater joy than seeing the mother of his child resting, at peace, free, though she had not been spared from worry.

Nearly a week had passed since the last unsuccessful attack against them by the townspeople, and Kwadzo still found himself having to quell Gertie’s fears. Each night since, in this bed, he would take her in his arms, place his hand on her belly, and assure her that all would be well. Sometimes, she would gift him with a taste of her blood. She would kiss his lips, and they would make love until she succumbed to slumber.

His eyes fixed on the lit candles illuminating the dark room. Fire was becoming as hypnotic to him as blood, though in a much different way. He felt at one with it, as if it were a piece of his very being existing outside of himself. It was a gift to feel so calm. He felt Gertie softly rouse from her sleep, stretching and wrapping an arm around his torso with a relaxed sigh. Charlie the bloodhound lay at their feet, his maw resting on her outstretched leg.

Charlie had taken to being at Gertie’s side as often as possible ever since they’d taken over the manor. Kwadzo supposed the dog didn’t think he was protection enough for his … Gertie. What was he to refer to her as? It seemed natural to him to call to her with something other than her name, something precious, a term of endearment and commitment, but he knew of none. He certainly hadn’t heard any used by the white men he’d encountered. In truth, most seemed to loathe women. The only term he could call to mind was wife, but marriage had been an impossibility. However, they were slaves no more. He was the leader of a successful revolution. Could he not set new rules? Could he not now make her his bride?

Gertie shifted again, gently pushing herself up and off the bed before moving in front of a full-length mirror. Kwadzo chuckled at Charlie hopping off the bed to stand at her feet, gazing up at her inquisitively as she bunched her soft white cotton nightgown up beneath her breasts with one hand while she gently stroked her belly with the other. It had not yet begun to bulge with their child, but it was there and growing. Even now, he could hear his firstborn’s heartbeat along with her own.

His firstborn and only child.

Until the end of time.

It did not seem plausible for new life to spring forth from death, so this child and Gertie would be the living proof of his humanity. They were a legacy he would outlive. But the woman he loved was here, right now.

“Not even you can resist your own beauty.”

The gasp Gertie released in surprise returned Kwadzo’s chuckle as he appeared behind her in a flash, placing his hands over hers, embracing the soft curve of her middle while Charlie unleashed a bark. Perhaps the hound had grown as fond of Gertie as he was.

“I done plumb forgot you don’t sleep no more,” she whispered while he nuzzled her neck.

“I enjoy resting with you both.”

“Both?”

He smoothed a hand against her belly. She slapped it with a chuckle. “Hush now!” She ran her hands over his. “You’s a big man. I’s gonna have a big child.” Gertie pushed her belly forward and Kwadzo laughed.

“You don’t have to do that. Our son will make his presence known when he’s ready.”

“Our daughter.”

Their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror with smiles. She leaned her head back against his chest. Kwadzo closed his eyes and pulled her closer. The feel of her against him, her smell, her presence, stirred his very soul. A soul. He wasn’t sure if he had one anymore, or if he ever had—becoming a Ramangan shifted many of the ideas he had held before—but the bliss that consumed him now was something he wanted to hold onto for as long as he could.

“You wanna taste me?”

Kwadzo opened his eyes, and they glowed red in his reflection. He blinked several times, but his eyes retained their crimson glimmer. He was unable to hide his eagerness for her essence. Gertie reached back and placed her palm on his cheek.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “That’s just you havin’ desire for me. I feels it, too.”

His eyes pulsed, and her eyes became slits of passion in the mirror. He moaned as he pressed against her.

“You wanna taste me?” Gertie asked again breathlessly.

“Desperately,” Kwadzo croaked with need. Her hand moved farther back, cradling his neck in her hand as she tilted her head to the side, exposing hers to him. His teeth grew jagged, his fangs wet with venom. He opened his mouth wider, but she stopped him.

“Wait just a bit now,” she whispered. “I wants it. .