Dark Blood Awakens

Book 1: Mwindaji

by Michelle Corbier

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Paranormal

Synopsis

Dark Blood Awakens is a paranormal urban fantasy incorporating Black girl magic with myths from the African diaspora.

As a child, Makeda’s mom forced her to abandon sorcery. Instead, she pursued a career in nursing while killing monsters with her family of mwindaji. For over a millennium, the mwindaji have hunted Korlemo, a 1000-year-old vampire.

While working in Haiti, Makeda’s desire to recapture her sorcery skills increases. When a lead takes her to a Kentucky rural hospital searching for Korlemo, she uses Baoumali, the language of sorceresses, to reclaim her heritage. During her investigation, Makeda develops a steamy romance with the local sheriff and uncovers a macabre secret the hospital administration will kill to keep silent.

With time running out, Makeda must recapture her sorcery and choose where her alliances lie. If the mwindaji cannot destroy the monsters haunting the hospital, people will die—starting with her boyfriend.  

Release date: January 31, 2023

Print pages: 418

Sample

Chapter 1

 

March 2010

FROM THE PARKED RV’S windows, Makeda peeked between the blackout curtains, searching across the grassy expanse. A pale, yellow moon hung high in the Carolina sky.

Headstones winked at her through the darkness, between trees dripping with Spanish moss. Their polished ghost-white surfaces contrasted with the surrounding foliage. Even with binoculars, moonlight proved insufficient for her to decipher their writings. Salty Atlantic wind and water had etched away their epitaphs.

“I’m leaving,” Peter said, grabbing a machete and lance.

“Wait for me.” Makeda slipped into a light jacket and scrambled to the side door of the RV.

“No, stay and look after Thomas.” He gazed down at his brother and grimaced. “His wound looks bad.”

“That’s simply an excuse to keep me here.” Makeda huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

Peter grinned. “You’re smarter than you look. Stay put—and make sure Thomas is okay.” He hustled out the door before she could reply.

She stared after him until he disappeared between the trees. Time passed as she gazed into the darkness.

Thomas moaned and rolled over on the couch.

Makeda shut and locked the door but peeked outside around the plastic blinds. If she recalled correctly, the graveyard was over two hundred years old. In middle school, her class toured the North Carolina lighthouses. Old Baldy, established in 1794, had been her favorite. Neither the largest or most attractive of the lighthouses, she loved its history and surrounding area of Cape Fear—nicknamed the Graveyard of the Atlantic.

Like ancient relatives, the gravestones remained ever present. Silenced, but vigilant, standing at attention. She imagined they desired to speak, to impart secrets and reveal mysteries regarding t

he lighthouse. If they could talk, would they guide her to safety or lead her to their inevitable fate? With effort, she pulled herself away from Cape Fear’s dead and returned to her patient.

She tried not to grumble about playing nursemaid to her brother. After all, as a registered nurse; it made sense for her to care for Thomas. But the real reason they left her behind was to keep her away from the fighting.

While Thomas slept, Makeda adjusted his bandages. As she bent over his knee, her shoulder twitched. She startled and inadvertently squeezed the dressings. Had she heard a scream?

“Ouch,” Thomas said. “Why’d you do that?” He winced and rubbed his knee.

She automatically swatted his hand away from the wound. “Don’t mess with the dressing.”

Reclined on several pillows, Thomas pushed himself up along the couch. “It’s too tight, and it itches.”

“That’s the stitches. Leave ’em alone.” She loosened the dressings and gazed into his groggy face. “Did you hear a scream?”

“No.” He yawned and scratched his shaking head.

When he reached for his knee again, she smacked his hand harder. “Stop it, or I’ll have to redo the stitches. You sure you didn’t hear a scream?”

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you being so­­—”

A loud wail interrupted his question. He jerked upright, gawking at Makeda, who returned his gaze. They stared at each other for a second before she jumped off the couch and ran to the back of the RV.

Careening his head in her direction, Thomas asked, “What’re you doing?”

“Peter or another mwindaji might be in trouble. I’m going out there.” She packed several weapons inside a backpack, then slung it over her shoulders.

“You’re supposed to stay here.” Thomas hobbled off the couch. While trying to catch up with her, he knocked a game controller off his lap and onto the floor.

She glanced at him, then the door. “I’m not going to sit here when the team could be in trouble.”

As she hurried by, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”

Accident-prone—and a little goofy—Thomas would slow her down. Makeda gave his arm a brief squeeze. “I’ll be fine. Stay here, and off that knee.”

Before dashing out of the RV, she handed him several guns and ammunition. In her left hand, Makeda clutched a gun. In her right hand, she wielded a machete.

Outside, heavy salty air stung her nostrils. On the other side of the grove of trees, she knew, stood Old Baldy. As she approached the woods, headstones loomed large, welcoming her to their hallowed grounds. What secrets did these troubled lands possess?

She raced past grave markers. Like a train whistling through a tunnel, scenery flickered across her mind. She swooned, became disoriented, and paused. For a moment, she leaned against a tree, blinking rapidly, as if to capture the visions swirling around her mind. Why does this seem familiar?

There was no time to tarry. She shook off her déjà vu and sought out the origin of the scream. Was Peter in trouble?

As if on cue, another cry echoed around the woods. This time she pinpointed its location. Charging across a grassy expanse, she neared another tree line. Her pace slowed, and she treaded cautiously. Werewolves were in the area.

The mwindaji had tracked a group of six werewolves to Bald Head Island. An anonymous tip led them to a fete where the lycans gathered at an inn beside the harbor. During the ensuing battle, Thomas had been injured, and the hunters split up. She and Thomas had been relegated to the security of the camper while the other mwindaji chased after the fleeing monsters.

Roots and brambles threatened her progress. As she inched through the thicket, she touched a cedar tree. Makeda remembered a story her great-grandmother had told her about how trees could

speak—if you listened. Right now, she didn’t have time to communicate with the vegetation except to say “hi-bye.”

Careful to step over tree stumps, she spied a clearing about two hundred yards away. She spotted Peter engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a towering werewolf. Because her brother stood over six feet tall, Makeda calculated the monster to be about eight feet. Standing on its hind legs, the werewolf gained an advantage.

His shirt sleeve bloodied and frayed, Peter didn’t fare well. Makeda couldn’t see his gun anywhere, but he swung a machete widely, managing to keep the werewolf at bay. Peter gripped the machete in his left hand, though Makeda knew him to be right-handed. Neither he nor the lycan detected her approach.

At the edge of the clearing, Makeda leveled her gun and aimed. Before she could lob a shot, a movement rustled on her right side. She dropped to a squat as a cool wisp of air eddied above her head. Peripherally, she saw a large, hairy arm swipe past. Werewolf.

Jumping down from a tree branch, the lycan landed not three feet away on all fours. When its feet met the earth, Makeda fired two shots into its hairy torso. After a brief shriek, the werewolf crashed to the ground.

Without glancing upon it for another second, Makeda sprouted to a standing position. Her gaze reverted to the scene of her brother.

In a large arc, Peter swiped repeatedly at the werewolf. None of his strikes met the target. He was drenched in sweat, and his right arm hung limply at his side. Blood soaked his tattered shirt, trickling down his arm from exposed muscle tissues. Moonlight glinted off what she believed to be his humerus bone.

With her weapon leveled at the werewolf, Makeda advanced upon their position. Two shots ripped into the monster, emitting small popping noises. Bullet one struck its left lateral shoulder, and the second shattered its throat. Choking and sputtering, the werewolf grabbed its neck, where those sharp claws added to the trauma around its throat. Blood gurgled, flowing down its hairy chest.

Still holding the machete, Peter stumbled away from the injured beast.

Collapsing to the ground, the werewolf bled out as Makeda embraced Peter. She switched from hunter to nurse and reached into her backpack for supplies.

Peter searched the ground around them as she evaluated his wounds. “What’re you doing here?”

“You’re welcome,” she said. After retrieving gauze, she let her backpack slip to the ground and treated his wound. “What are you looking for?”

“My gun.” He must have spotted it because he started to pull away.

“Hold still. Let me finish this tourniquet, and then you can get your gun.” Hastily, she tied the cloth around his arm. Once she secured the dressing, she let him retrieve his weapon. “Where are the others?”

Peter angled his head toward the aged lighthouse.

Her left brow arched. “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged. “The monsters went in there, so they followed.” As he set off toward Old Baldy, she fell in step beside him.

In constant movement, her eyes scanned the area. Whether because of the headstones or the full moon, a shiver thrilled up her spine. Her shoulders tensed. Makeda detected something different but couldn’t discern the source.

Her nostrils twitched at an unusual scent. Adjusting to the dark, her pupils dilated like camera lenses. She pushed those sensations aside and concentrated on their present situation.

“Where’s—” Before she completed her sentence, three men exited the lighthouse.

With a shotgun looped over his arm, the oldest man carried several weapons across his back, and others in his hands. Two younger men hauled a plastic tarp between them. As the trio approached, a dirt-caked hand fell loose. With a booted foot, one of the young men kicked the hand back onto the drop cloth.

Makeda’s lips rose into a smile, but the older man’s brows crinkled in return. Watching his stern gaze, Makeda detected a forthcoming argument.

Without removing his eyes from her face, he said, “Take the bodies to the RV.”

“Right, chief,” her cousin Brian said, adjusting his grip on the tarp.

The old man’s attention returned to her. “What are you doing here? You were told to stay in the RV with Thomas. If you’re gonna work with us, you have to obey orders.”

“Makeda came to help me,” Peter said, turning to the side, revealing his injured arm. “She probably saved my life.”

Probably. She watched the old man examine Peter’s arm. The old man’s brows straightened, and in a quick motion he reached out and hugged her. Initially surprised, her body stiffened, but in seconds she relaxed and hugged him back.

After giving her a big kiss on the cheek, he said, “I know you can help, but I worry. If something happened to you, your mama couldn’t take it.”

He collected Peter’s machete and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Their journey to the RV took them near the werewolf she shot in the woods. A quick glance showed it had reverted into a man. As Makeda passed the body, she looked down. A vision of his haunted, pained face followed her back to the camper. Those deep brown eyes, wide nose, and full lips. It seemed incongruous to kill something resembling herself—someone human.

The ongoing battle between the mwindaji and monsters left her conflicted. This war had raged for over a millennium. Big Mama, her great-grandmother, had explained the history of the mwindaji, and how the conflict began. Makeda wished she could remember more of those childhood stories. Recall the sorcery Big Mama taught her. Now, she couldn’t do more than kasi kasi.

Would the war ever end? She shuddered.

Probably assuming she was cold, the old man hugged her tighter. Her tremors came not from the temperature though, but

uncertainty. Gritting her teeth, she hid her unease. If their mwindaji leader had any doubts about her commitment, he’d dismiss her from the team.

Breezes along the cape increased in intensity as winds rolled in off the Atlantic. Their steps quickened. Once they reached the RV, he held the door open for her. Warmth greeted them. Her shoulders relaxed as the vision of the werewolf vanished from her mind.

Standing at the opened door, the old man said, “Store the bodies in the RV hidey-hole and then collect the other two. I’ll call the other mwindaji and tell them to meet us at the dock. We’ll drop the bodies out to sea. Let’s go, guys. Time to hustle.”

Inside the RV, with Thomas’s help, Makeda tended to Peter’s injuries. Thomas cleansed the skin while she debrided dead muscle tissue from around the lacerations. As she stitched the wound, Makeda thought back to the initial scream she had heard.

It seemed like a shout came from inside her head. Perhaps the bracing sea air heightened her perceptions. Her hand trembled as she completed a running stitch.

Hold it together, girl. Weakness wouldn’t be tolerated in a mwindaji, especially if the hunter was their leader’s daughter.