L.A. Banks - Vampire Huntress Legend 1 - Minion

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A VAMPIRE

HUNTRESS

LEGEND

L. A. BANKS

st. martin's griffin fft new york

America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information,

address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Book design by Jonathan Bennett

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Banks, L. A.

Minion : a vampire huntress legend / L.A. Banks.—1st ed.

p. cm.—(The dark legends begin ; bk. 1)

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ISBN 0-312-31680-1

1. Women artists—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. I. Tide.

PS3602.A64M56 2003 813'.6—dc21

2003042042

First Edition: June 2003

10 987654321

DEDICATION AND SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is dedicated to those people who believe in things unseen and have walked by faith for so

long that it's second nature. All of us know the elders who have that unshakable belief that there's a

spiritual plane, and without those individuals holding the line, who knows what shape this world would be

in? And yet while predators come in all forms, and have besieged our communities on many levels, there

still seems to be a force that keeps a total eclipse of the light at bay. These elders teach, impart quiet

wisdom, and ready another generation to take the baton as they pass it.

On the surface it may appear that the battle is a hopeless cause, and that there are no young, strong

replacements. . . one could easily buy into "the illusion" that all is lost. Not so, because there are so many

young warriors out there whose names we have yet to learn, and so many old guardians still keeping the

lantern lit. Some say it's myth, others call it legend—but I have seen these people moving in mysterious

ways. Therefore, do not believe in the smallness of things, believe in the light within.

In his inauguration speech, Nelson Mandela said it best: "Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate,

our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our dark-

ness, that most frightens us. ... As we are liberated from our own fear our presence automatically

liberates others." Keep your lights on!

To my spiritual team of women warriors of light, I thank you: Mom, Aunt Julia, Aunt Hettie, Aunt Ruby,

Aunt Ruth, Grandmom Pete, Grandmom Thornton—y'all were awesome while on the planet! Count

them . . . there were seven, who have now crossed over into the light. . . and who keep me there in my

darkest moments.Thank you, Father God.

* * *

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Special acknowledgments go to: My editor, Monique Patterson— whose creative vision and chutzpah

allowed this project to be realized; my agent, Manie Barren of William Morris Agency, Inc.—the crazy

man who dreamt up and pitched the concept! To theEvening Star writers of Philadelphia: Hilary,

Kamal, Karen, Jenice, and Sheila . . . thanks, guys, for guiding me and reading scary stories that nobody

wanted to read. To my sister, Liza Peterson, a spoken-word, hip-hop artist/actress extraordinaire!

Thanks, sis, for keeping it real. Last, but not least, thanks to my husband and children for putting up with

my dark side, my late nights, and total immersion in the realms of otherworld-liness while I went into the

mind-set and half-turned personae of vampiri in order to create a story about keeping the light.

Twenty Years Ago

New Orleans

sarah richardsstood in the middle of her bedroom try-ing to console her infant who was wailing at the

top of her tiny lungs. Yes, she knew what pain was, and wanted to cry out as much as her baby was

carrying on right now. Instead, silent tears slid down the sides of her face as she turned her chin up to the

ceiling and shut her eyes. How, Lord, was a preacher's wife supposed to deal with the fact that her

husband was having an affair?

For months she'd denied the obvious. But now her husband's lies regarding his whereabouts had been

found out. He'd even violated the sanctity of their home by bringing this woman to their bed—their

marital bed. Evidence, in the form of the marriage-violator's perfume and blood, still clung to the sheets.

She'd only been gone an hour on a church errand her husband had contrived for her to do. One hour,

and now this?

Sarah covered her mouth and turned away, hastening from the sight and stench of the filth, taking her

baby girl to lay her in her crib. With her hands trembling, she left the screaming infant, whose wails

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intensified as she turned away from her. Shame burned through her. How could she call the church

elders, or talk to Mother Stone about something like this? How did a preacher's wife, the first lady of the

church, force her lips to say that her husband, the Reverend Richards, had lost his natural black mind?

Amid the now hiccupping bleats from the nursery, Sarah became very still as she heard movement in the

small clapboard house below her. There were two voices. One soft, seductive; the other was that of her

husband. He'd brought this whore back to his home again! Once was not enough? Did he think she was

so foolish as to run another church errand to an elderly neighbor, at night, again, so he could be doing

God knows what? Couldn't he hear his own child screaming her lungs out—and wouldn't he know that

his wife was upstairs? Did he have so little respect for her, or was it that this whore's pull was that

strong?

Tears of bitter rage and hurt stung Sarah's eyes, the pain of her acknowledgment almost crushing her rib

cage as the muscles around her heart constricted. This woman, this transgressor, had a hold on her

husband that not even the Lord could seem to break . . . because, Father God knew, she'd prayed on it

from the first inkling of doubt. Now, her husband had brought a violator back into his house?Her house.

A home designed for a minister, his wife, and children, across the street from hallowed ground? Sarah felt

her knees begin to buckle as she envisioned the faces of loyal parishioners who hung on the good

Reverend's every word . . . just as she once had. This house was not a home, nor was it a place where

she or her child could find peace.

She resisted her first instinct, which was to barrel downstairs to confront her husband and the heifer that

had crossed her threshold. But something slithered inside Sarah's soul and gave her pause. The

green-eyed monster raised its ugly head. She had to know what this hussy looked like . . . who was this

woman that could break up hearth and home using something that all women had? She wanted to spy

and know the things her hus-

band said to this home-wrecker. What lies had Armand Richards told?

Silently, like a thief in the night, Sarah Richards crept down the hall, hugging the wall. She knew this

house by heart and easily avoided the creaky floorboards. Stretching her body, she clung to the very

paint as she peered around the corner of the landing. The baby's cries escalated, her pulse rising along

with it. She held her breath as she rounded the corner—and froze.

A tall, handsome, male figure the color of cafe au lait and dressed in an impeccable black suit, ran a

palm across her husband's jaw. The caress was sensuality personified. The sight stole the scream from

Sarah's lungs, as her husband closed his eyes and dropped his head back in a display of sheer feminine

submission. Sarah took the stairs one by one, clutching the handrail to keep from passing out. She

couldn't breathe as she watched in abject horror while this man ... a man . . . not a woman . . . embraced

her husband like a lover and lowered his head to Armand's exposed throat.

When she heard her husband groan, something fragile within her snapped.

Everything became a blur. Her feet flew down the stairs; her screams outstripped her infant daughter's.

The words became a chant—"God, no! Not that!" She would crucify this beast, the fouler of her

household! There was no rational thought as she hurled herself forward trying to grab hold of his broad

shoulders. She wanted blood. A pound of flesh! But the agile intruder simply swept her husband up in his

arms as though he were sweeping away his bride, and deftly slipped through the door with him.

Sarah gave chase into the front yard, screaming, crying, hollering behind them, but only the night heard

her. She spun in a crazed circle, searching the darkness for them. Where had this lover taken her

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husband? And so quickly? Sarah fell to her knees in the gravel driveway. The stones cut through her

nightgown and pierced her knees. Bloodied, she lay outstretched, sobbing a futile prayer. A man? It was

a man. Dear Jesus in Heaven, no! A man, gorgeous, with jet-black, penetrating eyes, a regal carriage,

flawless skin, thick, black lashes, onyx curls that would shame any woman ... a man . . . please no ... a

man that stood six foot two, with a solid frame, and strong enough to lift her husband as if Armand was a

baby! No!

She heaved and vomited, wiped her mouth, and clawed the dirt until she could push herself upright. She

stared up at the sky and then at the lit window of her daughter's room. Sarah walked slowly back to the

house and reached for the telephone. The church matriarch should send her daughter, Marlene, to look

after the baby tonight, she heard her inner voice say. Marlene was good with infants. She "was a nice

young woman.

Right now, Sarah Richards had an errand to run. One that she'd put off all these months. She needed

something more than prayer. Her husband was witha man, and the church elders didn't know nothing

about pain like that. The old lady who lived on the edge of the swamps had potions and such to correct

these kinds of abominations. And what Sarah would tell her would stay between her and the old witch.

* * *

For three days Sarah sat at the living room window as the church elders held the prayer vigil at her

home. Young Marlene had brought them with her when Sarah had hysterically called for a baby-sitter at

that odd hour of the night, and had told the girl that her husband was gone. What else had she expected?

One didn't call at that hour and think the girl wouldn't have to explain things to a mother, who would then

call in church rein-

forcements—not when there was a problem at the church head's house.

But desperation had kept Sarah from thinking things through that far. If they thought he'd just run off,

fine. That had been enough for the old folks to mount a prayer posse—Minister was nowhere to be

found, his wife and child had been abandoned. Evil was at work. That was all Sarah would say on the

matter.

She slept in the parlor chair while she struggled with her plan, unable to ever go back to her own bed,

unable to even lie down on the couch. She refused to eat, barely took a sip of water, didn't move, just

stared. Who knew what other piece of furniture had been violated within her home? Each day that

passed the black bag she'd hidden in the pantry issued a more urgent call for her to take matters into her

own hands. Yet, to do so would be a death of all she'd been brought up to believe in. It would be flying

directly in the face of the Lord. Three days, and three long nights, Sarah pondered the seductive choice.

She quietly thanked the praying people that had descended upon her house, never saying so out loud,

just in her mind. Their eyes remained lowered and she appreciated their discretion, and she said a prayer

of thanks that young Marlene Stone was taking such good care of her child while her nerves took leave.

Sarah Richards knew that she had checked out of life. Her eyes simply watched the point of nothing

beyond the window. But on this third night, she also knew what she had to do. The elders, for all their

prayers, didn't know where her husband's car had disappeared to, or where the good Reverend was, for

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that matter. But the old seer had spoken of a mansion—a plantation. Had given her directions and

landmarks to follow. And she would arm herself with her spell and a butcher knife to right this wrong as

soon as the sun set... just as the witch had advised.

Without a word, Sarah stood and feigned illness, leaving the prayer warriors who had murmured without

relent since the night she'd seen too much. Sarah went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face,

then snuck into the pantry to collect her bag that had been secretly readied. In her bare feet and robe,

she slipped from the house and into the night without a sound. She was gonna fetch back her husband, or

die trying.

* * *

Sarah stood in the center of a circle of weeping willows with tears streaming down her cheeks and

stared at the expansive estate. Elaborate ironwork graced the veranda that rimmed the entire second

floor of the mansion. Tall white columns created a formidable entrance to the place she'd dared to go.

Spanish moss billowed from the trees and nary a cricket sounded. Her husband's car was in the

driveway, just as the old woman had prophesized. Sarah's hand clutched the satchel and her feet never

consulted her brain as she moved forward, rounding the mansion to the back door that was surprisingly

unlocked.

The mansion was eerily quiet as she slipped into the darkness within. Money, power. . . what riches had

been promised her husband by this wealthy perversion of a lover, she wondered? How could a man

she'd loved with all her heart and soul do this to her? How could he live such a lie, allow her to bear a

child for him? How could he do this to his baby girl?

New tears replenished the salty stream that had dried on Sarah's face. She'd loved Armand Richards

since they were children, and had never known any other man in the world but him.

Her footsteps took her through the house, each room making her walk more quickly as she saw

sumptuous wealth—but not her husband. She hurried up the winding staircase toward the upper levels of

the mansion, listening intently for the sounds of her husband in the throes of passion, but heard nothing.

Every well-appointed room was vacant. The seer had been wrong. Armand was not here. But it was

clear that her husband had been here at one time. Perhaps he and his man-friend were out on the town,

or secluded in another love nest? Sarah's mind took a sinister turn; she squeezed her eyes shut as she

saw them naked together. Bile rose within her throat as images of her husband with this seductive man

lacerated her spirit. No. This had to be fixed! This was the only way.

The opportunity their absence provided was perfect. She would do what she had to do—go into the

wine cellar, the base of the house, and cast the spell. Sarah covered her heart and said a prayer for her

child, and asked for forgiveness. She knew her prescription was wrong as she tiptoed down the long

hallway, found the stairs, and descended to the first floor. The long walk gave her time to explain with

contrition that she had todo something, could not just sit and wait for this to bemade right. All she asked

was that Father God would understand and spare her baby girl—despite what it said in the Good Book

about soothsayers and spell-casters... or taking matters into one's own hands. This was a special case,

and He had to understand her desperation.

Her bare feet stung with the cuts and abrasions she sustained from walking, crazed, through the woods,

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over bramble, across driveway gravel for five miles in the dark. The bag of black magic weighed heavily

in her hand as she shifted the bulk of it onto her hip, extracted a black candle and a small box of stick

matches, lit the candle, then clumsily stowed away the matches, and resumed her slow descent down into

the damp cavern of the first level of the mansion.

Slick stone walls reflected the light from the sputtering flame, and the coolness of the room belied the

humidity that made her summer robe and gown cling to her skin. Perspiration due to her shattered nerves

seeped from her pores, sending a rivulet of adrenaline-filled sweat between her breasts and down her

back. Undaunted, she began making the circle in the dirt, using the butcher knife to carve the strange star

shape that the old woman had drawn for her on a crumpled piece of paper. Sarah's lips moved with

purpose as she opened the Mason jar and splashed blood from the gutted rooster upon each point of the

star. And as she set each black candle in place, and closed her eyes, constantly murmuring, the floor

beneath her began to move.

Immediately plumes of thick, yellowish smoke rose, choking her in a sulfuric, blackening haze. The rack

of wine bottles on the wall began to explode, sending shards of glass to cover her. Splinters from flying

wood and glass cut into her skin like shrapnel. A scream choked by spit, terror, and smoke was torn

from her throat as she ran and huddled in a corner against the wall.

* * *

He could not believe his good fortune. Fallon Nuit contained his amusement as his strategy took root.

Providence of this magnitude couldn't have been conjured by the highest sorcerers of old. A fluke. A

variable. A tiny rip in the fabric of supernatural law, all caused by a frightened, but foolish, woman.

Jealousy had ironically released the green-eyed monster within her—along with another, more dangerous

entity that the poor human creature obviously hadn't anticipated . . . nor had the Vampire Council. Pity. A

gross oversight. They couldn't keep him incarcerated for a violation of their staunch, outdated High

Council rules, as they had planned. There were things that even vampires frowned upon. Then again,

there was this variable called luck.

"You have inadvertently been summoned to my lair," Nuit crooned in a seductive tone toward the demon

that arose with him from the billowing cloud of smoke.

"I was called, yes. That gives me the right—"

"No," Nuit replied with a lethal warning between his teeth. "You have norights, but you do have the

misfortune to be a demon trapped in a master vampire's lair."

Two formidable adversaries stared at each other for a moment. The snakelike creature appeared

stunned, then outraged. However, when it offered no rebuttal, Nuit pressed on, his hunger for the fresh

taste of blood, stoked by the scent of the frail female human trying to hide herself in the corner of his wine

cellar, notwithstanding.

"Cohabitation without cooperation is not an option." Nuit studied his manicured nails and sighed. "Do

remember that I am of the more evolved order of the dark realms, and now freed, I could make

existence for you here torturous. But I am a man of reason."

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The demon looked at him, and then glanced at the cowering woman on the floor. "We could come to

terms. Fair exchange is no robbery."

Fallon Nuit threw his head back and laughed. "Indeed!"

Being unconquerable lies within yourself; being conquerable lies within the enemy.

—Sun-tzu,The Art of War

Nighttime, summer

Philadelphia

damali richardscould still feel the electricity of the crowd and the adrenaline rush of her spoken-word

performance pulsing through her veins as she entered the backstage dressing room. The club was

jumping so hard it seemed like even the walls were sweating. The bass thumping from the extensive

speaker system was like an insistent heartbeat that she could feel vibrating through the floor and

smoke-thickened air until it entered her body through the soles of her feet. Dirty aqua-colored paint

peeled at the corners of the cramped space, as though it was trying to escape the throbbing scene.

She glanced around at the ugly, stained brown sofa, and the sparse collection of wooden and metal

chairs, immediately opting to stand rather than flop on any of the seating choices. How many performers'

body funk had been permanently tattooed on that sorry excuse for a couch, she wondered? Even the one

mirror in the room was covered with a white, filmy layer of grime. Yuck. And people thought this was the

glamorous life? She, Mar-lene, and a five-man squad crammed into a dump. Pullease.

Sweat, icy yet burning, made her clothes stick to her skin. Her heavily beaded, Nzinga queen warrior

headdress had suddenly become an intolerable weight on her damp scalp. Damali roughly removed it,

tossing it onto a chair, and she held her shoulder-length locks up off her neck to give her overheated

body a much-needed waft of air. The semiprecious stone and lion's teeth adornments, affixed to her

locks with silver and copper wire, gently clinked as she moved her hair. She grimaced at the sound that

was now too close to her skull. All five feet seven inches of her felt on fire. Being an artist was great, but

this was no way to live.

"Lot of activity on radar tonight," Marlene said in a near whisper, as though talking to herself. "Most

times we get a visit from one or two vampires. I'm sensing many."

"Yeah," Damali croaked. Her vocal chords still ached from the intense performance, so she kept her

response short. Besides, what else was there to say to her manager, who was like a surrogate mother to

their group?

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Damali and Marlene shared a glance. They both knew what had to be done. Things were heating up.

Before, one vamp might follow them, at most two. But ever since they'd turned the tables and went on

the offensive a couple of times, seeking out the action instead of waiting for it to come to them, nothing

had been the same. The rare random ambushes were now becoming a regular phenomenon. Valuable

junior team members had been lost because if it. Irritation coiled within Damali. She'd told Marlene this

shit would go down like that once they started hunting. Shoulda let sleeping dogs lie.

Marlene shot her a look that saiddon't start. Screw Marlene and her pious yang. Not tonight. Sure, she

loved Mar like a mom and all, but wasn't feeling sister-girl right now. Yeah, they only went after vampires

that were acting up. But that wasn't the point.

"You didn't hear me, did you?"

Damali cut Marlene a hard glance, then looked away. "No. What did you say?"

Marlene waited until the two women's eyes met again. "I didn'tsay anything. I thought it, and you didn't

hear me in your head. But I'm able to read you loud and clear. That concerns me."

Total annoyance wrapped itself around Damali and she gave Marlene another glare to make her back

off. She felt invaded. "I'm just tired, that's all. The past is the past. It's done now, anyway. Drop it."

"You need to tell us when you're having sensory blackouts. They're becoming more frequent, aren't

they? You could have sent that to me without a word."

The other members of the team gave Damali a quick look of concern, but were wise enough not to get in

the middle of the brewing dispute. More than likely they'd let the bullshit pass, because she and Marlene

were always at it. Whatever.

Instead of answering Marlene, Damali forced her attention toward the Native American flutes, cowbells,

and chimes that rested against large conga drums in the corner of the room. Her gaze scanned the sharp,

titanium-based, silver-plated anchors that held the drumhead skins in place. She refused to answer

Marlene's question. She didn't feel like dealing with that crap right now. There was something making the

hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Tonight, the drum anchors were going in her belt, even if that music gear was Jose's, a.k.a. Wizard. He

was da bomb in concert, but he didn't know how to use the disguised weapons as well as she did out in

the streets. Summoning inner strength, Damali blocked Marlene's intrusion into her thoughts. She'd give

Marlene a mental blank to consider while taking her time to figure out how to better arm herself.

The crew was so quiet it was eerie. Nobody said a •word, and all were simply packing gear. That was

not her team's normal behavior after a gig. The walls of the tiny room felt like they were closing in on her,

swallowing her crew whole. Damali studied her weapons options.

Maybe a few silver-plated chimes would be a safe bet, too? Jose could do his thing on crossbow, his

favorite weapon anyway. A sister could back somethin' up off her with the dagger-edges off the drum

anchors and chimes, if it got crazy out there— same deal with the cymbals. Even though she reminded

herself that when a cymbal disc was thrown dead-aim the edge was sharp enough to slice paper without

hearing it rip, that fact didn't make her feel better tonight. Why not?

Her gaze instantly went to the Fender-—Jake Rider's electric guitar, and to Shabazz's bass, and then to

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Marlene's electric violin. Marlene's line of vision followed Damali's for a moment before Marlene began

assisting the others with equipment breakdown.

As Marlene moved to work with Shabazz, renewed tension wound its way up Damali's spine. Yeah,

they'd better restring the instruments and put in the steel cables across the reinforced metal bridges.

Tonight felt like a crossbow-necessary night, and the string instruments were easier to roll with. She might

even get Wizard to hook up the light poles through the phony strap loops to lock and load additional

crossbows. But Marlene needed to give up the walking stick as her only protection. Sistah better

recognize, and deal with her violin like it had been designed— put the steel-based bow across the bridge

and be ready to rock.

It felt like they'd need the light cannons out there, too, although at the moment, she couldn't exactly say

why. Nah . . . this was no way to live.

She walked over to the drums and ignored the look Marlene cast in her direction. The dense scent of

frankincense, sage, and myrrh had trailed into the room behind her from the stage. Damali licked her

parched lips, tasting salt on them, and tried to inhale the protective fragrance, but felt herself almost retch.

Usually the aroma calmed her, its elements anointing her stage space—a required opening before a

purple haze of dry-ice smoke was released as she'd enter a performance and claim it. The ring of holy

water which had been poured around her in libation to bring forth the ancestors to channel-speak through

her, and to encircle her while she spat out the truth of injustice, did not infuse her marrow with

unshakable confidence tonight. Heavy bass still throbbed in her skull, now cranking the growing

headache to a new decibel level with the ongoing club music that quaked the walls. Being a vampire

huntress was no way to live.

"You all right?"

Marlene's question hung in the air as the other crew members paused in their tasks for a moment,

considered her, and glanced at each other as though waiting for the green light to continue their

equipment breakdown.

Damali just nodded. The crew resumed motion, but kept glancing at her from the corners of their eyes.

She wanted to get back to the compound, where they stowedoff the hook weapons. The equipment

they took on the road was disguised enough to get through new airport security screenings, which meant

it wasn't the real heavy artillery. And, yeah, it would be enough to stop a few predators. But if her senses

were right, they were in for sho 'nuff action tonight.

The problem was, she couldn't half see. Her normal sight was fine, but inside her head, everything was

blurry. Her third-eye was down. Had been that way for a couple of weeks, like static on a television.

Intermittent static. Sometimes her mental radar was crystal clear, but at other times, like tonight, it was all

snow. She hated this bull.

"We need to hurry up," Damali said out of the blue. Her crew stared at her. One by one they nodded,

but nobody said a word. Damn, it was hot in there.

For some reason, the air-conditioned confines didn't cool her off either. Her skin-tight, thigh-slit leather

pants felt like they were suffocating her, while the ropes of semiprecious amulets and stones set in thick

silver around her wrists, and especially about her neck, began feeling like a humid noose. She began

stripping them off, ignoring Marlene's expression of disapproval. The necklaces were practically

strangling her. She'd have to chance having her throat exposed, just so she could breathe.

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AVAMPIREHUNTRESSLEGENDL. A. BANKSst.martin'sgriffin fft newyorkminion.Copyright©2003byLeslieEsdaileBanks.Allrightsreserved.PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica.Nopartofthisbookmaybeusedorreproducedinanymannerwhatsoeverwithoutwrittenpermissionexceptinthecaseofbriefquotationsembodiedincriticalartic...

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