a feeling she would change the chemistry of the poison anyway.
Reaching out to touch the preserved hand, he paused over it. His fingertips almost grazed its resting surface before he opted to reach for the bottle of anointing oils resting near it instead. His eyes never left the hand while he tucked the clear vial in his jeans and closed the glass case that held his prized possession. She had a beautiful hand. A line of raised scales adorned her skin as if it were a jeweled hand glove. The end of the shimmering metallic scales formed a point at her middle finger, the rest of her cocoa smooth skin seemingly warm with life.
He couldnât help but think with the flex of his own arms back and forth trying to relieve the tension in his arms. Each cord tightened then constricted causing him to grind his teeth together. Man, his body ached from the battle. Every ligament screamed multitudes of curses due to the work he put in on the battlefield. It relieved him that his blood had survived but not without loss.
The Medusa had almost ended his bloodâs life. She had almost taken from him what he had vowed in his past lives never to lose: those he loved; and though he didnât lose them this time, his heart muttered something different. Glancing at the pictures on his wall, of Ghanaian war masks, weapons, pictures of the Harlem Renaissance, of âNam, his heirlooms, pieces of his past he once had locked away in Society archives to inherit in his next life, lost in his memories he ran the palm of his hand over the scalp of his low Mohawk fade. His mind was shifting over everything that went down these past months and days.
He pulled off his white A-line tank shirt. His fingers traced over the bloody gauze wrapped around his chest and waist. Four reddened gashes rested along his ribcage. His gift with healing always paid off, especially with battling the Medusa and her poison nails. But this time something different happened, something he hadnât expected.
Walking past his calendar, red slashed through days past, counting down the months left to his thirty-second birthday, his dog tags from his past life in âNam swung against his chest. He paused to run his hand over a black mahogany carved box sitting on a shelf in his built-in bookshelf. He had made this intricately designed box with his own hands in Ghana. It was his coming into his Guardian transitioning box and his dowry gift. Turning it in his large hands, the carvings gave him comfort while his mind drifted. He had planned to give it to her, which was custom in Society, whoever she was.
A bride gift to his mystery woman with the flowing braided hair decorated in tiny conch shells and a lilting light laugh. He could never see her face. He could only remember holding her and fighting off the Cursed bitten warriors for the neighboring tribe who used to be their allies. He could remember how they flooded his home, kidnapping whom they could then killing the rest. He had centuries to think about why it happened. He had eras to learn that it was due to his tribe being Nephilim and Guardian wealthy. Large numbers of oracles, healers, and slayers made up the village. The land they lived on was blessed by the Most Highâs own hand and rich in mighty spirits.
His Gran was the High Eldress of the Ashanti village and his Granpops was the Elder over the slayers and guardians. The day his village was destroyed was the day of his transitioning and mate bonding with his mystery love from the neighboring Nephilim village. He remembered holding her hand while they linked souls, given the union soul mark tattooed on his front right shoulder and hers on the side of her ribcage under the curve of her plush breast.
He could remember the proud sensually aroused feelings of seeing her presented to him, but he could never see her face. They were a soul and love match, freely picked for each other and no one else. He remembered his Gran having a flash after weeks of oracles
Reaching out to touch the preserved hand, he paused over it. His fingertips almost grazed its resting surface before he opted to reach for the bottle of anointing oils resting near it instead. His eyes never left the hand while he tucked the clear vial in his jeans and closed the glass case that held his prized possession. She had a beautiful hand. A line of raised scales adorned her skin as if it were a jeweled hand glove. The end of the shimmering metallic scales formed a point at her middle finger, the rest of her cocoa smooth skin seemingly warm with life.
He couldnât help but think with the flex of his own arms back and forth trying to relieve the tension in his arms. Each cord tightened then constricted causing him to grind his teeth together. Man, his body ached from the battle. Every ligament screamed multitudes of curses due to the work he put in on the battlefield. It relieved him that his blood had survived but not without loss.
The Medusa had almost ended his bloodâs life. She had almost taken from him what he had vowed in his past lives never to lose: those he loved; and though he didnât lose them this time, his heart muttered something different. Glancing at the pictures on his wall, of Ghanaian war masks, weapons, pictures of the Harlem Renaissance, of âNam, his heirlooms, pieces of his past he once had locked away in Society archives to inherit in his next life, lost in his memories he ran the palm of his hand over the scalp of his low Mohawk fade. His mind was shifting over everything that went down these past months and days.
He pulled off his white A-line tank shirt. His fingers traced over the bloody gauze wrapped around his chest and waist. Four reddened gashes rested along his ribcage. His gift with healing always paid off, especially with battling the Medusa and her poison nails. But this time something different happened, something he hadnât expected.
Walking past his calendar, red slashed through days past, counting down the months left to his thirty-second birthday, his dog tags from his past life in âNam swung against his chest. He paused to run his hand over a black mahogany carved box sitting on a shelf in his built-in bookshelf. He had made this intricately designed box with his own hands in Ghana. It was his coming into his Guardian transitioning box and his dowry gift. Turning it in his large hands, the carvings gave him comfort while his mind drifted. He had planned to give it to her, which was custom in Society, whoever she was.
A bride gift to his mystery woman with the flowing braided hair decorated in tiny conch shells and a lilting light laugh. He could never see her face. He could only remember holding her and fighting off the Cursed bitten warriors for the neighboring tribe who used to be their allies. He could remember how they flooded his home, kidnapping whom they could then killing the rest. He had centuries to think about why it happened. He had eras to learn that it was due to his tribe being Nephilim and Guardian wealthy. Large numbers of oracles, healers, and slayers made up the village. The land they lived on was blessed by the Most Highâs own hand and rich in mighty spirits.
His Gran was the High Eldress of the Ashanti village and his Granpops was the Elder over the slayers and guardians. The day his village was destroyed was the day of his transitioning and mate bonding with his mystery love from the neighboring Nephilim village. He remembered holding her hand while they linked souls, given the union soul mark tattooed on his front right shoulder and hers on the side of her ribcage under the curve of her plush breast.
He could remember the proud sensually aroused feelings of seeing her presented to him, but he could never see her face. They were a soul and love match, freely picked for each other and no one else. He remembered his Gran having a flash after weeks of oracles
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