Ta da!
Book two is imminent.
Look - over there, on the left - there's the cover!
Okay, so the text isn't ready yet. That's because although I've edited the hell out of it, have to force myself to stop tinkering (or why did I send it to my proof reader already?), it's the numbers bit. The bit I hate, the bit that my brain just isn't attuned to dealing with.
Numbering chapters, checking those timelines (there are are three!) ... The thing about a story series is tying up threads at all ends ... and not accidentally changing the colour of a thread halfway through. This book has been a real challenge, what with the leaps in time, the multiple nationalities and their speech, I've had my research cut out. And an extensive acknowledgement page to write. It truly has been all hands on deck.
The good news is that my proof reader doesn't think she can bear to wait another two years for the next instalment, so I'd better get cracking.
In the mean time, here's the first chapter of Kin's Destiny. Enjoy.
Sainte Domingue Interior, Hispaniola, 1690
A dark, decaying veil of moist black air hangs within the single-roomed building. Vincent hovers at the doorway muttering secret words, scattering dark clumps of rough sea-salt, grains clinging stickily to his fingers. Then, his first precaution against evil taken, into the room he goes, stepping softly.
In the thick, stagnant atmosphere, his candle barely flickers. He strews the dirt floor with sweet smelling leaves which will, in a matter of hours, become noisome debris. Cleansing his hands with a halved lime, the sharp tingle of zest hits his nose and palate. The fragrance sings its note of purity against the dirge of filth. Only now dare he commence his regimen of care.
Suspended from invisible cords, the hammocks contain two pale, bloated chrysalids which show no sign of breath. Only Vincent may get close enough to see the moisture which condenses on their cool skin.
Each day, since they were dragged in ropes and chains from their graves and administered toxic unguent, Vincent visits these exotic specimens. He is sensitive to the balance between life and death. One mistake, a single omission, and they will cross the threshold and the power of the spirits will conquer his hold over them. The spirits are hungry, like wild creatures starving for the sustenance of living things. He is an old bokor, practised in the art of zombi-making, but these days time seems to telescope. He wakes believing he is still a young man. Sometimes he wakes thinking he is back in Guinea. It is Yvette who gently reminds him of what he has to do. He rewards her with disdain, but he is grateful.
His long fingers dig into the recesses of his goat-skin bag, feeling for a small cracked pot and its lethal contents. He mutters and hums as he gently dabs and smears a tiny dot of the thick ointment by way of a flattened wooden paddle onto the sunken bellies of the two young men. Then two further dots are smeared at their temples. In a single movement he returns the pot and stick to the skin bag and withdraws a bundle of leaves bound with human hair. He lights the bundle and they crackle alight, their herb scent overpowered by the acrid stink of burned hair.
Vincent chants incantations until the leaves extinguish themselves, then he slowly backs out of the room, as if retreating from a slumbering beast that might at any moment awaken and tear out his throat. He pauses, reassured that the two zombis are subdued for another cycle of the moon and sun, before he gently closes and then locks the door.
Yvette sits at some distance, braiding the hair of a younger concubine, watching askance as Vincent emerges from the shack. She feels herself release a sigh of relief. Not that she would ever let Vincent suspect that she feared for him. Implying that she no longer believed in his power would enrage him and she would be cast out or killed for such a betrayal. Yet, deep within her, she nurses a foreboding that drags heavily upon her like a restless child ready to be born. No good will come of this.
The dereliction of a bokor’s duties to the loa risks Bizango justice being overturned, destroying the witch doctor and all else in its wake. It will be up to her to safeguard the sacred objects and ensure the young men meet with a good death. All this besides her promise to the Taino-Maroons who live like phantoms up in the hills. Yvette knows she can’t do this alone. She must trust that her chosen path leads her to those who will help.
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