Chapter 1: The Vision
The September heat clung to New Orleans like a second skin, thick and wet and suffocating. I pressed my forehead against the window of the streetcar, watching the Garden District mansions give way to the shotgun houses and corner stores of my neighborhood. The glass was warm, almost feverish, and I could smell the mix of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke from the other passengers. Somewhere behind me, a transistor radio crackled with Al Green’s voice, smooth as honey.
I was fourteen years old, and I hated my life.
Not all of it. Not the parts where I played basketball with Rick and the other boys from the neighborhood, our laughter echoing off the cracked asphalt. Not the parts where I’d sneak into the Saenger Theatre through the back door my cousin worked at, watching movies I was too young for in the cool darkness. Not even the parts where I’d walk down to the French Quarter and watch the street performers, the way they could make magic out of nothing but their own bodies and voices.
No, what I hated was going home.
The streetcar lurched to a stop at my corner, and I stepped out into the thick afternoon air. The smell hit me immediately—chicory coffee from the shop on the corner, rotting vegetables from the market dumpster, and underneath it all, the sweet decay of the city itself, like something beautiful slowly dying. I walked the three blocks to the abandoned building I shared with my adopted mom, Nadege, my sneakers slapping against the broken sidewalk.
Our building was the one everyone avoided. The one with the strange symbols painted on the door frame, in what looked like dried blood but was probably just rust-colored paint. The one where bundles of dried herbs hung from the entrance, spinning slowly in the breeze. The one where, if you walked past at night, you might hear Nadege’s voice rising and falling in Haitian Creole, praying to gods that most folks didn’t believe in anymore.
The witch’s house.
My jaw tightened as I climbed the steps. The wood groaned under my weight, and I made a mental note—again—that we needed to fix it. But we couldn’t afford to fix it. We could barely afford to eat. The building had been abandoned for years before Nadege had claimed a unit on the second floor, and the electricity only worked when the wiring felt like cooperating—which was maybe three days out of seven. While other kids at school wore new Converse and Levi’s, I wore hand-me-downs from the donation bins at the local shelter. While they talked about the new color TV their families had bought, Nadege and I shared a black-and-white set that only got two channels on a good day.
And it was all because Nadege refused to live in reality.
I pushed open the door. Ee never locked it because Nadege said her “protections” were better than any lock. I stepped into the dim interior. The place smelled like incense and something else, something darker and earthier. Candles burned on every surface, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. More symbols were painted here, too, covering the walls in intricate patterns that made my eyes hurt if I looked at them too long.
“Oba.” Nadege’s voice came from the back room, the one she called her “sanctuary.” “Vini la, pitit mwen. We need to talk.”
I dropped my backpack by the door and walked through the narrow hallway, past the tiny kitchen with its ancient stove and the bathroom with its rust-stained tub. Nadege was kneeling on the floor of her sanctuary, surrounded by candles. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, with skin the color of dark mahogany and gray-streaked hair that she wore in long braids. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved silently, whispering prayers in Creole.
Praying. Always praying.
“I got homework,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Mr. Patterson assigned a whole chapter of algebra.”
Nadege opened her eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, and in the candlelight they seemed to hold depths that made me uncomfortable. “This is more important than algebra.”
“Nothing’s more important than algebra if I want to pass freshman year.”
“Chita, Oba. Sit down.”
There was something in her voice—not anger, but urgency—that made me obey despite myself. I sat cross-legged on the floor across from her, careful not to disturb the circle of salt she’d poured around herself.
“I had a visitor today,” Nadege said softly, switching back to English. “A divine visitor.”
My stomach sank. Here we go again.
“The goddess Hecate herself appeared to me. She came in a vision of purple light and shadow, and she told me something about you, pitit mwen. Something important.” Nadege reached out and took my hands in hers. Her palms were rough, calloused from the tarot cards she shuffled day after day for customers who barely paid her enough to keep us fed. “Oba, you know I have always told you that you are my adopted son of divinity. That you are a child of a god.”
“Mama Nadege—”
“Listen to me.” Her voice was sharp now, desperate. “Hecate told me that you will soon experience what she called a ‘divine vision.’ When the children of gods come of age, they experience the emotions, thoughts, and prayers of their parent’s followers. All at once. It will be overwhelming, but you must not be afraid. It means you are awakening to your true nature.”
I pulled my hands away, my chest tightening with a familiar frustration. “How long it been since you seen Dr. Morrison?”
Nadege blinked. “What?”
“Your psychiatrist, Mama. Dr. Morrison. The one who diagnosed you. When the last time you went to see him?” I stood up, my hands clenched into fists. “You supposed to be takin’ your medication. You supposed to be goin’ to your appointments.”
“Oba, this ain’t about that—”
“It’s always about that!” My voice rose, echoing off the walls. “Don’t you see? This right here, this is why we livin’ in an abandoned building with no electricity half the time. This is why we eatin’ donations from the shelter. This is why I gotta wear clothes that don’t even fit me right.”
“Pitit—”
“You could get a real job, Mama. You smart. You could work in an office, work at a store, work anywhere. But you don’t, ’cause you think everybody who got a regular job is ’followers of nothing ‘cause they don’t pray to Hecate and Hades like you do.” I was backing toward the door now, anger and shame warring in my chest. “You rather sit here doin’ tarot cards for five dollars a reading, tellin’ me I’m some child of a goddess, when really you just sick and you won’t get help.”
Nadege stood slowly, her face pained. “Oba, I know it’s hard to understand—”
“It ain’t hard to understand. You got schizophrenia, Mama. That’s what Dr. Morrison said. And if you just take your medicine, if you just stop with all this—” I gestured at the candles, the symbols, the altar “—maybe we could be normal. Maybe I could be normal.”
“When the vision comes—”
“There ain’t gon’ be no vision!” I was shouting now, and I didn’t care. “Because I ain’t the son of no goddess! I’m just a kid, and you just a woman who believe in fairy tales ’cause reality too hard to face!”
I turned and stormed out, grabbing my backpack and slamming out the door. Behind me, I heard Nadege call my name in Creole, but I didn’t stop. I ran down the stairs and into the street, my vision blurred with angry tears, not knowing where I was going, just knowing I had to get away.
By the next morning, my anger had cooled into a familiar, dull resentment. I woke up on the couch where I’d crashed the night before, still in my clothes from yesterday. The apartment was quiet except for the sound of Nadege moving around in the kitchen. The electricity was working today—small miracle—and the smell of coffee filled the air.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Through the window, I could see the sun just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The city was waking up around us, and I could hear the distant sound of traffic and voices.
I found Nadege in the kitchen, standing over the stove. She’d made grits and eggs—our usual breakfast when we had the money for it. She didn’t look at me as I entered, just kept stirring the pot.
“Manje a pare,” she said quietly. The food is ready.
We ate in silence. I wanted to apologize for what I’d said last night, but the words stuck in my throat. Part of me still meant it. Part of me was still angry. But another part—a smaller, quieter part—felt guilty for hurting her.
After breakfast, I got ready for school. I pulled on a pair of jeans that were too short in the legs and a t-shirt that had been donated from somewhere, the logo faded beyond recognition. Nadege watched me from the doorway of my small room.
“Be careful today, pitit,” she said softly.
I didn’t answer. Just grabbed my backpack and headed for the door.
“Oba.”
I stopped, my hand on the doorknob.
“I love you. No matter what you believe, no matter what you think of me. M renmen w.”
Something in my chest tightened, but I still didn’t turn around. “I know, Mama.”
Then I was out the door and down the stairs, into the morning heat that was already building even though it wasn’t yet seven a.m.
The walk to school took me through the heart of my neighborhood. I passed Miss Claudette’s house with its neat garden, Mr. Jerome sitting on his porch already even though the sun was barely up, and the corner store where the old men gathered to play dominoes and talk shit. Everyone knew everyone here, and everyone knew to avoid the Benoit boy and his crazy mama.
Three blocks from school, I stopped at Thibodeaux’s Gumbo Shop. It was a small place, barely more than a hole in the wall, but the smell that came from inside was heaven—spicy and rich and complex. The owner, Marcel Thibodeaux, was a big man with dark skin and a smile that could light up a room. He was standing behind the counter when I walked in, and his face broke into a grin.
“Ayy, there he is! My favorite customer!” Marcel’s voice boomed through the small space. “You ready for your lunch, young blood?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Thibodeaux,” I said, managing a small smile despite my mood.
Marcel was already ladling gumbo into a container, the thick stew full of shrimp and sausage and okra. “How your mama doin’? I ain’t seen her in a few days.”
“She alright,” I said, which wasn’t exactly a lie but wasn’t exactly the truth either.
“You tell her I said hello, yeah? Tell her...” Marcel paused, and something soft crossed his face. “Tell her if she ever need anything, anything at all, she just gotta ask. You hear me?”
I nodded, taking the container. I’d noticed before how Mr. Thibodeaux’s voice changed when he talked about Nadege, how his eyes got a little distant. But I had never really thought about what it meant. Now, watching the big man carefully seal the container like it was something precious, I wondered if maybe Mr. Thibodeaux felt something for my mama. The thought was strange and uncomfortable, so I pushed it away.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“Ain’t no thing, young blood. You go on and learn somethin’ today, yeah?”
I left the shop with the warm container in my backpack, the smell of gumbo following me down the street. It was the same routine every school day—Mr. Thibodeaux giving me free lunch, asking about Nadege, that look in his eyes. I had never questioned it before, had just been grateful for the food. But now I wondered how long it had been going on, and what it meant.
I pushed through the doors of Frederick Douglass High School just as the first bell rang. The hallways were already crowded with students, their voices echoing off the lockers. I kept my head down, navigating through the crowd toward my first class.
Music class was in the auditorium, a large space with a stage at one end and rows of chairs facing it. Mr. Washington, the music teacher, was a thin man with graying hair and hands that moved like birds when he conducted. He was passionate about jazz—New Orleans jazz specifically—and he’d made it his mission to teach every student who passed through his class about the music that had been born in their city.
I slid into a seat near the back just as Mr. Washington clapped his hands for attention.
“Alright, alright, settle down now!” Mr. Washington’s voice cut through the chatter. “Today we gon’ continue workin’ on ‘Take Five.’ I want the horn section over here, percussion over there, and piano—Oba, you ready?”
I felt every eye in the room turn to me. I nodded, standing and making my way to the piano at the side of the stage. It was an old upright, the keys yellowed with age, but it was in tune and it had a warm, rich sound that I loved.
I sat down on the bench and flexed my fingers. This was the one place in school where I felt like I belonged. The one thing I was actually good at. When my hands touched the keys, everything else fell away—the poverty, the shame, Nadege’s illness, all of it. There was just the music.
“Yo, Oba!” A voice called from the horn section. “Don’t be showin’ off now!”
I looked up to see Rick Johnson grinning at me, his trumpet in hand. Rick was stocky and dark-skinned, with a gap between his front teeth and an afro that he picked out every morning until it was perfectly round. He was my best friend, had been since third grade when we’d both gotten detention for fighting on the playground.
“Man, shut up and play your horn,” I called back, and the class laughed.
“Both of y’all shut up,” Mr. Washington said, but he was smiling. “Rick, you and Oba can talk after class. Right now, we makin’ music. From the top, everyone. One, two, three, four—”
The class launched into “Take Five,” the complex rhythm filling the auditorium. My fingers moved across the keys, finding the melody, building on it, adding flourishes that weren’t in the sheet music but felt right. I could hear Rick’s trumpet cutting through, bright and clear, and the drums keeping that distinctive five-four time.
For a few minutes, everything was perfect.
When the song ended, Mr. Washington was beaming. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Oba, son, you got a gift. You know that? You could go somewhere with that piano playin’.”
I ducked my head, embarrassed by the praise. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m serious. You ever think about Juilliard? Or Berklee? They got scholarships for talented kids like you.”
“Nah, sir. I ain’t... that ain’t for people like me.”
Mr. Washington’s expression softened. “Don’t sell yourself short, Oba. You got somethin’ special.”
After class, Rick caught up with me in the hallway. “Man, Mr. Washington right. You was killin’ it in there.”
“It was aight,” I said, but I was pleased.
“Aight? Negro, please. You was playin’ like you Thelonious Monk or somethin’.” Rick slung an arm around my shoulders. “You see Adura in there? She was watchin’ you the whole time.”
I glanced back toward the auditorium. Adura Williams was standing by the door, talking to her friends. She was a pretty girl with smooth dark skin and her hair in neat cornrows. She played clarinet in the class, and she was good—not as good as Rick or me, but good enough.
“She wasn’t watchin’ me, fool. She was probably lookin’ at the clock, wishin’ class was over.”
“Nah, man, I’m tellin’ you. She was lookin’ at you.” Rick’s voice got dreamy. “Man, she so fine. Look at her. Look at the way she—”
“Rick, she don’t even know you exist.”
“That’s cold, man. That’s cold.” But Rick was still staring at Adura with puppy-dog eyes. “I’ma talk to her. I’ma go over there right now and talk to her.”
“You ain’t gon’ do nothin’.”
“Watch me.”
Rick started toward Adura, his chest puffed out, trying to look confident. I watched, already knowing how this was going to end. Rick had been in love with Adura since sixth grade, and she’d never given him the time of day.
“Ay, Adura!” Rick called out. “You was soundin’ real good in there on that clarinet.”
Adura looked up, her expression polite but distant. “Thanks, Rick.”
“Yeah, so I was thinkin’, maybe you and me could—”
“I gotta get to class,” Adura said, already turning away. “See you later.”
She walked off with her friends, leaving Rick standing there with his mouth open. I walked over and patted my friend on the shoulder.
“Told you.”
“Man, shut up.” Rick’s face was a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. “She just... she was in a hurry, that’s all. Next time, I’ma catch her when she got more time.”
“Sure, man. Sure.”
We walked to our next class together, two delinquents who barely passed our classes and got into fights more often than we should. We were loners in a school full of cliques and social hierarchies, but we had each other, and that was enough.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of boring classes and teachers who’d already given up on most of their students. By the time lunch rolled around, I was ready to eat. I found a spot under a tree in the courtyard and pulled out the container of gumbo Mr. Thibodeaux had given me. The smell made my mouth water.
Rick plopped down beside me with his own lunch—a sandwich that looked like it had seen better days. “Man, that smell good. What you got?”
“Gumbo from Mr. Thibodeaux’s.”
“That man still givin’ you free food? He must really like your mama.”
I paused, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “What you mean?”
“Come on, man. You ain’t blind. The way he always askin’ about her, always makin’ sure you got lunch. That man in love.” Rick took a bite of his sandwich and made a face. “Damn, this bologna taste like cardboard.”
I thought about it as I ate. Was Mr. Thibodeaux in love with Nadege? The idea seemed impossible. Who could love someone like her, someone who talked to gods that didn’t exist and lived in an abandoned building and couldn’t hold down a regular job?
But then I remembered the way Mr. Thibodeaux’s face softened when he talked about her. The way he always made sure to give me extra food. The way he’d said, “If she ever need anything, anything at all...”
Maybe Rick was right.
The thought made something twist in my chest. I didn’t know if it was hope or fear or something else entirely.
After lunch, we had gym class. The gymnasium was hot and smelled like sweat and rubber, and Coach Williams—no relation to Adura—was already blowing his whistle when Rick and I walked in.
“Alright, ladies, we playin’ basketball today! Shirts versus jerseys! Let’s go, let’s go!”
I ended up on the jerseys team, pulling on a mesh practice jersey that was two sizes too big. Rick was on the shirts team, and he was already talking trash.
“Hope you ready to lose, Oba! I’m ’bout to school you!”
“Man, please. You couldn’t school a kindergartner.”
We played hard, the ball echoing off the wooden floor, sneakers squeaking, bodies colliding. I was fast but Rick was stronger, and he used his weight to his advantage, boxing me out, stealing the ball, sinking shot after shot.
Rick’s team won, 21 to 15.
In the locker room afterward, the air was thick with steam and sweat and the sharp smell of cheap deodorant. I stood at my locker, pulling off the jersey, when Rick came up behind me and slapped me on the back hard enough to sting.
“Man, you played like my grandma out there,” Rick said, laughing. “And she been dead for three years.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, but I was smiling despite myself.
“I’m serious, man. You had, what, two points? Two points! I seen better playin’ from the special ed kids.” Rick was on a roll now, playing to the audience of other boys who were listening and laughing. “Maybe you should stick to that piano, Oba. Leave the sports to people with actual coordination.”
“I said shut up.” I shoved Rick playfully, and Rick shoved back, and for a moment it was just normal teenage roughhousing, the kind that didn’t mean anything.
And then the world exploded.
It started as a pressure behind my eyes, like someone was pushing thumbs into my skull from the inside. I gasped, stumbling backward, and Rick’s laughter cut off.
“Oba? You aight, man?”
But I couldn’t answer because suddenly I wasn’t in the locker room anymore. I was everywhere and nowhere, drowning in a flood of sensations that weren’t my own.
Fear. Oh God, the fear.
It crashed over me in waves, thousands of voices screaming in my head at once. A woman in a dark room, praying desperately as footsteps approached her door. A child hiding under a bed, trying not to breathe as something with too many legs skittered across the floor above. A man standing on a bridge, looking down at the water below, feeling the weight of every failure, every loss, every moment of pain in his life pulling him toward the edge.
And behind them, around them, feeding on them—things.
I could see them now, or sense them, or something. Creatures made of shadow and hunger, with eyes like dying stars and mouths that opened onto nothing. They clung to people’s backs, whispering poison into their ears. They crouched in corners, growing fat on despair. They danced in the spaces between thoughts, turning hope into ash.
The emotions were overwhelming. Grief so profound it felt like drowning. Rage that burned like acid in my veins. Loneliness that echoed in a vast, empty space inside my chest. And underneath it all, a darkness so complete and absolute that it felt like the end of everything.
This wasn’t what Nadege had described. This wasn’t the prayers of followers, the love and devotion of worshippers. This was something else entirely. This was the raw, bleeding wound of human suffering, and I was being forced to feel every bit of it.
I tried to scream, but my throat wouldn’t work. My legs gave out, and I felt myself falling, the tile floor rushing up to meet me. The last thing I heard before the darkness took me was Rick’s voice, high and panicked:
“Somebody help! Somethin’ wrong with Oba!”
I woke to fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. My head was pounding, and my mouth tasted like copper. Slowly, the world came into focus. I was lying on a cot in the nurse’s office, and Rick was sitting in a chair beside me, his face pale and worried.
“Hey,” Rick said softly. “You awake. Man, you scared the shit outta us.”
I tried to sit up, but my head spun and I lay back down. “What happened?”
“You just... collapsed. Like, one second you was standin’ there, and the next you was on the ground, shakin’. We thought you was havin’ a seizure or somethin’.” Rick leaned forward. “The nurse wanna call your mama.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “No, I’m fine. I just... I don’t know. Got dizzy.”
The nurse—a middle-aged Black woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense manner—appeared beside the cot. “You was unconscious for almost ten minutes, young man. That ain’t ‘just dizzy.’ I really think you should go home and rest. I already called Mrs. Benoit. She on her way.”
I wanted to argue, but the truth was I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Every part of my body ached, and the memory of what I’d experienced—the fear, the darkness, the creatures—made me want to curl up and hide.
Nadege arrived twenty minutes later, still wearing the long skirt and headwrap she always wore when she did tarot readings. Her face was tight with worry, but she didn’t ask questions, just helped me to my feet and guided me out to the street where she’d caught a cab—an extravagance we couldn’t afford, which told me how serious she thought this was.
In the cab, she held my hand and murmured prayers under her breath in Creole. I was too exhausted to pull away.
At home, Nadege made me lie down on the couch and brought me water and a cool cloth for my forehead. The apartment was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and the candles were all lit. I watched the flames dance and tried not to think about what had happened.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“Mama Nadege,” I said quietly. “What you said yesterday. About the vision.”
She sat down beside me, her hand resting on my arm. “You experienced it.”
It wasn’t a question. I nodded slowly. “But it wasn’t what you said. It wasn’t prayers or devotion or nothin’ like that. It was... it was horrible. All this fear and pain, and these things, these creatures feedin’ on it. What that mean?”
Nadege’s face was troubled. “I don’t know, pitit. Hecate said you would experience the emotions of her followers, but perhaps—”
She stopped abruptly, her head snapping toward the window. I felt it too—a change in the air, a pressure that made my ears pop. The candle flames all flickered at once, bending toward the door as if blown by a wind that wasn’t there.
“Non,” Nadege whispered. “Not yet. He’s not ready.”
“What? What is it?”
And then I heard them. Voices outside, but not human voices. These were sounds that scraped against my eardrums, that made my teeth ache and my stomach turn. Growls and hisses and something that might have been laughter if laughter could sound like breaking bones.
Nadege was on her feet, moving to the window. She pulled back the curtain just an inch, and I saw her face go pale. “They found you. The demons. They can sense when a young god awakens, and they come to kill them before they can grow strong. It causes their divine parents pain, you see. It’s a way to strike at the gods themselves.”
“Demons?” My voice cracked. “Mama Nadege, what you talkin’ about? What’s happenin’?”
But before she could answer, the windows exploded inward.
Glass rained down on us, and I threw my arms up to protect my face. Through the shattered windows came things that shouldn’t exist—creatures made of shadow and smoke, with eyes that glowed red and claws that looked sharp enough to cut through steel. There were three of them, and they moved with a horrible, predatory grace.
Nadege stepped in front of me, her hands raised. She spoke in Haitian Creole, her voice strong and clear, calling on Hecate and Hades for protection. The symbols on the walls began to glow with a faint purple light. The demons hissed and recoiled, but they didn’t leave.
“The protections will hold them for a moment,” Nadege said, her voice steady despite the terror in her eyes. “But not long. Oba, listen to me—”
The sky outside lit up.
It was a light unlike anything I’d ever seen—black and purple, swirling together like oil and wine. It rose from the street, growing brighter and larger, until it filled the entire view through the broken windows. The demons shrieked and scattered, disappearing into the shadows.
And then the light took shape.
She was enormous, easily twenty feet tall, a figure of a woman made entirely of that dark purple radiance. Her face was beautiful and terrible, with eyes that held the depth of eternity and a smile that promised both ecstasy and annihilation. She wore robes that seemed to be made of night itself, and in her hands she held two torches that burned with black flame.
I knew, with a certainty that went beyond logic, that I was looking at a goddess.
“Hecate,” Nadege breathed, and she fell to her knees.
The goddess’s voice was like thunder and whispers combined, speaking directly into my mind. “The child has awakened. It is time for him to leave this mortal place and come to his true home. God Academy awaits, where the children of the divine learn to master their gifts.”
“No.” I was on my feet, backing away, my heart hammering in my chest. “No, I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m stayin’ here with Mama Nadege.”
Hecate’s eyes fixed on me, and I felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing. “You refuse me?”
“Oba, tanpri.” Nadege was beside me now, her hands on my shoulders. “You have to go. It’s not safe for you here. The demons will keep coming, and I can’t protect you forever. At the Academy, you’ll be safe. You’ll learn what you are, what you can become.”
“I don’t care!” My voice broke. “I don’t wanna be the son of no goddess! I don’t want none of this! I just wanna be normal! I just wanna stay here with you!”
“I’ll visit,” Nadege said, and there were tears streaming down her face now. “I promise, pitit. I’ll come see you as often as I can. But you have to go. Tanpri. For me.”
I looked at her—this woman who had raised me, who had loved me despite my resentment, who had tried to prepare me for something I’d refused to believe. I saw the fear in her eyes, but also the love, and the desperate hope that I would understand.
But I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand any of this.
“No,” I said again, and I meant it with every fiber of my being. “I ain’t leavin’ you.”
Hecate’s expression changed. The smile vanished, replaced by something cold and hard. “You dare refuse a goddess? You dare defy your own mother?”
“You ain’t my mother!” I shouted. “Nadege is my mother! And I ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
For a moment, there was silence. Even the sounds of the city seemed to fade away, leaving only the crackling of Hecate’s black torches and the pounding of my heart.
Then Hecate raised one hand, and dark purple energy began to gather around her fingers.
“Non—” Nadege started to say, but it was too late.
The goddess thrust her hand forward, and a pulse of that dark purple aura shot across the space between them. It hit me in the chest like a physical blow, and suddenly the world was dissolving around me. I saw Nadege reaching for me, her mouth open in a scream I couldn’t hear. I saw the walls of our apartment fading away, becoming transparent, then disappearing entirely.
“Mama!” I screamed, or tried to scream, but my voice was lost in the roar of energy that surrounded me.
The last thing I saw before everything went white was Nadege, standing alone in our ruined home, surrounded by broken glass and dying candles, with demons gathering in the shadows behind her.
Then she was gone, and I was falling through light and darkness, being pulled away from everything I’d ever known, toward a destiny I’d never wanted and a truth I wasn’t ready to face.
I was fourteen years old, and my life as I knew it was over.
