Page 37 of Tangled at the Root
“I’m not going to kill you, Rosemary.”
“All right, Genevieve.”
My heart fuckingaches. Every time she’s said those words, in that same, indulgent tone, and with that exact little smile, she’d always ended up getting her way.
I hate that, for the first time, I’m going to prove her wrong.
11: FEELS LIKE FREEDOM
Predator. My instincts scream the word as Genevieve prowls—it’s the only word that fits—around the sitting room, going from window to window, her body coiled with tension. Her fists are clenched by her sides, her eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched. My lower belly dips every time I catch that sexy, intense expression.
It’s not the same agitation as before, those rare times she’d lost a little bit of her control back in school. The very first time, she’d been working part-time for a laundromat. Her oga had ordered her to dress and act more feminine or he’d dock her already pitiful pay. She’d quit on the spot. But that comment had apparently been the last straw on top of a whole lot of other bullshit.
She’d been pacing just like this as she’d relayed what had happened, trembling and furious—clenching her jaw so hard I could practically hear her teeth grinding. My hairs had stood on end, just like now. And just like now, I’d been afraid if I didn’t find a way to help her calm down, she’d end up doing something that would have her thrown in jail.
That fear had me grabbing her boldly by the nape of her neck, and pressing her forehead hard against mine. Holding on tight and ordering her to match my breathing. It had worked like a charm. Over the years, those rare times when she’d lost it again, it had worked perfectly then, too.
I don’t think it’s going to work now. This is a different kind of restlessness. It’s the tension of an animal trapped for too long, coiled tight and ready to rip its way out.
My heart is beating fast, though I’m managing to control my breathing—not that I have a choice, since I’m getting ready to cleanse the house and hopefully, in the process, untangle the dagbato.
It hadn’t properly sunk in, the fact that Genevieve isn’t human, until she’d said the name out loud.
Legbaju.
Like bush babies and Lady Koi Koi, though not as popular, the legbaju is a Nigerian, Ibiiom-specific supernatural creature—a fabled monster parents use to keep their children in bed at night.
The legend goes that the legbaju only feeds on the hearts of living things. Once a legbaju eats the heart of anything, human or animal, it can take its shape, making it the perfect hunter; a literal wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I glance at Genevieve again.
She’s standing in front of one of the windows, gripping the bars so tightly her knuckles are protruding. Or … I squint, pushing my glasses up my nose. No, those are just her knuckles, thebones thinner and sharper, pressing so hard against her skin I’m afraid it’s about to split.
I look away quickly, trying to focus.
The lilac candles I’d already laid out aren’t just for protection against shanndes, demons, and other sorts of supernatural evil, they help with cleansings as well.
Typically, for a successful cleansing, I should be in the heart of the house; not the literal centre, but the place where the house’s eshé is the strongest.
The sitting room feels like the right place, but unless I step into every single room in the house with my candles to check, I can’t be sure. Since I can’t do that without risking another attack, I’m going to have to double the effort to make sure the cleansing is strong enough to be successful.
“Can I have the windows open, please?” I say softly, not sure who I’m talking to; the house, the shannko, or hell, even the dagbato itself. “That’s if you’re the one keeping us in here. You can keep the bars locked if you’re so inclined.”
After two seconds, the window panes disappear from their frames. If I hadn’t been looking, I wouldn’t have noticed.
Genevieve inhales a raw, greedy breath. Her breathing doesn’t sound normal. It sounds—its making my skin break out in goose bumps. I frantically ignore it.
Since the house had so readily obeyed, it makes me wonder once more if it really is the thing keeping us here. Perhaps, because of Genevieve’s grandmother’s shannko, the house obeys her will, still—or maybe she’s outright manipulating the house’s eshé for her benefit, keeping us locked up until I’ve untangled the dagbato, and Genevieve has fulfilled her request to renew the deal.
Four white candles. Four yellow. This time placed nearly six feet from where I’m standing. There are two thick gold bangles with eight tinkling bells—dark cowrie beads sitting in perfectlyoval shells made from polished wood—on each of my ankles and wrists. I upend one of my velvet drawstring bags in the centre, mulchy earth forming a small heap on the marble floor. I spread the earth in as perfect of a circle as I can make it, bells tinkling. There shouldn’t be enough for the circle to be more than four inches in diameter, but it keeps going the more I spread until I’ve formed a three-foot-wide circular carpet. My crocs are off my feet, my toes digging into the familiar dirt. As usual, I face the south, where my village—and the connection to my ancestral eshé—is the strongest.
A whispered incantation, and a small flame bursts to life in my upheld palm. Another incantation sends the flame flying to the eight candles, lighting them with a snap.
I take a deep breath to centre myself.
Genevieve, and the rest of the world, are forgotten.
The song comes from deep inside me; a prayer for my ancestors to use my body as a vessel to purify this house, to leave both it and I clean when the song comes to an end.
