Page 91 of Divine Oaths

“Adinkra is iconography, an alphabet of characters or symbols. Of course, my knowledge of it is limited. My great-great-grandparents may have known it when they were kidnapped, enslaved, and brought to this country. But your mother’s side of the family, those whose roots remained in the motherland, may know it still. The sisterhood and brotherhood of Ԑnhye is the fabric that binds us through the roots of history and time. Ours is a tribe that spans beyond Westfield’s gates and beyond history. Across the country, across the Black diaspora.”

It was strange to hear Vivian talk like this, like she was some ancient soul, when I’d known her as a bubbly, youthful woman whose biggest concern was keeping her head in a book and passing classes. But the warmth with which she spoke, the richness of the history woven in the imagery, carried a familiarity that reminded me of my family’s own origins, from the African proverbs my mother had shared with my father to the imagery and symbols of the Akan language I’d grown up with. That history had been sewn into the fabric of my family’s roots, through my mother’s side who immigrated all those years ago and my father’s ancestors who had been stolen from Africa’s shores long ago.

My mother’s side of the family had kept that fire kindling through long phone calls with family back home, while my father’s side cultivated remnants of that culture in their own Black heritage. And then there were the rare trips to the continent, to my mother’s West African home, that I’d been too small to remember.

Vivian, Angelica, and I—and those within Ԑnhye and across the Black diaspora—all had a shared connection to Africa and our ancestors, and that fabric was stronger than steel or iron, and richer than gold. This was transcendent, a passing of one’s story to another.

“Language has power,” Vivian continued. “And losing one’s language can rob a soul of their voice. I’ve been dead for decades, and though I study and practice, I cannot teach myself what I don’t know. So while we do not speak the tongue of our ancestors, we carry this phrase close to our hearts and commit to the study of it—to the making of our own stories and dialect.”

Behind me, Angelica spoke in her own Jamaican patois, different from the way Vivian spoke, or the Akan I’d known from my mother, yet somehow, each was woven together by a shared bond.

“My abilities are drawn from my connection to space,” Angelica said, joining us now. “I feel the air around me, the weight of every object and person and thing that takes up that space. I also feel the weight of the negative energy, what was lost, uprooted.”

She raised her hand, and the planted thyme rose from the earth as if carried by a gentle, concentrated force. “I also have migraines, but that is from using that invisible muscle. The teas and medicines I make calm the nerves and rejuvenate them so I can draw on them without wounding my mortal body.”

“My powers were never linked to telekinesis, which is why I’m so awful at it,” Vivian said. “But as a ghost, I now have access to that connection with space, because I exist between the realms of the living and the dead.”

“Usually, skin to skin is the easiest conduit.” She gestured to my hand, to the lace gloves I wore, the ones Kasem had given me. “But you know that. For years now, your abilities were in their earliest manifestation. And what you’re experiencing now, the headaches, the nosebleeds? They are signs that your abilities are growing. So, today, and every day until Kasem’s fated death day, on the seventh of December, we will practice honing them so you will be prepared to break the bond between your powers and his lifeline.”

Angelica brought two flowers to me, one wilted, one bloomed. I cupped one in each of my palms, the lace from my gloves helping me focus on the present even as the past churned within me.

“Now, try doing what Vivi did last time you were here.”

I closed my eyes.

“You don’t have to close them—” Vivian said.

“I know. It’s a habit. Just let me focus.”

Again, I closed my eyes, focusing on my affinity and its currents that were linked to my mind. Ripples of energy coursed through my head. But I couldn’t shift my concentration to the flower in front of me, and nausea began to roil my stomach. When I opened my eyes, I’d only faintly browned the once-blooming rose and only a light glint of color was visible in the one that had wilted.

“If you don’t train your powers, it won’t matter whether or not the curse is broken,” Angelica said. “You will be broken. Vivian and I went to school with your mother. She was never dedicated to the craft. And you saw how she became with the visions, how she lost touch with reality, with her present. How she became trapped in her own mind. You must learn to control your affinity or your powers will consume you. For even if you break the bond between you and Kasem, you’ll still be lost.”

CHAPTER FORTY

What we may be

IN THE DAYS LEADING UP to rush, I spent most of my time with Vivian and Angelica, honing my powers. But even with the different tasks they gave me, from trying to make a flower wilt and bloom to simpler things like using my affinity of time to rewind tea so it was warm again, I struggled to control my abilities. All of my efforts so far had resulted in browning buds, lukewarm tea, and migraines that pulsed against the back of my mind.

“I don’t think you’re ready,” Vivian said.

It was a Saturday, nearing midnight. The end of October had come and Kasem’s birthday was just over a month out. For the first time since I’d entered Westfield, its hallways were silent. Vivian and I traversed a remote corridor of the music building. Even though the School of Fine Art had practice rooms open 24/7 with key card access, most of the rooms were empty as people gathered at their dorms for Halloween ragers. My footsteps echoed softly against the stone floors, hers traceless as she glided forward.

Moonlight spilled from the windows, the silence curdling like something spoiled and raw.

Rush would have already started by now. Luke was probably gathered with the other initiates who’d received Sigma’s and Theta’s special invitations, while everyone without an invitation who’d wanted to pledge would be able to rush the following night.

Eventually, we reached a door with a red EXIT sign blinking above it. It was always odd to see such modern displays at Westfield, but I supposed even haunted campuses from the 1800s had to comply with modern fire regulations.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed. I ignored the sound of it.

A burst of cold autumn air bristled against the building’s heat as I pushed past two double doors. Vivian disappeared into the walls.

When I finally looked at my phone, a message appeared on the screen. Someone had shared their location with me. I clicked the map link and it showed an area a few miles away from Westfield. In the distance, figures emerged from one of the buildings on campus. They were clad in silver and glistened like stardust in the night.

Whispers drew closer and closer. Behind me, a cool hand grabbed my shoulder. I screamed but the sound was muffled as another hand covered my mouth.

“Chill! Do you want us to get caught?”