keening sound exploded in the moment of silence.
A voice with a surreal sound to it, distinctly sang, âRockabye, baby.â
The barrel of the gun that was pointed at Milkbone kicked off a shot, dropping him in his own blood. The crowd on the street dissipated. Skilled in the menaces of the hood, they knew the drill and they were immediately ghost.
Rico hit the ignition as he watched smoke drift up from Milkboneâs slain body. The Jeep lurched forward. Milkboneâs body got caught under the tire as the Jeep sped away, dragging the body along with it. It finally shook loose, lying facedown in scattered blood all over the street.
Â
Â
Aisha Jackson, Jazzâs friend, stood wide-eyed holding on to her bedroom curtain. The little girlâs body shook as she stared through the curtain at the familiar figure. She was so scared she couldnât move.
She had just witnessed her first murder. She stared in the eyes of the murderer. He smiled. What held Aisha frozen in her spot was not the person she saw shoot Milkbone.
Aisha was used to hearing gunshots, as well as police and emergency vehicles screeching through the night, in her neighborhood. She had even witnessed her friend Jazz die. And she knew the shooter was a bad man.
What held her scared stiff, and trembling in her spot, was what she saw standing just behind the murderer. She blinked, hoping to open her eyes and find it gone.
When she opened her eyes the shooter was gone, but riveted to the spot just beyond where the shooter had stood was the one who didnât leave. The one who didnât smile. It was the one who had come to stay.
The one who would rock all of their cradles before it was all said and done. âRockabye, baby,â it sang. The lyrics fell like the impending doom they were in the midst of.
Aisha dropped the curtain. She backed away. She half expected it to appear in front of her. But it didnât. At least it didnât on this night.
The little girl climbed into her bed. She pulled the covers over her head. The only sound in the room was that of her teeth chattering. She might have gone to tell her mother except that her vocal cords had been temporarily stricken. She couldnât speak.
The only movement in the room was her trembling body. And the Darkling wasnât worried because it knew she would never speak again.
Chapter 14
A cross the street from Aisha Jacksonâs house an old woman known as Mama sat in her spot by the window, peeking out from behind her shade. Only on this night she wished she hadnât. Sometimes you were better off not seeing things.
Mama and Papa, as they were respectively known, had lived in the Central Ward for close to fifty years and had grown old there in their time. Mama was a spry eighty and Papa was eighty-two.
Papa had always warned Mama about being at that window. Heâd admonished her, telling her that when people always looked for things, sometimes they saw things they didnât want to see. But Mama had paid no heed to the old coot, because heâd never know a thing if it wasnât for her.
His nose was always stuck in that newspaper or on a Yankees game. He couldnât care less what happened on the streets. Mama, on the other hand, was very perceptiveâsensitive to certain things. Because of this secondary sense her world was a much broader one than Papaâs.
Papa looked over at Mama and he didnât like what he saw. âMama, I told you to stay away from that window.â He had heard the shots. âWhatâs wrong?â The hair on the back of his arms was bristling.
When Mama turned to him he knew there had been a subtle shift in things. He didnât cotton much to all the nonsense about senses and all that, but within himself he did have a healthy respect for Mamaâs sight.
In fact he had a liâl of it himself, but it didnât make no sense to go around spouting that kind of stuff to people. They didnât
A voice with a surreal sound to it, distinctly sang, âRockabye, baby.â
The barrel of the gun that was pointed at Milkbone kicked off a shot, dropping him in his own blood. The crowd on the street dissipated. Skilled in the menaces of the hood, they knew the drill and they were immediately ghost.
Rico hit the ignition as he watched smoke drift up from Milkboneâs slain body. The Jeep lurched forward. Milkboneâs body got caught under the tire as the Jeep sped away, dragging the body along with it. It finally shook loose, lying facedown in scattered blood all over the street.
Â
Â
Aisha Jackson, Jazzâs friend, stood wide-eyed holding on to her bedroom curtain. The little girlâs body shook as she stared through the curtain at the familiar figure. She was so scared she couldnât move.
She had just witnessed her first murder. She stared in the eyes of the murderer. He smiled. What held Aisha frozen in her spot was not the person she saw shoot Milkbone.
Aisha was used to hearing gunshots, as well as police and emergency vehicles screeching through the night, in her neighborhood. She had even witnessed her friend Jazz die. And she knew the shooter was a bad man.
What held her scared stiff, and trembling in her spot, was what she saw standing just behind the murderer. She blinked, hoping to open her eyes and find it gone.
When she opened her eyes the shooter was gone, but riveted to the spot just beyond where the shooter had stood was the one who didnât leave. The one who didnât smile. It was the one who had come to stay.
The one who would rock all of their cradles before it was all said and done. âRockabye, baby,â it sang. The lyrics fell like the impending doom they were in the midst of.
Aisha dropped the curtain. She backed away. She half expected it to appear in front of her. But it didnât. At least it didnât on this night.
The little girl climbed into her bed. She pulled the covers over her head. The only sound in the room was that of her teeth chattering. She might have gone to tell her mother except that her vocal cords had been temporarily stricken. She couldnât speak.
The only movement in the room was her trembling body. And the Darkling wasnât worried because it knew she would never speak again.
Chapter 14
A cross the street from Aisha Jacksonâs house an old woman known as Mama sat in her spot by the window, peeking out from behind her shade. Only on this night she wished she hadnât. Sometimes you were better off not seeing things.
Mama and Papa, as they were respectively known, had lived in the Central Ward for close to fifty years and had grown old there in their time. Mama was a spry eighty and Papa was eighty-two.
Papa had always warned Mama about being at that window. Heâd admonished her, telling her that when people always looked for things, sometimes they saw things they didnât want to see. But Mama had paid no heed to the old coot, because heâd never know a thing if it wasnât for her.
His nose was always stuck in that newspaper or on a Yankees game. He couldnât care less what happened on the streets. Mama, on the other hand, was very perceptiveâsensitive to certain things. Because of this secondary sense her world was a much broader one than Papaâs.
Papa looked over at Mama and he didnât like what he saw. âMama, I told you to stay away from that window.â He had heard the shots. âWhatâs wrong?â The hair on the back of his arms was bristling.
When Mama turned to him he knew there had been a subtle shift in things. He didnât cotton much to all the nonsense about senses and all that, but within himself he did have a healthy respect for Mamaâs sight.
In fact he had a liâl of it himself, but it didnât make no sense to go around spouting that kind of stuff to people. They didnât
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