Stolen Prophet: The Prophet's Mother: Book 1

By Julian M. Coleman

**This Book Contains Graphic Violence/Adult Content**

 

Will It Take a MONSTER to Find a Missing Prophet?

 

Satisfy your supernatural cravings with this intense and urban fantasy thriller from the author of the IAN 2016 Outstanding Paranormal/Supernatural Book of the Year. Right at the beginning of The Prophet's Mother trilogy, Julian M. Coleman weaves a haunting tale of parental loss, heartbreak, and sacrifice.  

 

Evelyn Adamson isn't ordinary. She's a demigoddess pretending to live an everyday life as a single parent and flower shop owner.  Her nine-year-old son Victor is called prophet by his classmates, a nickname he hates. Somehow, his paranormal ability fails when someone kidnaps him.

 

Distraught, Evelyn uses her once-suppressed paranormal powers to hunt the snow-encased city for her beloved baby boy. Suddenly, dead bodies pile up in the morgue.

 

Only one person may be able to find the stolen prophet: the logical and determined Homicide Detective, Harry Kurosawa. But first, he must believe the unexplainable, or more people will die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julian M. Coleman
• Release date: Oct 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9780990893967

Julian M. Coleman

I'm a 2016 IAN Paranormal/Supernatural Award Winning author who grew up in Richmond, Virginia. My family was poor, but my imagination was rich. I suffered from bad dreams. I still dream about demons, but now those dreams provide the sauces to my stories.  By day I'm run-of-the-mill analyst grinding out data within a dark blue cubby, but by night I churn out horrific stories based on the demons that haunt me in nightmares. 

Book preview

The Legend

THE ORAL HISTORY WAS bleak for the mortal orishas. According to folklore, Olorun, the Supreme Being of the Universe, instructed His son, Obatala, to create land on a blue planet.

Obatala was an obedient son, but he did much more than make the blue planet terrestrial. He created life, forming the lesser gods and goddesses known as orishas. He was pleased with them, and because of this triumph, he decided to establish minor beings. These creatures were called humans.

For eons, Obatala watched over his beloved planet. Initially, he was proud of his humans as they first loved one another; but too soon, they became violent and began fighting and torturing each other. The humans eventually forced the orishas to meddle on their behalf until, like the humans, they also began plotting and warring against each other. Obatala was disturbed but remained aloof until he saw a chance to change things through Dolapo.

She was the brave and intelligent daughter of a wealthy merchant. By age seven, she was a cunning liar and a talented thief. She repeatedly stole to feed those poor souls who lived in the city’s gutters and underbrush, and then she lied convincingly to her father, who—Obatala knew—suspected her dishonesty.

The prepubescent thief had also stolen Obatala’s heart. He saw goodness in her that he wanted to preserve and that he knew could benefit humankind. Maybe with her help, the orishas could guide humans away from their warring and back to their idyllic existence.

One night as she slept, Obatala crept down from heaven and altered Dolapo’s life force. When she awakened, Dolapo discovered her transformation. She was still mortal, but now she had the gift of agrokinesis: the ability to make flowers and plants grow.

This gift guaranteed that her people never starved even when drought and pestilence devastated their crops. Her power fed harmony just as Obatala had intended. Dolapo’s benevolence extended beyond her country’s borders and earned her many followers. At her death, the gift of agrokinesis bloomed within her only child, a daughter. Afterward, the people discovered that each mortal orisha only gave birth to a daughter who acquired her mother’s gift at puberty.

However, one of Dolapo’s descendants, the mortal orisha—whose name is still never spoken—perverted the gift. She killed her daughter before the child could reach puberty. Her sacrilege cursed the bloodline. After a time, that same orisha became pregnant again and gave birth to another daughter. But this time, the infant was stolen by her most devoted followers before the nameless one could falsely sacrifice her to Obatala.

The oni, the African king, who had seen his power decline as the orisha’s influence grew, witnessed the conflict among her followers and realized his chance to rid his kingdom of the zealots. First, he arranged for the nameless orisha’s assassination. Then, after her death, he tracked down the infant. Ultimately, he feared Obatala’s wrath and decided she should live. While still in her swaddling clothes, the crafty ruler sold the young demigoddess and her most devoted followers to North American slavers.

Somehow, they all survived the brutality of the Middle Passage, but tragedy continued to curse the bloodline, which meant the orisha and her pubescent daughter couldn’t share the power. The curse always demanded a sacrifice. 

At least, that was the myth Grace Adamson passed down to little Evelyn.

And her daughter didn’t believe a single word of it. She was tired of hearing the boring old story. On several occasions, she’d interrupted the oral history with vocal contempt claiming she preferred, The Telltale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe.

Chapter 1 – Selfish

APRIL 1973

Evelyn’s senses were off, but not in a bad way; smell was sharper, taste was richer, and touch was weirdly sensitive. She touched the paper on her textbook and could distinguish the raised ink in the lettering. But it was her sight that caused her alarm.

With her awful haircut and withered face, Miss Duncan seemed dunked in amber. And not just the teacher, who busily scrawled algebraic calculations across the blackboard, but the whole room buzzed in and out of golden hues like the flickering of a poorly tuned television show.

Nausea swirled in her stomach, and she burped a stream of acid. Evelyn raised her hand. Miss Duncan, may I be excused?

With chalk raised above her head, Miss Duncan spun around and peered at Evelyn through her cat-eye-framed glasses. Can’t you wait ten minutes? The bell is going to ....

Evelyn narrowed her eyes and said, No, ma’am. She rose without waiting for permission and barged out of the room.

She practically ran down the empty hall and began breathing again once she reached the restroom, surprised that she’d been holding her breath. She ran inside the nearest stall and bolted the door.

Evelyn understood why her life had turned into a freak show when she’d found the source of the stickiness in her panties—menstruation.

She screwed her knuckles on her eyes like a small sleepy kid as she began to weep. In her religion, her puberty was the big deal.

The bell sounded. Girls filtered into the restroom. There was laughter and gossip, and Evelyn caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. A second bell rang, the tardy bell. She couldn’t stay in the restroom forever, but she didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t go home, could she?

Sissy.

Evelyn cleaned herself up by stuffing a wad of tissues in her panties, washed what she could, and fled.

If she knew her best friend, Sissy wouldn’t have made it to their third-period class yet because she was in love. Again.

At least Evelyn hoped and prayed that stealing smooches delayed her best friend.

The hallway was emptying as students paraded into their respective classes. Evelyn tracked Sissy to her favorite spot, the stairwell on the first floor.

She sighed at the predictable sight of her best pal locking lips and trading spit with the dark and lovely basketball player she had spent weeks not-so-secretly ogling.

Evelyn approached cautiously, cleared her throat, and looked away. She tried to smile at her interruption, but tears threatened to spill from her eyes and roll down her cheeks.

Sissy disengaged from the hunk, assessed her friend’s demeanor, and immediately drew an arm around Evelyn. What’s the matter?

Hey? the handsome young man stated.

Evelyn apologized. I’m sorry. I need to talk to Sissy for a minute. Her voice cracked at the end, and the tears did gush.

The lanky ballplayer with the pronounced Adam’s apple said, It’s cool. He kissed Sissy lightly and said, Get with you later?

Sure. Sissy winked, still hugging Evelyn. She asked once he was gone. What’s the matter? Did you?

It was the lousy break they both had been expecting, and Evelyn could only nod.

Sissy’s cherub face first registered shock, then grief. Oh no. I told you we should’ve planned for this! Her features hardened as she stated, Well, I don’t believe in the curse. It’s not right! They can’t expect you to do that thing to your mom. It’s old folks' shit!

I know, I know! Evelyn cupped her mouth. She couldn’t quell the sickness. What am I going to do? She tried to stay rational but recognized her freefall into hysteria was imminent.

What can we do? We can’t drive. We have trust funds, but we don’t have any way of getting to real money.

Evelyn said, What about the police?

What about them? Sissy drew her hands onto her hips and looked at Evelyn as if she was deranged.

Evelyn knew as well as Sissy their clan members were prestigious and influential. Besides, where was her proof? I can ask dad for help, Evelyn said as she wiped her eyes.

Sissy said, Do you think he will? I mean, I know he’s an outsider.

He doesn’t want me to kill my mom. He will help me get away. Evelyn sounded confident, but she wasn’t sure.

The nameless one had corrupted the power. And legend had it the bloodline couldn’t pass the gifts without their sacrifice. If the mortal orishas tried, the only result would be limitless pain and ultimate death.

For generations, their supernatural ability demanded a blood price.

Evelyn’s thoughts about the orisha power suddenly swapped the color out of everything and turned her vision into shades of red and gold.

Oh, my dearest god, Obatala! Sissy swore.

Evelyn sank to her knees. Sticky liquid leaked down her legs. As if from a great distance, she thought she heard her mom cry out in pain.

Evelyn’s regular sight returned just as her mother’s screams faded. Sissy helped her stand.

Can you get to my dad’s office? Talk to him? I don’t think I can make it. Evelyn said.

Sure. My pocketbook is in my locker. I have enough money for the bus fare. C’mon, I’ll give you the key to my house, and you can wait for me there.

Evelyn followed Sissy as if tethered. She could hear voices from the classes as they trotted to Sissy’s locker. The hall monitor, a kindly matron with a clipboard, approached them. When she saw Evelyn’s behavior, her features softened.

Is everything all right?

Evelyn heard the word even when it went unsaid. Deity. She hated that word. She had to be careful now. She couldn’t let on that she was menstruating, and a stolen glance showed her predicament hadn’t penetrated the fabric of her jeans.

She’s fine, Mrs. Morris. I need to give her something out of my locker.

The woman straightened up, wiggled her nose as she did so, and said, Well, hurry up and get to class.

Evelyn heard the woman’s heart speed up just a bit. She knows. She’s going to tell everybody.

She doesn’t know a thing! Sissy challenged. You’re being paranoid.

For Evelyn, the world shifted colors again into swirling hues of red and gold.

Sissy gave her a side glance and hissed as if scorched before looking away. Stop it with the eyes. You’re scaring me.

She unlocked then popped open the locker door. She gave Evelyn the key to her family’s home and a sanitary pad.

Hideout in the attic, just in case. Ignore all the cigarette butts up there too. She added, with a snicker, It wasn’t me.

Evelyn had to smile. Sure.

They managed to slip out of the building undetected and run off in different directions.

The Walker’s home was only a mile from the school. The journey wouldn’t have felt arduous on a typical day. Ordinarily, she would’ve noticed the beauty. Today, she saw the landscape with new eyes. The grass whispered. The trees bowed although there was no wind, and flowers budded and bloomed along her path.

It was scary.

She was trembling when she reached the Walker family home, a three-story Tudor-styled mansion. Then, in a blur, she unlocked the door and ran for the nearest bathroom. She remained for only a few minutes, which was as long as she dared. Again, she cleaned herself up. She had to admit her fear of seeing her reflection in the mirror. Her face remained narrow and long, but her eyes held onto a golden light in the center of her pupils. She swiftly left the image and the bathroom while stifling a sob.

She drowned in despair as she climbed the stairs. The people did this. They had been waiting for a long time for the transition. They had served up prayers to Obatala for a fruitful continuation, blah, blah, blah. Did they expect a twelve-year-old girl to