The Obsidian Society

copyright © 2023 keshara moore All rights reserved. the obsidian society first edition isbn 978-1-5445-4198-3Hardcover 978-1-5445-4199-0Paperback 978-1-5445-4197-6Ebook “If there’s a book you really want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” —Toni Morrison Contents PART 1 Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Part 2 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Part 3 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author For my parents, Aisha A. Moore and Jerry L. McRae Jr. Words will never be enough, but here’s a start. Thank you. PART 1 Prologue Dramatics and false pretenses aside, the worst part about drowning isn’t the actual action of drowning. No, it’s the innate betrayal of one’s body that really leaves a lasting impression. Most people go their entire lives without questioning a thing as simple as breathing, going through the motions subconsciously, completing the life-preserving act more than twenty thousand times a day. In. Out. In. Out. And so forth. There are few things in the world that come as natural as breathing does. Every living organism does it, irrefutably. It is never taught; it goes unquestioned. That is, until you realize that you may be drawing your last. Then, it’s all you can think about. Don’t believe me? Reread that last part again. I bet you’re counting your breaths right now, aren’t ya? Now take that heightened awareness and compound it with water closing in, engulfing any and all space around you. A rapid heartbeat thundering in your head, the only sign that it isn’t some sick nightmare and you are indeed—ever fleetingly—still alive. The real kicker though is when the drowning begins. When the body’s natural reflex to breathe, inhale, its demanding desire to reach that twenty-thousand standard, is its ultimate undoing. Each of your senses stands acutely aware of the dire situation you’re in, such that your brain repeatedly stutters over the action of taking that first sip of water, and everything in you understands the inevitable fatalistic outcome. An anatomical paradox, your brain ignores your body’s instinct and shouts, “Breathe!” And you do. And it burns like lava traveling up your nose, down your throat, and through your veins. I would later discover that it in fact takes several minutes for a person to completely croak from drowning, most of which you’re unconscious for. But for those 120 seconds when you are awake, mind racing, trying to think of just how the hell you got yourself into such a situation and how you’re going to get out of it, those moments are a living hell. I know this because it’s how I died. Chapter 1 “Mija, I admit, my expectations—completely blown!” Squared in front of Lettie, the man gripped her chin hard, his face inches away. A small incandescent light bulb above the duo cast dark savage shadows over her aggressor. Despite the dim glow, Lettie could make out the long unkempt hairs that comprised his scraggly beard and thinning mustache to match. Breath like rancid tuna hit her face wave after wave as the man inhaled and exhaled deeply. “It took some real huevos breaking in here by yourself, or I guess, in your case, cómo se dice…‘ovaries’? Oh, but this,” he motioned toward her up and down, “now this, I gotta give you props on.” The speaker smiled wide, exposing all his teeth, several silver caps glinting harshly in the light. “Matteo here has sent fishes bigger than you to meet their dead relatives in la tierra de la muerta.” His grip tightened along her chin, eyes trailing up and down her torso. “But here you sit, calm, cool, and, mostly, still together. Maybe he been going easy on you, muy fácil. Maybe he got a little crush on you, ah? Shit, who could blame him?” Conveniently, he’d failed to mention that his captive had taken out half a dozen of his men before anyone even knew she was in the building, but even Lettie knew it wasn’t the time to boast. A hard shake of her head forced his sweaty palm off her face. Before the long-winded speaker could recover, Lettie mustered the biggest loogie she could form and hawked it smack dab in the middle of his forehead. “Maldita puta!” The man jerked his small wiry frame backward and swatted at his face, a roar of expletives that even Lettie could understand ringing out. A sudden breeze from the left tipped Lettie off to the incoming strike before its impact. A meaty fist smashed into the side of her face and then another in quick succession. Both blows struck her squarely upon the temple. The impact rocked her so hard that her chair toppled over, slamming her strapped body into the concrete ground with it. Lettie balled her fists, straining against the tight rope bindings. Blackness threatened to overtake her vision. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she drew blood. The taste of iron sent a waking shock through her body. It took a few moments for her eyes to return to normal and once they had, two pairs of boots stared back, menacingly. Continuing the barrage, a swift kick to the ribs beckoned the blackness to return, and a newfound uneasy wave of nausea clutched her stomach. Bile threatened to surface. “Siéntenla! And get me something to wipe this shit off!” The chair and Lettie with it were roughly lurched back to an upright position. This time the man whose fists she’d grown unluckily close to, Matteo, remained inches away. His dark glare dared her to make another move. Reorienting herself, Lettie studied her surroundings once more. Aside from Matteo and Silas, the group’s underwhelming leader, several other men and women gathered around the small room, illuminated by hastily assembled portable floodlights. Ceremoniously, they all donned the same cut-off leather vests, but where Silas’s vest fell over him like an oversized T-shirt,