Final Debt

Cut smiled. “Time for the next part of the tour.”

The cacophony of drumbeats tore me from my thoughts. Cut shoved me through the camp, barred behind fences, ensconced in a human habitat rather than diamond tomb.

Drumming and singing guided us toward the central fire pit.

“What the—” My mouth fell open as we rounded the path, entering a different dimension. I felt as if I’d time travelled—shot backward a few decades where African tribes still owned the land, and their life was about music rather than gemstones.

The pounding of fists on animal-hide drums echoed through my body, drowning out my nerves of what was to come. The air shimmered with guttural tunes and barbaric voices.

I’d never seen such a cultural fiesta. Never been enticed to travel to somewhere so ruthless and dangerous. But witnessing the liveliness and magic of the group of ebony-skinned dancers made tears spring to my eyes.

There was so much I hadn’t seen. So much I hadn’t done or experienced or indulged.

I was too young to die. Too fresh to leave a world that offered so much diversity.

This.

I want more of this.

Living…

“Your mother liked this, too,” Cut murmured, his face dancing with flame-ghosts from the bonfire. Topless women weaved around the crackling orange, their skirts of threaded flax and feathers creating stencils on the tents and buildings. Men wore loin clothes, pounding an intoxicating beat on animal drums of zebra and impala.

“This is what you meant when you said superstitions being appeased?”

Cut nodded. “Every time we return to Almasi Kipanga, our workers welcome us home.”

“Why? They must hate working for monsters like you. You treat them like the rats living in the mine.”

Cut grinned, softened by the tribal spectacle. “To them, we are their masters. Their gods. We feed them, clothe them, keep them safe from wildlife and elements. Their families have grown up with my family. As much as you hate me, Nila, without our industry, these people would be homeless.”

I didn’t believe that. People found a way. They would’ve found a better life rather than slaving for a man who didn’t deserve it.

Daniel patted his father on the back. “Gonna get something to drink. Make the rest of the night extra special.” Winking at me, he faded into the mingling workers and guards.

I ought to be relieved he’d left. I only had to focus on Cut. But somehow, Cut’s promises of craving action and enjoying what he would do to me layered my lungs with terror.

Cut pressed on my lower spine. “Come along. Time for your part in tonight’s festivities.”

My heels dug into soil. “My part?”

“I told you.” His gaze glowed. “You’re the sacrifice.”

“No. I’m nothing of the sort.”

I’d been my father’s sacrifice. Tex had given me up to Jethro that night in Milan with no fuss. I was done being forfeited for the greater good.

“You don’t have a choice, Nila.” Cut dragged me closer to the fire, despite my unwillingness.

Nervousness exploded in time to the tribal drum as he led me through the dancing throng and pushed me onto a grass mat at the head of the bonfire. My wrists burned in their twine, sore and achy.

The entire time we’d been in the mine, he hadn’t released me. What did he think I’d do? Grab a pick-axe and hack away at his head? Run and dig myself to safety?

The texture of the woven mat beneath my toes told me this tribe were weavers, too. It took great skill to create items from plant life and not cloth or silk.

Cut sat beside me on a raised platform decorated with ostrich feather and lion skin. He didn’t look at me, just wrapped the rope tethering me in his fist and smiled as the women danced harder, faster, wilder.

I didn’t want to be distracted. I didn’t want to fall under the spell of magical music and sensual swaying, but the longer we sat there, the more enthralled I became. I’d only seen this culture on documentaries and television. I’d travelled to Asia with V and Tex to gather diamantes and fabrics, but I’d never been on this continent.

My horizons were so small compared to what the world had to offer.

Sitting there at the feet of my murderer, watching his employees dance and welcome, highlighted just how much my life lacked. I’d let work dictate and rob me of living.

If only Jethro was here.

His handsome face popped into my mind. I wanted to run my fingers over his five o’ clock shadow. I wanted to kiss his thick, black eyelashes. I wanted to kiss him, forgive him; pretend the world was a better place.

The more the music trickled into me, the more my body reacted. Sensual need replaced the damp panic of the mine, making my nipples ache at the thought of Jethro touching me.

My body grew twisty and excited, cursing the distance between us and the circumstances I was in.

My eyes smarted as smoke from the fire cast us in sooty clouds. The rhythmical footsteps and infectious freedom of the melody slowly replaced my blood.

There was something erotic about the dance. Something slinked nonverbally, speaking of connection and lust and love and forever togetherness. Bodily communication superseded that of spoken languages.

My heart throbbed with lovesickness. I missed him. I wanted him. I needed to see him one last time and tell him how much he meant to me.

I love you, Jethro…Kite.

Cut hadn’t lied when he said superstitions had to be acknowledged. Over the course of three songs, the local tribe welcomed their boss with handmade gifts of beads and pottery, delivered food of roasted meat and fruits, and danced numerous numbers.