Page 1 of Divine Oaths

CHAPTER ONE

Vengeance in my heart, death in my hand

ONCE AGAIN, I REGRETTED SHOWING up for my morning shift. It’s not that I was ungrateful. I liked window-shopping on the clock and perfecting my deadpan stare with customers at the register. But I’d only taken this job because it was in the most remote, neglected corner of Center City Mall—the kind of place most of Richmond’s college students wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Yet fate was cruel. And even after all these years, still, I couldn’t escape Westfield University.

“I told you. People want things from famous people. Not washed-up child stars.”

Gus leaned over the counter to examine the latest artifact I’d brought him: a two-piece matching set with adinkra symbols on it.

The wax print skirt was embellished with heart iconography whose mirrored, rounded edges swirled toward the center. Across every inch of the fabric, the heart pattern was infinite, its shape sprawling along the dark expanse of textiles that had been sewn together into the skirt. And for the top piece of the set, the symbol was repeated again, but this time as a bird with its head craned over, retrieving a nugget from its back.

Sankofa, it said. Learn from the past. Go back and retrieve it.

I’d been late because of this. Even though the mall and Gus’s Rare Artifacts Pawnshop was only two stops over from my apartment, my indecisiveness about selling the outfit had brought me here an hour past our usual morning openings. And by then, we already had customers.

There were three of them, all guys, all dressed in that insipid navy-and-green plaid blazer with Westfield’s lily emblem. They looped through the store, cracking jokes with arrogant voices, their laughter steeled with liquid courage from the silver flask they passed around.

Once upon a time, I’d longed to be a Westfield lily myself.

But that was in the past, before my powers manifested; a dream so scorched and burned that its fumes had left nothing but smoke and embers in the darkest parts of my memories.

And now here I was, selling the last remnants of my family and heritage for a few bucks while these elitist heirs from Westfield ransacked our store.

“Five hundred dollars,” I offered, trying to keep my attention from wandering back to them.

Gus laughed. “As if it’s worth half that much.”

“It’s traditional African wax print,” I said. “Ankara like this isn’t cheap to come by. Besides,” I added, “it’s the last thing I wore in public before the fire.”

The two-piece set, as mixed and matched as it was, had been a favorite of mine growing up—one that had belonged to my mother at one point, back when I was Baby Mozart.

At the time, piano was my first love. From the early age of four, I’d shown incredible aptitude for the instrument, and my parents saw an opportunity. It started with auditions that became well-paying performances, which turned into a whirlwind of publicity. I was no longer Sianna, but the “Baby Mozart” stage persona that articles hailed as the second coming of Hazel Scott and Wolfgang Amadeus—except, second-generation African.

So, from the age of five all the way to fourteen, I traveled the country and abroad with my parents. At some of my biggest shows, my mother had worn this very set while I’d performed for hundreds of thousands of people. Eventually, after my fame had dimmed, she’d passed it down to me.

I’d worn the set once—I was fourteen and appearing on yet another daytime talk show. Of course, I hadn’t quite grown into the set yet and wound up using safety pins to secure it. But as my hands graced the keys in front of an eager audience, I decided then and there that it would be my last performance in the entertainment world. I wanted to retire, to attend college, to do anything but parade as a show pony. That performance had come and gone, and it was only by chance that I hadn’t worn the printed set to my Westfield audition. Which meant that now, it was one of the few items I owned from my parents that didn’t remind me of tragedy.

“If you can’t sell it—but trust me, you will—I’ll buy it back. And yes, I know. You’ll upcharge for it,” I said, speaking the last bit in my low-pitched imitation of Gus’s voice. “I just need the money, Gus. Like, now. I know you paid me already last week, but this is an emergency. And when have I ever sold you anything you can’t make a buck off?”

On the other side of the store, one of the guys from Westfield separated from the group. He meticulously browsed the shelves of used merchandise, taking multiple swigs from the flask that was now in his possession. His tall frame and lean build made his drunken movements seem both careless and graceful. When he turned the corner and glanced in my direction, my heart raced and, despite myself, I couldn’t stop the flutter of wings in my chest.

He was handsome, dangerously so. Like the kind of guys who were plastered on high fashion magazines or walk runways because someone, at some point, had deemed them too useless, tall, and good-looking to actually be a functioning member of society.

On his third loop through the shop (that I’d counted), he picked up a broken pendulum clock and discarded it back on the shelf. Then he grabbed another item that I couldn’t quite make out. Then another. And another, and another. A lamp with a winged putto flying across its gilded shade. Surely this was what he was looking for? An ottoman woven of silk, yet half eaten by moths? No, not that either. A lantern with colonial embellishments? Of course not.

His curly ebony-black hair had been styled into a low taper fade, and his dark brown skin was a sharp contrast to his friends’ pale complexions. But like them, he was dressed in designer—top to bottom—from his trousers to his shoes to his Westfield blazer with the university’s crest embroidered on its chest pocket.

I was staring. I knew I shouldn’t. I should have kept my attention on Gus and sealed the deal with this set. But I couldn’t help it. He’d been staring at me too. I’d caught him sneaking glances at my interaction with Gus over the past few minutes.

This time, when our gazes met, his deep brown eyes bore into mine like embers. His friends whistled, hooting and hollering as they shoved him playfully in my direction.

I looked away.

Their presence here at Gus’s shop was an interruption, not a sign. If I could convince Gus to buy the set, then I’d have nearly enough for a deposit on an apartment come the end of summer, when Aunt Louisa moved to Rhode Island and Jojo started his new job.

I cleared my throat and turned back to Gus, trying a different tactic.