Chapter 7: Spider's Web

Night finally fell over Niganda, the small African nation that bordered Wakanda. Except, in times past, when its leaders posed a threat, T'Challa rarely gave the country or its inhabitants a moment's thought. To say he had been indifferent to them would be putting a mild spin on their relationship.

Niganda, to be sure, was no competitor—economic, political, or social—of Wakanda. No, Niganda was like so many other countries of the African continent, too busy wrestling with internal strife, economic woes, and political instability to be concerned with nation building or fostering mutually beneficial international relations.

And while Wakanda, up till a few short years ago, didn't fall into the "typical" or rather stereotypical, indebted, unsafe, unproductive, and mismanaged African country category, it was now depicted as such by the international community thanks—in large part— to Doom.

But T'Challa wasn't foolish or arrogant enough to place the entire blame of his nation's current predicament at Doom's steel-plated feet. No, Wakanda's internal dissension made them vulnerable and ripe for attack by the manipulative brilliance of Victor von Doom—the Desturi a perfectly naïve and controllable tool.

T'Challa crouched, crawling on his stomach, the sand a perfect sound dampener, not that King T'Challa, former Black Panther, would ever be so sloppy as to give away his position. Shuri moved just as deftly thirty paces in front of him, her slim, but muscular female form like a Black Mamba slithering through the sandy surf.

But all the stealth tactics were for naught, the tiny beach was abandoned, or rather, closed for environmental waste removal. Even if the report he and Shuri received, while en route to Niganda, hadn't alerted him to the eighteen-month project, the stench in the air would've. While it seemed like Niganda's government had done an admirable job removing waste from the sand, the stench wafting with a nauseating green haze off the river was another depth of environmental pollution entirely.

Satisfied no one was lurking in the shadows of the wide-open beach, T'Challa stood, signaling for his sister to do the same, thick brown grains of worthless sand sticking to their vibranium-weaved Black Panther habits.

Shuri removed her mask, her beautiful cinnamon face free of sweat, in spite of the relatively warm winter night. She still kept her hair cut in a short style that brought attention to her lovely oval face and bright, determined eyes. T'Challa was proud of his younger sister. She had grown into a capable woman. And while she still had much more maturing to do, their father would be proud, too. And she had helped save his marriage, offering him a buoy in the rough seas of life. To which, T'Challa would be eternally grateful.

And here they were again, side-by-side, poised to do all to save their family, their future. Not so very different from when the Desturi and Doom threatened their way of life, their very existence. They didn't stand for it then, and they damn sure wouldn't stand for it now.

"I don't see anything, and definitely nothing that looks like a portal," Shuri said. She spoke matter-of-factly, but the statement crackled with an undertone of frustration. He knew the feeling.

"I didn't think the witch would make it easy for us to locate the portal. I'm sure she deliberately picked this spot. The beach is relatively isolated. No one except government workers even bother to venture this far south. And since the money for the clean-up and restoration project seems to have dried up, there really is no reason for anyone to be mulling around. A perfect place, but one can never be too cautious, especially when they're conjuring an evil spirit."

"Evil spirit, T'Challa?"

He shrugged, and then moved closer to the water, the hideous foul smell increasing with each step. Even if it wasn't dark out, T'Challa knew the river would look the same—dark, dank, and grimy. T'Challa didn't even want to guess what was in that water, certainly not fish, for what living creature could possibly survive such a toxic mix.

"Do you think someone's been dumping stuff in there?" Shuri pointed one gloved finger at the layers of moving, bubbling slime making its way up the river.

"Probably, and it'll take more than an environmental grant to get and keep the beach and river clean."

Shuri nodded, stepping away from the muddy shore right before a pocket of slime found a new home on her jet black boots.

T'Challa raised his head, turning it slowly to the right, then left. "Do you smell that?"

Shuri imitated her brother's movement, also scenting the air. "It's faint."

"Very, but I think we can manage."

They both turned, facing away from the murky water, following the vague scent, moving parallel to each other, silent in their pursuit.

T'Challa breathed slowly through his mask, calming his nerves, the tightening in his stomach growing with each whispered step, the scent of sulfur thickening the air.

He raised a closed fist and Shuri stopped. T'Challa knew she saw it, too, a small house at the end of the dusty trail. It was one of many homes outlining the exit to the beach. Perhaps ten or five years ago, they would've been prime real estate, beachfront property practically selling themselves. Yet, in this economy, five or ten years is like a lifetime ago, especially when the expected curb appeal is nothing more than an old, stale sand and a frothy, putrid river.

And T'Challa was fairly sure that was why only one of the twelve homes on the quiet block wasn't boarded up with a For Sale sign on the depressed lawn. Oh, the home and the lawn were depressed for sure, but there was life in that house, the only one with a flicker of light coming from a second-floor window.

Shuri gave T'Challa a signal that let him know she was going to circle around back, letting him take point through the front door. A minute later, Shuri had vanished, in search of her own way into the house. T'Challa, on the other hand, crept along the side of the house, listening for movement. He heard none. But there was a solitary heartbeat from the upper level, presumably in the same room where he'd seen the light.

Cautiously, T'Challa used the claws from his suit to break the latch on a side window that was too covered in layers of filth for him to see inside clearly. Trusting his senses, he lifted the window, sliding it up. Slipping inside, T'Challa gracefully lowered himself to the floor, keeping one hand on the window. Once secure within; T'Challa lowered the window as softly as it was raised.

He looked around. And as he thought, the room was awash in dreary blackness. The space, which T'Challa assumed by the size and shape was a living room, was sparsely furnished and as unkempt as the beach. A not-so-gently used sofa, one chipped wooden end table, onto which a lamp and its askew shade rested, rounded out the drab, grim décor. Whoever the resident, he or she had no more care about the upkeep of the house than the Nigandan government, who did nothing to prevent the slow decay of their nation's largest body of water and the only beach of which its people could boast.

While he and Shuri had a lot to atone for, the land of T'Challa's forefathers and foremothers were never relegated to second-class citizenship, national funds diverted to line the pockets of greedy, contemptuous politicians instead of being directed to programs, policies, and services that would enhance not detract from the people, and the land that supported them all.

T'Challa hid in the shadows and watched as a tall, thin form entered the small, dismal space. Shuri. If she had sought him out, it meant that she'd searched whatever other rooms existed on the ground level, finding nothing of import. That left the second floor.

He moved stridently toward his sister. And as silent as they'd both entered the still home, they made their way effortlessly up the stairs. Thirteen wood bare steps later and they were at the top of the stairs, a narrowly dissecting hallway to their right and left. The light, however, that T'Challa had seen from the beach was coming from the far room to the left. Slowly, they parted company, Shuri taking the right hallway, T'Challa the left.

The door to the room with the light was ajar, but not enough for T'Challa to see inside. The heart rate he'd heard earlier, however, wasn't coming from within. No, it was coming from the direction in which Shuri had gone. And while his initial thought was to seek the source, there was something about the room that loomed before T'Challa that pulled him in like a moth to a bright, burning flame.

The door's hinges creaked when he used his gloved hand to push it fully open. A dim tlight flickered—a butterfly fiber optic nightlight placed carefully on a dust-free drawer.

The room entranced T'Challa, it's hypnotizing blues and pinks reminding him of the twins' nursery at home, the one he and his wife painted and decorated themselves. T'Challa knew the person who had crafted the room in which he stood, had taken the same loving care in the selection of each precious item and he and Ororo had when they sat, for hours, thumbing through a children's catalogue. He could feel the warmth, the love emanating from the spotless cribs, changing table, and neatly folded bibs and onesies, a stark contrast from the rest of the house.

Yes, there was the essence of love in this room, the scent heavy and obvious. But there were more intense aromas that nearly overpowered the first—anger, malevolence, hatred. And mixed within the extremes, T'Challa detected the faintest embers of loneliness.

And before he could decipher the new scent that had suddenly appeared, the door slammed closed behind him. T'Challa spun, raising his arms and stiffening his legs in a defensive posture. He could see nothing, but that wasn't the same as saying he was in the room alone. He wasn't. The unmistakable chill of death scratched over his spine, the smell of sulfur choking in its brutal strength.

Grateful he hadn't removed his mask and that Shuri had replaced hers before entering the house, T'Challa found small comfort that the sulfur would take longer to infiltrate their lungs. Assuming, of course, that was the only poison in the room, and that Shuri was being assaulted by the same toxin.

Senses on high alert, T'Challa tracked his unseen foe, sight and hearing not as valuable as they would be under normal circumstances. But there were other senses, and other ways of conceptualizing them, such as the sense of touch. Yes, T'Challa could feel the presence with his soul as opposed to his hands. But it was the sense of smell that told him that there was a demon in the room with him. The question was, what kind of demon had the witch unleashed on him?

There were other questions, of course, that centered around Shuri and her safety. But she was tough, a barely contained viper with the temper and ability of a thousand Wakandan warriors. If whatever was on the other end of the hallway could level his sister, it would have to be a bad son-of-a-bitch.

T'Challa whirled to the right, his skin tingling with awareness. But it wasn't enough, a blast of energy hit and lifted him off the floor, sending T'Challa against the back wall. He lessened the impact the best he could, using his arms and legs to break his fall, the vibranium armor absorbing much of the damage from the blast.

And damage it was, a sizzling hole the size of a large hand burned perfectly into the center of T'Challa's chest.

He was on his feet again, leery eyes traveling the room, the nightlight illuminating the corners of the room but nothing more. The stench of sulfur coated the air—heavy and fog thick.

"I knew you would come."

T'Challa backed into the wall near the window, his elbow breaking the glass just as another energy blast rocked him against the two cribs. This time, he didn't have time to break his fall, the voice distracting him, his large frame destroying the furniture.

Five seconds later and he was back on his feet, the late night breeze refreshing—even the grotesque polluted beach air a respite from the demonic sulfurous smell assailing his burning lungs.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Knowing the broken window led to freedom, T'Challa steered clear of it. Also knowing the demon he couldn't see was somewhere between him and it.

"You think brute force alone will save you," the female voice spat, her biting contempt for him evident with the slow enunciation of each word. She sounded like a mad woman to T'Challa, a woman who had lost touch with reality, and was a danger. Not to herself though, but to others, to him, to Ororo, to his babies.

T'Challa moved lanquidly until he reached the door. Reaching blindly behind him, he wiggled the knob. It was locked; he didn't expect otherwise, but it would be stupid not to try. Sometimes the answer is the most obvious one, not his time, however.

"You left her alone. How arrogant you are to have done so. You think the threat to your mutant wife can be solved so easily? You think your kingly presence in Niganda will sway me from my task, from the revenge due me?"

Revenge? Of course, it was always about revenge. Was there no originality left in this decadent world? Or was he and Ororo to be subject to every lunatic whose paths they've crossed and had taken it as some reprehensible slight. If revenge was vibranium, the planet would be overflowing with the rare metal—drowning in it in fact.

"Tell me how I have aggrieved you," T'Challa said, his tone deliberately respectful, non-threatening. "Perhaps there is a way I can make amends. It seems I am in a constant state of amend-making."

T'Challa heard something that sounded like psychotic laughter, and he tried the door again. This time, he discreetly extended his claws, the frail wood breaking in his hand. Success.

Two whips across his face, jolting him forward and to the floor. Two more whips, landing firmly against his ribs, forcing a frantic roll in defense, his side aching, reeling from the invisible booted attack.

Breathing heavily, T'Challa stood once more, forcing his heart to a calmer pace. The last thing he needed was to increase the rate at which he inhaled the fumes.

"For what you have done, no amends is possible. You have taken from me, and now I will take from you. Everything. Everything you love. Everything you fight for. I will take it all. But first—''

The demon was upon him then, invisible hands clutching his neck, lifting T'Challa until his toes had to stretch to reach the floor. T'Challa struck out at the form that held him, strong, vicious blows connecting. But the demon didn't let go, it didn't even alter its body an inch. T'Challa twisted and kicked, the grip around his neck tightening, making breathing as difficult as slurping a cake through a straw.

Raising his knees as high as he could bring them, T'Challa pushed out, the knives from his boots slicing the air, but connecting with something tangible. The hands around his neck wavered. It was no more than a few seconds of relief, but it would have to do.

T'Challa kicked out again, harder this time, aiming twenty inches higher, hoping for a mid-section wound. Goal. The hands loosened even more, T'Challa clawing into them, drilling his gloved hand as deeply as he could go, ripping and pulling with the force of a man fighting for his family.

The demon dropped him, sulfur erupting from a screaming mouth T'Challa couldn't see. T'Challa stumbled away, wanting to cover his ears with his hands, the high-pitched melodramatic exclamation incongruous with the tenacity in the demon's death drip.

Unseeing, but following the sound of wailing, T'Challa lunged forward, fists and feet punching and kicking in rapid succession, landing and missing in equal measure. Right block, forward kick. Side lunge, uppercut. High-rise block, axe kick.

Swivel. Duck. Attack.

Jump. Sidestep. Attack.

Punch. Crouch. Slice.

"Stop it! You will not deny me!"

And it stopped, the victory T'Challa tasted in his bloodied mouth, the Black Panther in him unwilling to retreat from the downed antelope. It all stopped, including him. He couldn't move. Not. One. Single. Inch.

The witch's spell smelled worse than the demon stench and the foul river water combined. And it was slowly slithering up his body, gnawing away at his armor, a piranha taking its time, knowing its prey could do nothing to stop the torturous biting into flesh.

T'Challa bit back the roar of agony that squeezed at his insides, begging to release its pain through one scream. Just one. Only one.

No. T'Challa refused, the ever-moving dagger of teeth drilling laser holes into ankle, knee, thigh, hip, and stomach. Tiny mouths gorged themselves on hard muscles, yet soft willing flesh.

"I will take everything from you, like you took from me. Then you will die. Lilith will come and claim you, and then she will claim the twins for me. They will be my children, live here with me as their mother."

Another psychotic laugh. And another. And another, the churning of the repugnant sound dizzying and repulsive. And then T'Challa was falling, the ghastly rows of teeth feasting on his body melting away. The witch's satisfied squeal faint. "See. Know. Feel. Hurt. Your worse nightmares. Welcome to my web."

TO BE CONTINUED