The Reluctant King: Book 1: The Book of Shadow Read online

  More Critical Praise for K’wan

  for Black Lotus

  • Selected for the Library Services for Youth in Custody 2015 In the Margins Book Award List

  • One of Library Journal’s Best African American Fiction Books of 2014

  “[A] heart-thumping thriller … K’wan does a masterful job of keeping readers on their toes right up to the very last page.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fans expecting another thug-in-the-street story will be pleasantly surprised at this rough police procedural.”

  —Library Journal

  “Yet another heart-thumping thriller by this hip-hop author who delivers.”

  —Library Services for Youth in Custody

  “This book features the sublime story and character development that K’wan is known for.”

  —Urban Reviews

  for Black Lotus 2: The Vow

  • Nominated for the 2021 Street Lit Writer of the Year Award

  “Black Lotus 2: The Vow is full of the cinematic action and drama that K’wan is known for. Readers will be anxiously waiting for the next installment.”

  —Urban Reviews

  “K’wan delivers a lean, tightly plotted tale that balances noir aesthetics with comic book flair. Fans of pulp and urban lit will be well satisfied.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] riveting read from start to finish … Excellent.”

  —Exclusive Magazine

  “From page one to the last, Black Lotus 2: The Vow is a high-wire act with no net. A smart refiguring of hard-boiled with a nitro injection of new-age sensibilities.”

  —Reed Farrel Coleman, author of Walking the Perfect Square

  “Like a cool, hip, and fun evening at a vintage drive-in, Black Lotus 2: The Vow takes me back to a time when Jim Kelly, Pam Grier, and Fred Williamson graced the big screen. Throw in some Bruce Lee and a little The Last Dragon and you have a hell of a butt-kicking, action-filled ride.”

  —Ace Atkins, author of The Shameless

  “Black Lotus 2: The Vow is a thrilling roller-coaster ride of a mystery that kept me on the edge of my seat!”

  —Bernice L. McFadden, author of The Book of Harlan

  THE RELUCTANT KING

  THE RELUCTANT KING

  BOOK 1: THE BOOK OF SHADOW

  K’WAN

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2021 K’wan

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-63614-018-6

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-63614-015-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63614-014-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021935239

  All rights reserved

  First printing

  Crown vector art by happymeluv/vecteezy

  Akashic Books

  Brooklyn, New York

  Twitter: @AkashicBooks

  Facebook: AkashicBooks

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Website: www.akashicbooks.com

  THE KING FAMILY

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1: BORN TO BE KINGS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  PART 2: I’VE BEEN TO MANY PLACES, BUT I’M BROOKLYN’S OWN

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  PART 3: THE LAST SUPPER

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  When Freddy rounded the corner of 138th, a gust of wind hit him in the chest, pushing his thin frame slightly left. He pulled his jacket tight around his neck, but it didn’t do much good considering he was wearing a spring jacket despite it being early winter. Bitter winds scorched his skin, but Freddy ignored the frostbite that was trying to set in and instead focused on the small parcel in his pocket. He had less than a block to go and the sooner he made it the better.

  It had been hours since Freddy’s last fix, and he was starting to feel that itch on his back. He absently stroked the parcel in his pocket, making sure that it hadn’t escaped during his walk from the drug spot. Freddy promised himself that it would be his last time—the same weak promise he had made a dozen times over the last few months, which always came right before he was about to blast off. In his heart, he always meant it, but once he was in the thralls of heroin, neither his word nor his integrity no longer meant much.

  Freddy had once been a promising young hustler with heavy ties to the criminal underworld. On the road to doing big things, he’d somehow lost his way. It started out as a recreational thing, the occasional sprinkle of coke in his blunt to give it an extra kick. He soon graduated to snorting and formed a real love for cocaine. It allowed him to stay awake and party for days on end, last longer in bed as he threw dick like a porn star. For him, cocaine was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and he fell even more in love when he learned you could get a better blast if you cooked it. The standard coke high made him feel like a superhero, but crack made him a god.

  In just six months he had managed to smoke up his jewelry, his car, and his self-respect. Crack had turned him into such a greaseball that no one would touch him with a ten-foot pole, not his street family nor his biological one. Word was out that he was bad news. Only a select few still had enough compassion in their hearts to risk throwing Freddy the occasional bone, but after he recently double-crossed one of them, he knew he’d soon have no one. Freddy wanted to feel bad about betraying one of the last people on earth still willing to look out for him, but he was an addict and addicts were without shame.

  As Freddy walked down the block toward Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, he couldn’t help but notice how empty the streets were. The bad weather had sent most people indoors, but 138th was a hot block and there was almost always at least a few people outside. He’d been on the block for a while now and not even a car had come down the normally busy street. An eerie feeling crept over Freddy, and he hurried his pace.

  For a second, he thought he heard footsteps behind him, but when he looked back he didn’t see anyone. He chalked it up to the echo of his own boots slapping the concrete. But then he heard the footsteps again, and when Freddy stopped they continued on. He spared a glance over his shoulder and confirmed that he wasn’t alone. Less than a half block behind him was a man dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt. It didn’t take Freddy’s junkie brain long to process what was about to go down.

  He took off in a sprint down the street. If he made it to the next avenue, he’d be good. There’d be too many witnesses for the hooded man to commit his sinister intentions. Freddy ran with everything he had, wheezing and breathing heavy from his years of smoking cigarettes, yet he dared not stop. Soon, the busy street corner came into view. Against his better judgment he chanced a look back to gauge the distance between himself and the hooded man, but as he swerved his head around, he blindly ran into what felt like a brick wall and then crashed to the ground. Stars danced in his eyes. When Freddy peered up into the weak streetlight, he could barely make out the face hidden beneath the hood, though one look into those
familiar, hateful eyes and Freddy knew they’d be the last things he ever saw.

  “I didn’t give them anything!” he shouted.

  “Sure, you didn’t, Fred. They picked my man’s name out of a hat and decided at random to hang all that time on him.” The hooded figure’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Your bullshit ensured two things. One is that there’s a little boy out there who will likely never get to see his father outside of a prison visiting room. And two, the sanitation department is going to have to hose what’s left of your scruples off this sidewalk.”

  Freddy opened his mouth, but the hooded man blew his brains out before he had the chance to speak again.

  Though his victim was dead, the hooded man wasn’t done. He wanted Freddy to serve as an example to all the others who thought they could violate him. He produced a pair of wire cutters from his pocket, ready to have a bit of fun, but then heard a gasp from somewhere above him. Perched near a second-floor window was a young boy of about nine or ten. When he saw that he’d been spotted, the boy froze, knowing that he would likely be the next to die for what he’d witnessed. The hooded man held the boy’s gaze for a moment before raising a gloved hand to his lips and fading into the shadows.

  A half hour passed before the police showed up. During their canvass of the neighborhood, they questioned the little boy from the second floor. He was too frightened to speak at first, and when they grilled him about who had killed Freddy, he was only able to utter two words: “A ghost.”

  PART I

  BORN TO BE KINGS

  CHAPTER 1

  Shadow woke with a start. He sat bolt upright on his king-sized bed, gasping for air like a drowning man who had just broken the ocean’s surface. The night terrors had returned. For as long as he could remember, Shadow had been plagued with nightmares. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, his brain was assaulted with violent flashes of events past, present, and possibly future. These dreams were sometimes so vivid that he would awake not knowing if he was still in his dreamworld or the real one, a point between sleep and consciousness that blurred the lines of reality just enough to where he questioned which side of his brain he was operating on. His mother had told him that he was born with a veil, a second sight of sorts, and that he should focus on deciphering the things he saw in his dreams rather than suppressing them. But she wasn’t the one seeing her friends and loved ones, and sometimes herself, murdered every night. They weren’t her nightmares.

  The violent dreams caused Shadow to dodge sleep by any means necessary. Though he was only seventeen years old, sometimes he would stay up late drinking coffee and popping pills to keep himself from dozing off. When he became too restless, he slipped out of the house to hang out with his friends in the hood. It wasn’t unusual to see Shadow lurking in some doorway in the middle of the night or silently passing over a block. Since childhood he’d been adept at moving silently, which was how he got his nickname.

  The battle between Shadow and sleep deprivation had become a game. He sometimes went for days on end only taking catnaps. His longest sleepless stretch was seventy-two hours. The game was murder on his body, but it was also the ultimate test of will, resisting what came naturally. More often than not he fought the good fight, but his body could go without sleep for only so long. Eventually, his eyelids dropped like lead weights and his resistance ceased, sleep coming to collect him and deliver him back to his nightmares. His dreams weren’t always bad. Most of the time he could handle them. Not recently, though. His nightmares had worsened ever since he started receiving visits from his deceased uncle, Colt.

  A few years back, Shadow’s dad, Chance, was diagnosed with cancer. Thankfully it wasn’t terminal, but the chemo treatments did a number on his body and he was temporarily unable to perform the day-to-day operations of his business. During Chance’s recovery, it fell to his youngest brother, Colt, to step up. Colt was a great leader who all men loved. He was also a strong surrogate father to Shadow and his siblings. Although he was close with all his nieces and nephews, Colt shared a special bond with Shadow. It wasn’t necessarily that he loved Shadow more, it was just that Shadow required a bit more guidance than the rest. He didn’t have C.J.’s cunning, Lolli’s ruthlessness, or even Millie’s heart, all qualities inherited from their parents. Shadow was a different sort. He wasn’t soft, just set in his own ways.

  Shadow spent a great deal of time with Uncle Colt, watching his every move. Colt was essentially his mentor and Shadow desperately wanted to be like him, yet he didn’t have the stomach to do what his uncle did. Colt was a gangster and his deeds in the name of their family made him a feared man. He was the law in their little kingdom; his peacekeepers were a small, highly trained bunch who called themselves the Reapers. In the streets, the Reapers were hailed as some of the best at what they did—killing. Once set loose, the Reapers devoured their prey like wild dogs, but the hearts of their kills were always left for Colt. Shadow’s uncle believed that separating the hearts from the bodies of his enemies prevented their souls from passing into the afterlife. For Colt, it wasn’t enough that you suffered in life; he wanted you to suffer in death too. Rumor had it that he kept these hearts in jars, like trophies. Though Shadow had never seen his uncle’s trophy collection, he knew enough not to doubt the rumors. He loved his uncle, and it broke his heart when he got the news that Colt was dead.

  It happened around the time Chance had recovered enough to return to work and reclaim his seat at the head of the table. The police notified their family that Colt’s body had been found inside his BMW at a rest stop somewhere in Delaware. The cause of death was a single gunshot to the head. According to the report, it was a robbery gone bad, though the story didn’t sit right. Colt wore nearly twenty thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, which the robbers apparently overlooked. More disturbing was the fact that Colt was too cautious of a man to ever let a stranger get that close to him. This meant that he likely knew his killer.

  When word of Colt’s death got out, the streets screamed for justice, but no voices roared louder than those of the Reapers. They demanded blood. When it didn’t come fast enough, they went out and sought it on their own. Their killing spree was so violent that people still talked about it. In the end, no one could say for sure if any of the poor souls they laid down in Colt’s name had been responsible for his death. Eventually, the murders began to affect the family business and Chance had to step in. Though he was the boss, he had no real power over his brother’s dogs. Short of risking a war with the Reapers, there wasn’t much he could do to call them off. This was a problem Chance couldn’t solve on his own, so he sought help from the only person who probably loved Colt more than he did—his widow.

  The Reapers respected Sade. She wasn’t just Colt’s wife, she was one of them. Sade had put in work on the front lines so her word carried weight. The murders stopped, but resentments lingered. Colt had been the glue that bound the Reapers to the King family. When he died, so did the agreement the Reapers had with Chance.

  Exactly one month after they laid Colt to rest, Shadow started receiving the visits. Colt arrived in his dreams not as the loving uncle who had taught him how to defend himself and properly apply condoms, but as something pulled from the deepest corners of his fears. The apparition would appear as an ashen corpse with eyes that burned of hellfire, the bullet wound in his temple still fresh and leaking blood. The creature silently followed Shadow through his nightmares, watching in anticipation until Shadow died. Because Shadow always perished in these dreams. Like clockwork, the moment before Shadow met his end, the creature would open its mouth to shout a warning that Shadow could never quite catch. The demonized version of his uncle was no doubt an omen of something to come, but Shadow couldn’t figure out what that omen was.

  As he rubbed his eyes awake, the smell of something delicious seeped into his room, snatching him from his reflective state. When the scent traveled from his nose to his stomach, his insides churned. He was starving. But when he tried to move his legs
to get out of bed, he found them pinned. Jerking the covers back, he saw a sleeping doll whose limbs were intertwined with his. He couldn’t remember her name, though he remembered her performance the night before, which brought a smile to his face and a warmth to his loins. As much as he would’ve liked another taste of her goodies, it was time for her to go.

  “Wake up, shorty,” Shadow said. He nudged her twice before she finally opened her sleepy brown eyes.

  “Morning,” she yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Time to bounce,” Shadow told her.

  She smiled lazily and draped her arms around his neck. “Are we going to get some breakfast?”

  “Nah, I got class this morning. I’ll get at you later though.” He pried free of her grip and slid out of bed, then grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand and moved to the dresser to select a pair of boxers.

  She frowned. “Okay, well, can you at least drop me off on your way to school?”

  “I already called you an Uber. It should be outside by the time you finish getting dressed. Just do me a favor and take the back door on your way out.”

  “You sure know to make a girl feel good.”

  “I’m a King, that’s what we do,” he replied. “Dig, I’m about to shower so I can start my day. If you get any larcenous ideas, keep in mind that every room in the house is monitored by cameras.”

  As he shuffled to the bathroom, an afterthought popped into his head. Over his shoulder he said, “Oh, and take her with you.”

  As if on cue, a second girl emerged from the sheets. This one was blond and thin, with fake breasts. Her blue eyes were heavy with sleep. She tussled her hair and said, “What’d I miss?”

  The hot shower helped to clear the fog that had settled into Shadow’s head. He was no fan of tequila, but this hadn’t stopped him from having eight shots of it the night before. He and some of his gang had gotten together to commemorate the passing of one of his best friends. It had been one year to the day since Lou had his young life snuffed out. Unlike some of his other friends, Lou wasn’t a street kid. He came from a two-parent home, got good grades, and treated everyone he met with respect. Lou was a good dude whose only crime was associating with the wrong crowd—namely Shadow. Had Lou not been hanging out in a project apartment with Shadow that day, he would’ve never been hit by a stray bullet. The saddest part was that the boy who killed him hadn’t even been shooting at Lou. He was shooting his pistol in the air for the hell of it and one of the bullets took a wrong turn through the window Lou was sitting next to. Though Shadow wasn’t directly responsible for what happened to Lou, he still carried the guilt from it.