*(New Orleans, 2012)*
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The Storm's Apprentice
Ahanu Tennarse stood barefoot on the roof of his grandmother's Tremé shotgun house, the August heat pressing down like a sweaty palm. At sixteen, his frame had sharpened—a coiled tension between the boy who ate shadows and the man who might yet become one. Above him, thunderheads brewed, their bellies lit by the gold eye of his left iris. In his right, the purple one, lightning flickered in time with the static in his dreadlocks.
"*Again*," growled Shadow Citlali, the translucent remnant of his grandfather hovering like smoke. The clone's voice carried the gravel of a man who'd chewed obsidian and spit prophecies. "The storm isn't your enemy. It's your *sibling*. Stop fighting it."
Ahanu clenched his fists, still scarred from the night he'd leapt into lightning. Four years since that fall, and his bones still hummed with the memory of shattered femurs. Now, he aimed higher.
He **touched the storm** first—a reckless palm thrust skyward. Rain hissed against his skin, and for a heartbeat, he *was* the storm: a writhing mass of pressure fronts and charged particles. But the vision fragmented, flooding him with the storm's raw panic—*too much, too fast*. His knees buckled.
"Patience, *nepantla*," Shadow Citlali chided. "The Aztecs didn't conquer the sky in a day."
"They didn't conquer shit," Ahanu snapped, wiping blood from his nose. The storm had bitten back, its memories of hurricanes past searing his synapses. "They got eaten by Spaniards with smallpox."
The clone's laugh was a dry rattle. "And yet here you stand. Now. *Eat the wind*."
---
The Offering
Later, in the cluttered kitchen, Mambo Amara prepared a meal that was part supper, part sacrament. Okra stew bubbled in a cast-iron pot, its scent mingling with copal incense. She'd laid out a plate of *tlaxcalli*—ancient Aztec corn tortillas—and a bowl of *jollof rice* studded with Senegalese shrimp. Ahanu's seat was flanked by a Cherokee cedar box and a Haitian *veve* drawn in cayenne pepper.
"Eat," she ordered, ladling stew into a gourd carved with Quimbaya glyphs. "Your blood's too thin. The ancestors are gossiping."
Ahanu prodded the okra, watching it bleed green. "What's this really for?"
Amara's gaze hardened. "The Circle's sniffing closer. That *bakulu* Malik Voss left termites in the mango tree. You need strength."
The stew was a map of his DNA:
- **Okra** from the Congo, for resilience.
- **Shrimp** from the Gulf, for cunning.
- **Corn** from Tlaxcala, for memory.
He ate, and the world *shifted*.
---
The First Clone
That night, the storm broke. Rain lashed the bayou as Ahanu crouched in the attic, a stolen Obsidian Circle grimoire open on his knees. The book—bound in human skin and Cherokee syllabary—detailed blood rituals even Shadow Citlali called *"reckless."*
"*Yankee tlahueliloc*," the clone muttered. *Crazy gringo.* "You'll rip your *tonalli* apart."
Ahanu ignored him. Malik Voss's taunts festered in his gut: *"You're a museum piece, Caiman. We'll put you next to the dinosaur bones."*
He sliced his palm, letting blood drip onto the *veve* he'd drawn with Tata's old knife. The glyph glowed, and the attic filled with whispers:
*"Nepantla…"* (Nahuatl)
*"Abiku…"* (Yoruba)
*"Asgina…"* (Cherokee)
The blood pooled, quivered, then *rose*—a faceless figure mirroring Ahanu's form. **Clone Alpha** tilted its head, gold and purple eyes burning.
"What do I do?" Ahanu breathed.
Clone Alpha lunged.
---
The Duel in the Dark
The fight was a blur of stolen skills:
- Clone Alpha **ate the shadows**, becoming a liquid smear.
- Ahanu **touched the grimoire**, absorbing its vile incantations—and retched as colonial massacres flooded his mind.
- They grappled, crashing through the attic into Amara's shrine below.
Jars of crow feathers and jade dust exploded. Clone Alpha pinned Ahanu, its voice a chorus of ancestors: *"You fear your hunger. But hunger built pyramids. Hunger crossed oceans. Let us* **feast**."*
Ahanu's purple eye blazed. He **bit the clone's arm**, consuming its essence—a rush of his own memories, warped and ravenous. The clone dissolved, screaming.
Amara found him gasping, the grimoire ash in his hands.
"You split your soul," she hissed, slapping him. "For *what*? A puppet?"
Ahanu touched his cheek, where her ring had drawn blood. "For an army."
---
The Circle's Kiss
Two weeks later, the Obsidian Circle came in daylight.
Malik Voss arrived with a dozen acolytes, their suits lined with Navajo turquoise and stolen *aché*. They surrounded the house, chanting in a pidgin of Nahuatl and Latin.
"Give us the Caiman," Malik called, "or we'll salt the earth where your *lwa* sleep."
Amara met them on the porch, a machete in one hand, a *teotlaqualli*-painted calabash in the other. "You want him? Dig through me."
Ahanu watched from the roof, Clone Alpha crouched beside him. The clone had no face, but its hunger mirrored his own.
"Stay here," Ahanu ordered.
"No," Clone Alpha said, its voice his own but colder. "We hunt."
The battle was a symphony of stolen legacies:
- Ahanu **ate a bullet**, his skin hardening to lead—but the metal's memory of Congolese mines left him shaking.
- Clone Alpha **touched an acolyte**, absorbing their *nagual* magic to become a half-formed jaguar.
- Malik Voss **sang a Haitian dirge**, summoning *djab* spirits that devoured the porch.
When Amara fell, her blood pooling around the *veve*, Ahanu's scream birthed three more clones. They tore through the Circle's ranks, but Malik only laughed, scooping her Quimbaya figurine from the wreckage.
"You're a slow learner, Caiman," he sneered. "Gods aren't meant to be *shared*."
---
The Bridge's Choice
At dusk, Ahanu cradled Amara's body in the bayou, her blood seeping into his dreadlocks. Shadow Citlali flickered beside him, dimmer now.
"The clones… they're not *you*," the clone rasped. "They're the hunger you refuse."
Ahanu stared at his reflection in the water—gold eye dull, purple eye blazing. Clone Alpha emerged from the reeds, its form solidifying into a perfect twin.
"We are your voice," it said. "Let us speak."
Ahanu closed his eyes. When he opened them, the storm in his veins had stilled.
"No," he said. "You're the scream. I need to *listen*."
He dissolved Clone Alpha with a touch, absorbing its rage. The first lesson, finally learned:
*Power is a fire. But only ash renews the soil.*