With a grunt, I toss the shovel, letting it clatter against the mound of dirt gathered to my right. It takes three bleeding hours to dig through the hard-packed earth, only to find the next hole empty. The Agbajé foothills have become a labyrinth of skulls and bones, some old enough to crunch underfoot, others crawling with maggots and rot. After hours of shoveling, I can barely pick my way through the growing pile of debris.

Beads of sweat trickle down my face, widening the wet patch on my shirt. I stab the ground with my shovel, grip tight around its rust-eaten handle. Despite what villagers whisper about her and Felipe, I know those skull-faced monsters are responsible for both of their disappearances. The Nightwalkers must have gotten to her, just like they did Mama. I mumble a quick prayer to Olodumarè as I take in the rest of her innocent features.

The bullet hole in her forehead still shines with blood, dried crimson against a purple-tinged face. Small, pale, and fragile-looking, a porcelain doll even in death. I stop digging and stare at the young woman crumpled in the hole. It is the child of fire one sends on an errand to fire.Īnother night, another dead body that isn’t Mama. THIS BOOK IS INSPIRED BY THE REAL-LIFE HORRORS ENDURED BY CHILD SOLDIERS AND THE WAR ON CHILDREN IN PARTICULAR AND THEREFORE TACKLES THEMES OF WAR, VIOLENCE, AND SEXUAL ASSAULT. To Matthew, who planted the seed long before I knew it would bloom.

Deborah falaye blood scion