Black Panther: Panther's Rage E-Book

Sheree Renée Thomas

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An all-new re-imagining of the legendary Black Panther comics arc, Panther's Rage, from an award-winning author Follow Wakanda's high-tech king across the savannah, into the deepest jungles and up snow-topped mountains in this prose adaptation of the landmark comics series by Don McGregor, Rich Buckler and Billy Graham. This arc expands on the life and culture of the Wakandans, also introducing us to Panther's historic enemies. See T'Challa channel the strength of his ancient bloodline to take out foes including the breakout character Killmonger!

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Harlem Shadows

Chapter Two: Wakandan Blues

Chapter Three: A Rage in Wakanda

Chapter Four: Fire in the Valley

Chapter Five: Heavy is the Crown

Chapter Six: Women of Wakanda

Chapter Seven: A Ssserious Situation

Chapter Eight: Malice by Moonlight

Chapter Nine: Broken Spears, Broken Trust

Chapter Ten: Waking the Dead

Chapter Eleven: The Problem with Dragons

Chapter Twelve: Blood on the Altar

Chapter Thirteen: A Sombre Sacrifice

Chapter Fourteen: Spirits of the Jungle

Chapter Fifteen: Heart of Poison

Chapter Sixteen: Another Name for Revolution

Chapter Seventeen: Wakanda Falls

Epilogue: Pray for Madame Slay

Acknowledgments

About the Author

NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Tales of Wakanda by Jesse J. Holland

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Morbius: The Living Vampire – Blood Ties by Brendan Deneen

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. Decandido, and Christopher L. Bennett

Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

Wolverine: Weapon X Omnibus by Marc Cerasini, David Alan Mack and Hugh Matthews

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden

X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox

ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy: No Guts, No Glory by M.K. England

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

Spider-Man: Miles Morales – Wings of Fury by Brittney Morris

The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion

Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special

Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

Marvel’s Black Widow: The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

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BLACK PANTHER: PANTHER’S RAGE Print edition ISBN: 9781803360669 E-book edition ISBN: 9781803361093

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP www.titanbooks.com

First hardback edition: August 2022 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING Jeff Youngquist, VP, Production and Special Projects Sarah Singer, Associate Editor, Special Projects Sven Larsen, VP, Licensed Publishing David Gabriel, SVP of Sales & Marketing, Publishing C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

© 2022 MARVEL

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Mr. Chadwick Boseman

Greatness Never Dies

CHAPTER ONE

HARLEM SHADOWS

NIGHT BECAME her. When he watched Monica, the blue tinge of club lights shimmered across her velvety skin. He knew that she had become as much a part of him as the molecules of night. In a few months, to T’Challa’s surprise, she had become his necessary thing: the air he breathed.

He inhaled the intoxicating scent that was her own, a mixture of jasmine and gardenia, fragrant and sweet as the royal gardens in Birnin Zana. T’Challa sat in an art deco den crammed with small rectangular tables. Flickering candlelight reflected in glittering mirrors. On stage, Monica emerged from the darkness into the soft, warm crescent of light, her full lips a plum blossom above the silver microphone.

“She’s beautiful,” N’Jadaka said, raising the glass of amber cognac. “I can see why you’re so smitten.”

“Careful, friend,” T’Challa said with a playful growl. He unbuttoned his navy-blue blazer, revealing a yellow embroidered tunic. “Instead of watching my lady, when are you going to get a real woman of your own?”

N’Jadaka laughed. “Brother, please. I meet a real woman every night.”

T’Challa chuckled, shook his head. It felt good to be at peace for a change, in the presence of a friend’s warm banter and the talented woman he loved. They were in Minton’s, where Monica Lynne was the headliner, performing in what he hoped would be her final show in the United States before he whisked her away to finally see his home in Wakanda. It was a question he’d pondered many nights as he paced his Striver’s Row apartment, staring out of the brownstone’s bay windows onto the tree-lined streets below.

How to make a new life when his old one had become unrecognizable.

Located in Harlem between 7th and St. Nicholas, Minton’s was tucked away on the first floor of the Cecil Hotel. The historic night club had seen the birth of bebop, the evolution of jazz. A steady stream of greats made the club their musical dueling ground, from Thelonious Monk and Coleman Hawkins to Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis. Music hung in the air. Huge black-and-white portraits of legends like Billie Holiday, Sara Vaughan, and Ella Fitzgerald adorned the brightly painted walls behind patrons who dined on low country gumbo and sipped ruby-colored drinks in fine, fluted glasses.

In the breath before the band emerged and the first notes hit the air, T’Challa leaned into the silence, anticipating the voice he had come to love so much. Monica Lynne, a songstress and dear friend. Their troubled hearts had crossed paths in a most unusual manner, one that had bonded them in unanticipated ways.

“You’re always so wound up, Mr. Heavy Is the Crown,” N’Jadaka said, a sly smile on his broad face.

“That’s King Heavy to you, N’Jadaka,” T’Challa said, cutting his words with laughter. “And you could never wear this crown.”

“I heard that, King,” N’Jadaka said without missing a beat. “Let me get you another drink. Loosen you up, Your Majesty. I thought tonight was supposed to be a celebration for you and your future queen.” Waving at a passing waiter, N’Jadaka wore an antique red coral bead necklace, his tight black tee strained across his broad chest and six-foot-six frame. He sat back from the table and stretched his long legs. Few outdressed the staff at Minton’s, but somehow T’Challa and N’Jadaka managed the incredible feat. The front of the house was all black vests and bow ties, tailored suits and stylish pocket squares. Dapper Dans and Harlem’s most stunning starlets dotted the crowded room. “Another yak, straight up, and get my friend whatever he’s drinking. You are drinking?” N’Jadaka said with a smirk.

T’Challa smiled, his eyes narrowed. “If all goes well, we’ll raise a glass of Wakanda’s finest.”

Brassy horns punctuated the night as glasses clinked, and soft voices whispered in the candlelight.

“East of the sun and west of themoon…” the woman with a heart-shaped face and deep brown eyes sang, her hair a sparkling dark crown atop her head. The musicians gently toyed with the tune, playing with the rhythm. They tied and untied knots of harmony and sound, weaving around Monica’s clear voice as she conjured echoes of the Ella Fitzgerald rendition of the song while still making it her own.

She shimmered in her emerald dress, the soft lights iridescent against the only mural in the club that had survived the long rush of years. The famous jazz singers huddled in a faded bedroom and the lone, sleeping woman in the bright red dress captured on the back wall, just over Monica’s shoulder. A hush came over the room, the music enchanting, a lethal combination of a classic reinvented with mastery and skill. Old cares and worries were whisked away in the wake of Monica’s healing voice. She sang, staring out into the crowd, her eyes locking onto T’Challa’s. The dream of a faraway, forever kind of love was just the dream that T’Challa had in mind.

“And your ring?” N’Jadaka asked, breaking the spell.

“I have something special waiting,” T’Challa said. “Wakanda’s own, from the Great Mound.”

N’Jadaka’s jaw stiffened, his face a passing shadow. T’Challa saw the old pain in his new friend. Their paths had first crossed at Avengers Mansion. After the epic battle against Klaw, avenging his father’s murder, T’Challa had thought he would feel peace. But peace abandoned him. Instead, anger burned in his heart, consumed his waking thoughts. Rage and grief coursed through his spirit like twin poisons. T’Challa fled his homeland, seeking an outlet for his rage. He hoped to find the peace that had eluded him since his father’s murder. He knew vengeance was a dangerous drug: one that could taint the judgment of even the most level-headed leader. After being away from home so long, T’Challa had been heartened to meet a fellow Wakandan, especially one unjustly exiled as a child.

T’Challa was only a boy himself at the time of Klaw’s invasion. N’Baza, his father’s most trusted confidante, trusted no one. Man, woman, enby, child: all those suspected of collaborating with Ulysses Klaw were identified as traitors to the realm and swiftly expelled from Wakanda’s borders.

“I know it is a source of pain for you, my friend,” T’Challa said. “But remember, we have vowed to make new memories.”

N’Jadaka was silent—his eyes unreadable, seemingly devoid of emotion. That was one bond they shared. Each man wore a mask of his own. Grief and loss were as much their common ground as their homeland.

“A time for new vows…” N’Jadaka said.

“And perhaps a time for a new leaf,” T’Challa replied with a slow grin. “You seem to have caught someone’s eye.”

N’Jadaka scanned the room to rest his eyes upon an elegant woman seated at the bar.

“Whoa, that’s what I’m talking about,” N’Jadaka said, all teeth and raised eyebrows. “Some of the most beautiful people in the world, right here in Harlem.”

Dressed in a black and gold form-fitting leopard print dress with a short black bolero jacket, a matching silk scarf around her neck, she smiled at them.

N’Jadaka leaned forward, working his signature charm. He pointed at himself but, to his surprise, the woman shook her head. No. He frowned for a second, then she pointed her gold stiletto nails at T’Challa, who was chuckling at his side.

Yes, the woman nodded, cat eyes narrowing.

“Damn,” T’Challa whispered between clenched teeth. “What are you doing?” he asked as Monica sang to the crowd, watching the scene. Her improvisational style was influenced by Betty Carter, Shirley Horn, and Nina Simone. As she sang, she evoked sighs and appreciative claps from her listeners.

“Heavy is the crown!” N’Jadaka said, laughing.

“Finally,” T’Challa said, relieved as a sharp-dressed waiter arrived with their drinks. “Please refresh hers, on me.” T’Challa pointed at the smiling woman. “With my apologies. Tell her my heart is already taken, but I am deeply flattered.”

N’Jadaka sipped his cognac, watching T’Challa closely. “What’s that under your drink?” he asked.

T’Challa frowned. Resting beneath a cloth napkin was an odd envelope. The last time the Panther King had received one of them, it was not good news.

Voices in his head seemed to come from a distant place, calling, tempting him with old promises, threatening to reopen ancient wounds. The stained, brown leather folio was a shadowy enigma with no hint of sun, no hint of the mysteries that were to be revealed. Someone—not any postman from this land—had secretly delivered the missive, a letter with no postmark or return address. T’Challa needed neither—the Seal of Wakanda was stamped into the thick, heavy envelope.

Strange news delivered from his homeland whose name was precious currency, its language unspoken. Who was the waiter and where had they gone? T’Challa reached for the folio, his eyes steely.

“What is it?” N’Jadaka asked. His finger traced the rim of his glass.

T’Challa didn’t answer. The air was thick with the scent of spices and perfume. He ran his thumb across the seal and unwound the leather tie. For a society that prided itself on its advanced technology, Wakanda favored old-world traditions. Discretion was one of them.

T’Challa opened the folio and slid a heavy, handmade sheet of paper out. He grasped the letter by one of its deckle edges and read silently.

Your Highness,

Please forgive this intrusion. An urgent matter requires your presence and guidance.

Wakanda has lost its regent, N’Baz a. Please return home as quickly as you can.

Your kingdom is in grave need of the Black Panther.

Your loyal servant,

Communications Specialist Taku

N’Baza. Gone. Such earth-shattering news should not have been confined to the limits of mere paper. T’Challa felt the crash of mountains crumbling in his chest. The weight of the knowledge left him speechless.

The exiled one sat quietly at his side, as if he could sense the waves of grief rolling off the Panther King’s spirit.

“T’Challa,” N’Jadaka said, his voice raised with worry. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if things will ever be right.”

Uncharacteristically, N’Jadaka did not have a ready reply.

T’Challa slipped Taku’s letter back into its leather case. “I’m sorry, friend, but I must return home at once.”

The room erupted into ecstatic applause. Monica thanked her band and the guests, and graciously stepped off the stage. A cone of light followed her, the happy faces of her audience beaming all around. She shook hands and bent every now and then to peck a cheek. T’Challa slipped the envelope in his jacket and watched Monica as she wound her way through the crowd towards him, the long emerald dress trailing behind her like a great peacock’s cobalt and green-golden feathers.

It wasn’t her beauty. It was her kind spirit and her voice—that remarkable voice—that had drawn T’Challa to her. Despite the dangers they had seen, the traumas they had experienced, something about each other rang out like a bell, musical notes in the air. Together T’Challa hoped they might create a new song of solace, camaraderie, a home.

He and his younger sister Shuri had suffered such great loss. The only family they had now was each other. If Monica agreed, he hoped to add her to their circle.

“Hi N’Jadaka,” she said, glancing at him.

He nodded. “You were magical, as always.”

“Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed T’Challa on his cheek, whispering, “Hey handsome.”

“Monica,” he said, his voice offering just the hint of a deep purr. “Stunning as always. Love what you did with Ella’s classic performance.”

“A special song,” she said. “You’d think it was written for me and you.”

“Funny that you should say that.”

She smiled and stroked his arm. “Glad you enjoyed the show. This new band is working out well. But it looks like the real performance was happening at the bar.”

N’Jadaka burst into a fit of laughter.

“Girl, you are something else,” T’Challa said. “What are you drinking?”

“The same thing you sent your friend,” Monica said and winked.

“Really?” T’Challa chuckled. “I sent her apologies, but you, Ms. Monica Lynne, can have my whole heart.”

“Well in that case,” she said, her smile broadening, “I’ll take your heart and a glass of pinot.” She slid into the chair next to T’Challa’s, watched him closely, then squeezed his hand gently. “What’s wrong, T?”

For a moment, T’Challa didn’t answer. She had a way of knowing things sometimes; things felt rather than said. Monica sensed his moods as easily as she navigated complex vocal arrangements.

“Maybe we can discuss it later?” she asked gently, glancing only briefly at N’Jadaka, who quietly sipped his drink.

“No, my friend can hear this as well,” T’Challa said with a heavy sigh. “Tonight, I received notice. I must return home…”

“Oh,” Monica said, crestfallen.

“To bury N’Baza,” T’Challa finished.

“No!” Monica gasped and she shook her head in disbelief.

“You know that man has been like a father to me. I’m sorry, but this is not how I thought our evening would end.”

“I’m so sorry,” Monica said, then added. “He was your regent, right?”

T’Challa nodded.

“I see.”

“When do you plan to leave?” N’Jadaka asked, signaling for the check.

“Immediately,” T’Challa replied, watching Monica. “I should be in Wakanda within a few hours.”

“Of course,” N’Jadaka said. “I hate to see you go, friend, but I understand—you have to take care of your people.”

Monica was silent, then spoke, her voice soft and comforting. “I know this is a lot, and I know you’re a king, but are you going to be alright, baby?”

T’Challa looked contemplative, his thoughts careening. He could hear Monica’s steady heartbeat above the night club’s conversations, the clink of glasses, and soft jazz music playing from the house speakers. He needed her steadiness. When he returned home, the nation would lean on him, but T’Challa knew he needed someone to lean on too.

“Monica, come with me.” It wasn’t how he had planned to ask her to visit his homeland, and it wasn’t the best of circumstances. But it came from his heart, and it felt right.

She stared at him. He could see her mentally working through the practicalities. Finally, Monica spoke. “I think I can take some time off, let these freshmen stretch their legs. But no matter, T, you shouldn’t have to do this alone. You know I’m there for you if you need me.”

“I need you,” he said. And it was true.

“My condolences,” N’Jadaka said. “Check in with me when you can.”

“Check in?” T’Challa said. “Why don’t you close up shop for a while? Your antiquities are already collecting dust. It’s about time you come home.”

Shock and what looked like a glimmer of hope flitted across N’Jadaka’s face.

Moments went by.

“Well damn,” T’Challa said, glancing at Monica and then back to N’Jadaka. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you speechless.”

N’Jadaka ran his hand through his locs, his eyes misty. “Never thought I’d get a chance to see Wakanda again. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my friend. It’s going to be some homecoming,” T’Challa said, squeezing Monica’s hand. She stared at him again, then stroked his cheek.

“Indeed,” N’Jadaka said and signed the check.

CHAPTER TWO

WAKANDAN BLUES

BIRDSONG AND a deep humming filled the air as the royal motorcade wound its way through the Golden City. The surprisingly sparse crowd released cheers and ululations, punctuated by wailing and lamentations. The disparate rhythms and wondrous sights filled Monica with a sense of foreboding. T’Challa sat stonily by her side, while N’Jadaka stared out his window.

A native New Yorker, born in Bed-Stuy, raised in Harlem, she had never seen skyscrapers such as these. Coppery metal towers rose all around her as if they were golden rays born from the sun. Huge sculptures of historic Wakandans loomed in the distance. Other kinetic public art spun in the wind, as if propelled by sound, runes and magical spells culled from the centuries, carved into them in ancient Wakandan script.

The crowd’s collective voices sounded alternately celebratory and dirge-like. The rhythm and cadence reminded her of the blues. Sorrowful with the soft, tearful sadness of old Spirituals, but like the poet Langston Hughes once said, “hardened with laughter.”

Monica was still adjusting to having ridden in a Quinjet. The hybrid-winged aircraft reminded her of a giant wasp. It had whisked them away in the cover of darkness, along with T’Challa’s armed Wakandan guards. She slept fitfully most of the night; at some points, not at all. Now she stared, wide-eyed, at the evidence of riches as they rolled past. Far more than she had ever seen.

Monica knew that T’Challa was a king, not the kind in a deck of cards with ring curls and a big Joe Namath fur coat, or the romanticized ones people spoke of wistfully from Black history’s past. To be a king was one thing, but to be the Panther King was apparently another. Such opulence and obvious affluence, stability and an unbroken history was breathtaking to see. To think that this was T’Challa’s natural world and she was now in it—that was something she would have to reflect upon and get used to.

Born to a young single mother, she and her sister had never had much; from what she gathered from N’Jadaka, he never had either. To be dropped into such a world was as thrilling as it was unsettling. But it isn’t about me now, Monica thought. It’s about T. He needed her in the way she had once needed him. Almost losing your life had a way of putting things in perspective. She couldn’t imagine the kind of pain his little sister must be going through, to have lost her parents—one murdered, one missing—and now her most trusted guardian. At least Monica still had her mother when her father died, even if that sometimes felt like it wasn’t enough. There were serious political implications as well, but Monica didn’t have the energy to fully consider the first one. If Regent N’Baza was no longer there, then clearly T’Challa would need to be. It was that irrefutable fact that made her heart sink.

Now the sound of flutes and pipes joined the cacophony as an organ grinder dressed in ceremonial robes and a mime performed together. Children laughed, their bright, moon-like faces full of glee. Red-and-gold striped banners emblazoned with the Black Panther symbol waved in the sky. More traditional red-black-and-green flags dotted the crowd. Suddenly a sharp whistle pierced the air. A loud explosion followed. Monica screamed.

The crowd cheered. Fireworks.

An astonishing display of colorful smoke, as vivid as any rainbow, painted the sky like holograms. T’Challa chuckled as Monica recovered, her hand on her throat. She steadied her breathing. After another dazzling display, she squealed in delight, joining the crowd’s wonderment. A muscular Black Panther with a gold collar, stunning as any mural, pounced—then disappeared in a cloud of sparkling smoke.

Three robed musicians danced along the road, playing giant many-stringed koras. The gourds were the largest Monica had ever seen: certainly larger than any instruments in her collection. She had played a blues club, Ground Zero, in Clarksdale once—after her Beale Street tour in Memphis and the sets at Wild Bill’s and the Green Lounge. There were rumors that a farm in Mississippi grew a similar special species, but these instruments were extraordinary. Monica gazed at the beautiful koras, nodding her head to the tranquil music that gave voice to the song of the wind. Monica unrolled her window to hear them better. A Dora Milaje, one of the royal armed guards, twitched and narrowed her eyes, but T’Challa motioned for her to be still.

“Can you hear that?” Monica asked, unaware that the Black Panther, the ghost of the forest, had enhanced senses that allowed him to hear and distinguish sounds from great distances.

Like now, T’Challa could hear Monica’s heart race with excitement. Being attuned to her in this way made T’Challa a most attentive lover. He drew her closer to him, pulling her into his great arms, inhaling the intoxicating scent from her hair and gorgeous skin.

“You’re shining,” he said. “I love to see you happy. It is my only wish for you.”

Without thinking, Monica kissed him, her hand on his firm jaw. The guards discreetly looked away.

“This is how you welcome a king,” Monica said. “T’Challa, they missed you.”

A twinge of guilt and pleasure coursed through the Panther King. Seeing his people united in their grief moved him—gatheredtogether to celebrate his return and the passing of the great leader N’Baza.

Water fountains shaped like black panthers in a range of poses gushed from elaborate vibranium and marble bases. The natural marble was in hues she’d never seen. A flock of birds too exotic to be peacocks, fluttered overhead. Iridescent feather plumes sparkled and glimmered in the bright sky, a constellation of stars in broad daylight.

Monica caught glimpses of all the varied fashions of Wakanda. Like the Golden City itself, the wardrobes were a stylish mixture of the old and new. Mohawks and elaborate braids, nose and ear jewelry, wrists full of bright, shining gold sailed past her. Her eyes devoured all that she could see, heart and mind full, imagination set afire by the sheer volume of artistry.

“T, you actually live here?” she said, wonderment in her voice. “This is breathtaking.”

“Yes, I forget sometimes. I’ve been here since the day I was born,” T’Challa said.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget this.”

Riding through Birnin Zana’s golden streets, Monica felt as if she’d been whisked into The Wizard of Oz. But this was no Emerald City fronted by a hurley gurley hustle man. She knew from experience that T’Challa was the real deal. He’d saved her once, from a national hate group singling out Black activists, and her life had never been the same.

Monica stopped counting the number of men and women immortalized in the city’s public art spaces. Here, even a child, a small girl, was celebrated in stone. One could tell that the Wakandan kingdom stretched across the ages. The evidence of the centuries remained in the faded volcanic rock that some of the older buildings were made of, in the shining vibranium-reinforced buildings of the newer structures, and in the carved sculptures and graffiti murals that adorned many walls. Even the playgrounds reflected the empire’s noble culture. Children joyfully splashed in a pint-sized replica of Warrior Falls. Others posed before façades of signature buildings from the Golden City adorned with Wakandan symbols. Two little boys called out as they climbed atop a miniature Wangari tree, its trunk wide enough to hold three slides. Monica watched them as they slid and tumbled into a fit of laughter at the bottom.

No one would ever grow up not knowing who they are, Monica thought. The world around them reflected a different story, more affirming than the one Monica and her older sister Angela had known. In Wakanda, the children grew up never questioning their greatness. The evidence of that love and possibility, of their people’s tremendous contributions, their stability and success surrounded them.

A priceless legacy not easily stolen or erased.

If Monica didn’t know T’Challa, she would think him crazy to have left Wakanda. She saw no unhoused citizens, no garbage, none of the refuse that comes with despair, intentional neglect, and inequity. The children and the elders looked well cared for, and no mentally challenged citizens were left alone to struggle without aid, wandering aimlessly in public or private spaces like they did in the US. Who would ever leave such a place?

“Killmonger!” A shout erupted from the crowd. A mime on impossibly tall stilts wearing a wooden mask that obscured their features hovered in the air. They were dressed in purple and gold raffia-fringed mud cloth. The crowd moved back as the figure danced and spun on one leg, the other raised toward the sky.

“Ooh, look!” Monica cried. “Can we stop here?”

T’Challa whispered a command in Wakandan. The limo eased to a crawl, the motorcade slowing down all around them. Killmonger? Wakandans did not celebrate war or death. Disturbed by the outcry, he turned to Monica, but her excitement dispelled his concerns.

Monica clapped her hands as the car windows sank into the door panels, her laughter joining the crowds as the masked dancer performed zany tricks. They gyrated to music that reminded Monica of popular Afrobeats, each move a precise and more elaborate version of the newest dances. The people clapped in time as the dancer sang a little song, whispering at first. “Killll, kill, killlll, monnnnn, ger! Killll, kill, killlll, monnnnn, ger!” Puzzled, the crowd joined them.

“Is that Wakandan?” Monica asked.

“No. I’ve never heard that chant before,” T’Challa said, watching the performer. The Dora Milaje seemed unsettled.

Monica stared at the dancing harlequin, and T’Challa shook his head. “The clowns and puppets are the favorites of children, Monica.”

“This dancer is giving me life, but why are they chanting like that?”

The car slowed to a stop, then N’Jadaka spoke. “I think this is where I get off.”

Puzzled, Monica frowned at him. Even for the cosmopolitan, consummate contrarian, this move didn’t make sense.

“I know you will have your hands full, honoring N’Baza in the way he deserves,” N’Jadaka said. “But I feel my place is with my people. Home is not just a place, a palace or a shanty. It is a feeling.” He waved at the lively crowd gathered along the Golden City streets, his hand on his heart. “T’Challa, welcome home, but I have not felt my home for many long years.”

He grabbed the weekend bag he’d hastily packed overnight—a considerably smaller load than Monica’s, which trailed behind them in another vehicle.

“I want to find the grounds where my parents were laid to rest—if they in fact rest,” N’Jadaka said. “The hand of Klaw razed me.” He paused, his eyes still, dark waters lost in thought. Then the storm passed. “I need to trace those roots back to the village where I was born,” he said, his voice somewhere between hopeful and mournful. “I trust you will understand, T’Challa.”

T’Challa bent his head, as if listening to a sound far off. “I do.”

“Then I thank you for bringing me this far.” N’Jadaka hoisted the bag on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“No need to thank me, N’Jadaka. Take care of yourself and I will see you again. I hope sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, you will.”

N’Jadaka closed the limousine door behind him, his signature red coral bead necklace bounced on his throat as he quickly disappeared into the chanting crowd.

Monica watched the top of his head, the dark locs wrapped in a high bun, until it was no longer discernible. The silence in the car made her wonder if she had misjudged T’Challa’s mercurial friend. His moods had always made Monica uneasy, the quicksilver shifts from charming to something indescribable—not quite melancholy, not quite malice, something in between. But T’Challa trusted him, so Monica kept her peace.

For a moment, the couple sat in silence. Monica contemplating what the future might hold. T’Challa contemplating Wakanda’s dark past. As N’Jadaka had just reminded the Panther King, his friend and his family weren’t the only casualties of Klaw’s murderous obsession or of Regent N’Baza’s firm reign. Returning N’Jadaka home could never make up for the years he had lost outside Wakanda’s walls of protection, but it might offer a way to heal.

A convoy of painted bicycles rode past, streaming tassels on the handlebars and wheels. They spun in a circle, weaving in and out, with giant marionettes hoisted atop them. Fully functioning, connected by wire, each cyclist could turn the head of the creatures with a flick of their wrist. There was a giant serpent, beautifully painted in black, orange, and gold. It writhed and spun its head. A pink tongue flickered out to the delight of the squealing children. A green dragon shook its wings, and a pale skeleton did a Bojangles jig, rattling its many bones.

“Killll, kill, killlll, monnnnn, ger!” the crowd chanted. “Killll, kill, killlll, monnnnn, ger!”

T’Challa wrinkled his brow at the crowd’s fervor. A question formed in his mind. Then, without warning, the purple-robed masked dancer did a series of back-to-back somersaults, vaulting into the air. The crowd roared, pointing with delight, their mouths open Os.

“Death to the panther demon!” the dancer cried.

The crowd gasped in shock, mirroring Monica’s own confusion. Before she could speak, the dancer darted towards them, stilts stabbing the earth. The masked dancer leaned back as if doing a limbo, then forward, so close Monica saw the chisel marks on the unfinished wood.

“Killmonger,” he whispered. “Killmonger!”

The dancer spat in Monica’s face. The shock made her scream out in horror.

T’Challa snapped.

Suddenly the limo was full of Wakandan cries and curses. Car doors were flung open; the passenger window shot up; the Dora Milaje guards and T’Challa leaped out.

One second, T’Challa was dressed in his formal, light-colored, embroidered travel clothes; the next, his entire body and face were enveloped by an extraordinary black suit, so dark and smooth it looked as if black water, the night itself, had risen up and swallowed him whole.

Sharp anti-metal claws emerged from his fingertips like silver lightning.

The Black Panther released a guttural growl. The sound was so menacing that, if you heard it in the jungle or on a street, you would think you had already been eaten.

The masked dancer ran off, ditching their stilts, disappearing into the crowd. But Monica suspected they wouldn’t be gone long. She had seen the Black Panther in action. He’d taken on a nation of violators. When he moved, the whole world seemed to tremble beneath his feet. A mere clown buckjumping on stilts or running on flat feet didn’t stand a chance against the Panther King.

A Dora Milaje guard handed Monica a beautiful handkerchief, sympathy in the guard’s eyes. She fought off tears as the limo sped off.

“Ms. Lynne, we are sorry for this. Whoever that was, that jambazi, meant no disrespect to you,” they said, their voice full of the beautiful lilting accent Monica had come to love. Everything sounded better in Wakanda. Even lies. “We should arrive at the palace in a few moments. Our physicians are some of the best in the world.”

“Physician?” Confusion made Monica’s question a whisper.

“Your Highness requested that we take you to his personal doctor, to ensure your health. Forgive me, but to say more might displease him,” said the guard.

“Thank you,” Monica replied. “No apology needed. I get that he thinks I may have been poisoned.”

“Forgive my lapse in etiquette, Ms. Lynne. I am Adebisi, Captain of the Dora Milaje.” The guard offered Monica a steely handshake. “I will escort you to the royal palace. No more harm will come to you. I promise.” A slight growl filled the guard’s voice.

The Dora Milaje guard did not speak again. Her eyes now flat, displaying the blank neutrality that Monica had come to recognize sometimes in her own love. “Better safe than sorry,” she said. Something her late mom, a former healthcare aide, often said. They all sat together in silence, the urban fixtures of the Golden City now giving way to a more idyllic and rural setting.

Fields of tan and lavender-colored crops dotted the landscape. A few giant purple horned rhinos grazed in the field. The limo sped up a twisting hill. Monica’s ears kept popping. Then, a sound like a rocket’s explosion filled the air, followed by gunshots.

“What was that?” Monica asked, fear gripping her heart. T’Challa was out there, back in downtown Birnin Zana.

“Fear not. Our king is The One Who Puts the Knife Where It Belongs.”

The guards faced forward and not another word was spoken, in Wakandan or English.

The motorcade sped down the Path of Kings, a winding road flanked by various larger-than-life monuments to the royal line that began with Bashenga and continued to T’Challa’s late father, T’Chaka. The air had the scent of cinnamon and other spices that Monica didn’t recognize, an aroma that T’Challa said came from Wakanda’s special trees. The tree bark and the bright yellow-orange-and-crimson flowers were sometimes used as a cooking ingredient or for healing.

Feeling a bit carsick, Monica was surprised and relieved when the motorcade finally stopped before a tall, wide gate covered in Wakandan symbols and a panther motif. More armed guards flanked the perimeter. Clad in red and gold, the Dora Milaje, all women, silently held traditional spears and dangerous-looking high-tech weapons Monica didn’t recognize.

An oral command opened the gate to reveal a palace so stunning, even the lore of fairy tales did not do it justice. The palace grounds were flawless. A ribbon of luscious green blossoms were arranged in patterns that evoked the Wakandan script. Monica gasped audibly, shaking her head.

She stood in silence, wavering between marvel and worry. Her line of thought was broken when she saw the surprise and distaste on the face of the man who now stood before her.

Adebisi whispered in Wakandan to the man who was obviously a military leader of some sort. Could this be…

“W’Kabi,” the man said, his voice a deep bass. “I am the Chief of Security and the General of the Taifa Ngao.” He saw Monica’s blank face and continued. “I am the Shield of the Nation. It is my honor to meet you, Ms. Monica Lynne of the United States.”

Monica smiled, no teeth. She knew a hater when she saw one.

This W’Kabi was with it, straight buggin’.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. W’Kabi, Mtemi ya Taifa Ngao,” Monica said, mindful of respect and decorum. This was the man T’Challa trusted with his life. After hearing her speak his true title in Wakandan, he spoke to her with slightly less antipathy.

“I am sorry your journey was not more comfortable,” W’Kabi said. “We will have your things sent to the King’s personal rooms. In the meanwhile, would you please go with Daktari Mganga to our newly-expanded research hospital? She will see that all is well with you.”

Dr. Mganga peered at Monica, her face pleasant but her eyes questioning. Monica nodded at her.

“It is our honor to welcome you, Ms. Lynne. I am Mganga, protégé of the Great Mendinao. Our king must hold you in the highest regard,” the elder said.

“How do you know that?” Monica asked, weariness from the journey beginning to take hold.

“Because you are here.”

* * *

DORA MILAJE guards followed their king as he raced through the parting crowd. Echoes of the Killmonger chant played through his memory as he leaped atop the statue of Azzuri the Wise, the creator of Wakanda’s global spy network. Azzuri, T’Challa’s grandfather, was the Black Panther who defeated Captain America in hand-to-hand combat during the Second World War.

“Your Highness, over there!” yelled a man, huddled near a bush with his wife and child. They were in one of the city’s public parks. He pointed at a circle of interlocking apple guava and Wangari trees.

“Bad Panter, Bad Panter!” the toddler cried, ecstatic. He had one little tooth in his mouth.

T’Challa dove for the copse of trees. He could hear the masked jambazi’s desperate gasps for air as he crashed through the town square. But the people’s cries would have revealed the culprit’s whereabouts even without T’Challa using his enhanced hearing. He was slowing down, fear overtaking him.

Rage filled the Black Panther’s heart as he stared at the assailant. The masked one trembled before him; panthers petrify their prey before pouncing. T’Challa wanted to tear this person apart, for disrespecting Monica, for disrespecting him. He dove onto the jambazi, knocking them down. The wood mask flew into the air to reveal a wild-eyed man. A skull painted in sickly yellow neon. Two hundred solid pounds of fury bore down on the defiler.

The Black Panther snarled. “Who are you? What is a Killmonger?”

Delirious, the man wept and laughed. “Your replacement,” he said.

Underneath the hysterical man’s laughter, T’Challa heard the soft ticking of a timer. An IED!

T’Challa rose and opened the laughing man’s purple robe.

The timer read one second, then zero…

“Killmonger!” the man cried, his last words.

A silent explosion ripped the man apart and threw the Panther King across the clearing. He landed with a crash against a Wangari tree. The bomber’s blood mixed with the fruit of apple guavas. The Black Panther’s vibranium suit had absorbed most of the bomb’s force and all the sound, protecting him. Now the Black Panther released the force of the explosion into the air. The boom shook all the fruit from the remaining centuries-old trees.

T’Challa stood up, only to face a volley from three R24 assault rifles. It was the cyclists from earlier, the roving marionettes. The rider of the dragon bike screamed at the Panther King.

“False King, you follow no true god! Bast is a demonic spirit, and you are a puppet of the outworlders.”

T’Challa spun and rolled, deflecting the cloud of bullets with his suit and gaining ground on the murderous traitors. He snatched one rifle from the serpent biker, tossing him into the top of a tree, and pummeled the dragon into unconsciousness. All that remained was the skeleton.

“We are beyond death,” the skeleton rider shouted as he flung his weapon to the ground. He beat his chest, his face emblazoned with the same sickly gold paint that now glowed in the twilight. “Killmonger has shown us K’Liluna, the true god of Wakanda. We are the Death Regiments. No longer will colonizers rule Africa. No longer will Wakanda tolerate weak kings, scraping and bowing to foreign powers. Down with the Hidden Kingdom!” the Skeleton cried. “The future has been revealed!”

“Nice speech,” the Black Panther said, then punched him in the throat.

* * *

“YOUR HIGHNESS, I must speak with you with much urgency.”

T’Challa walked past his chief of security, nodding. “Yes.”

Blood and other unspeakable matter clung to his suit. Only his face was revealed, his eyes dark and broiling with fury.

“Where is Monica?”

W’Kabi looked baffled.

“Taifa Ngao, I will ask you once more. Where is Monica?” T’Challa roared.

W’Kabi lowered his eyes. “Ms. Monica Lynne is unharmed according to Daktari, Your Highness.”

T’Challa was relieved that she was physically well, but he wouldn’t say she was unharmed. He had brought her to Wakanda at the worst time. He had some explaining to do.

“She has not yet dined,” W’Kabi began. The Panther King bristled. “It was offered, but Ms. Lynne preferred to wait for you. She is resting in your chambers.”

“Have Shuri meet us for dinner in one hour.”

“Your Highness, she is training—playing,” W’Kabi said, correcting himself, “with the Sacred Eighteen.”

“With Okoye and Nakia again?”

W’Kabi nodded.

“Ms. Lynne…” W’Kabi began, pursing his lips despite himself.

“My guest here,” the Panther King said. He saw the question before it was formed. “Indefinitely.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Captain Adebisi has already taken it upon herself to guard Ms. Lynne.” He turned to leave.

T’Challa had known W’Kabi all his life. He read the disapproval in the man’s posture.

“W’Kabi,” he said, “I know it is urgent. I have just survived an IED explosion by an apparent suicide bomber. We will speak on that, on this Killmonger—whoever he may be—on Regent N’Baza’s ceremonies, and on whatever else I need to know. But tonight, I must make amends to someone very important to me. This was not my plan.”

W’Kabi looked thoughtful. “I understand, T’Challa. Is it your plan to…?”

“Make her my queen? It is.”

The Chief of Security—who had trained T’Challa himself, who had advised the late Regent when the Orphan King was too young to rule—looked surprised, then scandalized.

“Do you mean, Your Highness, it is your intention to make an outworlder our queen?”

The muscles in T’Challa’s face quivered. The last time W’Kabi had seen the usually even-tempered leader this furious was when he went to face Ulysses Klaw.

“A jambazi spat in my future queen’s face—in my presence. I am covered in his blood now. I will not tolerate your disrespect. You, and all of my subjects in the Golden City and beyond, will treat Monica Lynne with the respect she deserves.”

The Shield of Wakanda made the “Wakanda Forever” signal and left his king pacing the room like a restless panther, furious.

* * *

T’CHALLA QUICKLY showered in one of his private rooms. He skipped his oversized Zebrano hardwood soaking tub, large enough for two, though he sorely needed a hot bath after the day’s battles. He knew this old fear, the old worry. At night, before he met Monica, before he avenged his father and killed Klaw, he dreamed of the shore, of strange storms blowing through his palace. Of the water rising from volcanic rock, not the River of Grace and Wisdom, the Red Sea or Indian Ocean, but a new ocean formed from his pain and fiery tears. The water rose like lava from an erupting volcano, and there was nothing he could do about it.

They want to break your spirit, but Bast has chosen you.

He could hear his father’s voice. A warning not to let anger rule him, the way it ruled so much of the modern world. T’Challa kept a binder of obituaries, of his people and of others, so when the fiery rage—the desire to destroy and take life rather than uplift and affirm life—threatened to overtake him, he would know who had died while he lived, in what he once thought was his prison of privilege and luxury. When T’Chaka died, T’Challa added his obituary, kept it for history. But the secret book of names, of the dead, did not help him then. Rage had won out. If he wasn’t careful, it could win again.

When he came out of his rainforest shower, he folded over, as if the breath had been pulled out of him. He stilled himself, meditating on the pain in each tender part of his body. He had taken blows, but an explosion always rocked him. T’Challa dressed to face Monica, his toughest battle yet. He was still sore, but he wouldn’t show it. He walked in the great, high-ceilinged bedroom, back straight, eyes radiating warmth. But he didn’t have to pretend how much he enjoyed seeing Monica.

“T’Challa,” she said. Her voice soothed some of his pain.

“Monica.”

She wept in his arms. He held her until her tears stopped flowing. Another broken dam he felt powerless against.

“I’m sorry I brought you here. If I had known, there is no way I would have carried you into such danger. With my regent dead and me being away for a year, Wakanda is clearly unstable—far more unstable than I expected.”

“All of this in a year?” Monica asked.

“I was selfish, fleeing my own demons. Now, to my own people I am seen as a demon.”

“Not all,” Monica said. “It was clear that so many truly love you.”

“With war, sometimes it only takes a little. Cunning is greater than strength.”

“And your wisdom is your strength, T’Challa,” Monica said.

“Then I must be strong enough to part from you. Monica, I must send you home to safety. There are too many unknown variables here.”

“And you know what’s not one of them?” Monica replied. “Me. You always take care of everyone else. Who will be there for you? I don’t want to go, T. I want to stay here with you, killer clowns or not.”

He laughed. “That’s my brave sunbird, voice of a million years.”

“Sunbird?” she said. “I think I like that.”

“Good, let’s get you some dinner. Don’t want you starving for me, too. I likes’em thick.”

Monica laughed all the way to the impressive dining room.

The table was seated for three, but six diners were present.

Shuri stood smiling at them, mischievousness in her eyes. “You’re late,” she said. “You asked me to come to dinner, which I did, but you were not here when I came. A princess like myself should not be dining alone.” She tossed her beautiful braided hair, regal and glittering with jewels.

T’Challa shook his head. “Monica, you’ve met Captain Adebisi.”

The Dora Milaje leader stood behind Shuri, a tall, grim figure. She offered her king a nod and crossed her arms over her chest—a gesture old as the line of Bashenga. Wakanda forever!

“So, Okoye and Nakia?” T’Challa asked.

The two girls, one tall and slim, the other short with little round cheeks, looked on nervously.

“I invited them. Looks like you brought a guest. What is this now, Coming to Wakanda? Where’s Arsenio?”

Nakia laughed loudly, then covered her mouth. Okoye elbowed her friend, shaking her head no.

T’Challa sighed. “Monica, meet my little sister, Shuri. Shuri, meet…”

Shuri cut her brother off. “Hi Ms. Monica, pleased to meet you. But you,” Shuri said, pointing at T’Challa. “So, you leave me alone for a year, to fight crime with Captain America, Iron Man, and the Mighty Thor,” she said, sarcastically. Nakia was trying but failing not to giggle beside her, while Okoye kept her composure as usual. “Having all sorts of fun! And when the party’s over, now you want to come for me?”

T’Challa glanced at Monica who smiled, amused. “Oh, I like your sister,” she whispered.

“Then you can have her,” T’Challa said, pulling out Monica’s chair.