*(New Orleans, 2008)*
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Prologue in Blood
Ahanu Tennarse entered the world screaming—not the shrill cry of a newborn, but a deep, guttural roar that rattled the Mason jars of dried okra and crow feathers in his grandmother's kitchen. Outside their shotgun house in Tremé, the Mississippi River churned black under a **Blood Moon Eclipse**, its waters thick with the silt of a thousand drowned histories. The midwife, a Haitian *manbo* named Tante Delphine, crossed herself three times when she saw his eyes: one gold, one purple, like mismatched coins paid to cross the River Styx.
"*Li gen zèl nan vant li*," she whispered. *He has wings in his belly.*
His grandmother, **Mambo Amara**, knew what it meant. She'd seen those eyes before—in the visions granted by Papa Legba at the crossroads. The boy was a *revenant*, a soul stitched from the fraying threads of butchered cultures. His first lullaby was not a melody but a warning hummed in Nahuatl: *"Tlahtlacotin, tlahtlacotin…" Little devourer, little devourer.*
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The House of Two Spirits
Ahanu's childhood home was a collision of worlds. The porch sagged under Cherokee dreamcatchers strung with bayou bones. The walls sweated with murals of Aztec jaguars prowling through Senegalese savannahs. His grandfather, **Tata Citlali**, a Nahua *curandero* with skin like sun-cracked leather, brewed *cipactli* tea from Amazonian herbs to "tame the storm in the boy's blood." His grandmother wove protection *wanga* bags filled with graveyard dirt and obsidian shards, muttering Yoruba prayers under her breath.
But Ahanu's first word was neither Nahuatl nor Creole. It was **"Again."**
At three years old, he'd watch Tata whittle cedar charms and replicate the carvings flawlessly—not with a knife, but his fingernails. At five, he devoured a raw crawfish during a hurricane blackout and woke speaking fragments of Choctaw, a language none in the house knew. By seven, shadows began to *cling* to him, pooling at his feet like spilled ink even in noon sunlight.
"He's a **nepantla**," Tata told Amara, using the Aztec term for those who straddle worlds. "The boy's not broken. He's a bridge."
"Bridges get walked on," Amara snapped, eyeing the purple eye that never blinked.
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The Crawfish Lesson
The incident that marked Ahanu's sixth birthday began with a lie.
"We're fishing for supper," Amara said, handing him a bamboo pole. In truth, she'd brought him to **Bayou Sauvage** to teach him about hunger—the kind that gnawed at their ancestors during the Middle Passage, the Trail of Tears, the Siege of Tenochtitlan. She baited his hook with chicken guts, watching as he mimicked her every motion: the wrist flick, the squint against the sun.
When he yanked a crawfish from the muck, she expected delight. Instead, he stared at the creature thrashing in his palm, his gold eye welling with tears.
"It's scared, Gran'mère."
"Everything fears death," she said. "Now boil it."
But Ahanu hesitated. Then—impulsively—he **bit into the crawfish alive**, shell crunching between milk teeth. Amara lunged to stop him, but it was too late.
For three days, he convulsed with the crawfish's death memories: claws snapping at herons, the suffocating weight of the marsh, the slow dissolve in a child's stomach acid. When he finally woke, his skin had turned translucent as shrimp shell, gills fluttering on his neck.
"*This* is your power," Amara hissed, pressing a mirror to his face. "You don't just take—you *become*. Now swear to me, *ti pitit*: never eat a thing that's still screaming."
He swore. But the gills remained, hidden under a scarf, itching like a promise.
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The Dreadlock Pact
By age nine, Ahanu's hair grew wild—a stormcloud of knots that hummed when storms brewed over Lake Pontchartrain. One evening, Amara sat him between her knees, greasing his scalp with shea butter and ground jade dust.
"Your mama had locs like this," she lied (Ahanu's mother had died birthing him, her body rejecting the "demon" in her womb). "Each one holds a story. We'll braid your ancestors into them."
As she twisted his hair, she embedded relics:
- A **Cherokee marble** from the Trail of Tears.
- A **Dahomey iron bead** from the Kingdom of Abomey.
- A **Quimbaya gold flake** stolen from a Bogotá museum.
"When the time comes," she said, "your dreads will sing, and you'll know what to do."
That night, Ahanu dreamt of a jaguar with his grandmother's face. It hissed: *"They're coming, bridge-boy. The men who eat gods."*
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First Blood
The Obsidian Circle found them on Ahanu's twelfth birthday.
A man in a linen suit arrived at their door, smelling of sandalwood and decay. **Malik Voss**, though he didn't yet have the name. He offered Amara a bag of coffee beans that sprouted maggots when she touched them.
"We've come for the boy," he smiled. "The Caiman belongs in a zoo."
Tata Citlali emerged from the kitchen, clutching a *macuahuitl* studded with glass, not obsidian—improvised from broken bottles. "The only zoo here is your face, *pendejo*."
What happened next was a blur:
- Malik flicked a business card that sliced Tata's cheek.
- Ahanu **touched the blood** and *changed*. His fingers elongated into glass claws mirroring the *macuahuitl*.
- He lunged, slashing Malik's throat—or tried to. The man dissolved into termites, laughing as they swarmed out the window.
Afterward, Tata pressed a cactus spine to Ahanu's palm, drawing a **blood oath**.
"You are *tlacatecolotl* now—a shapeshifter. But hear me, *nieto*: power is a fire. Feed it rage, and it burns you first."
Ahanu nodded, not understanding. That night, he vomited glass shards into the toilet, each etched with Malik's laughter.
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The Weight of Wings
By thirteen, Ahanu's body rebelled. His bones ached from absorbing too much, too fast:
- He'd **eaten a mockingbird** to learn its songs—now his ribs hollowed, threatening flight.
- He'd **touched a police baton** during a raid—now his arms bruised blue as a patrolman's knuckles.
- He'd **watched Tata die** (a stroke, they said; poison, Ahanu knew)—and his shadow birthed a **clone** that spoke in Tata's voice.
The clone, **Shadow Citlali**, became his secret tutor. It taught him Nahuatl curses and how to brew *teotlaqualli*—the "divine ink" Aztec scribes used to paint codices. But at dawn, it melted into tar, leaving Ahanu's hands stained with words he couldn't read.
"You're fracturing," Amara warned, scrubbing his skin raw with lye soap. "Too many voices in that head."
He wanted to scream: *They're not voices—they're **hungers**.* The gold eye craved connection; the purple eye, destruction. Only when drumming with the **Black Masking Indians** at Mardi Gras did he feel whole, his mimicry dissolving into the polyrhythms of djembe and powwow drums.
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The Bridge Burns
The chapter closes on Ahanu at fourteen, standing atop the abandoned **Six Flags Jazzland**, his locs crackling with static from an approaching storm. Below, the Circle's drones circle like carrion birds. Shadow Citlali materializes, translucent and stern.
"Time to choose, *nepantla*. Jump or fight."
Ahanu spreads arms threaded with scars and glyphs. "What if I fly?"
He leaps—not fleeing, but *hunting*—as lightning forks into his gold eye. The fall would've killed a normal boy. But Ahanu **eats the wind**, teeth gnashing ozone, and for three glorious seconds, he understands the storm.
When he crashes into the swamp, legs shattered, he laughs through the pain. Shadow Citlali frowns.
"Fool boy. You think this is a game?"
Ahanu grins, bones already knitting. "Nah, Tata. It's practice."