Anthony Jones III
(Sneak Peek)
Maxwell
“What are you doing here?”
There was a figure in the darkness of the dimly lit room, and quietly, it strode in the direction of the window that was covered by a tattered cloth. It was seeking light to reveal itself, but the host of the room spoke out, “I’ve asked my question. I deserve an answer.”
The host, an aged olive skinned man using a cane to support himself nearby his shabby bed of old comforters and rusted springs, glared into the darkness of his small room. A reply came shortly after his mouth began to open, “They will come for me.”
“So, what are you asking of me? Have you forgotten the destruction you’ve caused with that bloody power of yours?!” He sneered, agitated by the grisly voice.
“I’m not asking for anything for myself,” the figure moved into the light, and slowly the old man’s face became soft. “My daughter is in danger as well. I have no one else to turn to besides yourself, Luther.”
As the wrinkles stretching over Luther’s face slumped, he sighed and stared into the burning bronze irises of the man that stood before him, and regrettably, he remembered the past. A past where this man was a part of his family, and his own daughter loved him dearly, but it was this same man that marked his daughter’s death, as if it was destined to come by his hand. He couldn’t forget the emotions that boiled over inside him or the subtle death of his daughter that claimed the happiness of their only child.
His knees buckled as he remembered, and ultimately, the man grew weak from standing and gave up, crashing down on his unstable bed, “Why me?”
“You may not love me, but you loved Aurora. Our daughter is no different. She resembles her too much. I wouldn’t want them to destroy her life—”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Luther interrupted. “What do you think will happen when that girl loses her father?!”
The man’s brows vexed and his mouth opened, but words wouldn’t come out. He merely crossed his arms across his black suited chest and stared at the scratched wooden floor. Luther snapped up, grabbing the man’s broad shoulders and spoke with pleading eyes, “You can’t give yourself up, Maxwell! That little girl…she—”
“Don’t worry. They won’t take away my little girl. I can promise you that, and I will be there for her,” Maxwell reassured, placing a comforting smile on his face.
“Then it’s a promise,” Luther nodded, a shred of happiness glimmering in his dull, dark irises. “Aurora…I will save what I can this time.”
Maxwell helped Luther back onto his bed slowly, but as he did so, there was an unnatural gust that scraped against the nape of his neck. He questioned it, and Luther’s eye looking over his shoulder answered in fright. Maxwell turned around immediately, facing the darkness, and in response were three booming gun shots. Each shot illuminated the small room and the sound jumped off the walls, but at the end of the third shot, Maxwell stood perfectly fine. He checked the body of his suit, as if he were filled with bullet holes, but a fainting cry from behind alerted him on their actual mark.
Luther laid on his back along his bed with three bullet wounds in his chest. Maxwell was traumatized as the man’s life was drained in a split second. He was dead almost instantly, and there was nothing he could do to erase the events that occurred. He crunched his teeth together, tightened his jaw, and collapsed to the floor. The presence of the killer disappeared, but he was certain who it was.
There was no one left now.
No family.
No friends.
No one.
All that was left was him and his only daughter, Amani Marshall.