Mona Livelong Read online

  Praise for Author Valjeanne Jeffers

  The future, according to author Valjeanne Jeffers, C’84, consists of a world filled with futuristic transportation pods that shoot across town on compressed air and are self-cleaning, as well as mechanical hover crafts that whisk you to your door...

  But despite all of this change, some things in the world remain the same. People are divided according to class lines: those in power choose who lives well, in a bright, clean, atmosphere, while the underclass consists of the poor, multicultural masses, who must live in underground quarters with polluted air and water, scarce food and decrepit housing. They exist exclusively to serve the needs of the power class, and they are only allowed above ground while working. Class battles rage from this dynamic. Jeffers looks at this future world with imagination and wit, while delving into the inner spiritual and physical needs of the people involved. The Switch has scenes filled with horror, erotica, intrigue, fighting, love and a lot of action. This is just the kind of reading to keep you warm on long winter nights.

  ―Review of The Switch II: Clockwork, 2012 Spelman Messenger

  When I first sat down to read Immortal I was skeptical. I'm not a vampire/werewolf/shape shifter fan but the book came highly recommended. Now that I have read it I'm hooked. Valjeanne balances a number of genres in this book; horror, science fiction and romance and makes it all believable.

  It's the strength of her characters and their personal lives that tie it all together. Although these characters are involved in epic situations they are also dealing with everyday relationship issues that affect their bigger decisions, just like real folks. And Valjeanne knows how to write an action scene as well. A great book and a great series to follow.

  ―Author Milton Davis

  Immortal by Valjeanne Jeffers starts in the year 3075 and Tundra has been at peace for 400 years. Gone is the racism, poverty and war. Where if any weapons are brought into Tundra it is the one thing punishable by death. Tundra, a place where you are only known by your first name and number.

  Immortal by Valjeanne Jeffers is an enchanting tale of magic, werewolves and humans that turn into creatures of the night. The story was mesmerizing to say the least. I look forward to reading the next installment in this series. Although a quick read, the story moves fast and leaves you wanting more. The writings of Mr. Jeffers remind me a lot of the writer Clive Barker. So if you are into stories that are magical that tell tales of the mythical, then this is your book.

  ―Reviewed by Leona

  APOOO BookClub

  Valjeanne Jeffers is a literary chef. She has taken three ingredients, steampunk, horror, and alternate history, blended them together and created a scrumptious main course of thrills, excitement, and suspense. In her latest offering, Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective, prominent men of color have been murdered in the city of Monterrey. Because these

  crimes bear a taint of the supernatural, Mona's services are enlisted. Besides possessing vast knowledge of all things paranormal-related, Mona is also a gifted sorceress. Aided by her on again off again lover and possibly the coolest, hippest ghost in the spirit world, Mona attempts to track down a killer, while uncovering a dangerous conspiracy.

  The world of Mona Livelong is colorfully laid out in vivid detail. The overall background is replete with steam powered machines, nifty clockwork gadgetry, and stunning fashion reminiscent of the late 19th century. The events in the story occur in the 1970s. The United States is split into two nations, one a ardently white supremacist regime, the other, striving for racial equality, but burdened by persistent, customary racism. The alternate geo-political context plays every bit as crucial a role in this novel as the demons, monsters, gods and goddesses that populate its pages.

  Mona Livelong is smart, skilled and courageous. She’s also a warrior who's not intimidated by the evil she confronts or the danger intrinsic to her job. This book is a truly enjoyable read, bearing the titillating promise of a sequel...better yet, a series.

  —Author Ronald Jones

  A fascinating mix of steamfunk, alternate history, and supernatural horror. The world Valjeanne Jeffers has created in this novel is complex and intriguing, but the focus here is on the story, which kept me turning pages late into the night.

  Mona Livelong is a worthy addition to the tradition of occult detective literature. I’m looking forward to reading the next novel in this series, and I hope there will be a third.

  —Author Darrell Grizzle

  Oh man! Mystery, supernatural, alternate history, and a touch of steamfunk – this tale of murder and the supernatural is simply amazing! The division of the US is a great concept and woven into the tale. No info dumps here! Strange murders bring paranormal detective Mona Livelong into a wild tale of murder and mayhem with tidbits of traditional African and southern supernatural traditions leading to a compelling end.

  —Author Ruth de Jauregui

  This book literally had me at the edge of my seat. I have the bruises on my butt cheeks when I hit the floor as proof. Valjeanne Jeffers beautifully crafted several different scenarios together creating a fantastic story and a wonderful character in Mona Livelong. On top of that, Jeffers had woven a romance into the story that felt believable.

  Mona Livelong is now one of my favorite fictional characters. I can’t wait until I can get my hands on Mona Livelong II.

  —Author D.K. Gaston

  Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective II

  The Case of the Vanishing Child

  Valjeanne Jeffers

  Copyright Valjeanne Jeffers 2020 all rights reserved. Cover art by Quinton Veal Copyright 2020 all rights reserved.

  Preview or purchase works by Quinton Veal and Valjeanne Jeffers at www.vjeffersandqveal.com

  ____

  For my sister, Sidonie Colette Jeffers, who dug my writing. Love you girl, always have, always will.

  _____

  Part I: The Raven

  Maji hayatokoti yakishushwa kwa moto.

  Water does not boil if taken away from fire.

  —Swahili Proverb

  Breath brings word

  Nappy Dusky Longing

  Song like my own

  —Maya’s Kwansaba

  _____

  Prologue

  A solitary cafe au lait-colored man with freckles, his thick hair tied back with cords, walked to the lot behind the Constabulary Station. Keeping his head down, Richard Starks moved silently through the rows of steam-autos parked there. He walked past them, looking carefully at the numbers painted on the auto doors. When he found the one he sought, he crouched on the other side of the steam-auto and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Minutes later, a burly white Constable exited the station and walked through the lot. He hunkered down before the auto and started turning the crank.

  Richard drew a dagger from the folds of his shirt. Moving swiftly, he crept from the side of the car. As the Constable rose from his haunches, the black man sprang— stabbing him over and over. The Constable fell to his knees and then toppled over, twitching and bleeding at Richard’s feet. Moments later, he was dead.

  Shaking and crying, Richard stood over him. At length, he calmed himself and slipped the dagger back inside his shirt. He wiped his face with his arm and stepped over the dead Constable to the side of the auto. He drew a symbol on the steam-auto door with his bloody fingers and spoke the mantra, “Kuja kwangu mpendwa wangu kwa maana ni kisasi mimi kutafuta ... Come to me my beloved, for it is vengeance I seek.”

  Diaphanous shades smudged into view. In the next instant three figures towered over him, their faces shifting in the darkness ... from black to red ... green to blue ... female to male ... It made him dizzy trying to hone in on their features. He realized that perhaps he w
as not meant to see their faces. Perhaps it would drive him insane. He fixed his vision on a point beyond their huge shoulders.

  The one on his left spoke, “You summoned us, little one?”

  “Yes,” Richard whispered.

  “You know what it is you seek?” the second one asked.

  “We cannot harm the innocent,” the third entity intoned.

  For the first time anger crept into the young man’s voice. “They ain’t innocent. They’re murderers.”

  The spirits spoke in one basso profundo voice, “So be it.”

  Rivulets of blood ran down the Constabulary building. The dead officer sat up. His wounds healed, and his eyes glazed over with a white film. Then they turned blue once more.

  The blood vanished. The Constable got to his knees, crouching before the auto, and finished turning the crank. The motor sputtered to life. He stood and walked to the driver’s side, got into the auto and drove from the lot.

  ——

  Constable Burt Phillips, a thick-set white officer, pulled his steam-auto up to the curb beside his flat. Burt put his auto in park, got out and turned the crank on his steam-auto, shutting the engine off. He was feeling good this evening—better than he’d felt in weeks. For awhile, he’d thought that Eddie Plumb, the unarmed black man he’d killed months ago, was haunting him.

  He’d been drinking the night he killed Plumb and in a foul mood. I just wanted respect. That darkie needed to be put in his place.

  Plumb had walked past Burt that night, his eyes insolent, his back straight and proud. Something had snapped inside Burt. He’d shouted at Plumb over and over to stop walking, but the young man ignored him. So Burt shot him in the back. When questioned by Internal Affairs, he’d told a different story: Eddie was a robbery suspect, who’d fled when he ordered him to stop.

  The DA cleared me. That’s that.

  The week of his death, Eddie Plumb had appeared in Burt’s steam-auto and, for weeks afterwards, he’d rode beside Burt—mocking him, insulting him, calling him a murderer. Then just as suddenly he was gone. Burt had dismissed Eddie as a hallucination brought on by the stress of the hearing.

  Certainly he bore no guilt over killing Plumb. Darkies getting out of control. In my daddy’s time they knew their place. That’s one that won’t make trouble no more.

  His daddy had been a hard man, and even harder to love. But love him Burt did, through all the beatings, through all the times he’d found his mother bloodied from his old man’s fists.

  His father’s most essential rule, THE RULE, was that he should hate anyone who wasn’t white. “Keep ‘em under your boot son,” this was said with the utmost emphasis during the few times he’d shown Burt affection. “For a white man, ain’t nothing more important.” His daddy had hated black and brown folks, and Burt loved his daddy. So, he hated them too.

  He opened the door to his flat and stepped inside.

  ——

  Richard sat in the darkness. The only illumination came from the moon and the streetlight outside his window. He shut his eyes.

  When he opened them, his room had been transformed.

  Thick grass grew under his feet. He stared into a gold, orange and blue sunset, a half-smile of wonderment on his face. To his right, the walls and door of his flat remained. Straight ahead, camel thorn trees spouted in the brush. In the distance, he could hear the steady rhythm of drums and a faint whisper. Richard cocked his head to the right. Listening.

  He nodded and shut his eyes once more. His spirit rose from the chair. He looked back at his body then walked out into the night. Those he passed on the street could not see him ... But they felt him as a breeze.

  ——

  Phillips was sitting in an armchair nursing a beer when Richard walked through his wall. Burt felt a presence, a shifting in the air, and looked about uneasily.

  Richard became solid.

  Burt jumped up. The glass of beer dropped from his hand to the floor, shattering “Who are you? How the hell did you get in here—?!”

  Richard raised his right hand and the stand holding four knives on Burt’s countertop rotated. The knives rose, hovered in midair, and flew toward the Constable. He fled and the knives followed him—impaling him in his chest and stomach. Burt stood for a moment, blood leaking from the corners of his lips, then collapsed in a boneless heap.

  Richard Starks became shadow once more. He turned and walked back through Burt’s wall, melting into the night.

  _____

  Chapter 1: The Door

  Councilman Henry Burr stood in the living room of his two-story mansion. He finished off his brandy and picked up a curved knife from his table. Burr was a tall man of forty years with a shock of wavy blond hair, full lips and gray-green eyes. When he smiled, it softened the hard angles of his face, his square jaw, and the cleft of his chin. Few women could resist his good looks, his soft Cajun accent, and his smile.

  He owned a carpentry factory in Monterrey City. DA Joe McIntyre, only two years older than Burr, had loaned Burr the coins to start his little business, and later handpicked Burr for the City Council. McIntyre had old coin, inherited from his great-great-grandfather, a slaveholder, and passed from one generation to the next. With McIntyre’s backing, Burr had scored a narrow victory to the Council.

  Joe McIntyre’s persona of a fearful, timid young man was all smoke and mirrors. DA Joe McIntyre was, in fact, one of the political behemoths behind White Men United.

  Burr thought back to the murder of Eddie Plumb. Everybody thought Mayor Franks had twisted McIntyre’s arm to clear Plumb’s killer when it was the DA’s idea all along to let Phillips walk.

  He sho’ fooled a whole of people. Dat he did. Dey don’ know he wants to turn back the Grand Experiment.

  In 1955, after a siege of bloody civil wars and the upsurge of the Red, Brown, and Black Power Movements, the United States separated into True America and North America. With sweeping radical legislation termed Restructuring, in what later became known as The Grand Experiment, North America outlawed all racial and gender discrimination.

  Conservative states, newly named True America, were allowed to secede from North America, keep their oppressive laws, and trouble the progressives no more. Segregation would go on in True America, with citizens working at jobs designated by their race and sex.

  At first, True America politicians were overjoyed. Then, to their horror, North America deployed soldiers to escort those wanting to migrate to NA across the new nation lines—scientists, laborers, teachers, and doctors of all races rushed to flee amid True American screams of “labor shortages.”

  After the Grand Experiment, crime leveled out in North America. It was hard to tell if the shift was because of restructuring or because of a newly forged economy where few went hungry. But racism hadn’t been wiped out. It had just gone underground, with pockets of folks still vehemently opposed to the change scattered across North America. And white supremacists were determined to turn back the clock, not understanding that it would mean fewer coins in their pocket.

  Burr fingered the blade. Dey would burn the world to a cinder, eh? If dey thought it would restore the white man to his former glory. What dey don’ understand, is dem rich folks don’ care about dem. Dey just using ‘em.

  He was sorry he’d gotten involved with McIntyre’s grasping schemes and realized now that he too was being used. He was the perfect face for White Men United. A poor boy who’d made good: Councilman Henry Burr, white business owner. Man of the people.

  But Burr didn’t believe people of color were inferior. And he didn’t hate them. The words of WMU were only that. Words. Pretty sentiments to seduce and control the gullible. A means to an end.

  No, not an end. A beginning. To be ruled, people must be controlled. Burr knew this, even if White Men United’s followers didn’t. But what would happen to him if he turned his back on DA McIntyre and lived as he pleased? What would happen to his business—his house? What would happen to him?Would he awake one n
ight engulfed in flames? These and other deadly scenarios played through his mind.