by Yasmin Angoe
It is in the driver’s seat of his car that I nearly break down, the events of the night rushing at me like poltergeists. I am bone tired but cannot believe I am alive and Monsieur is not. I cannot believe I have escaped. I cannot comprehend that I am alone for the first time since this horrible nightmare began. There are no guards. No weeping girls or screaming ones. No murderous psychopathic killer making me his pet dog. There is just me.
However, now is not the time to loiter, because I cannot tempt fate and allow one of his neighbors to see me. I will not be recaptured, and I must leave from this place. Monsieur’s car is a manual shift, and while I do not know much about driving, Uncle Daniel taught me the basics in one. So I manage as best I can and flee in Monsieur’s car.
I drive until the car runs out of gas, managing to follow the signs heading toward the city. The car makes it nearly to Paris before it rolls to a stop. I leave it stranded by the side of the road and walk the rest of the way. There is a coat of Monsieur’s in the car, more money in the pockets, and in his glove box a hunting knife. I rifle through his wallet for anything I can use. Credit cards are out. They will only bring questions I cannot answer. There are bills stuffed in the wallet, thankfully. Not much, but enough.
I take it all, even the coat, which I abhor wearing, but I am no idiot. It is freezing out there. The walk in this cold, strange land lasts forever before I finally see city lights. Every time cars pass, I run from the road, hoping no one sees me. What if Monsieur’s people have found him and are looking for me? What if the authorities? Or Paul? Those questions drive me into the shadows to hide.
In Paris, I spend several nights in the streets, sleeping in alleys cloaked in darkness. I shy away from populated areas. No one sees the dirty, crazy-looking girl roaming the streets. She is but a ghost with her hunting knife at the ready, the scissors too. They are my trophies.
Newspaper tell me I have spent six months with Robach. The time with him and at the Compound has conditioned me for these cold, often wet nights wrapped in whatever I can find next to steam vents to keep warm. I do not go hungry, knowing about the currency from my studies with Papa.
I live off hot black coffee and sandwiches with delicious meats piled high in them. Soon, my money will run out, and I will need to figure out how to get more. But that is a thought for another day. Because while life on these unfamiliar streets is hard, it is infinitely better than where I have been.
37
AFTER
“Nena!” Elin was breathless.
Before she greeted her sister, Nena double-checked that the attendant hired for Elin’s evening dinner closed and locked the door behind her. Even here Nena stayed on high alert, always making sure the security measures remained in place.
“Finally! You’re here. I thought I’d have to deal with Mum and Dad all by myself.” Elin twisted her perfectly done top bun, patted down her elegant wrap dress as if it were disheveled, which it wasn’t.
“I said I was five minutes out.”
“Mum’s in rare form tonight. She’s on Oliver like he cuffed the queen’s jewels.”
Nena’s lips quirked. “Maybe he did,” she answered, following Elin into the living room, where her parents stood with a tall man wearing a finely tailored suit. They turned when Nena entered.
She approached the trio. Oliver had an immaculate low haircut that twinkled in the room’s light. He was pleasant looking, and Nena could appreciate why Elin had taken to him. Intelligence wafted from him like pheromones. When he saw her, he broke out into a wide smile. Nena inclined her head in response, trying to appear equally pleasant.
“Hello, Mum, Dad.” She allowed her mother to pull her into a quick embrace and her father to dot her cheek with a light kiss. They knew she couldn’t tolerate extended displays of affection.
“All is well?” Dad asked.
“It is,” she replied, stepping closer to the man of the hour. Elin took her spot next to him, wrapping her hand around his bicep.
“Nena, this is Oliver. Oliver, my sister, Nena.”
Oliver’s grin widened, yet he seemed not at ease with his environment. Perhaps he was nervous about meeting their parents. His father didn’t seem to be there yet.
“Good to finally meet you, Nena,” Oliver said, his voice a deep baritone that held a hint of an accent. She didn’t know why she’d assumed he was born in England like Elin, who was the only natural-born Brit in their family. Nena and their parents still held traces of their homelands’ original accents fused within their British one.
“Hi,” Nena said, assessing Oliver.
He said, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Almost feel as if I know you.”
Nena’s eyes slid to Elin, accusatory. Sometimes Elin talked too much.
“Really?” she asked, unamused. Oliver returned her assessment with a cool, curious look, as if he were mining for something hidden deep within her. His scrutiny was annoying, but she shook it off, thinking he was just trying to get in good with her.
Whether his mysteriousness was good or bad, the jury was still out, although Oliver Douglas didn’t register as a foe. He had a nerdy quality to him that Nena was surprised Elin liked.
Elin cleared her throat, trying to mask her guilt as she announced, “Dinner’s ready. Shall we proceed to the dining room? The chef made beef Wellington.” Under her breath, Nena heard her mutter, “The sooner we start, the sooner this blasted shit can be over.”
It was a thought on which they both agreed.
Elin grabbed Nena’s wrist, slowing the two of them as the rest of the group headed toward the dining room. “Don’t even think about shagging off and leaving me by myself either,” she said, properly reading the sister she knew all too well.
Nena offered a slight shrug, twisting from Elin’s grasp to join the rest of the family. She supposed she could wait a little longer to see what fate had in store for her.
“Is your father typically averse to being on time?” Delphine Knight asked, disdain permeating her tone and the air around the dinner table. She couldn’t stand when people were late and said it showed their disregard for others’ time. Thus, the reason they started dinner without Lucien Douglas.
Noble cleared his throat as a gentle warning. Not in front of the guest. Nena ate a forkful of perfectly cooked beef Wellington while Elin shot a hostile look at their mother.
Oliver remained occupied with his dinner, reluctantly pulling his eyes up to meet the hard gaze of Mrs. Knight. “Yes, ma’am, he sends his apologies and is on his way as we speak. He promises the business that held him will please you and the Council.”
“Understandable,” Noble said, sipping his drink. “That is our kind of business, right, dear?” He sent a pointed look at his wife.
“Hmm,” Delphine answered through tightly closed lips, spearing a sautéed green bean.
The doorbell rang, followed by security chimes, indicating one of the servers had answered it.
Nena, who’d said very little until now, added, “It’s a nice idea to come bearing good news when you’ve kept everyone waiting.” She rather liked when Delphine’s ire was directed at high-level members.
Elin glared, her fork clattering onto her plate. “Oh, now you speak.”
“When there is something worth saying.”
Before Elin could retort, one of the attendants entered, followed by their newest guest.
“Ah, there he is,” Oliver announced, pushing his chair back to greet his father.
Noble got out of his seat, as did Elin. Delphine plastered on a frosty smile, as frosty as the white-chocolate-and-raspberry-truffle ice cream that would be their dessert.
Nena took her eyes off the son and landed them on Lucien Douglas as he shook Noble’s hand warmly, clapped her father’s back, then ended their handshake greeting with a loud snap of their intertwined fingers. The greeting of the Tribe.
Her vision tunneled. Background noises and sights fell away. The blood rushing in her eardrums was deafening as the room suddenly b
ecame unbearably small. Lucien’s eyes connected with hers before his gaze left her, moving on to her mother.
At least the blade was sharp, eh? Clean right through, Attah. Well done.
Paul. Lucien Douglas was Paul?
The sight of him made her gut constrict with a fear she hadn’t known for years. Her stomach roiled, and her mouth slickened, her body rejecting the food she had consumed. She stood up too quickly, causing the tableware to clatter, startling the others. She murmured apologies as she rushed from the room, the back of her hand to her mouth to keep from becoming sick.
She barely made it to the restroom, where she vomited into the toilet in violent heaves. Her body was burning and freezing simultaneously until there was nothing left at all. Her head pounded. The tortured screams of her people, mixed with his men’s laughter at her, visions of Paul poking and prodding at her father’s decapitated head, all a cacophony of hell. All brought on by Paul, who had made her into nothing.
And what was worse was that he hadn’t recognized her. That was clear enough by the way his eyes had moved past her. He hadn’t remembered who she was. After all he’d taken from her, the least he could do was to know her when he fucking saw her!
Her hand moved to her push daggers, their sheaths hidden as part of the design of her belt. She itched to use them on his throat. She thought about the Glock she had stashed in the kitchen that Elin didn’t know she kept for “just in case.”
Kill him now, her mind shrieked. Sweat dotted her brow in the increasingly hot room. She wobbled to her feet, feeling weak. She grasped the sides of the sink, waving a hand under the faucet to activate the sensor’s release of water.
End him, the voice continued to command. Now, while he’s here. And she would. She turned to go, then stopped, the rational side of her pushing past. A summit of intergalactic proportions raged in her mind, her fists clenching and unclenching.
I can’t kill him.
Why not? He won’t see it coming, like we didn’t back then.
He is a Council member. He’s untouchable. I cannot kill him now.
All these years, and he lives and thrives. He is supposed to be dead.
I cannot kill him with his son watching.
Had he the same consideration when he forced Papa to watch his sons murdered or you raped? Had he any concern for you when he commanded that your father lose his head?
Fine. Then I cannot kill him with my family here.
The voice pushing her to kill Paul stopped. Because her rational side was right. She couldn’t kill Paul with her family there. She would not put them in harm’s way, executing a Council member as he dined at the home of the High Council’s daughter. That Elin and Oliver were seeing each other inextricably linked Paul to Noble, and if she killed him now, everyone would think Noble had decreed it as a power grab for Gabon and whatever other power Paul had.
She was no monster, unlike him. She wouldn’t kill him in front of his child as he had slaughtered her father before her eyes, leaving her with a lifetime of memories and nightmares.
She wouldn’t do any of that. At least, not here.
38
BEFORE
The screams in my dreams drive me awake with visions of Monsieur’s bloody body coming for me. The night is wet, with thick drops of water that douse you all the way through. Earlier, I made a nest for myself, burrowed within shrubs at the base of a tree in a small park. Sleeping among the trees reminds me of the openness of home, where we did not have all these tall buildings to blot out the sun.
There is a street near the park, and across from it is an upscale hotel called Le Monantique Hotel. It is busy at all hours of the day and night. The people who bustle in and out look wealthy, hopping into cars that look more like small spaceships.
Based on my calculations, I have been on my own for a week and am growing used to the city’s smells, sounds, and people—both good and bad. No one sees me, which I like. I can walk among people without them giving me a second glance. This makes me witness to many things—both good and bad.
At the corner across from the hotel is a small all-night store. They have good hot chocolate, and tonight, I convince myself to get warm and buy a cup. Besides, I notice two men hanging around. I have not seen them around before, and they shift their gazes everywhere, as if they’re nervous about something. They huddle together, casting furtive glances toward the hotel’s rich patrons. I cannot place the warning emanating from them, but I do not like their look. They could be here for me; who knows? They could be police, which puts me on high alert. But a burst of frigid wind distracts me, and my thoughts switch back to the store’s heater and hot chocolate to warm me.
The bell tinkles when I enter the store. I shake the water off, surveying the room. The overhead light gives off a bluish-white hue, and the store is practically empty, save the clerk behind the counter. He doesn’t care much for me.
He barely looks up from his tabloid, saying in clipped French, “Make it quick.”
I walk the aisles. My stomach growls, reminding me I have not eaten in hours, wanting the rows of tightly wrapped food. But money is low. Papa said stealing was dishonorable, but I have done many dishonorable things in the name of survival. I think he would understand.
Up and down the rows, I walk, passing a woman dressed in fur and heels. My fingers graze all the incredible merchandise. I slow in the health-and-beauty aisle when a familiar bottle on the shelf catches my eye—Olay written in black script.
I know it immediately. I grab the bottle labeled Tester and open the cap, bringing the bottle to my nose. I inhale deeply, suddenly transported to a time when I knew nothing but happiness.
Memories flood me with my mother’s scent, filling me with the sensation Mama is around the corner, sautéing chili spices and onions in grease for the shito pepper sauce she cooks to accompany the kenkey. The generous portions of fresh fish are dusted with flour and salt, ready to be fried. My tears are so thick they blur my vision.
I must have it. It is Mama.
I cap the bottle and slip it into my rucksack. There is not enough money for it, but I do not care.
An idea dawns. If I found Mama’s scent, then perhaps this store has Papa’s too. Seconds later, I am staring at it in the fragrances section. I grab the heavy glass bottle, spray it into the air, and step beneath the mist. Tiny droplets shower my skin as if enveloping me in Papa’s deep embrace. He is all around me. Overcome, I let out a small cry, then clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
It has been so long since I was near him, since I felt his warmth. His smell made me feel protected. Mama’s scent made me feel loved, the feeling you get when all is right. I put Hugo in my sack too.
“He’s seen you, darling,” a melodious voice says from behind. I turn, facing the fur-clad woman from earlier. I must look like a caged animal. Still in my bag, my fingers release the cologne and reach for the scissors. I will kill again before giving up these items.
She points to the ceiling. I follow her gloved hand, noticing the sizable cylindrical mirror in the corner. In it, I see the clerk, rigid as a board, glaring at me from behind the counter. I weigh my options. I doubt this woman can take me, and if I am fast enough, I can run past him and never be seen again.
That is, unless he locked the door.
“It’s locked.”
I draw back. How could she possibly know my thoughts?
We are at what my brother Josiah would have called a stalemate. The woman is regal like an African queen. She smiles, seeming kind enough; however, I will not be fooled.
“Where are your parents, child?”
I look between the mirror and her.
“Okay,” she says, also checking for the clerk, who has now moved from the counter. “Ces articles, la lotion et l’eau de Cologne. Tu en as besoin? Ils signifient quelque chose de spécial pour toi, non?”
Yes, I need them, the lotion and cologne. They are very special to me. They are my mother and my father. I need them more than I ne
ed to breathe. But I refuse to say any of it aloud.
Her French is like musical bells. Mine sounds more like garbled marbles.
“I’m calling the police for this vagrant.” The clerk slows to a stop beside the woman. “I’ve seen her before coming in and out of my store, always scheming things to steal!”
They face me. Two sentinels against one. My hand remains on my scissors. I do not want any trouble. I wish to harm no one. But I am leaving with these items in my rucksack, and no one will stop me. My understanding of the stalemate is clear. Only one of us will be victorious, and I mean that one to be me.
39
AFTER
Elin’s flat was two thousand plus square feet, but for Nena, it felt no bigger than the Hot Box. By sheer will, she kept herself from leaping over the dinner table to attack Lucien Douglas with the salad fork. She focused on pushing her food from one end of the plate to the other, unable to tolerate the act of chewing and swallowing. All his presence did was make her want to vomit.
Finally, she was able to get some space, venturing out onto the spacious balcony. They were in there laughing, talking, him most of all. Her father thoughtfully answered Paul’s incessant questions and batted away his multitude of platitudes. He’s so slick, she seethed. Playing it up for Dad so he can be a big man, the Council. Her back against the railing, she scowled at him through the sliding glass doors. He had them all fooled. Had them all believing he was a friend when he was really the epitome of a foe.
The salty, warm Miami air did nothing to quell her urge to kill him. Her body shook from her fight to control herself. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to hold off much longer. Thoughts of what Paul had done to her, to her family, fed her rage. She tried to clear her head, remain present and focused.
How had he survived all these years? How had he made it into the folds of the Tribe? She squeezed herself against the corner of the glass railing. So deep was she in her murderous machinations that she nearly missed him standing from the group, pulling a cigar case from his blazer pocket, and approaching the balcony.