The Ninja Daughter

by Tori Eldridge

  “What do you mean? Did someone take her?” I pictured a gang of Ukrainians dragging Kateryna and Ilya out the door. Then something worse occurred to me. “What about the other women?” I pushed Aleisha away so I could examine her for injury. “Are you okay?”

  Aleisha rubbed my arms as if she was calming a new arrival. “Hush. I’m okay. The women are okay. Everybody is just fine.” The low hum of her voice and the soft stroke of her hands took the edge off my anxiety, but I still needed answers.

  Aleisha shrugged. “She just took the boy and left.”

  I couldn’t believe it. It had taken me three weeks to convince Kateryna to leave her husband and another week to help her gather the necessary documents, keys, addresses, and cash so she could stay hidden and start a new life. We had made arrangements with her cousin in Argentina. All Kateryna had to do was stay with Aleisha until we got her and Ilya on the plane.

  “She went back?”

  “Uh-huh. To Hancock Pack and that husband of hers.”

  I slid down the doorframe and sat, bare legs on cool tile, as the last of my energy rushed out of me like the air from an unknotted balloon.

  Kateryna’s dirt-bag lawyer husband worked for the Ukrainian mob.

  I worked for Aleisha’s Refuge, kept on retainer to rescue and protect. I didn’t charge much, but what I earned kept my tech and weapons up to date.

  Aleisha had assigned me to Kateryna’s case because of the danger and complexity of the situation. Normally, I got the job done neatly and discreetly, using my kunoichi skills to investigate, rescue, and extract. Sometimes things got violent. More often, stealth, coercion, and misdirection sufficed. But this time? I left the question unanswered as Aleisha’s husband hurried to the door.

  “Is that Lily?” Stan’s New York accent sounded more pronounced from alarm.

  Tears welled in my eyes. Stan had that effect on me. He was shaped like a giant pear, topped with a freckled bald head. He had white fuzzy whiskers and soft shoulders that sloped to a squishy belly and a comfortable lap that was always ready for a sleepy child.

  “Why is she on the floor?”

  Aleisha must have given him a look because he didn’t ask another question. He simply scooped me up and carried me to the couch. Once I was safely planted, he rustled through a cabinet for a first-aid kit and began tending my wounds. Aleisha went to get food. She must have known I wouldn’t be staying long because she brought me a tamale, still partially wrapped.

  I held the corn husk and smelled the steaming cake. “Asadero cheese, fresh roasted corn, and…barbecue ribs?” I took a bite of the heavenly cornmeal and groaned in ecstasy. “And you could open your own restaurant.” Everything Aleisha cooked had a dash of soul and pounds of love.

  She rolled her big brown eyes and patted her hairline, where cornrows pulled back into a tight bun. “I have enough people to cook for as it is. What would I want with a restaurant?”

  I could have given her several reasons if I hadn’t had my mouth full of sweet savory goodness.

  She patted my knee. “You drink that water, and I’ll get you a bottle of tea to go.” By the time Stan had finished speckling me with bandages, Aleisha had returned with the tea and some folded clothes. “I thought you might like something else to wear.” That something turned out to be a pair of dark gray sweatpants, cuffed tight at the ankle, and a matching hoodie. Both were several sizes too big but a welcome improvement from the Ukrainian’s slinky shirt, which I tossed in the trash as soon as I got to the bathroom. Once I had washed the grime from my face, I looked and felt almost normal.

  I slipped back into my shoes and braided my hair into a long rope. It hung nearly to my waist, so I wound it into a bun and knotted the end. Then I pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt. I could have been anyone.

  Unless someone got close, they wouldn’t notice the high cheekbones I had inherited from my Hong Kong mother or the strong nose of my North Dakota father, or the haphazard way the rest of their genes had muddled together to give me such an identifiable face. I don’t know how it had happened, but Baba’s Norwegian genes had made my Chinese features uncomfortably excessive. My brows arched too high, my nostrils flared too wide, and my lips were pouty and fuller than they needed to be. Even my eyes looked less like Ma’s classic almonds and more like a startled cat.

  No one would notice any of that in the dark with the hood of Aleisha’s sweatshirt around my face. They’d see a short person in baggy clothes somewhere between ninety to one-hundred thirty pounds of unknown gender, age, and race. With a description like that, I could walk up to a witness and flick their nose, and they’d never realize I was the person they had seen.

  Feeling better than I had all day, I went to say goodbye. Stan wrapped me in his arms and squeezed the air out of me. “You be careful. It won’t take much to open that wound.” He was referring to the gash above my left cheek he had anchored together with a butterfly bandage. “And find yourself a good doctor. You may need stitches.”

  His hug crushed me, but I didn’t want it to stop. “I’ll be fine, Stan. I promise.”

  Mollified, he stepped back to Aleisha. They made an odd couple, a sturdy black Baptist from Compton and a soft, pear-shaped Jew from New York. But they also made the perfect pair. They devoted their lives to helping others, had cheerful natures, and loved to eat. No wonder we all got along.

  “You want a sandwich to go?”

  I laughed. Typical Aleisha. “I’ll be fine. With any luck, I’ll be back later tonight with Kateryna and Ilya.”

  “You sure you don’t want Stan to drive you?”

  “Nope. Taxi will do. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

  I never charged for transportation. I didn’t see the point. I lived cheap and traveled on my feet, bike, or mass transit. If I needed something fast and private, I borrowed our restaurant delivery car or ordered a ride. Of course, that required an app. Which I no longer had because the Ukrainian had crushed my phone with the heel of his boot. Had—as in past tense. The Ukrainian was dead.

  I didn’t want to think about what I had done. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Stan tapped my forehead. “You don’t worry about that.”

  He was referring to the money, not the Ukrainian, but the command still helped. I’d have ample time to mull over the ramifications of my actions, to replay the scene a hundred times until I was certain that what I had done was, in fact, inevitable and just.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  Stan placed his hands on my shoulders and hunched so he could peer into my eyes. “You did what needed to be done. Now you need to let it go.”

  I squeezed back the tears. Like before, he didn’t know, but again his words were a comfort to me. I just hoped I deserved them. It hurt my soul to end a life, no matter how justified. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe my tortured conscience would keep me human.

  “I’m going to pay you back.”

  He nodded. “Of course you are.”

  Stan and I had traveled down this road before. He would pamper me with the taxi tonight, and I would deposit money into his account in the morning. He got to be fatherly and I got to exert my independence. Compromise and balance.

  Maybe one day I’d also learn to bury my pride.

  Chapter Four

  Dmitry Romanko lit his family room like a stadium and kept his backyard dark, which made it easy for me to spy on him as he lounged on his couch watching television. I could hear the soccer match and commentary through the screen door. And I could see little Ilya kneeling on the carpet.

  If I hadn’t already known this family’s dynamic, I might have thought I was witnessing a Hallmark moment: Dad sitting on the couch watching the game while his five-year-old son colored in a book on the coffee table. I might have felt envious of the peacefulness of their lives. I might have respected the way father and son could be themselves in each other’s presence. But I did know, so I didn’t believe.

  Dmitry Romanko h
ad a brutish demeanor he attempted to elevate with metrosexual fashion. He favored tight V-neck tees to show off his pecs, squeezed his muscular thighs into pencil-thin pants, and wore his designer loafers sans socks. He flaunted a heavy gold bracelet and an even heavier gold watch. I had seen the marks of that watch left on Kateryna’s bruised face. But no amount of styling gel, jewelry, or designer clothes could hide his working-class roots.

  Ilya, on the other hand, reminded me of a bunny—soft, gentle, and alert.

  Romanko slammed his hand on the table. “Pass, you idiot. Did you see that? Shevchenko was wide open. These stupid kids don’t know what they’re doing.”

  Ilya held still, ready to bolt.

  “Pass, you motherless—” Romanko grabbed an accent pillow from the couch and hurled it at the television. Ilya ducked. Romanko didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. He jumped to his feet and unloaded an angry stream of Ukrainian, like a coach chewing out one of his players for making a boneheaded pass. Except he wasn’t on a field. He was in his home, watching television. Scaring his boy.

  As Romanko reached across the table to grab a handful of candy from a crystal bowl, Ilya cowered. Did he expect his father to throw it at the screen or at him? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The fact that Ilya expected something bad to happen was a clear sign of domestic abuse. All of this was lost on Romanko as he leaned back on the couch and tossed the candy, piece by piece, into his mouth.

  If he had done nothing other than this, I would have hated him. But when I saw little Ilya’s eyes soften back to their sad half-moon shapes, I wanted to cry. He loved his father. I could see it in his expression and the slight protrusion of his chin, as though he wished his dad would cradle it with his fingers and plant a loving kiss on his nose. My heart broke.

  I backed away from the sycamore tree. Time to find Kateryna.

  A narrow strip of lawn ran along the side of the Tudor Revival house, bordered by a row of cypress trees and a wooden fence. All of the balconies and dormer windows faced the courtyard or one of the two corner streets. This side of the house was stark, with rough-hewn brick and only a sliver of a bathroom window.

  Great for privacy. Lousy for climbing.

  It would have been easier to leap and swing my way up to the roof, but the yard was too narrow for generating momentum and the cypresses too flimsy for rebounding. So I dug my fingers between the bricks, wedged a foot onto the corner stone, and began my grueling ascent. Finger climbing required considerable strength. I could do it, but not for long. Using the protrusions of corner stones and gripping the side of the wall helped. Even so, I was trembling something fierce by the time I hooked my heel over the storm drain and pulled myself onto the slate tiles.

  Once I recovered, I scampered across the steep grade, past one of the stone chimneys and three of the dormer windows, built into the peaks like tiny houses on cliffs. When I got to the fourth dormer, I slid down its short roof and crawled to the front. As was her custom, Kateryna had left the double windows cracked for ventilation. I reached in and cranked them open. I dropped onto her Persian rug and crossed to the king-sized bed, covered in a plush merlot quilt and dollops of whipped cream pillows. Stylish and comfy.

  Sounds from the soccer match floated up from the family room below. Hopefully, Dmitry Romanko would stay put long enough for me to talk some sense into his wife.

  I pulled back the hood of my sweatshirt and sat on bench at the foot of the bed, trying to look harmless as I waited for her to come out of the bathroom. Women my size didn’t usually inspire fear. However, Kateryna had become as skittish as her son.

  “Lily,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  She had the decency to look abashed, but after the ordeal I had suffered, I wanted a tearful apology. “Why’d you leave?”

  She checked the hall then closed the door. “You can’t be here.”

  “And yet, here I am.”

  “No. You have to go. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want your help.”

  Kateryna was a lovely woman with a long, slender neck and delicate bones. She stood taller and weighed less than I did, but still managed to have more curves, as evidenced by the slinky nightie she was wearing. She had what I called a zipper figure: one you could see from the front and back but so thin it seemed to vanish when viewed from the side.

  Next to her, I was a crayon.

  My waist did not disappear from the side, nor did my thighs. And while her weight went to full breasts and a wide-hipped bottom, mine went to muscle. I had inherited broad Norwegian shoulders, narrow hips, and the limb proportion of my Asian mother. I would never grace the pages of a fashion magazine. Then again, Kateryna would never be able to scale a building.

  Her golden ringlets bounced around her face as she tugged me off the bench. “You have to leave.” Plucked and penciled brows raised in high arches. Her lips—lined, painted, and glossed—pursed with tension. Kateryna had other plans for her bed tonight than sleep.

  I thought of Ilya in the family room, flinching at every move his father made, and wanted to slap some sense into her. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she care? I glanced down at her lacy nightgown. “What’s going on, Kateryna? You and Dmitry making up?”

  She flicked her hand in the dismissive way I had seen her husband do many times, then busied herself picking up his things around the room. “Thank you for your help. But I don’t need it anymore.” She folded his newspaper and set it neatly on the table near the open window.

  I wanted to rip it to bits. “Maybe you don’t, but Ilya does.”

  That stopped her. “Dmitry would never hurt Ilya.”

  “You sure about that? Because in my experience, a man who beats his wife today, beats his kid tomorrow.”

  She dropped the act, and for a moment, I thought she might change her mind. Then she shook her head and sent her hair into a bouncing golden frenzy. “You don’t understand. He will find us wherever we go.”

  “He didn’t find you at Aleisha’s.”

  “He would have.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  She clicked the tips of her acrylic fingernails. A nervous habit.

  “Why did you leave, Kateryna?”

  The clicking stopped, and the tears began. “You said you would only be gone an hour, just long enough to get our passports.”

  I couldn’t believe she was blaming this on me. “I gave you a list of important documents to put in your escape pack.”

  “I was scared.”

  I sighed. It had been a long day and was proving to be a frustrating night. I needed to calm my own emotions before I could hope to calm hers.

  “Of course you were. You were scared—for Ilya,” I added, wanting to spark her maternal courage. “But that doesn’t explain why you left.”

  She wiped her tears and sniffed. “You didn’t come back.”

  I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake those golden ringlets right off her head. Instead, I took a breath, reined in my anger, and tried my best to sound reasonable. “I ran into traffic.” It was a plausible lie. I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I? That her husband’s thug had caught me trying to break into her house and knocked me upside the head? No, I wouldn’t be telling that story to anyone. I felt embarrassed enough just knowing I had let it happen. In fact, I planned to lock the whole shameful incident in the vault with the rest of my unpleasant memories.

  “I called him,” she said.

  “Wait. What?”

  “Dmitry worries. So I called him. I told him I was leaving and taking Ilya with me.”

  My gut clenched. “Please tell me you didn’t use Aleisha’s phone.”

  “I called from my cell.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “Why?”

  “Aleisha’s home is a refuge. Strictly word of mouth. You can’t tell anyone about it. Ever.”

  I saw the familiar bland veil of disinterest descend over her face and grabbed her arms. “
I’m serious, Kateryna. You can’t ever tell Dmitry where you were. You’d be putting other lives at risk. Tell me you understand.”

  She pulled out of my grip. “I understand.” She rubbed her arms, inadvertently wiping away a bit of body makeup. A purple spot the size of a man’s finger tainted her creamy skin. I imagined three more next to it and a thumb-size spot on the other side—all hidden by a foundation with some romantic name like Alabaster Ivory or Porcelain Nude.

  What was I doing? I was supposed to protect women, not bully them.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” When she nodded, I continued in a gentler tone. “When you called…what did he say?”

  “That if I did not bring Ilya back, he would find us and send him to Ukraine without me.”

  “To his family?”

  She nodded. “I would never see him again.” The tears flowed. She blotted them with the back of her delicate hand. “I am not even Ukrainian citizen anymore. Dmitry said I could not be both. But he is.” She sniffed her runny nose and dabbed under her eyes.

  It annoyed me that she still cared about her makeup until I noticed the bruises appearing under her thinning foundation. They were fresh. Dmitry had done this to her today.

  I stepped back and sat on the bed. I didn’t know what to do. I had worked for Aleisha long enough to know that decisions about when to leave an abusive partner had to be made from the inside. Well-meaning people, like me, could exacerbate a situation and endanger the lives of those they were trying to protect simply by forcing an action at the wrong time.

  Was this the wrong time? Kateryna seemed to believe it was. Who was I to say otherwise?

  As I struggled with my dilemma, Dmitry bellowed for Kateryna.

  She startled like a deer, eyes wide, body tensed for danger. Then she grabbed a silk robe from her vanity chair. “I have to go.” She covered her negligee and tied the sash around her tiny waist. “Please leave the way you came in.”

  I lingered at the window and listened to the soccer commentary that carried up from the family room. Ilya would still be coloring when Kateryna answered the call of her wife-beating husband. The situation sucked, and there was nothing I could do about it.