Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(29)

“Fuck you, bitch,” Elin answered merrily as she took the first drag. Her eyes closed in pleasure before she called out, “Oh, and I’m planning a dinner so you, Dad, and Mum can officially meet him. I’ll let you know soon as they tell us when they’re coming to town.”

“Okay,” Nena answered, relieved to have Elin’s benefit of the doubt. She needed her sister by her side. If Elin doubted her . . . Nena couldn’t think about any of that.

The next time she’d play it safe. The next time she wouldn’t run off half-cocked and be so reactionary, without a plan. She’d ask for Witt’s help, too, if he’d give it—he wouldn’t refuse her, would he? And she’d just make doubly sure there were no more ghosts left to haunt her.





22


BEFORE


Mixed in with the guard quarters are the Hot Boxes, tiny metal boxes conducting heat that reach nearly oven-high temperatures. They are specially reserved for the greatest offenders, those of us who dare fight or flee. As far as I know, no girl who spends time in the Hot Box ever goes back. She either learns her lesson or succumbs to the sweltering temperatures before the men have a chance to get her out.

I am not sure how long I have been at the Compound. I have lost track. Weeks must have passed, because until the guard took me for his, my wounds had begun healing. The pain inside and out had lessened to a throb. And my body, which no longer felt like it belonged to me, moved robotically, doing what it needed to survive—eat, drink, wash, defecate, rinse, repeat, all without my mind willing any of it, at least not that I knew of.

But when the guard ridiculed Papa’s death, I was reanimated. I was Frankenstein’s monster sparked by his insolence. A spark propelling me to act, to lash out, to rip his dirty, stubble-filled face off with my bare hands.

The action brought me here, to the Hot Box, where I have been for God knows how long, because in here, time stands still. And in here is where I am in the process of dying.

I am nearly there, I think, when ironically enough, Paul saves me. He flings open the door, bathing me in blinding light. My arm rises to shield my eyes, but I relish the wisps of cooler, dry air that flood in and drive the blanket of heat out.

“I told you not to fuck with this one,” Paul growls. “I leave for two days, and this is what you do?”

Only two? No, it has been two hundred years.

He continues, “Fuck his ear. Kill the bastard for disobeying my orders.”

An unrecognizable voice asks, “What should we do with her?”

“What do you think? Get her to medical and have her looked at! I told you imbeciles to leave the girls alone. We have a big sale next week. You need to fuck around, then do it with the whores in town. These here are merchandise. You understand? And no one wants to buy fucked-up merchandise.”

If my mind had not turned to jelly and my limbs hadn’t become petrified wood, I might react properly to being called merchandise and the knowledge I am to be sold the following week. But all I can think of is water. And sleep. And maybe death, because the thought of it seems sweetest of all.

Two of his men lift my body, frozen into a question mark from the cramped box. The pain drives my screams into the air. They drop me back on the floor.

Paul is livid. “You see? She’s all fucked up. If I can’t sell her to the Frenchman, you take on the debt.”

My eyes crack open, blinking rapidly, trying to adjust and focus on his face. He grimaces at mine, undoubtedly bruised and swollen. His nose wrinkles at the smell of my blood, excrement, and vomit. I hope he gets a good whiff. I hope the Frenchman tells him to go to hell and refuses my used merchandise. And then I hope he kills me.

My thoughts become nonsensical because when the men lift me again despite my howls, white-hot currents rip through my body, and I fall into darkness.

I awaken on a cot with a rough spun blanket covering me. Cold compresses battle the swell of my face. The pain has now receded to a dull ache, and I am surprisingly hungry. Gingerly, I sit up on my elbows, surveying the room. The other cots are empty, but I am not alone. There is a young woman, maybe eighteen, watching me. She has a healthy glow about her, is without the vacant, catatonic look most of the girls walk around the Compound with.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” she says through a wry smile. Her eyes are the color of chestnuts. A simple patterned duku is wrapped around her hair. She is tall, pleasant looking, her husky voice reminding me of a warm desert breeze.

She brings me a bowl of light soup, urging me to eat. “The spice will revitalize you.”

It is the hottest meal I have had in—again, I try to recall how long we have been here. I yearn to ask, but I refuse to speak just yet. If she is here tending to me so freely and without guards, then she must work for Paul. She looks too well to be one of us—the captives. My first instinct is to trust those kind eyes because to trust is all I ever learned before the attack, but I am learning hard lessons about trust and good and evil. The only girls who flourish here are the ones who have become amenable to the guards’ wiles, thinking it will keep them alive and off the sales rack.

“You’ve been here for two days.”

Abayis?m. Witchcraft. She must be using her juju powers to read my thoughts.

I do the calculations in my mind. Two days here, plus two in the box. Before that, how long in this wretched place? A fortnight? Three weeks? A month? Eternity? There is no sense of time in this place, and it destabilizes me. The soup slides down my throat. I relish the burn all the way to the bottom of my stomach and immediately feel better. An angry rumble erupts in protest. My hand flies to my belly. I hope I do not get sick.