Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(49)

Before Monsieur has a chance to recover, before he becomes the predator and I the prey again, I pounce on him. I am a primal, animalistic creature grabbing one of the knives from the bloody plastic sheet. I stab him, pushing the blade to its hilt. He reels, lashing out at me, catching me on the cheek with the back of his hand. It destabilizes me, but only slightly. I am back on him quicker than he can recover.

He rolls, bellowing and knocking the knife from where I impaled him. I leap on his back, wrapping my arm around his neck, trying to choke the life out of him. I cannot. He is too broad, his throat too thick, for my malnourished body. But the rage his laughter incited breathed new life into me. I do not release him.

The knife is on the floor, unreachable. He grunts, whirling in dizzying attempts to get me off. I cling to him, safer on his back than at his front. I claw at his face, my grunts matching his. We crash backward into his worktable.

I ignore the pain, daring to let one hand scoop up the closest instrument within my reach. I plunge scissors—long, shiny, silvery, extremely pointy ones—into his exposed pink neck, into the artery pulsating against his skin.

I pull the scissors out. And drive them back in.

Again.

Again.

I do not stop. I jab their sharp edge into every soft part of him. I force myself to continue even while my strength is draining. It is not easy, killing a person. It is exhausting work. But I must finish him because to let him live is not an option.

He staggers, dropping heavily to his knees, pitching me forward. His blood spews and drips all over us. He topples forward, clutching himself, writhing, grunting curses.

I scamper on all fours toward him, climb onto him, and straddle his upper chest, slicing, stabbing. His curses turn to groans for mercy. How dare he ask me—Souris—for mercy, after what he has done to me. After what he did to the woman. After what he made me do to her.

I carve deep trenches into his skin. He grapples for purchase, but his strength is nearly depleted, and his fight against me is feeble. We are bathing in his blood. There is so much of it. I do not stop until his arms fall to his sides with a wet splat. I lean forward to watch his eyes darken as the last vestiges of his evil soul leave his body.

Blood bubbles up as his lips try to form words.

“Souris?” he asks, eyes filled with wonder.

“Aninyeh,” I correct, so close our noses nearly touch.

I have seen plenty of horror movies where the villain leaps up at the last moment. I wait until I see him pass into death, and when he is gone, to hell, I curse him to an eternal life where he is sold like a slave and chopped up into a million little pieces, over and over again. Forever.

I finally tear my eyes from him, noticing his carton of noodles is splattered with blood. I pull over the carton that was meant for me. I suppose this was his payment to me, his gift for helping him rid himself of the inconvenient woman. I open the carton, inspecting its contents. I sniff the food, finding it unremarkable.

I remain on top of him, using him like a piece of furniture, while I eat. The congealed noodles are cold, not dissimilar to gooey worms. It is the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth—maybe not the worst; there was the ear of the guard at the Compound. I toss the mess between the newly dead Monsieur Robach and the bags of dead American.

In the bathroom, I wash his blood from my face and hands. I rinse the taste of those noodles and Monsieur’s blood from my mouth. I search the basement for any articles of clothing I can change into, and in a box, underneath a workbench, behind some plastic containers, I find the clothes I arrived from Kumasi in: a pair of white Keds sneakers, a pair of jeans that are slightly too big, and a sweatshirt with a My Little Pony character on it.

With the scissors in hand, I walk up those elusive stairs. I push open the door into the dark kitchen. Monsieur’s keys hang on a wooden key rack, and I pluck them off. His black leather wallet is on the counter, and I take it too. The air that greets me when I walk through the front door and close it behind me is cold, pure, and crisp. It is a wonderful smell. It smells like freedom.

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.