Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(80)

“Show me how you did it,” he says.

I drop my head back down to finish lacing. How can I reenact something that is not the same? I am without the primal drive to survive I had then. Why does Witt want me to relive that horror? Why is he not teaching me something new? He taps the picture sharply, and my head snaps up to him.

“Show me,” he says. “Count off.”

What is his end goal? Is he trying to break me, or can he not believe a scrawny thing like me can take down a being like Robach? But he wants to see, and I acquiesce.

We stand, facing each other. Robach and I weren’t standing when I attacked him, and I must bring Witt down to where I can do what I did. I cannot tell him to have a seat so I can stab him, can I? Instinct takes over, and my right foot swipes Witt’s from beneath him. He falls with a surprised grunt to the floor, and I lock away the sliver of worry that I might hurt him. I grab a pen that has rolled from atop the table. I feign a stab to his cheek.

“One,” I say.

I jump on top of Witt, who bucks me off and rolls. When my body hits the floor, I roll fluidly, scamper to my hands and knees, and spring up, jumping on his back as I did with Monsieur.

“Two.”

I cling to Witt’s back as he tries to shake me off. He rears backward, smashing us against a wall. Pen in hand, I tap it against his neck.

“Three.”

And his throat. “Four.”

And his chest. “Five.”

Witt tumbles to the floor, and I continue tapping him in the same places I stabbed Monsieur, counting while I do it. When I reach 150, I stop. My hand drops to my side, and I lift myself off my instructor. I stand back, panting, waiting for him to tell me what is next.

He is panting as well. He does not speak to me. Instead, he stands and walks to where Monsieur’s picture has fallen on the floor and drops it back on the table. He shuffles through a file I neglected to notice was there. From there, he extracts two more black and whites, photos of the muggers from the Parisian breezeway. I stare at the pictures, amazed. What don’t Witt and the Tribe know about what I have done?

He does not need to tell me to show him. I just do.



“Your method of attack is intrinsic,” Witt says. We are standing outside the warehouse, waiting for my car to collect me. How he is capable of speech after our grueling training, I have no idea. I want to lie on the ground. My body throbs, and I am tired beyond comprehension. I wait for him to continue his assessment, since that is what this is.

“What I mean is it is instinctual. It’s also sloppy and has many points in which your combatant can turn things around on you. You leave too much evidence, and you do not think. Your kills to date are from emotion, and from that rage, people can manipulate your weaknesses, your blind spots. You can’t let emotion cloud your judgment, Nena. You can’t take things personally.” He lets that rest, having read me like a book.

“Correction,” he reverses. “Robach was rage. The muggers were not. Those kills were more strategic. Those kills were cleaner. Why did you kill them?”

“They were attacking my mum.”

“She wasn’t your mum at the time you encountered them. Why did you step in?” He looks down at me curiously.

“Because she had shown me kindness, and I owed her.”

He nods, approving of my answer. “When emotion is at the helm, mistakes happen. You’ll learn to leave all your feelings behind. You must be methodical, Nena, when dealing in the business of dispatch and order as we do. You must think many steps ahead and of the repercussions. What happens after this job’s done? Who will this affect? Can I get in and out cleanly?” He speaks as if reading from a laundry list of assassin what-not-to-dos. “You get the job done, though.”

He looks at me, amused. “And it looks like you prefer to stab.”

The corners of my mouth twitch in response.



From his assessment, Witt tailors my training to focus on my strengths. When I get in close, I am the most effective. He brings in several sparring partners of varying abilities, heights, weights, and strengths. He watches us duel until one of us taps out. These men and women don’t get caught unaware like Monsieur and the Parisian men. These people are lithe killers and hold nothing back from little teen me. In fact, I think they mean to kill me.

“Use your proximity, Nena; forget the element of surprise here. It’s gone,” Witt commands as he observes me losing the fights repeatedly. All he needs is a bowl of popcorn to top it off. “Surprise is a luxury you can’t always afford, so always assume they know you’re coming. Like when you were in the basement, use anything you can find. Any object is a weapon in the right hands, in your hands. Use your surroundings to your benefit.”

My eyes flutter open, unfocused. I nearly pass out from the arm pressing into my throat, squeezing both the air and consciousness out of me. Witt’s words echo in the distance, as if down a long, empty hall. I grasp for anything of use. I use myself, letting my body suddenly go limp in feigned unconsciousness.

My partner loosens his grip a little, confident he has put me down. When his defenses drop just enough, my fingers grapple for anything, a boot kicked off during the struggle, now by my knee. I grasp the tip of it, then launch the heavy bottom sole with all my might, which isn’t much. It strikes my partner in his temple.

After nearly a year of continual training—some phases concurrent—my sparring partner finally taps out, and I am ready to move on. Because of my age, my education in Dispatch takes longer than other prospects’. But during the next phase, Escape and Evasion, I have a little experience from my time with Robach and on France’s streets. It only takes me half the time to make an A.