Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(92)



Nena shook her head. “It’s not about what Oliver wants. It’s always been about what Paul wants, and it’s nothing you can provide.”

“Nena,” Cort said again from the floor. He struggled to get up, but the wound in his side was too severe, had weakened him faster than they’d anticipated. The dark area of his shirt had grown larger. He crumpled back down, falling into unconsciousness.

Nena fought the urge to tend to him, to touch him. She thought of the night they’d spent dancing and being a normal couple. But she knew if she stopped a second to be the Nena he knew and not the Echo she needed to be, she wouldn’t leave his side. And she had to, to save Georgia and end this thing with Paul.

To Elin, she whispered, “Get him medical attention. This time you actually do have to call the cops, if a neighbor hasn’t already. Come up with a story for them. When I find Georgia, I’ll bring her home.”

Elin pointed at Cort. Leaning toward Nena, she asked, “And him? What do I tell him?”

“Tell him whatever it takes to get him on board. Tell him”—Nena looked down at him as well, wondering how he’d feel once he knew who she really was—“tell him he can ask me anything he wants, and I will answer when I return.”

Elin’s lips quivered. “If that little girl dies because of me . . .” She was unable to finish.

“Whatever happens will not be because of you.” Nena hesitated. “And it will not be because of me either. Everything that’s happened—is happening—is because of Paul.”





70


BEFORE


Several months after I purchase my little house, two things happen: my home is renovated and fitted to suit my needs, and my parents come to visit, meeting Keigel.

My house is a calming sea-blue color, reminding me of the oceans of the tropics. It has a security system fit for a bank, complete with motion sensors that could detect an ant traipsing over a blade of grass. There are hidden cameras everywhere. A privacy fence closes off my backyard, so I can sit out there in my oasis without the worry of spectators. The carport is now a fully enclosed garage.

In what I call my office or command center, there is a high-level communication setup and a hidden pantry-like room behind my closet wall, which houses my weapons arsenal, passports, and other accoutrements needed for my dispatch work. It slides open when activated by my palm print. The palm must be warm, with a beating pulse. The second room, my guest room, is for appearances only, because I don’t intend to entertain overnight guests.

When my parents pull up in their black Escalade with their driver, Keigel is next to me on the sidewalk. He is there as a show of unity, to let the neighborhood know anyone who comes to my home is under his protection—laughable because he has no idea that he is under my protection now. He will know soon enough. When I introduce him to Delphine and Noble Knight, if they accept him, the options for Keigel will be limitless. He could have whatever his heart desires, and he’ll have the support of me and the Tribe . . . if he plays his cards right and my parents accept him.

The driver, well armed, and another bodyguard exit the SUV. Behind them, another car, a silver Mustang, rolls to a stop, and more guards pile out. They all look around, no doubt wondering why a Knight daughter lives here.

Keigel whistles as the guards pile out. He begins searching the ground.

“What are you doing?” I say. The man has lost his senses.

“Looking for the rose petals and African drums.” He grins. “I mean, the king of Zamunda has arrived, right?”

All I can do is look at him. Perhaps this meeting was not my best idea.

“Zamunda?” Keigel repeats slowly, his eyes incredulous that I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Coming to America? Come on now, Eddie Murphy? Arsenio Hall?”

I shake my head as if clueless.

To increase my horror, Keigel breaks out in song. “Just let your soul-l-l glo-o-o.” His voice cracks, but his smile is wide and proud.

“Is that a religious sect?” I ask. The nearest guard overhears us, and his shoulders shake from his laughter.

“Sexual chocolate!” Keigel blurts suddenly, startling me. I’m beginning to worry he is unwell.

I frown. “Is what? A new candy bar?” I say, pretending I don’t understand.

The guard turns quickly, sneaking a peek at Keigel, whose face drains of all hope. It’s official: Keigel is indeed unwell.

“Okay,” Keigel says, taking a deep breath. “James Earl Jones was the king.”

A light bulb. “Ah,” I say, relieved we’ve gotten somewhere. “Yes, him I know.”

He expels a breath of air, shaking his hand in victory. “Finally. Finally!”

“James Earl Jones was Mufasa in The Lion King.”

Despair replaces Keigel’s brief relief, and by now, more guards are laughing at his misery. The name “akata” is mingled with their muted comments. The name is one we call Black Americans when we feel they are beneath us, a name I’ve never approved of and one I am disappointed the guards thought was okay to say. No one is beneath anyone, especially Keigel.

In a sharp voice and in Ewe, I tell the chuckling guards, “If you value your life, never again let me hear you call him that name.” I tilt my head toward Keigel, murmuring, “You know there is no country of Zamunda in Africa.”

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