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The exhilaration faded, the sensations that had been numbed by adrenaline gradually returning to her. Aisha’s breaths came heavy, and she realized her hand was starting to cramp from the grip she’d had around her knife. She didn’t sheath it, but passed it to the other hand and stretched the aching appendage.
Nikos Vasil lay dead in front of her. Blood from his slit throat stained the hardwood floors, and his eyes were half-lidded, unfocused. It had been messier than she’d wanted, but it was done, and that was the important part. She stood there for a moment, staring down at the body, trying to catch her breath.
The floor creaked.
Aisha whipped around, knife at the ready . Not another kid out to kill her, or one of the vengeful “wives”—
It was neither. A little girl stood in the middle of the hall. She was pale and dark-haired, dressed in a white nightdress. Wide-eyed, suckling on a knuckle. She couldn’t have been more than six.
Aisha sheathed her knife and turned off her power. The girl startled, stumbling back, and Aisha extended her hands in a gesture of surrender. “No, no, it’s okay. It’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The child was tense, eyes wide, poised to run away. Aisha lifted her mask, slowly crouching to the girl’s level. “Hi, sweetie. I’m Aisha. What’s your name?”
It took a second for a spit-soaked knuckle to come away from the girl’s mouth, and she mumbled something inaudible.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Darlene.”
“Darlene? That’s your name?”
The little girl nodded.
“That’s a really pretty name.”
Silence. She wasn’t sure what to say; she didn’t really consider herself good with kids, had never been around one long enough to form some sort of rapport. Wasn’t focused enough to pay attention to one, either.
“I’m—I was a friend of Jean-Paul, Darlene,” Aisha spoke softly, and she saw the girl’s eyes widen. “He told me about you and all his siblings before.”
“You know Jean-Paul?” she queried, in a high, nervous voice.
Did she know? Had it fully sunk in? Could six-year-olds understand death yet? “I do. And I wanted to do a favour for him, Darlene,” she responded. “I wanted to take you guys out of here. Away from Montreal. You don’t have to stay with your dad anymore.”
It was an impulse decision to even say it. She was fourteen and knew precisely jack shit about taking care of anyone. Couldn’t even take care of her brother when it counted. But the fear in the girl’s demeanor was fading, a tenseness slowly leaving her thin shoulders. Aisha found her self-control, already a tenuous thing, rapidly fading.
(She looked so much like Alec, too.)
“Really?” Darlene asked, hesitant. Like the possibility of escape was too fanciful to even imagine, despite her father being dead in front of her.
What the hell am I doing?
“Really,” Aisha said, and she stretched out a hand.