“Where is your mother?”
She opened her mouth—the words choked by her sobs. “She told me to come here. She said… she said to go to you.”
“Oh, child,” he breathed, holding her close. “You’re safe now.”
But she wasn’t. She never would be. She could feel the power building inside her again. That buzzing, cracking pulse under her skin. Her gift. Her curse.
“She’s gone,” Kiki whispered. “They hurt her. I-I… hurt them back.”
She stopped, her voice trembling. Her fists clenched in the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t look at his face.
“I made them fall, Papà Bishop. All of them.”
His arms stiffened around her. She waited for fear. Disgust. Anger.
But all she heard was his heartbeat. Strong. Steady.
He murmured, “Some gifts are born from pain. That doesn’t make them evil, Kiki. It only means you need help learning how to carry them.”
A shudder ran through her petite body, and she melted against him, clinging to him like a lifeline. Sobs wracked her body. Long, loud, ugly ones that made her feel as if her body would break apart.
She didn’t know how long she cried, but Papà Bishop held her through all of it. Refusing to let her grief and pain break her.
Fifteen
Kiki breathed out a long breath and wrapped both hands around the mug again, her fingers still trembling from the memory of her mother’s death. She took another sip of tea, letting the warmth anchor her before she dared continue.
She didn’t look at Nikos—couldn’t yet.Just like when I’d told Father Bishop.
The steady, silent way Nikos stayed beside her… gave her the courage to continue.
“I was at the orphanage for four months before they found me,” she whispered, her voice thin but steady. “Father Bishop tried to protect me. But I think… I think they knew where I was but were unsure of how to capture me. Either that or they were afraid of Father Bishop.” She released a curt snort devoid of amusement. “It doesn’t really matter. The only thing that matters is they came after me again—and I killed them.”
Her throat tightened.
“Sister Maryna had come for me. She said Father Bishop wanted to see me. I didn’t want to go. I-I knew sometimes kids were sent away.Deep down, I think I was hoping my mama would come back for me. If they sent me away, she wouldn’t be able to find me.” She shook her head, her eyes dropping back to her cup. “Sister Maryna was pulling me toward the office when the screaming started. Those came first, along with the sound of children crying. Then came the gunshots.”
She closed her eyes, trying not to see it all again.
“Father Bishop told me to go with Sister Anne. There was a car waiting in the alley, and we ran. He must have known what was going to happen.”
A long breath escaped her. She opened her eyes and stared down at the ripples in her tea caused by her hand trembling.
“We traveled for years—always running. Always staying one step ahead of the bad men searching for us—for me. Sometimes we crossed borders with fake names, other times we slept in shelters or with strangers. I think we lived in fifteen countries before I turned ten. Maybe more. It all blurred together. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years.”
Nikos’s hand slid across the table, palm up. Kiki looked at it for a moment—then placed her hand in his.
His thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles.
“When I was ten, we settled in Bern, Switzerland,” she continued, her voice quieter now. “It was the longest we ever stayed anywhere. Anne told me to call her Mama. We made up a story… said we’d come to live with an elderly aunt who had just passed away. No one questioned it. We lived in a cottage just outside of town, near the Rhone River.”
Kiki’s lips twitched faintly. “It had blue shutters with flower boxes that were overflowing with brilliant colors. I loved it there. I used to lie on the roof at night and stare at the stars. It was the first time I felt… almost normal.”
She paused. The ache in her chest spread again, slow andfamiliar.
“That’s probably why they found us.”
She lifted her cup again and took a long drink. When she lowered it, her eyes had gone distant—pulled into the gravity of a memory too strong to resist.
