Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(25)

In the past few weeks I’ve spent more time and energy looking for Naeva than trying to pinpoint who Vonnegut might be. And I don’t see that changing. I guess I’ll have to try giving both equal attention, but each time a new girl is brought out on that stage, Naeva shoves almost every trace of Vonnegut right out of my head. I knew bringing her with me would cause problems, but I never expected this.

Maybe she got word out, like she said she’d do, and the love of her life, Leo Moreno, found her, like she said he would. Maybe. But if I’m listening to my instincts, they’re telling me that no, that’s not what happened, and— “Good evening, Miss…?” says a skinny, rat-faced man with oily hair.

I blink back into the real world and look up at him as he stands awkwardly at my table. Intermission has started, and the guests have all left their tables to stretch their legs and socialize. I’m not sure what compelled this man to approach me, one of the most unapproachable-looking women in the theatre, but I could use a change of scenery.

Eyeing him disdainfully, I say with warning, “Step away from my property, Mr…?”

He glances down at Sabine, smiles nervously, and then steps to his right.

“Dante,” he introduces, offering his hand, palm-up, so I can place mine within it.

I don’t; I reach for my champagne glass instead.

After yesterday’s incident with Joaquin, and he not killing me for it, I feel like I can take this Izel role even further. How far is still up in the air; I have to be careful with the buyers, of course, but this one seems skittish enough—nothing like the notorious Iosif Veselov, who I have yet to meet—and I can probably get away with a little disrespect, and prove my intolerance for men all the more.

“Mr. Ruiz tells me you’re the trainer of the red girls,” Dante says.

“Actually,” Cesara steps in, sitting beside me, “I am. Lydia is my assistant.” I catch the offense in her voice; she casts a glare across the room at Joaquin talking with someone, but he doesn’t notice. “My name is Cesara.”

“Ah, I see.” Dante nods, and then offers a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Cesara.”

She accepts the invitation, and he kisses the top of her hand. He smiles as if delightfully surprised she let him touch her at all, and it takes him a moment longer than it should for him to let go.

There’s something off about him I notice right away—he seems uncomfortable in his own skin, opposite every other buyer in this room. What is someone like him doing here, buying slaves, when he doesn’t seem the type capable of using them? None of my business, and I don’t care. Naeva. Vonnegut. Getting out of here alive, and with what I came here for—that’s all I care about. Oh, and Sabine. And the other girls. And killing Joaquin and Cesara—I don’t even know why I try to focus on one thing.

“How can we help you, Mr. Dante?” Cesara offers.

“Just Dante,” he says, politely.

Noticing Dante getting too close to Sabine again—unintentionally; he’s too nervous to notice—I grab her by the back of her neck, pulling her away from him.

“So sorry,” Dante says, and he moves two-feet away from her this time to stand closer to Cesara. “F-Forgive me.”

After a moment, I nod, just to give the poor guy a break. So much for using him—I feel sorry for him! Wait—why do I feel sorry for a man in here buying slaves? Hmm.

Shaking my damn head at myself, I go for my glass again, and avoid eye contact.

“Well, I just wanted to compliment you on your work,” he tells Cesara. “T-The girl I purchased tonight is of…awesome quality.”

Awesome? I glance around the room just to make sure I didn’t accidentally walk into the High School prom down the hall.

Even Cesara feels his choice of word is embarrassing; I can feel her eyes on me, seeking mine; we raise a covert brow at each other.

“Well…thank you, Dante,” Cesara says. “Tell me”—she leans forward, an inquisitive look on her face—“where are you from?”

“Oh, uh, I’m from New Hampshire,” he answers. “United States.”

I look up, joining Cesara in gazing expectantly at him, waiting for the rest, but that seems to be all of it.

Cesara nods a few times. “And”—she draws the word out—“what is it that you do in New Hampshire, United States, Dante?” She’s toying with him.

He laughs tensely, realizing. “Oh, well I don’t, I-I don’t live there anymore. I’ve been in Boston for about ten years now. Great city. You’d like it there.”

Cesara sips from her glass, probably because it’s the only thing keeping her from saying something she shouldn’t.

Dante’s smile slips right off his face. He sighs, his shoulders falling into a defeated slump, and suddenly it’s as if the real Dante has taken over for the failing one.

“Look, I’m not good at this kind of shit,” he says, and we both look right up at him. “A guy—my boss—sent me here to look for someone; paid me a lot of money. I’ve never done anything like this before. And it’s all really”—he looks around the room—“well, it’s really fucking weird. And”—he laughs lightly—“I’ve been into heavy-weird shit, so that’s saying a lot.”