Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(35)
Apollo blinks, stunned. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect that, but I respect your need to get it off your chest. We all got heavy loads to carry, man. Some more than others. Obviously.”
He sighs. “You know what, Victor? You were wrong about one thing—Izabel, in a way, did bring Artemis back to life.”
My eyes find his in the darkness.
Apollo heads up the basement stairs, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Izabel
Day Three – Evening The theatre looks the same as it did on the first two nights, but the atmosphere has changed. The buyers arriving in twos and fours even feel different; it’s the money—the wealthier one is often means the more corrupt. It’s like I can taste it, the corruption—I imagine bleach tastes the same. Drawing a deep breath into my lungs, I straighten my shoulders, glance behind me at Sabine, and then we follow Cesara through the crowd toward our table. Sabine, as always, sits on the floor at my feet; but even she is different; she sits closer, pressed against my leg like a loyal dog wanting to stay close to its loving owner. Too much hope, Sabine. Too much hope…
Joaquin walks out onto the stage; the sound of his dress shoes tapping against the floor echoes throughout the vast space; the microphone attached to the lapel of his suit jacket pops and crackles as it rubs against the fabric; I hear the humming of electric lights above in the high ceilings; the soft susurrus of conversation; the rustle of clothes; the clinking of glasses—my head is spinning a little, the anticipation of this night growing heavier in my blood by the minute.
From the corner of my eye, I see the man from the other day—Dante—walking to his table; he looks right at me, nods with that nervous smile that sets him apart from everyone else here, and then takes his seat. What a strange little man, that one; interesting enough to note, but irrelevant enough to ignore.
Every guest that walks through those doors I make note of, filing each one away inside my head, scribbling annotations in the sidelines, and getting frustrated that, so far, not a single one of them feels like ‘the one’. I don’t know what I was thinking, anyway. There are a lot of places in the world where Vonnegut could be; and here, tonight, on the same day I’m hoping to find him, is, according to the universe, probably the last place he’s likely to just magically show up. But what other plans did I have? What other leads did I, or Victor, or any of us have other than this one? None. Not a single damn one. And if I don’t get a lead on the real Vonnegut tonight, then I’ll just have to stick around and play my role for as long as I have to until I do.
“And-here-she-comes,” Cesara whispers in a singsong voice next to me.
I look toward the south entrance—as does everyone else in the room—while Frances Lockhart comes sauntering down the aisle as if paparazzi are flashing cameras in her face and the carpet is red beneath her stilettos; her two beefy bodyguards follow closely behind her—and the thirteen girls she bought on the first night. How odd.
“My table better not be occupied,” she says aloud for everyone nearby to hear. “It’s my table, and I won’t be seated somewhere else.”
“Didn’t expect to see her tonight,” I say to Cesara.
“No one did,” Cesara agrees. “Probably begged Daddy for more money—this should be interesting, to say the least.”
“Yeah, to say the least,” I echo, my voice trailing.
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen a buyer come with that many girls,” Cesara adds. “Looks like a harem—like a Hollywood socialite with a harem.” She shakes her head at the absurdity.
After a male server pulls out Frances’ chair, she sits and then shoos him away with the wave of her hand. “Go before you brush against one of my girls—go!” she snaps, and the server scurries off.
Frances looks up, noticing the eyes on her, pauses to drink in their dislike, and then makes an annoyed, wide-eyed face at them all; her mouth falls open with a puff of air. “Something you need?” she asks derisively, and they all look away.
Frances snarls, and just as quickly as the guests averted their attention, she loses interest and focuses on her girls. “No, no,” Frances argues, pointing at them, “I want you here—and you, sit next to her—no, you. Yes, you sit on the other side of her.”
Few can actually tear their eyes away from the spectacle that is Miss Frances Lockhart, but all of them do it less invasively; covertly they watch her with disgusted looks; some even look outright offended that a rude, loudmouth like Frances is allowed in their midst. I and Cesara, on the other hand, look forward to the dramatic woman’s performance.
Cesara’s hand touches my arm upon the table. “And here comes Callista,” she whispers as a woman with long, inky-black hair moves toward our table like a ghost gliding gracefully through a room.
Mentally, I prepare myself, and jump immediately into character. Curling my right arm around the back of Cesara’s neck, my hand cupping the side of her face, I pull her toward me and dip my tongue into her mouth. Callista flinches, just barely, but I see it in her eyes before she has a chance to hide it.
“Cesara,” Callista greets with a slow nod; her eyes skirt me with hatred.
“Callista,” Cesara greets in return.
“I see you’ve…lowered your standards,” Callista says, icily.