Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(37)

I shake it off, and look across the five tables that separate Iosif and me. He does everything with OCD-perfection: the way he sits tall, facing forward, his hands on the table in front of him precisely the same distance apart on either side; how two guards, the same height and weight, stand to his left and right, also the same distance apart; how he situates his bidding paddles on the table in front of him. My heart is pounding in my ears; the saliva evaporates from my mouth—I’ve seen him before. I can’t place his face, and I need to get a closer look, but even at this distance, I see enough of him to know that he is familiar to me.

Scrambling to place his face with someone from my past, I almost forget that Cesara is sitting next to me.

“If anybody dies tonight,” she says, waking me up, “I just hope it’s not one of us, or any of our girls.”

“Why would somebody die?” I ask.

“Well, anything can happen,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Especially when the buyers get into it. It’s happened before; there was a shootout right there on the floor in front of the stage one night. Two men wanted the same girl, and only one went home with her”—she chuckles—“Only one went home.”

I don’t care about Frances Lockhart…!

Not surprising, Frances Lockhart wins the three first bids. Also, not surprising, Iosif Veselov hasn’t even bid yet, or shown any indication he might later. He is unreadable; I can’t tell if he’s interested, bored, or about to shit on himself—he’s a statue.

At nine o’clock, Iosif raises his bidding paddle for the first time—and Frances raises hers.

Here we go. Cesara and I glance at one another, eyebrows raised, mouths pinched on one side.

Iosif—three hundred grand.

Frances—three hundred fifty grand.

Iosif—four hundred fifty grand.

Frustrated Frances—four hundred seventy-five grand.

Iosif—one million.

Frances slams her bidding paddle down on the table in front of her.

“One million going once,” Joaquin announces, “going twice—”

Frances—one-point-one-million; her small shoulders and busty chest rises and falls with heavy, exasperated breaths.

“One-point-one-million going once—”

Iosif—two million dollars.

A flurry of excited voices moves over the room like a wave.

“Is that woman insane?” the man at the table to my left says to another.

“Oh, this is exhilarating,” the woman behind me says to another in a sultry voice. “Maybe I should bid like that to get his attention.”

Frances shoots up from her chair, and she glares at Iosif; gasps and sharp whispers pierce my ears; I look up at Joaquin standing tall on the stage with his hands clasped behind his back, and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen stretching his face—sick bastard.

“What do you need her for?” Frances challenges Iosif. “What do you need any of them for?”

Sit down, you stupid, stupid woman. I think I stopped breathing; I think everybody in the theatre has stopped breathing.

Iosif, like a demon rising from the bowels of Hell, slowly stands, and every face in the crowd follows his movement without falter. Without taking his eyes from Frances Lockhart, he says in a thick Russian accent to Joaquin: “Five million dollarrrs.”

Eyes widen, mouths hit the floor; the gasps and sharp whispers intensify and multiply all around me. Cesara and I look at each other again, same shocked faces as before, same excitement in Cesara, same nervousness in me, pretending it’s excitement.

Frances slams her palm down on the table; she glares at Iosif once more, and then she sits heavily back into her chair like a spoiled child accepting defeat without decorum.

“I’m surprised he didn’t go over there and knock her through the wall,” the woman behind me tells the other.

“I’m disappointed,” says the other.

Where are the fireworks? Where’s this big show everybody expected to see? Maybe Iosif is just waiting for the right moment; maybe he’s plotting to do worse things to Frances after the auction—I don’t know, but I’m glad Frances is safe. For now.

For the next hour, Frances is more careful with her money; Iosif continues to win, only bidding on certain girls with specific attributes; and almost all of them are red cards, making Cesara—and apparently me—that much richer every time Iosif raises his paddle. Joaquin looks delighted standing up there on the stage; I can practically see him bathing in his money, and then wasting it all on American hookers and parties and expensive cars he’ll drive once and hide away in a fancy garage somewhere. I hate people like that—I’m going to enjoy taking that hatred out on Joaquin, seeing as how I can’t exactly go around killing rich men just because they’re rich.

And in that same hour, I’m no closer to placing Iosif’s face.

Jorge Ramirez, rapist extraordinaire according to Cesara and Joaquin, wins his first girl of the night, and for a little while, worrying about what’ll happen to her once she leaves this place, takes my mind off the frustration with Iosif. But I’m just trading one darkness for another.

God…this room is full of devils; every single face in this crowd are the epitome of evil—though, I still can’t for the life of me see two of them the same way I see everyone else. Frances. And, I can’t believe I’m going to say it—Dante. I just can’t shake that there’s something off about those two, despite the company they keep.