Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(49)

Apollo sits down on top of a stone picnic table near a parking lot, his legs dangling over the side. Retrieving something from his pocket, I see that it is a cell phone once the screen lights up in his hand—he likely stole it from the employee. He puts the phone to his ear, motions his free hand around as he speaks. I wish I could hear what he is saying.

But then my own phone vibrates inside my pocket—and it will not stop. Against my urge to check and see who it is, I let it go to voicemail twice, but whoever is calling me, I know it must be important. This is the worst possible moment to have to answer a call, but I do it anyway, because it could be about Izabel.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the phone and my heart begins to race when I see the code name for my contact in Mexico blazing on the screen at me like a fire that needs to be put out.

“What is it?” I ask quickly, my voice a whisper. “Is she all right?”

“Niet, she not,” he says. “She in serrrious trrrouble. Zey know who she is, and zey’ve taken her. Vy didn’t you tell me Javier RRRuiz vas still alive?”

I stop breathing…

It takes me longer than it should to get my thoughts together.

“Can you do anything?” I ask.

“Niet. I trrried to buy her but she not forrr sale. Zerrre is nothing else I can do. I must go. I have business.”

Just as I move the phone from my ear, crushing it within my fist, I smell her perfume around me, and then I hear the gunshot, thunderous at first, until it deafens me. I feel the bullet as it slices through my midsection, but strangely, no pain; just the warmth of blood as it pours from the wound and pools within my clothing. I sit slumped on the ground, and I cannot even recall how I got here, or when my gun fell from my hand, or when Artemis managed to take it into hers.

My vision is spotty at best; for a moment I see two of her, standing tall over me, until two merges into one. Her lips are moving, but I can barely make out the words. Am I even breathing? I press my hand to my chest, searching for a heartbeat, and my other hand navigates through the gushing blood. With what little strength I have left, I try to put pressure on the wound.

Artemis smiles, although it is not filled with malice, as I would have expected it to be.

Finally, my hearing comes back to me, and her voice slowly produces sound.

“My brother may’ve fallen for your lies,” she says as she crouches in front of me, “but I learned a long time ago never to trust you, Victor.”

I sense Apollo approaching, but I cannot move my head to follow; his shadow precedes him, covering the ground in front of me.

“I wish it were true,” Artemis goes on; she reaches out and touches my face. “I wanted it to be true when he first told me—I started to believe it; y’know, that na?ve woman in me who loved you a long time ago, who would’ve done anything for you.” She sighs. “But I’m not that woman anymore, and…well, I see you’re definitely not that man anymore, either.” Her words are laced with consolation and disappointment.

She stands, and Apollo moves to stand beside her.

Artemis raises the gun and points it at my head. I think only of Izabel; her face sweeps across my vision, haunting me, torturing me; I recall the first time I met her, I remember the sound of her voice, the smell of her red hair, the softness of her hands; I remember when she played the piano, and when I made love to her the first time, and the first time I almost killed her. And I remember—I shut my eyes and prepare to die, to be released from this prison that has been my life.

A shot rings out. Again, I don’t feel anything. When I hear Apollo grunt, I open my eyes and see him fall next to me on the ground.

“APOLLO!” Artemis shrieks.

She turns the gun away from me and fires as she runs; bullets zip through the air in both directions, but none of them hit her, and she slips away into the darkness.

“Victor!” Nora’s voice finds my ears, but I am losing too much blood and I cannot move to acknowledge her. Seconds later, she is crouched beside me, her hands probing my wound; two other figures dart past in pursuit of Artemis.

“Why…Why are you not in…Mexico, Kessler?” I can hardly breathe, much less speak in full sentences.

“I’m here to save your stubborn ass,” she says, “so maybe you could be a little grateful.”

“But…Izabel…Javier…” I try to raise my hand in gesture—I want to knock her into next month—but I cannot lift it from the ground.

Nora rolls her eyes, and then positions one arm behind me, pulling me to my feet.

“I’m taking you to Mozart.”

“I need you in…Mexico.”

“Yeah, yeah—Izabel can handle herself.”

The last thing I remember is the smell of the leather in the backseat of the car, so strong it is, as if the body’s senses heighten just before death. The sound of the tires moving energetically over the road; the lights—street lights and stars and electric signs—all pushing in on my eyes; the taste of blood in my mouth, sharp and coppery and unpleasant.

Izabel…





The Red Lotus


The strange woman continuously rubs the pad of her thumb against the side of the Styrofoam coffee cup; she rarely sips from it, and when she does it’s only when a man walks past, and her eyes eerily follow until he is gone. The airport employee would like to end this uncomfortable encounter, but what had begun as a kind gesture has become a way to watch her more closely. He doesn’t like the feeling he gets from her; nor do the women behind the ticket counter who keep eyeing him from afar. She could be mentally unstable and need a police escort out of the airport; she could be a terrorist. Or, she could just be different, and the man would feel awful for calling the police on her for not fitting the mold of what’s considered normal in society.