Behind The Hands That Kill

SEVEN

I can’t listen to this…STOP, VICTOR!

I tongue the cloth in my mouth until I can no longer feel my tongue; my throat fills up with saliva, choking me. I gag, and my eyes sting and water. I work tirelessly to loosen the rope from my wrists to the point that they too become strangely numb. My knees open and close, open and close, as I try to free my ankles, but like my wrists, I know they’re stuck like that. Indefinitely.

How could you do this, Victor?!

I scream against my gag, my fury intensifying because I can’t say the words I so desperately want Victor to hear. He watches me from behind the bars of his cell, helpless to do anything but let this torturous moment between us run its due course.

The door opens again, and that man, Apollo, re-enters the room. My eyes dart to find the cattle prod on the floor, but I don’t see it.

Because it’s in his hand and—

I think I blacked out.

I know I did.

Where am I?

Where am I…?

“Where was she taken?” I demand, my hands gripping the bars. “Apollo, answer me!”

He has been giving me the silent treatment for fifteen minutes while he sits on the chair reading a magazine.

“Apollo!”

He finally raises his head, very slowly, and makes eye contact with me. He is smiling faintly, more in his dark eyes than on his lips. He places the magazine on his leg propped on his knee, and then stares at me, enjoying this.

“What is it like, Victor,” he begins in a composed voice, “knowing that you’ve ruined so many families? How do you sleep at night? Do you ever think about the people you’ve killed?”—he gestures a hand in front of him—“Do you ever sit around in those expensive suits and expensive shoes and that high-dollar haircut and ask yourself: ‘I wonder what kind of life so-and-so might’ve had if I didn’t take it from them?’ Or, ‘I wonder how many people will never be born because I, singlehandedly, destroyed literally generations of future families.’” He drops his leg from his knee and leans forward, the magazine wedged in his hand. “Tell me, Victor—tell me the truth.”

It will do me no good to continue asking about Izabel.

“Do you really care about any of that, Apollo? Is that why I am here—retribution for being less than a human being, a danger to society? Or is this about you and your notorious family? A family, I should add”—I hold up my index finger—“known for being less than human and a danger to society. He who casts the first stone, Apollo.”

He drops the magazine on the floor and gets up from the chair—he is not smiling anymore.

“My family,” he defends, spitting out the word, “may be known for some heinous crimes; my mom and dad may have been the biggest bastard and bitch this side of the hemisphere”—he grits his stark white teeth and snarls at me—“but my brothers and my sisters, when you came in with your lies and your bullets, never did anything to deserve what they got. I never did anything to deserve what I got!” (A tiny droplet of spittle from his mouth hits my cheek.) “The worst I’d done by that time was rob a liquor store! And I didn’t even kill anybody!”

In a calm voice I respond, “This business is not about eliminating criminals, Apollo. I was not commissioned to kill your family because you were a menace to society. I was commissioned to kill your family because your mother and father were the biggest bastard and bitch this side of the hemisphere. They are to blame for the death of your brothers and sisters, not me—Osiris is to blame. Or have you forgotten? Have you forgotten that things would have been much different if your own flesh and blood brother did not betray you, betray your family name?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he comes back, rounding his chin.

My hands slide away from the bars.

“It seems that you have,” I point out. “You are in league with Osiris again, after all these years, after everything he did to you and your family—yet, I am the one in the cage.” I do not know if my theory is correct, if Osiris is in on this, but it is the only ammunition that I have, as unlikely as it feels.

Apollo’s hands knot into fists down at his sides; his eyes churn with animosity. I see now that maybe things between Apollo and Osiris are not as patched-up as I assumed, after all.

“Where is Osiris, anyway?” I ask, hoping to get some truth myself. I would very much like to speak with him.

Apollo turns his back on me, crosses his arms.

“He’s not here,” he says. “I have better things to do than to keep track of my brother.”

A moment of silence passes between us.

I decide to switch gears, careful not to push too far, in hopes he might open up more if I manipulate him gradually. But this is all very hard to do when all I can think about, all I care about, is Izabel.

“Why fifteen years, Apollo?” I inquire. “That is a tremendous amount of time wasted. Why wait fifteen years to put me in this cage?” Other than it probably took you that long to figure out how to successfully pull it off.

He smirks. “Oh, believe me,” he says, his tone laced with bitterness, “I would’ve done this a long time ago—I wanted to, but…well, that’s beside the point.”

“You wanted to,” I echo, “but this whole plan does not only involve you, does it? You are not here—I am not here—simply for your revenge.”

“There isn’t anything simple about this!” he shouts, and it surprises me, furthermore confirming my suspicions: he is not the one in charge.

He steps right up to the bars, well in arm’s reach, at last giving me that opportunity I wanted moments ago. But I do not take it. I fear now more than ever for Izabel’s well-being. Regardless knowing this is the day she and I will die, the last thing I want is to make her final moments more difficult than they already are.

“Where is Izabel?” I ask, my voice relaxed, but my core apprehensive.

He shakes his head. And then he smiles a smile so chilling that it alone elevates my concern.

“With my sister,” he answers.

I blink, stunned, and a wave of anxiety moves through my body, settling in my chest. If there is any one person in this world I would choose not to leave Izabel alone with, it is certainly Hestia Stone, the only Stone sister still alive. She is beautiful like her sister, Artemis, was, but unlike Artemis, Hestia is cruel and dangerous and with a bloodlust that would have given Fredrik’s ex-wife a run for her money.

“Hestia? You left her with Hestia…”

“Ah, there it is,” Apollo taunts me, “that fear I never imagined I’d live to see in the great Victor Faust.” He tosses his head back and laughs, then lowers his eyes on mine once more, and a grin spreads across his lips. “I’d say not to worry, but, well, you know how my sister is.”

I grab the bars and try to shake them, managing only to shake myself. “Apollo, do not do this! If we are to die here today, then just kill us! Just kill Izabel—torture me if that is what you want, but do not—”

“Wow, look at you”—he points at me—“this is fanfuckingtastic, bro”—he pumps his fists—“YEAH!”

But then his smile disappears and he steps up to my cage, places his fingers atop mine around the bars and squeezes; he is so close I can feel his warm breath between us. “Wait until you see her—my sister. I can’t wait to see it myself. There will be fireworks n’ shit. And I’ve got a front row seat.” He visibly shakes his upper body, demonstrating his excitement with dramatics. “It’s even makin’ my dick a little hard.” Then his fingers move from mine and he presses his face even closer, daring me to take advantage of it—I keep my calm, as much as I want to choke him to death where he stands. “And by the way,” he adds, “begging doesn’t suit you, either.” He steps away from the cage slowly.

I cannot find the proper words to say—there are none. Izabel would have been better off if I had killed her myself a long time ago.

Hestia and I have only ever spoken once; we have only been in the same room with one another on one occasion. But one time was all it took to make that woman despise the ground I walk on.

Hestia knew I was not with Artemis simply because I loved her—Hestia knew I was the one killing off her family members; she knew, by gut instinct alone, that I was using her sister to fulfill my contract. But she had no proof. And Artemis would not listen to her:

“Are you really that stupid, Artemis?” Hestia scolded—I was in the restroom listening through the wall. “Ever since he showed up, our family has been dying off one by one. There’s something about him—I can feel it!” Her voice was a whisper, but sharp and strong enough I could hear her almost plainly.

“You always do this,” Artemis snapped. “You just don’t want me to be happy. Hestia, please, just let me live my life—I love Victor! Can’t you see that?” It sounded like she was crying.

“Yeah, I see that,” Hestia came back, “and that’s what makes this whole thing so…fucked up. He’s using you! And you’re letting him!”

“That’s enough! Just stop!” I could hear footsteps stomping heavily across the floor. “I don’t see you for years and you waltz in here one day, out of the blue, and instead of spending time with me, catching up like long-lost sisters are supposed to do, you tell me how stupid I am—you’re just jealous, Hestia. You always do this!”

I heard glass shatter against the floor.

Wanting to prevent Hestia from hurting Artemis, I exited the restroom promptly, and made myself known once again.

Artemis was on her knees on the floor, carefully picking up shards of clear blue glass that was once a dolphin that sat on the coffee table—I never knew which one of them broke it.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, pretending not to have heard anything incriminating.

“Everything’s fine,” Artemis said, despondently.

I went right over and crouched in front of Artemis, proceeded to pick up the glass for her. “No, let me,” I insisted, taking the shards from her palm. “I do not want you to cut your hands.”

“This is ridiculous!” Hestia hissed. “Why don’t you tell my sister the truth? Tell her you have something to do with the deaths of our mother and father and—so far—two brothers. Tell her!”

“STOP IT! Please just STOP!” Artemis buried her face within her hands.

I shot into a stand and turned to face Hestia, stood toe to toe with her.

“I think you should leave,” I insisted.

She glared at me through eyes full of ire. (I thought it was such a shame I was not commissioned to kill her, too. At that time, I did not understand why only the Stone brothers and parents were the ones with bounties on their heads—all three sisters were off-limits. Until that fateful night fifteen years ago.)

“You’re the reason for everything that’s happened,” Hestia accused boldly, completely unafraid of me in every way. “I don’t why, or who else is involved, but I’ll find out.” She pressed the tip of her index finger dead center in my chest, glared more coldly than before. “And if you hurt my sister…so help me God, I’ll hunt you every minute of every day until I find you. I’ll hang you from a meat hook and strip you of your skin, slowly, and I’ll leave you there to feel the pain. And then I’ll kill you.”

I had been threatened by many people in my life, but never had a threat chilled me before—I knew she would do it. I didn’t know why, but something told me that Hestia Stone was more than capable of backing up her threats—she would make sure of it. She was the only woman I ever feared.

A flash of black hair moved suddenly in the corner of my eye, and I lost my footing as Artemis flung herself between Hestia and me. I stumbled backward, grabbing onto the arm of the sofa for balance, but before I could stop her, Artemis was on top of Hestia, a shard of glass poking from the top of her hand. At first I thought maybe she had fallen on it because there was blood seeping through her fingers, running down her wrist, but when she raised her hand on her sister I saw that the glass was not there by accident, but with purpose.

“Artemis!” I ran toward her, tried to stop her.

But I was too late. Artemis’s hand came down, and it all happened so fast: the look on Hestia’s face, twisted by pain and shock and betrayal—most of all betrayal; the sound of glass penetrating the skin; the dark red color that soaked through the white of Hestia’s blouse; the chilling, rage-filled bellow that thundered through Artemis’s core, filling my ears and my heart with something I never could have imagined of her—unadulterated insanity.

Frozen in shock, I could not will my mind to move my legs; I could not form a sentence. My dear, sweet, Artemis Stone, not innocent by any means before this day, but certainly not what she became when she attacked her sister—I could not believe it.

Hestia managed to kick Artemis off of her, and Artemis fell backward into my arms; blood from both of them stained my hands. I grabbed her wrist and squeezed, knocking the shard from her grip; it fell on the floor without a sound. She fought against me, writhing, hitting, kicking, screaming, but I held her with ease in my arms until she calmed.

Hestia picked herself up from the floor, one hand covering the stab wound on her left breast; she was breathing hard, and could barely remain on her feet.

Raising her head once she was able, she started to look at me first, perhaps to finish what we started, to let me see just how much more desperately she wanted to kill me. But at the last second, her eyes veered and found Artemis instead. The look on her face, it spoke volumes—Artemis was no longer a sister of Hestia, and Hestia would never forgive her for what she had done.

Not a single word was spoken from the three of us, only the silent words that needed not be spoken to hear and understand them.

And then Hestia left. And it was the last time I saw her.

After all these years, I thought that because of what Artemis did, Hestia did not care much anymore about revenge against me. I kept tabs on Hestia from that day forth; it was only logical and mandatory I watch my back because of her threats. I could have killed her on many occasions, but, like Nora Kessler, I wanted her alive. I wanted to study her. She intrigued me. She intrigued me, because I feared her. And I have never been a man to snuff out or run from something that I fear. I face it and move toward it so that I can better understand what it is about that thing that I fear.

“You know,” Apollo says, waking me from my memories, “I never believed it before, but I see now that it’s true—you’re afraid of Hestia. You’re actually afraid of her!” His laughter echoes throughout the space.

I raise my eyes to look at him. I want to say, ‘No, I no longer fear Hestia; that was a long time ago when I was still young—the only fear I have for her now is what she will do to Izabel.’ But I do not say these things; defending my pride and protecting my ego is not important.

“Let me see Izabel,” I demand.

Apollo smiles and sucks on a tooth.

“Can’t do that just yet,” he says, with the shrug of his shoulders. “But you’ll see her soon enough.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him.

I grab the bars of my cage again and roar something not even I understand into the night.