Behind The Hands That Kill

ELEVEN

“I always wondered about you,” Brant said. “Ever since that gorgeous piece of ass, Marina, who you were quite smitten with, despite the life you snuffed from her so ceremoniously.” He laughed under his breath lightly, his broad shoulders bouncing. “I have to admit, Faust, I’ve always admired your style. Balls of steel, and more unpredictable than a bipolar bitch on her period.”

“What is this about, Brant? Why are you here?”

He smiled evenly.

“I’m everywhere you go,” he told me. “Being my apprentice, Faust; you know that.”

Yes, I knew that, but why was he here? I had done nothing wrong; I was fulfilling my contract on schedule, even without finding you yet, Apollo. But I still had time. I had done nothing to warrant a surprise visit from my superior. I kept asking myself this question: Why is he here? But I already knew the answer—I was being tested by The Order, after all. Like I had assumed when this all started, there was suspicion about my feelings for Artemis Stone.

And with good reason.

Brant walked farther into the room; his jaw moved as he casually chewed gum. He sat down on the end of the bed, placed his gun beside him, and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the tops of his legs; his hands dangled between them.

I looked back and forth between him, Osiris, and Artemis. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I looked away again quickly. I had to.

“The girl was not in my contract,” I stated.

Brant nodded. “But she is now.”

“Why?” I asked right away, but wished I had not.

“Oh, Faust,” Brant responded with casual reprimand, “you know that’s one of the first rules: Never ask why; the why never matters. A contract is a contract; the name or names on it are just names, destined to be numbers, with many zeroes behind them.”

There was nothing I could say in defense or argument—Brant was right, and I knew it better than anyone.

I turned to Osiris, still trying so hard to keep from seeing Artemis’s eyes.

“What about Apollo?” I asked.

“Apollo Stone,” Brant answered for Osiris, “has been—at least temporarily—removed from the contract.”

“Removed?” My questions were merely a stalling tactic; I was still at war with myself, and I needed time to figure out what I intended to do.

Osiris breathed heavily, and his gaze veered; he seemed ashamed, or disappointed. “I could only afford one of them,” he admitted. “At the last minute I decided I wanted Artemis dead instead of Apollo—I want my brother to live with what he did to my wife, and to live with knowing that because of what he did, his treasured twin paid the price.”

“You bastard!” Artemis screamed.

She bit down on his arm, and automatically he released her. His hand came up and fell down against the side of her face like a bloodthirsty whip. Artemis hit the floor. He leaned over, grabbed her by her hair again, lifted her violently, and pushed her back onto my lap. The chair I was bound to almost could not hold the abrupt weight, and it tilted on its two back legs before settling. Feeling like I was the only one in the room who could save her, Artemis did not try to run from me; she latched on to me instead, buried her face in the crook of my neck, and cried. No, I cannot have her here, on me like this…I cannot smell her, or feel her soft flesh against mine…I cannot…

The raging war inside me grew.

And grew.

And grew.

I could hear the voices of Brant and Osiris and Artemis, talking to me, talking to each other, arguing, pleading, mocking—I did not know the difference anymore. I began to see faces in my mind, clear as glass, as vivid as reality. They were the faces of the people I had killed. But they were not there to haunt me, they were there to remind me. About who I was and what I knew I would always be. And when I saw Marina’s face, framed by her Marilyn Monroe hair, bejeweled by her Monica Bellucci lips, I felt in my heart something that no true assassin is ever permitted to feel—regret.

Suddenly I could no longer hear the voices of my company, and the faces had vanished from my mind. I heard nothing and saw nothing other than the steady pounding of my heart, and the dark of Artemis’s hair as she lay against me, the warmth of our naked bodies mingling as if we had never been dragged out of bed.

I loved her. It is true. Artemis Stone was proof that I could never be the operative everyone thought that I was. She was proof that I was more human than what was required of an Order operative. But to me, more than that, Artemis Stone was proof that I was weak, and that not once, but twice, I allowed the scent of a woman to cloud my judgment, to throw me so far off my game that Death himself was but feet from my door.

Did I care about my own life? No. I did not. I have never been afraid to die. I do not go looking for it, but I have always chosen to welcome death when it chooses to visit me. I was prepared to welcome it on this day, but…

“Victor,” Artemis whispered, looking up at me at an angle, “please don’t let them hurt me.” I could still faintly smell the wine on her breath from our dinner earlier that night. I pictured her in that black dress; I could still smell the product she had used to curl her long, dark hair; I thought of the two of us running out of the restaurant, laughing and smiling and living in the moment.

With two of my fingers, I pulled her head closer, and I dipped mine, pressing my lips to the spot between her eyes. And I held them there for the longest time; my eyes, closed tightly, began to sting and water; that strange lump had formed in my throat again, but this time I could not swallow it down and it was choking me.

And as I slid the blade across Artemis’s throat, I whispered against her ear with tears in my voice, “I am unable to have children, Artemis Stone.”

I gasp so sharply that I lose my breath; it feels like someone punched me in the stomach.

He killed her…he loved her, yet he killed her anyway.

I stumble backward, away from the vanity, trying to understand, trying to find words and thoughts and excuses for Victor. I can still vaguely see my reflection in the vanity mirror; I’m dressed in a black dress and black high-heels; my hair has been curled so that it falls just below my ears; my makeup has been painted to perfection by Hestia’s careful hand. But mostly what I see is the sad and bloody picture that Victor’s words left remnants of in my mind.

He killed the woman he loved…

“Now do you see?” I hear Hestia say somewhere behind me. “Now do you understand?”

I look down at myself again: the dress, the curled hair, the telling similarities to Artemis when she spent her last meal in that restaurant with Victor so long ago, and all hope I had left disappears.

Without turning to look at her I answer, “Yeah…I understand.” Then I do turn, and I look her right in the eyes. “I understand perfectly.”

Hestia smiles slimly, confidently, and I accept that Death is at my door.

Blood seeped through all of my fingers, and I could hear Artemis choking, gasping for air, and I could not let her go. I held her there in the embrace of my one free arm, listening to her last breaths, feeling the life drain out of her. Osiris and Brant stood like statues in the room, watching the scene with wide eyes and parted lips, shocked by my actions, I supposed. I thought it odd how they both wanted me to kill her, and I did, exactly in the manner in which was required of me, yet they looked as though they had never seen someone dying before.

Sirens wailed and drew closer; ultimately drawing Brant and Osiris from their shock-induced states. Police? Who called the police?

“We have to go, Victor,” Brant insisted.

He walked toward me quickly, drew a knife from his pocket and cut me free from my bonds—I was so dazed myself that I never noticed when Artemis fell from my lap and hit the floor. And I could not recall later—because I thought about that night many nights after—if I ever looked back at her as Brant dragged me from the room and out of the house, still naked.

I sped away in my car, following Brant down the back roads, and almost crashed into a tree because all I could look at, the only thing that existed in my world at that moment, was Artemis’s blood on my hands, both literally and symbolically. I was white-knuckling the steering wheel; her blood covered the tops of my fingers, and every crevice in my mind. It was all that I could see, her blood.

“And Osiris?” Apollo asks.

“I never heard from him again,” I answer, still somewhat lost in my thoughts. “It is not customary to keep contact with a client after a job has been fulfilled.”

Apollo is standing by my cell now; I am sitting on the floor.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

I erase the images completely from my mind, and I look up at him through the bars.

“How did you feel about Osiris,” he clarifies, “after he made you kill the woman you loved?”

“He did not make me do anything,” I answer without flinching.

“So then you wanted to kill my sister?” He cocks his head to one side. “Is that what you’re saying, Victor? Because if that’s true”—he shakes his head, clenches his fists—“if that’s true then we have a very different problem, you and I.” His solid gaze seethes with anger.

“There is nothing more to tell,” I say, and look down at the stones around my bare feet.

An eerie silence chokes the room all around us.

Then Apollo says, “Oh, but there is, Faust,” and a proud grin deepens in his face. “There is so much more to tell. Only…”—he glances behind him toward the exit, then looks back at me—“…you won’t be the one telling it.”

I hear voices funneling down the hallway just beyond the door; shadows move against the floor beneath it. I am afraid; absolute fear grips my chest. What has become of Izabel? All that I can think of is Hestia’s threat years ago, and I try to mentally prepare myself to see Izabel, wheeled into the room because she can no longer walk; bloodied by the blade of Hestia’s knife; skinned alive and put on display. For me. For long-overdue revenge.

Dull light from the hallway spills in as the door opens. I cannot breathe; my heart is beating so fast I feel it in my head, hear it pounding against my eardrums. Slowly I rise into a stand, and I do not tear my eyes away from the figures moving through the darkest shadows; my hands are on the bars of my cage again, gripping, squeezing, pulling; all of the moisture has evaporated from my mouth.

And then I see her, Izabel, alive and seemingly unharmed, and I let my breath out in one deep sigh of relief; my legs feel weak beneath me, and for a moment I feel that hope is not lost, after all.

But then I see another face—Artemis Stone.

And what strength I had left in my legs, betrays me.