Page 45 of Spiders in the Grove

Even I gasp.

“My apologies, Mr. Veselov,” Joaquin begins—forces himself to say, “but…the truth is”—he pauses, licking the dryness from his lips again; tiny beads of sweat have formed upon his forehead—“the truth is that if this woman is who she says she is, then my brother will want her alive.” It took everything in him to say it.

Cesara’s mouth practically hits the floor at his confession; her head darts from Joaquin to me; her eyes filled with a shockwave of disbelief. And betrayal. And heartbreak. And…vengeance? For a moment, she can’t speak; she just stands there, waiting, trying to get the wheel inside her head moving again.

Iosif’s broad shoulders rise and fall; I halfway expect him to argue, even threaten Joaquin—after all, whether he’s Vonnegut or just Iosif, he is technically still the most powerful man in this room, even more-so than Joaquin Ruiz, event planner, and shadow-dwelling brother.

“I-I-I need to excuse myself,” Dante says from his table; he hurries toward the nearest exit with a handkerchief over his mouth, and his other arm crossing his midsection.

I feel Frances Lockhart’s eyes on me; I look at her long enough to see how confused she appears. But she’s no longer crying, and if I saved only her life tonight, at least I can feel good about that.

The audience wants answers, and they continue to shout at Joaquin:

“Where is Javier Ruiz?!”

“What of El Segador?!”

“I’ll pay one million for El Segador!”

“One-point-five million for El Segador!”

“Where the fuck is Javier Ruiz?!”

“TWO MILLION FOR EL SEGADOR!”

Two buyers—one woman and one man—get into a shouting match, briefly drawing the attention of the crowd.

“What do you need him for?” the man asks the woman with a sneer. “A sex slave?”—he laughs—“He’d kill you before he ever fucked you.”

The woman snarls. “And you? You think someone like him will be forced to fight again?”

“Three million dollars for El Segador and Naeva Brun!” another man shouts. He turns to the crowd, smiling smugly. “She’s how to control El Segador!”

Amid all the shouting, I look over and see Iosif exiting the theatre; his burly form pushes through the crowd, his bodyguards on all sides of him. And just where are you going, Vonnegut? I can’t lose him—but I have no choice. At least I have a lead. A name. A face.

Joaquin’s voice piercing the microphone, drowns all others out:

“None of them will be sold!” he announces. “Now, due to…unexpected circumstances, the auction is ending early tonight! I thank you all for coming, and I do hope to see you again in six months! Goodnight!” He repeats everything in Spanish.

Some buyers grumble their protest, but most leave their tables with whispers and stares, all shuffling toward the exits with a plethora of exciting news that is sure to spread all over Mexico in under twenty-four hours. Javier Ruiz is alive! Leo Moreno is alive! Naeva Brun was there! La Princesa came back! Oh, such headlines!

In an eerie display, as the crowd thins, Jorge Ramierz’s body is left on the theatre floor in a pool of blood, and no one looks at it much less acts to move it.

Once the theatre is nearly emptied, Joaquin orders guards to seize Naeva first—he holds Leo Moreno still with the gun pressed to his head. “If you try anything,” Joaquin warns, “my men will kill your woman. Do you understand—do you understand?!” Spit spews from Joaquin’s mouth onto Leo’s enraged face.

“Si. Entiendo,” Leo replies, calmly, coldly, with Death himself in his eyes.

Naeva and Leo are dragged away; Leo in front, and guns always pointed mostly at her in case Leo tries anything. Naeva looks back at me once before being shoved through the exit. “Thank you, Sarai,” she mouths, and a tear slips down her cheek.

In the split-second I was distracted by her, I see a flash of Cesara’s enraged face coming at me. Weaponless, and taken by surprise, she throws me to the floor; the back of my head bangs against the wood; spots spring before my vision.

“YOU!” One hand winds violently within the top of my hair; the other holds a gun underneath my chin, forcing my head back painfully against the floor. Straddling my waist, Cesara’s eyes swirl with fury as she bears down on me. “It was you! IT WAS YOU!” she roars.

“Get off of her!” Joaquin’s voice rips through the air.

He grabs her from behind to pull her off; drags her by her hair onto the floor where his size-fourteen shoe makes contact with her ribs. Cesara drops the gun and recoils against the pain.

And then he comes after me.

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