Page 52 of Spiders in the Grove

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.

“Are you waiting for a family member?” the man probes, trying to spark up conversation—she’s been quiet the three minutes since they sat down together.

“You have a good face,” the woman says.

The man blinks a few times, then sips from his coffee as a distraction.

“Thanks…” He glances at the ticket counter; the women laugh quietly when they see the bewildered look on his face.

The woman makes a move toward her purse, and he tenses briefly.

“I will show you,” she says, her voice always unnervingly calm, emotionless.

As the woman unzips her purse on the tabletop, the man uses the opportunity to covertly peer inside. He doesn’t see anything that could be used as a weapon, just a small packet of tissues, a wallet, a trial-size bottle of hand sanitizer, and other random things that typically end up in women’s purses.

She pulls out a small mirror.

“Have a look,” she says, and holds the mirror out for him to take it.

Reluctantly—and after another bewildered glance at his co-workers—he takes the mirror and holds it, not exactly sure what she wants him to do with it.

“Look,” she urges, nodding at the mirror.

The man swallows nervously, and then holds the mirror up in front of him.

“What am I…supposed to be looking at?”

“Your face.”

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