Behind the Hands That Kill

“Are you sure about this, Naeva?” I gently grip her upper arms in my hands, anticipation seizing me now more than ever. “I meant what I said—you could die. And as much as I want to help you, I don’t want that on my conscience.”

Naeva smiles softly. She reaches up and touches my face.

“If I don’t go, Sarai…I’ll die anyway. I have to find him. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I have to find him.”

We embrace each other tightly.

Naeva Brun. The long-lost kid sister of none other than the man I love. Standing in my living room on the eve of the most important mission of my life. It’s one of those moments when you look back on your plans, your hopes and dreams, and realize that nothing ever happens the way you envision it; something odd or extraordinary, the one thing you never could’ve imagined, is thrown into the wheel in the most unexpected of moments. And it either helps to turn it, or it stops it in its tracks. Naeva, I believe, is very much turning that wheel—I feel it. I know it.

And even still, when I look at her, I can’t for the life of me see her as Victor’s sister. She’s Huevito, the girl who Izel nearly beat to death eleven years ago, a girl who I was not so unlike once upon a time, and I still feel as though I’m peering into a mirror when I look at her.

“What was that?” Naeva asks suddenly, pulling out of our hug.

I pretend not to have heard anything.

But then the voice gets louder, carrying through the vent in the floor.

“Did you hear that?” she asks; she squints her eyes in concentration, and gazes off in the direction of the muffled voice.

Then she looks at me, seeking answers.

I wasn’t going to tell her—or anyone for that matter—but since I trust her enough to take her to Mexico with me, I may as well let her in on this dark project, too.

I sigh and say with the wave of my hand, “Come with me and I’ll show you,” and she follows down the hallway.

Izabel

Pushing up on my toes, I reach above for the key hidden over the basement door. “I left the front door unlocked about twelve hours ago,” I say, sliding the key into the knob, “and someone almost wanted me bad enough.”

“Oh?” Naeva cocks an eyebrow, watching me with intense curiosity.

I open the door and reach out to flip the light switch on the wall; light floods the carpeted steps leading down into the basement. The voice becomes louder. “I need to take a piss, you fucking bitch!”

Naeva stops on the second step and just looks at me, her face all twisted up with confusion and concern.

I jerk my head back casually. “It’s all right,” I tell her, insisting she continue to follow. “He may’ve worked the gag out of his mouth, but there’s no way he’s getting out of the ropes.”

“Who is it?” Naeva whispers, still immobile on the second step.

I take her by the hand and lead her down the last ten steps, and we make our way into the basement.

Naeva’s eyes widen, and she gasps quietly. “My God,” she says, her hand loosely covering her mouth, “it’s Apollo Stone.”

Apollo is bound to an old wheelchair; ropes are tied around his arms and wrists and the chair’s frame; his legs and ankles to the folding leg rests. His feet are bare and the only clothing he wears are his form-fitting boxer briefs. He has muscle-defined runner’s legs, and a physique like the God Apollo himself. But this Apollo, being tied to a dusty wheelchair in nothing but his underwear and colorful language, isn’t doing his divine namesake any justice.

“Come on, girl,” Apollo insists, with the backward tilt of his head, “I gotta piss. Get me a soda bottle or somethin’. Don’t even have to untie my hands—you can hold it for me.” His mouth turns up on one side.

Naeva can barely take her eyes off him.

“Why—how is he here?” she asks, without looking at me.

Apollo snorts.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says, looking Naeva over with comical disappointment. And relief. “This is who you brought to keep an eye on me while you’re in wetback country?” He throws his head back and laughs.

I ignore him.

“Victor was right,” I tell Naeva. “When Apollo and Artemis found out I was still alive, they wasted no time coming after me.”

Naeva glances around the dimly-lit room, probably looking for another wheelchair with Artemis tied to it. But all she’ll see are a few water damaged boxes piled in one corner, a rusty crotch-rocket motorcycle frame leaning against a wall, two miss-matched end-tables pressed against an old water heater. But no Artemis Stone.

“Or, Apollo came for me, at least,” I correct myself, and then I look at Apollo. “No sign of Artemis yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Right, Apollo?” I smirk at him. “Or did your sister abandon you? Leave you here to rot like you deserve?”

Apollo smirks right back at me.

“She’s doing what she has to do,” he says. “She’ll come for me soon. And when she does, she’ll finish the job she started—how’s that scar feelin’, anyway? It’s not lookin’ any better.” He smiles. “It never will.”

I grin. Then I reach up and touch the still-healing scar across my throat with my fingertips.

“Actually, I kinda like it,” I say. “It’s proof that I’m not easy to kill.”

“Well don’t forget,” Apollo says with a gleam in his eye, “that Artemis has one just like it.” Then his smile spreads, and he adds, “Seems you have a lot in common with my sister. Near-death experiences. Matching scars. Victor Faust.” If he was trying to get under my skin—of course he was—then it worked. He’s used that against me a couple times since I dragged him down here. But I always openly ignore it.