“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.”
Izabel
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.
Victor
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.