Neither of them back down from the other; Osiris steps between them to stop a fight before it starts, and only then do they move away in opposite directions: Nora back to her seat next to me; Hestia next to her brother. It’s then that I notice they kinda look like twins, too, Hestia and Osiris.
“So what’s your story?” James speaks up—I had forgotten he was even in the room. “I-I mean, despite wanting the rest of your family dead, you two seem close…” It’s as though when more than one pair of eyes looks at James Woodard all at the same time, he immediately tucks his head back inside his shell.
“The more important question,” Nora puts in, “is what your qualifications are? Just because you come from some crime family, doesn’t make you Order material—Niklas, I really can’t believe Victor would leave this up to these two.” She begins to pace back and forth behind her chair. Then she reaches for her cell phone on the table. “I’m calling Victor.”
As she’s running her thumb over the screen, Osiris says, “We are The Gemini.”
Nora’s thumb freezes over her phone, and she looks at Osiris.
I throw my head back and laugh, because I just can’t fucking believe it.
The Gemini. Here. In the flesh.
I sit in Victor’s seat again and kick my feet up on the table, crossing my ankles.
“Interesting,” I say.
And then I light another cigarette.
Victor
Tucson, Arizona
I have thought about it a lot in the two hours I have spent in this car, parked outside near Dina Gregory’s newest residence: When have I ever sat alone, the way I am now, evaluating the events that have unfolded throughout my life? Never. Never have I bestowed upon myself such a luxury; I do not deserve it; I do not want it; I do not want it because it frightens me.
Evaluating one’s life leads to change in one’s life.
Change. The very thought of it sets my teeth on edge. But I can no longer pretend that I am forever immune to its inevitable purpose. No one is immune to change, especially those who fear it. It comes for us first, and it destroys us swiftly because we fight it the hardest. I have been fighting it since I met Izabel. I fought it relentlessly as it happened all around me; every single thing I have done, since Sarai in Mexico, has been me fighting the change she has stirred.
I was wrong before, when I told Izabel I cannot change for her—I must. I cannot fight it anymore. In the end, to continue fighting it would mean that Izabel would have to die.
But she lived.
Again, and again, and again—she survived. And although it was not me who ultimately saved her, it was I who spared her. And for me, there is no proof more compelling that I love this woman more than I have ever loved anyone or anything.
But I must find a balance in this change. I am still the same man I was yesterday—that will never change—but I must now also allow the part of me that Izabel created, to live equally alongside him.
I get out of my car and walk down the sidewalk toward Dina Gregory’s house, and for the first time in my life I look up at the stars with purpose, a hundred pinpricks in the fabric of a black sky, and I feel the change happening in real-time. I feel the pressure in my chest, a strange, warm light in my eyes, and, of all things, I welcome it. Maybe that is the key to surviving change: embracing it, however cumbersomely, or gracefully, one can.
Bugs swirl around the blazing porch light near the front door; I hear a dog barking in the distance, the night breeze combing through the trees, a truck engine revving in the driveway of a house nearby, and my heart beating in my ears and in my head. I knock lightly. And I swallow.
Izabel has been staying with Dina since she was released from the hospital, and I have not spoken to her since the night Artemis slit her throat. I was there with her, nearly every hour of every day at her bedside, and when she was awake and able to talk, I tried, but she would not talk to me. Or anyone for that matter. Only the nurses. I have been patient, as I will continue to be. But I cannot deny the anxiety I feel inside, not knowing what she is thinking, or if she can ever forgive me for what happened to her.
I hear movement on the other side of the door, and then the clicking of a lock. My hands are sweating; I unfold them from one another to allow in some air.
“I wondered how long you’d sit outside,” Izabel says, standing in the doorway.
She gestures me in.
“You knew?” I ask.
Izabel makes a noise with her breath, and shakes her head as if she cannot believe I even asked. I cannot believe it, either. Love makes a man undeniably stupid.
My gaze sweeps the living room. A basket of folded laundry sits on the floor beside the sofa; lemon-scented furniture polish and powdered carpet freshener is distinct in the air.
“You have been cleaning,” I say, feeling awkward about my poor attempt to spark conversation. I am not used to this sort of thing; I want to talk with Izabel about what happened, but I certainly do not want to lead with it.
“Yeah, I’ve been cleaning,” she says.
She walks into the kitchen, and I follow.
“Want some coffee?” she asks, turning her back to me and sifting through a cabinet.
“No thank you.”