J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

“STOP IT! Please just STOP!” Artemis buried her face within her hands.

I shot into a stand and turned to face Hestia, stood toe to toe with her.

“I think you should leave,” I insisted.

She glared at me through eyes full of ire. (I thought it was such a shame I was not commissioned to kill her, too. At that time, I did not understand why only the Stone brothers and parents were the ones with bounties on their heads—all three sisters were off-limits. Until that fateful night fifteen years ago.)

“You’re the reason for everything that’s happened,” Hestia accused boldly, completely unafraid of me in every way. “I don’t why, or who else is involved, but I’ll find out.” She pressed the tip of her index finger dead center in my chest, glared more coldly than before. “And if you hurt my sister…so help me God, I’ll hunt you every minute of every day until I find you. I’ll hang you from a meat hook and strip you of your skin, slowly, and I’ll leave you there to feel the pain. And then I’ll kill you.”

I had been threatened by many people in my life, but never had a threat chilled me before—I knew she would do it. I didn’t know why, but something told me that Hestia Stone was more than capable of backing up her threats—she would make sure of it. She was the only woman I ever feared.

A flash of black hair moved suddenly in the corner of my eye, and I lost my footing as Artemis flung herself between Hestia and me. I stumbled backward, grabbing onto the arm of the sofa for balance, but before I could stop her, Artemis was on top of Hestia, a shard of glass poking from the top of her hand. At first I thought maybe she had fallen on it because there was blood seeping through her fingers, running down her wrist, but when she raised her hand on her sister I saw that the glass was not there by accident, but with purpose.

“Artemis!” I ran toward her, tried to stop her.

But I was too late. Artemis’s hand came down, and it all happened so fast: the look on Hestia’s face, twisted by pain and shock and betrayal—most of all betrayal; the sound of glass penetrating the skin; the dark red color that soaked through the white of Hestia’s blouse; the chilling, rage-filled bellow that thundered through Artemis’s core, filling my ears and my heart with something I never could have imagined of her—unadulterated insanity.

Frozen in shock, I could not will my mind to move my legs; I could not form a sentence. My dear, sweet, Artemis Stone, not innocent by any means before this day, but certainly not what she became when she attacked her sister—I could not believe it.

Hestia managed to kick Artemis off of her, and Artemis fell backward into my arms; blood from both of them stained my hands. I grabbed her wrist and squeezed, knocking the shard from her grip; it fell on the floor without a sound. She fought against me, writhing, hitting, kicking, screaming, but I held her with ease in my arms until she calmed.

Hestia picked herself up from the floor, one hand covering the stab wound on her left breast; she was breathing hard, and could barely remain on her feet.

Raising her head once she was able, she started to look at me first, perhaps to finish what we started, to let me see just how much more desperately she wanted to kill me. But at the last second, her eyes veered and found Artemis instead. The look on her face, it spoke volumes—Artemis was no longer a sister of Hestia, and Hestia would never forgive her for what she had done.

Not a single word was spoken from the three of us, only the silent words that needed not be spoken to hear and understand them.

And then Hestia left. And it was the last time I saw her.

After all these years, I thought that because of what Artemis did, Hestia did not care much anymore about revenge against me. I kept tabs on Hestia from that day forth; it was only logical and mandatory I watch my back because of her threats. I could have killed her on many occasions, but, like Nora Kessler, I wanted her alive. I wanted to study her. She intrigued me. She intrigued me, because I feared her. And I have never been a man to snuff out or run from something that I fear. I face it and move toward it so that I can better understand what it is about that thing that I fear.

“You know,” Apollo says, waking me from my memories, “I never believed it before, but I see now that it’s true—you’re afraid of Hestia. You’re actually afraid of her!” His laughter echoes throughout the space.

I raise my eyes to look at him. I want to say, ‘No, I no longer fear Hestia; that was a long time ago when I was still young—the only fear I have for her now is what she will do to Izabel.’ But I do not say these things; defending my pride and protecting my ego is not important.

“Let me see Izabel,” I demand.

Apollo smiles and sucks on a tooth.

“Can’t do that just yet,” he says, with the shrug of his shoulders. “But you’ll see her soon enough.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him.

I grab the bars of my cage again and roar something not even I understand into the night.

The strong smell of perfume wakes me, and when I open my eyes I see that woman from before again, dressed in the tight bodysuit that zips all the way up her throat, standing in the room with me.

“Good. You’re awake,” she says. “We should get started.”

I realize that I’m lying on a bed; a pillow has even been tucked under my head. My bonds have been cut; the gag has been removed from my mouth.

“Get started with what?” I ask, weakly.

The woman smiles carefully at me. I glimpse a knife beside her on a vanity next to various sorts of makeup, hair styling items, and other such things; four bright lights, two on each side of the vanity mirror, light up the small room that has little else in it worthy of noting.

Of course, of all the things in her reach she could take into her hand, she chooses the knife and comes toward me.

Instinctively I try to leap off the bed and run for the closed door, but my legs collapse beneath me, and a familiar white-hot pain sears through my tailbone and hips; the buzzing sound of the cattle prod zips through my ears. I crash onto the floor; my eyes are clenched tight as the pain works its way through my stiffened body. Only after my muscles begin to ease and soften again do I hear the second set of footsteps behind me as whoever had been in the room with us backs away.

The woman crouches in front of me as I lie on the floor, trying to catch my breath.

“What I plan to do to you,” she warns in an eerily calm voice, “will be much worse than a little shock.”

“W-What are you going t-to do?” I stutter, as I still haven’t gained back the full ability to speak after that last shock.

I feel her fingers moving through my hair, and I look up at her looming over me.

“I’m going to finish what I started so long ago with Victor Faust.”

Her words, though vague and few, inject several extra beats in my heart.

She raises the knife to me, letting the shiny silver blade flash in front of my eyes. “Now, will you be cooperating, or will you be making this more difficult for me, and in turn, yourself?”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, settling with cooperation.

“For now,” she says, stands, and then reaches out a hand to me, “I want you to listen.”

Reluctantly I accept her hand and she pulls me to my feet.

“And later?” I ask, uneasy.

She walks back over to the brightly-lit vanity, her back to me, but I don’t forget about the other person in the room.