Page 67 of Spiders in the Grove

“If you hear from Victor again, tell him one thing for me.”

“I won’t hear from him, but you can tell me if you want.”

I pause, thinking back to a day that wasn’t so long ago, a day when I hid in the trunk of an assassin and escaped Mexico. Was it for love that fate led me to his car? Or was it something else?

I raise my eyes to Mozart.

“Tell him that he was wrong. It doesn’t end this day—it begins.”

Izabel

Two weeks later…

When I went to Mexico, I didn’t exactly get what I went there for, but I brought back with me something I never anticipated—myself. Cesara and Javier; for all of their faults, they helped me realize who I truly am, who I’ve always been, and who I’ll always be.

“I’m so fucking tired of following in the shadows of men.”

While although I’m certainly not some kind of man-hating Amazon, I have accepted in my heart that I’m stronger than any man I’ve ever known, and that as much as I’ll always love Victor, I can move on in my life without him. I don’t want to—but he gave me no choice, so what else am I to do but move on? It’s what I’m doing, though not like Victor wanted. He hoped I would go back to the normal world, to live the typical American life, to get married and have kids and a dog and go on family vacations to places where I won’t get kidnapped and tortured.

I’m sorry, Victor, but I can’t. I will still work as an assassin—for what clients, I have yet to figure out, but I will—and I will still play roles that could lead me right into the grave. Because I like it. I enjoy everything about it: the missions, the different faces I get to wear, the satisfaction I get out of killing people who deserve it.

Maybe I don’t even need clients. I truly am the only client I really need. Because the job isn’t about money for me—it’s about vengeance. And bloodshed. It’s about being a voice for those whose voices were stolen from them. And there is no shortage of people who deserve to die, that’s for sure.

Of course, I wouldn’t turn down money, either, if a job came my way.

“You’re a wolf in the chicken pen; you kill because you’re hungry, because it’s in your nature, and your remorse only goes as far as what you’re willing to let affect you. Because you secretly despise affection, companionship, and love. You crave power above all things, because up there, at the top where no one can touch you, influence you, or love you, you know you can never be hurt.”

Javier was right. But as I think back on those words he said to me with so much conviction, I realize something extraordinary—the same words can be said of Victor Faust.

I am more like Victor than I ever knew; maybe that’s why I’m taking our separation so calmly; maybe that’s why I’ve accepted it. Because we are the same person. With the same struggles and faults and ideas. The same strengths and weaknesses. The same bloodlust. We love and hate each other. We are equally encumbered, burdened by one another. We are the same. Therefore, I am Izabel Faust.

It began the day Victor thought it would all end—the new identity, the new name. Izabel Seyfried is dead along with Sarai Cohen. Seyfried was the apprentice. Faust is the Master. She is who I am now.

But my priorities have shifted—I will no longer hunt Vonnegut. He is Victor’s kill, and he can have him.

And since I haven’t heard even a whisper from Fredrik or even Niklas, I’ve had no other choice but to move with the waters of change and accept those changes for what they are.

Victor’s Order is broken. Disbanded. It no longer exists. I’ve checked every secret location, even the Safe Houses, and there’s no one in them anymore. I’ve tried contacting the remaining members, and only a few could be reached. James Woodard took his family and moved to Oregon. I traveled there to visit with him:

“When was the last time you saw Victor?” I had asked, sitting in his small living room surrounded by blue flowered wallpaper.

“It’s been a long time, Izabel,” he told me, “longer than the last time you saw him. I think it was right after you two came back from Venezuela.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know—anything?”

“If you mean did he tell me anything that might point you to his current whereabouts, then no, sorry but he didn’t.”

I nodded.

“Well, how’d you know to…move on from his Order then?” I had asked.

“I’m always here if he needs me,” he had said. “Had to get off the East Coast; my family is important to me, and I just felt like the longer I stayed there…” He didn’t have to finish; I understood.

The real reason I went to see James Woodard that day wasn’t because I’d hoped he would have information on Victor’s whereabouts—although I certainly wouldn’t have ignored it if he did. But I wanted to ask James if he wanted to work for me.

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