Chapter 10
Zira
The days passed as if nothing had happened, but Hazard’s eyes watched me.
Locked inside, he kept one eye on his closest window, and whenever I glanced up, he was there, his gaze fixated on me.
There was a chance that he was simply eager for answers about his sister, but deep down, I knew it was more than that.
He was obsessed with me, and I liked knowing that.
Unless a man was pulling my teeth or using my holes, rich daughters were a dime a dozen in Opulent Gates. I always had to prove my worth.
But not to Hazard.
I walked across the lawn, the rotten stench of the pond drifting up to my nose as I found the side entrance to the banquet hall. Inside of the last room for socializing, I pressed a picture frame on the wall. The wall panel shifted open, exposing a small hidden door leading underground.
With every step down, the air was cooler.
Hell is always portrayed as a fiery pit of madness, like a volcano without a clear vent in sight.
But I always imagine something like this: silent, cold, and endless.
Narrow hallways leading to nothing, and little boxes with withering bones.
I flipped the switch and the lights flickered on, illuminating the catacombs.
The Marked Blooms Syndicate had a long, bloody history filled with the deaths of women.
Men were killed too, of course, especially male enemies tricked into attending Masquerades simply to be executed.
But women were the preferred choice. Women were disposable here—objects to be traded. A way to get off.
But then the modern frame of mind made a few members nervous about their image.
What if the public found out about us? they wondered.
We can’t kill women! Not publicly, anyway.
So, they made some small, but deliberate changes.
They still killed women, of course; they were just better at hiding it now.
And officially, they stopped killing women at the Masquerades.
After all, they weren’t that depraved. They spared the women, for god’s sake!
Except on special occasions, like my mother’s death.
Each wall was filled with symmetrical wooden boxes, slid inside of the stone slots.
A sink dripped water in the back, next to a long stainless steel tray with a drainage hole.
Must and wet brick stunk up the air. Hundreds of tombs lined each wall, each corner, every inch of this underground maze.
Amazingly enough, my father’s first action as director was adding more secret entrances to the catacombs, and digging out more spaces for the tombs.
Of course, these days, many of the corpses were burned in acid or disposed of in more modern, less incriminating ways.
But there was a legacy here that my father refused to get rid of, as if living his life above thousands of dead bodies showed how powerful he was.
He made sure to always add a few more each year to keep it topped off.
And I always found myself back here, wandering around like a mouse in a lab experiment.
In the back and behind a glass door, a large and thick handwritten book, weighing close to fifteen pounds, rested on a pedestal.
I unlocked the glass door with a gold key, then skimmed through the logbook of the names added throughout the years.
It was a catalog of corpses. Elegant cursive lines transformed into black scrawls as time progressed through the pages. Names upon names upon names.
Misty Owens.
Jessica Ronalds.
Lily Hall.
I scanned for any name starting with a ‘G.’ Gianna. Georgina. Grace. And finally, Birth Name: Gabby Boucher. Assigned Name: Gillian Dumas. The entry read: Sacrificed at the Masquerade by blood loss due to attempted beheading. Discarded by Gore Bloom.
Gore Bloom. My father.
My stomach twisted. She wasn’t the first woman my father had killed, but I still remembered that night. The Dentist had removed my canines, and I had held her body as life fled her eyes.
Shit.
I leaned on the wall. This information made the whole business exchange with Hazard complicated, and not in a good way.
What would I tell Hazard? He’d jump to conclusions, ready to execute my father, driven by that impulse to always do what he wanted.
And I couldn’t have that. Our entire family legacy rode on blood, and I honestly wouldn’t mind getting rid of my father—in fact, I often fantasized about it—but I also needed the Marked Blooms Syndicate to be under my control first. I needed confirmation that I had the members’ respect, and I couldn’t do that without a seat on the board, or my father’s support. I needed his blessing before he died.
I studied the entry again. Written underneath in small letters was a note: Sacrificed by Ernest Dumas.
Ernest Dumas. The newest board member. The last barrier that kept me from the board. The person to take my mother’s life. The same man who had humiliated me the night his wife died in my arms.
No one will take you seriously, he had said.
Now that information worked nicely with what I already had in mind. By giving Hazard a direct person related to his sister’s disappearance, he could put his impulses to good use. And we’d both get what we wanted.
But for some reason, that plan didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t mind screwing over Hazard—he seemed loyal, but I knew better than to trust anyone—but his sister had been put in the wrong situation, like my mother and so many other women. I didn’t like the thought of screwing her over.
My skin flushed, but I calmed myself down. We couldn’t kill my father yet, but I promised myself that we would. Eventually. But Hazard couldn’t know anything yet.
I took the steps back to the land of the living and wandered over to the supplies shed. The tall building shadowed me as I approached the front doors. Inside, the head estate managers—the one in charge of my father’s quarters—was on the phone. As soon as he saw me in his doorway, he ended the call.
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” I teased. He straightened his tie.
“What can I do for you, Miss Bloom?” he said, his shoulders stiff.
“Christopher Cox,” I said, pointing toward the main building. “Doing the renovations for my father’s private gym?” The estate manager nodded deeply. “What’s his story?”
“His story, ma’am?”
I rolled my eyes. Did he think I was stupid? “He’s not from the contractors we usually hire,” I said flatly.
He motioned for me to close the door, and I did. The room was quiet, the subtle hum of electricity buzzing through the fluorescent lights.
“You see, one of the contractors suggested him. Highly recommended him, even. I think he might have—” he cleared his throat, “—taken care of some business for him, you know.”
Which was code for ‘the contractor had hired him to kill someone.’
“Ah,” I said.
“We were in a position where we had to take him. But should Mr. Cox not measure up to the Bloom Estate standards, he can be discarded immediately, Miss Bloom. Has he disappointed you?”
I flicked the hair off of my shoulder. “Not at all. Actually, on the contrary. Could you move him to my quarters after he’s done?” I asked. “Have Rochelle draw up a plan for remodeling my bedroom.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I left the building, then went to my wardrobe.
It was as big as a studio apartment, with several sofas and chairs, but it could use a little freshening up, and I didn’t mind the idea of having Hazard around more.
In fact, I liked the idea of keeping him around.
His impulsiveness kept me on my toes, and his indulgent personality kept my legs spread.
I laid down on one of the tufted benches. My wardrobe was one of the few places on the estate that was safe from prying ears. I dialed one of my favorite contacts for when I needed to do a little digging.
“Gordon’s Research Specialists,” a male voice said.
“Gordie,” I said.
“Miss Bloom.” He shuffled around on the other end, like he was standing up to greet the queen as she waltzed into his business. “What’s it gonna be today?”
“What can you tell me about Gabby Boucher?” I asked.
“Let me check.” Clicks filtered through the speaker. He grunted. “Worked three jobs for most of her adult life. According to this, she actually searched for the Syndicate.”
That was interesting. Most of the time, the members approached the women once they knew they were desperate for a change.
“Let’s see,” Gordie continued. “So she signed the Syndicate’s arranged marriage contract to get her brother out of some trouble. Married Ernest Dumas. She was on birth control though. Was sending money orders to her brother.”
“Tell me about her brother.”
More clicks, then a grunt. “Uh, in and out of jail. Looks like he was into drugs. Clean now. But a bad history. Gambling. Violence. All around, a P.O.S.,” he mumbled.
That sounded about right, though I had to give Hazard more credit than being an all around piece of shit.
“And what about his financial situation? You mentioned his sister sending money orders?”
“Hold on.” He typed quickly, then his chair squeaked. “Let’s see. Uh, okay. So he made monthly five-thousand dollar deposits for a few years to an account under his sister’s name.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Must have been saving up for her.”
I smacked my lips. A man like Hazard was supposed to spend that money, simply for the hell of it.
Loyalty won over his impulses, then. At least sometimes.
“What about his other accounts?”
“None that I can find right now. Must have done cash based businesses,” he said. “Ah. Says here that he did some black market deals. Dabbled in contract killing too.”
Everything slid into place. Gabby was a good older sister who took care of her younger brother.
She reminded me of my mother, in a way. My mother hadn’t wanted to be a Marked Bloom Wife, but as the only woman who could give my father a child, that’s the way it had to be, and she always protected me. When she was alive, anyway.