Chapter 7
CHRISTOPHER
After ten years, the only place I thought I’d be seeing my mother was hell.
Turns out, I wasn’t too far off.
“Honestly, Berry, you had one job to do.” The furious slash of Cruella’s voice cuts through the bitter wind, “How hard is it to spell Hellman?! You missed half the fucking letters!”
It seems perfectly fitting to me, that after ten long years, I would be striding under a wrought-iron gate aptly named Hell Hall.
Truly, Berry is a poet who does not receive enough credit.
“I-I am so sorry.” Bumbling and blushing profusely, he takes a step away from the fuming woman, “I-It was a terrible mistake. I will see to it that the name gets changed immediately.”
“This was supposed to be my wedding present to Mr. Hellman!” Screeching at the top of her lungs, my mother flaps gloved hands around her head, “He’s going to think I’m an imbecile. Is that what you want, Berry?!”
Berry’s gaunt cheeks turn an alarming shade of beetroot. The poor man is fiddling with his ill-fitted suit, struggling to stay afloat in the current threatening to overtake him.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence and throwing the sap a lifeline, “I think Hell Hall rolls off the tongue rather nicely. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Y-Yes... I mean, no. No, not at all.” Swallowing audibly, he casts a hopeless look at me, “I best be on my way, but your request will be filed immediately, Mrs. Hellman.”
“I better not see you again until this mistake is fixed, or mark my words...”
The threat never gets finished because Berry is already hightailing it down the driveway.
“Can you believe this fucking mess?” Huffing angrily, Cruella digs through her coat and pulls out a thin cigarette holder, “Bastard charges me premium to get it done on time and then fucks it up. He’s lucky I’m not suing the company.”
I’ve always wondered whether there would be a moment in my life when I would realize my mother was never coming for me. When I would stop hoping she would notice just how long it has been since she’s seen her only child.
When I would give up the fruitless dream that after all these years, Cruella Deville would have missed me.
Even for a fucking second.
“It’s good to see you too, mum.”
The words feel like shattered porcelain scraping the inside of my throat. I watch my mother turn and look at me, a flicker of recognition dawning in her bitterly dark eyes.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t gotten those eyes.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Christopher. It’s not my fault you came at a terrible time.”
She takes a long drag of her cigarette, sucking down as much nicotine as possible before facing the inconvenience that is her son.
“Wait until you see the rest of the house. Looks like a dump with all the renos going on, but the marble flooring is finally finished.” Flicking off the burnt embers, she takes another drag and casts a glance over me, “You’ll have to take your shoes off before coming in.
Can’t have you trekking mud through the Colonel’s wedding present. ”
It’s funny, really. Even when it was just the two of us, living out of a shitty basement suite and eating instant noodles, it was never just the two of us.
There was always a boyfriend. A potential husband.
It didn’t matter how many diamond necklaces I stole for her, at the end of the day, the only one she wanted was the one I could never give her. No amount of love or affection was going to keep Cruella satisfied, not when there was bigger fish to find.
And there was always bigger fish to find.
“This one’s a Colonel?”
“For the private sector, apparently.” Tossing her cigarette on the ground, Cruella grounds it with a sharp heel, “You know how it is. Don’t ask and I won’t tell. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I follow her into the French Chateau, opting not to take off my shoes like she’d told me.
Construction tools litter the newly tiled floors, the glistening black and white marble laid out in a mosaic of my mother’s own design.
Stark white couches are positioned near the black accented wall furnishings, offering a perfect balance of modern and vintage with the enlarged photographs covering the spaces in-between.
It feels a bit like stepping into a black-and-white film, complete with an atmosphere that promises an evening of elegance and glamour.
Any trace of the previous family has been stripped away, leaving only the occasional dead animal bagged and tagged to be shipped off and turned into a heinous fashion creation.
Unlike me, my mother blends into her surroundings perfectly.
Black and white in every sense of the word, Cruella’s glossy fur coat hangs thick and heavy on her razor thin body.
The only tell of the years that has passed are the wrinkles decorating the back of her hands and the strips of grey fashionably woven throughout her jet black hair.
I read an article once, that said nobody pulls off the two-tone look better than controversial fashion designer Mrs. Deville. There wasn’t a single mention of the animals her product line has slaughtered or the thousands of pounds she’s invested in keeping her face smoother than a baby’s bum.
Then again, people only see what they want to see.
“You can take your pick of the guest bedrooms, there’s twelve of them in total, but the master is off-limits. Stick to your space and I’ll stick to mine.”
“Sick of me already? I thought we’d make it at least two weeks before the claws came out.”
She snorts, not bothering to break her stride, “This is a business trip, not a reunion. Or did I misinterpret our last correspondence?”
I bite my tongue because she’s not wrong. The second half of our contract clearly states all the reasons this isn’t a family reunion. Bit of a self-preservation technique, if I’m being honest, but God knows this woman had no trouble signing the dotted line.
She’s never been one to settle for an inconvenience.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d read it.” Tucking my hands into the pocket of my jeans, I peek my head into one of the extravagant guest rooms, “As soon as the dollar signs were listed, I figured you’d skim the rest.”
“This is a business deal, Christopher. Do your best not to get attached.”
Her flippant tone has my teeth grinding together.
“Do you have the report I asked for?”
“Yes, although you really should work on your penmanship.” A drawn eyebrow does its best to arch beneath layers of Botox, “Your lack of education is starting to show through.”
“And here I thought I only needed a filthy rich husband to be successful.”
“So he does have some wit left.” Dark eyes slash towards me, the click of her stilettos coming to a halt, “Wasn’t sure if life on the street had rung it out of you.”
A dry laugh escapes me, “Only the ones I love can make me bleed. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
The words are sharp, almost as sharp as the scrap of metal digging into my chest. Brushing past her, I open the closest bedroom door and throw my duffel bag down.
I don’t have to turn around to know she’s already gone.
Ignoring the king-sized canopy bed, I head for the ensuite bathroom tucked in the corner of the blindly white room. From drapes to sheets, everything is stark and sterile in colour, except for the film prints hanging along the wall.
Fame. Money. Glamour.
Keeping the lights off and the door open, I disappear into the dark bathroom, letting the shadows and the cool jets of water ease the pressure from my mind.
Droplets cling to the key nestled between my pecs, the tarnished piece of metal clinging to the chain around my neck. It lies flat against the only part of my body not covered in ink, a crude little souvenir that should have fallen off a long time ago.
But for some reason, it keeps holding on.
By the time I’m walking out of the bathroom, toweling off my hair, there’s a report sitting soundly atop the bag I don’t plan on unpacking.
All twelve counsel members and their respective criminal associates await me inside the folder. Countless rap sheets and a spiderweb of deadly connections promise a score bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.
Blonde hair catches my eyes, the wicked gaze of a little girl clipped to the back of the Dragon’s folder.
Calista Drache, otherwise known as the Dragon’s daughter, has no records on file.
An image pulled from Wolf Hollow Academy depicts a girl with curly blonde hair and green eyes.
Rumours speculate the business conducted within the Drache Manor, business which left the girl with injuries the school nurses monitored every few months.
Attached is a single image, a grainy shot of what looks to be legs torn apart. There’s so much blood covering the pale skin, it’s hard to tell the cause of the injury.
Makes me fucking sick to look at it.
Forcing myself to look away from the carnage, I study the photo of the girl again. She was a little princess even back then, the regal tilt of her chin and the ferocious look in her eyes. Even without a smile, you can tell she was destined to be a beautiful woman.
And a cynical one, at that.
A rock sinks deep in my gut as I study the anger simmering beneath the youthful surface. The fire already simmering in the eyes of a woman who won’t think twice about hitting back.
Calista Drache is a fighter alright and I have a sneaking suspicion I’m the sucker standing on the other side.
Get in. Get out. Don’t get attached.