Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
DIORA
That single text I sent three months ago has brought an onslaught of messages from Mrs. Jay.
She has no boundaries, texting at any moment, and I need to reply within three minutes of her sending them or she blows up my phone so bad I can’t think straight.
I stare down at the one she sent me at five this morning.
Mrs. Jay
Dear Diora, meet me for afternoon tea and shopping. I’ll pick you up half past eleven
A 5 am wake up text to do what you may ask… shopping. Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I push the cart behind Mrs. Jay as we walk around the home decor store. She’s still putting all sorts of things in the cart, and I have no idea what for.
First, it was a light green dining set, then it was a pink one… then a purple. Now she’s grabbing placemats and centerpieces.
“I think the greens complement the purples excellently,” she murmurs to herself as she floats down another aisle. I try to match her pace, but these are the skinniest rows possible, and this cart is full as hell.
“Diora, darling, part of your training is to keep up with me.” Her words make my skin roll with annoyance as I attempt to follow.
The way she speaks messes with my senses a bit.
It’s so posh and formal, it sounds unnatural.
It raises my hackles. Even after three months of training under her, I’m no further into figuring out why she wanted me to be part of this secret society she talks about, or how I am supposed to spice up her life.
Apparently The Morrígan Secret Society is for serial killers all around the world who want community, purpose, a job…
Besides that, I haven’t heard a peep about The Society the whole time we’ve spent together.
I’ve had to quit my previous job as a grocery store florist to accommodate all the training Mrs. Jay and I have been doing.
She’s replaced my salary, plus some, so I can keep paying my and Juliet’s living expenses.
Juliet can’t work like I can. She’ll do well for a few weeks, but crashes eventually into the world of mental pain she’s constantly in, and during that time, she’ll lose her job. Then it’s up to me and our parents to keep us afloat.
“Darling, if you’re not serious about this training, then we’ll have to part ways,” she says. Her voice is light, and any bystander wouldn’t hear the threat in them, but I do.
She thinks I’m not serious about being a serial killer because I can’t maneuver an overfilled cart in a skinny home decor store aisle?
“Does Paula Montry mean nothing to you, Mrs. Jay?” I ask. My fifth kill ever, last month, was with Mrs. Jay, and I killed someone of her choosing. Paula Montry was one hard woman to kill.
“That’s old news,” she says, waving the comment away. It was only a month ago. I scoff as I catch up to her with her obnoxious cart.
My poisons weren’t enough for that one. I hadn’t had time to drug her up properly and had to suffocate her by the end of the transgression. One thing I’ve learned is, Mrs. Jay always rushes things, and that pisses me off.
I woke one morning and Mrs. Jay said, “Dear Diora, We’re killing Paula Montry. Let’s get moving,” and that was that. She had dropped me off at an abandoned bar with only what I had on me, which was only a tiny bit of foxglove in my pocket.
So, to say I haven’t figured out Mrs. Jay is an understatement.
“And that is only one person, dear. You’ll need to do a lot more than that to not only solidify your place under me, but also with the Society,” she explains, waving her hands about.
I had six months to train and prepare for my first four kills, and honestly, I think they were successful because of pure luck.
Mrs. Jay isn’t the only person who knows about those kills. There is that name she mentioned—The Morrígan Society. Someone there was watching, too, unbeknownst to me and Mrs. Jay.
She didn’t know until a man, who I later found to be the society’s courier, dropped off a ring. It’s a simple gold ring with a skull on it. I’ve attached it to the pearl necklace Juliet gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
The cool metal chills my skin with every move of my neck. Twisting the heart pendant next to the ring, I reflect on the first kill I made for Mrs. Jay.
Checking out, I let Mrs. Jay ramble on for the rest of our shopping trip. Acting as her personal assistant instead of a killer in training allows me time to think.
“Diora, darling, get the trunk for me?” Mrs. Jay says in her honey slick voice.
Of course, I stop pushing the cart and run around it to open the trunk.
Why she couldn’t do it, I’m not sure. This feels like a test of my compliance, if anything, but she has my hands tied with evidence I killed four officers, so what else am I going to do?
I hear her hum, as I load her car with stuff for our next… project?
She told me we are hosting a tea party, but I’m not sure what for or if this is a regular tea party or a… massacre.
“Hurry, darling. I remembered I have a meeting in about fifteen minutes,” she says as she continues not to lift a single finger to help load the car with only about one hundred little fragile plates and teacups and platters into her trunk.
I huff, and my hair that’s fallen in my face blows off my sweaty skin, only to stick back onto my cheek.
My bright yellow sundress does nothing to help keep me cool from Michigan’s summer heat.
With it being freezing yesterday, I thought I dressed appropriately for today’s outing, but Michigan’s weather is about as wishy-washy as my hair wash days, and while I love Litchfort, consistent weather would be nice.
I hardly finish loading Mrs. Jay’s car before I hear her turn the engine on and see the brake lights pop on.
Is she leaving me? She is supposed to take me home.
Slouching my shoulders, I quickly back away from the back end of the car and shut her trunk door.
I step out of the way and grab the cart, too.
Litchfort is a small town, but that’s still a forty-five-minute walk back to my house after a long morning of following Mrs. Jay around.
“Diora, get in the car,” she snaps.
“But the cart—”
“Someone else will get it. Now, let’s go.” I don’t question her, but the thought that Juliet would be pissed that I left the cart in a parking spot grates my senses.
Though, the cool air conditioning blasting out of the vents distracts me enough to be grateful Mrs. Jay didn’t leave me. I’m surprised she hasn’t told me to run beside the car as she drives to build up my stamina.
“I have a client who has paid for The Society to kill off his competitors, namely their cousin’s family, and I was thinking, why not hit all our targets at once at a tea party?
! They’ll never see it coming. It’ll be so fun Diora, dear.
What do you think?” Whenever Mrs. Jay asks me what I think, she’s not really trying to hear my opinion. She wants a yes man.
I glare at the world outside the car window as she goes on talking about the tea party.
She goes on and on about how she wants to rent a ballroom, needing to hold one hundred people, and that fact makes me scrunch my eyebrow.
I don’t get how the clean up works on a hit like that, as much fun as it sounds.
But it’s not like I have the power to question her.
She’s now got five murders to hold over me.
“Speak up, I can’t hear you,” she says, her tone turning me away from the window as the sunshine disappears behind rain clouds.
“Yes, Mrs. Jay,” I say, making sure not to mumble, since that also irritates her. It’s like she’s my—
“Mother,” she says, her annoyance snapping to a smile, as if that will convince me to call her the name she tries so hard to get me to use for her. I don’t get it.
She’s not my mom. I have one. One who tried to kill me when I was six, but still, I have one. Not that I would tell her that, ‘cause she would probably go kill her to take her place.
The last person I’d want to be my mother figure is Mrs. Jay. She’s nosy, controlling, and most of all, she’s blackmailing me. At least my real mom is truthful with how she feels about me.
“Are you taking me home?” I ask, trying to gauge what is happening next.
“I think it’s time you meet the Strays,” she says as she turns the wheel with her white gloved hand.
I turn my head to look out the window. She says things grandiosely, and it grates my skin. I just wanna go home. “Strays?” I ask, trying not to let my annoyance come through. I don’t want to meet anyone, let alone trained killers.
“The Society has a 4 level hierarchy. Higher Ups, Owners, Top Dogs, and Strays. I’m a Owner and have my own team of Top Dogs and Strays.
You’ve been a Stray up until now. I’m promoting you to be part of my special team.
The Top Dogs, and it's time for you to meet everyone,” she explains as she pulls up to a considerably blank, large building.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea—” I try to fight meeting these “Strays”, but by the smile that drops from Mrs. Jay’s face, I don’t know if I really have a way out of this.
“I don’t want you to think; I want you to do.
I am the thinker, you are the doer. Don’t forget that,” she explains, like it’s a simple math formula that doesn’t make my brain break into a frenzy.
As much as I would like to wait to meet these highly trained killers, it doesn’t seem I have room to argue.
The best I can do is make the most of this meeting and figure out what Mrs. Jay really wants me for, I guess. That thought doesn’t settle the butterflies in my stomach like I hoped it would.
A small hotel-type building comes into view as we drive. It’s pretty tall for a building in a small town such as Litchfort. It has a round driveway, where we pull in and a valet takes Mrs. Jay’s car keys.
I quickly follow suit, getting out of the car, seeing she’s already walking up the red carpeted path to the main door, where a man is pulling the door open for her. My yellow dress flows behind me as I catch up to her. I try smoothing my hair down and re-doing my updo.
If I knew I would be meeting, well, my co-workers, I would’ve put more effort into my appearance this morning.
Not that I know what to wear when meeting a bunch of trained killers. I probably reek of newbie energy, but I can’t do anything about it. Oh well.
I follow her to the elevator, where another man stands and nods politely to Mrs. Jay and proceeds to press a button to the top floor.
Am I really walking into a room of trained serial killers? Looking over to the beaming smile Mrs. Jay has, yes, it seems I am. But Mrs. Jay isn’t a dumb woman; she wouldn’t introduce me if I wasn’t ready… Right? Trust is such a fickle thing, isn’t it?
I have a tiny baggy of foxglove petals in my pocket, but that’s all I have in terms of weapons. What kinds of weapons will they have?
I’ve made five kills so far, so going up against these “Strays”, let alone a group she calls “Top Dogs”, is like a yorkie attacking a pit bull. Who knows how many kills each of these people will have? Probably more than five.
Hopefully, they’ll think this is funny and not an annoying threat, ‘cause that’s all I have working for me.
She stops before she gets to the door that must be containing all these Strays, and I take this moment to breathe and settle my dress.
“They eat fear, darling. Don’t be nervous,” she demands as she opens the door—the first door she’s opened herself since we got here—and strides into the room.
I follow slowly behind her so as not to show fear, but I think regardless of how I walked into the room, the shocked faces of the people here would have been the same.
“Everyone, this is Diora. She’s a new Stray who will be working with you on our next assignment,” Mrs. Jay announces.
The room has large windows that span three of the walls and dark grey carpeting. One long table covers the middle of the room, where everyone besides me and Mrs. Jay is sitting.
Chills cover my arms as we walk into the room, and I can hear the air coming through the vents in this brightly lit room.
I hear whispers, but for the most part, everyone keeps their composure.
Straight backs and squared shoulders and heads held high as Mrs. Jay walks to the head of the room.
My eyes instantly track to the head of the table where a man is sitting.
His eyes glitter with trouble, yet he isn’t the one my eyes are drawn to.
“I’m Enyo, and this is my brother Elliot,” the one at the head of the table says.
Elliot is to the man on his left side. He remains relaxed in his seat, dressed in a plain white t-shirt with a crew neck over with Litchfort embroidered on it and golden colored hair and skin.
His brown eyes melt with sunlight shining in them.
It makes him all the more beautiful. He is truly a handsome boy.
Despite knowing everyone here is a killer of some sort, almost everyone here looks… normal. We’re dressed in regular clothes and have features we’d see people have out in the town. I’d probably seen these people at a grocery store, or the movies, and didn’t even know they were serial killers.
I guess the same could be said about me.
I can’t figure out if I find that comforting or worrisome.
Dragging my eyes away from the two men, I survey the rest of the room and count seven men in total. Including me and Mrs. Jay, that makes nine people, and depending on what kind of operation she has in mind, I can’t tell if there are enough people or not.
Even knowing nothing about Mrs. Jay’s plans, nine people isn’t a lot for a massacre of the size she was rambling about. Even if the seven men here are muscled enough to take on a small army each.
“There’s only nine of us?” I mutter.
“These are the highest ranking Strays in The Society. Each Stray works hard to become a Top Dog, but as you see, few make it,” Mrs. Jay explains. She smiles like a proud parent, and I nod.
“So, how many Strays work here?” I slowly ask, wondering why Mrs. Jay hasn’t snapped at me for talking out of turn.
“Including you, two-hundred-three under Mrs. Jay,” a man rattles off the top of his head. He’s got scars of cuts across his face and body, a snare on his lip, and one on his eyebrow. I nod once in his direction before turning my attention back to the head of the table.
Two-hundred and three other people like me. That’s… That’s a lot of bad people in Litchfort.