Chapter 5 #2
“That sounds like four men and one woman. How did you take down four men?” Tom groans as he speaks the words, pulling the pen out of his hand and laying it in front of Hank, who is a trained medic.
He’s already grabbed the safety kit we keep stored in every room Mother could be in.
He isn’t the first to be stabbed by her in a meeting, and he won’t be the last.
“The men were the easiest—maybe a stroke of luck or maybe a stroke of passion. The woman was the hardest thus far,” she says, as if she’s explaining a historical passage from a textbook at the collegiate level.
“Doesn’t answer how, sweetheart,” I voice, trying to understand the girl. She hardly moves, barely blinks, like a statue, but it’s not fear making her still. The plywood table between us seems miles long, yet I am still too close to her.
“How can I trust you?” she asks.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” I say.
“Not by choice.”
“Yet, you’re still here, aren’t you?” She doesn’t answer, and instead scans the room, removing her eyes from me, which doesn’t fill me with the relief I expected to feel. Instead, my eye twitches. My eye fucking twitches.
She raises her eyebrows as she takes in each of the men at this table, and she makes the slightest nod of her head as she finally meets my eyes again. “I guess I am.”
“Diora, let me see the phone Mother gave you,” Enyo voice breaks my concentration on the girl as he reaches out a hand toward Diora.
She slides the phone into his hands, and I hear the ding from everyone’s phone moments later when he adds her to the group chat he insisted we all join.
“There. Now when anything happens, we can reach you, and vice versa. I’ve got better things to do than interrogate a little girl,” Enyo says, leaving the room, and the rest of the group follows suit.
I remain seated, as does Diora, who continues to watch me, so much so, my sixth sense of her gaze fades away.
“Why did Mother really involve you?” I wasn’t letting her go. I couldn’t. Not when I trust every Top Dog here with my life. Not when the newbie here is brought to a Top Dog meeting on her first day here. I’m not as fucking mindless as the rest of the Strays.
I can feel the pressure of the other guys’ stares on the side of my head. But that doesn’t deter me. This could save their fucking lives. It could save hers.
“That’s something I would like to know,” she says, swiping a stray hair off her shoulder. She matches my movements, down to the rate of my breathing, and as I stand, she gracefully moves, too, as if it is the most natural thing for her to do. To copy. To imitate. Why?
I take a single step back from my chair, and so does she. I watch as she uses her left hand, instead of the dominant right hand she used to hand Enyo the phone, to push in her chair as I do. Moving around the room, purposely switching my own natural movements to catch her mess up, she keeps pace.
We end up at opposite ends of the table again, and I chuckle. Surprise colors my insides, but I don't dare show outside. This little piece of shit. Testing me on her first day.
“If you wanna fucking dance, then I’ve got better things to do,” I hear Jones mumble. I wait until the others have followed Enyo out the door, leaving me and this little crane alone.
A crane’s beauty is soothing. It makes you forget about the predators that they are. That’s the woman Mother has brought here. Cranes carry an elegance, an aurora of calm and danger all mixed into one, and Diora exudes that unconsciously, as if she can’t help it.
“Stop,” I command. I freeze, and so does she. The room now feels impossibly small and hot. With each step I take, she gets farther away.
“What?” she asks, innocently. So innocently, someone could forget she killed five human beings in less than six months by herself.
I’m on her in the next second. Crossing the room and grabbing her wrist. She may be fast, but I’ve been playing this game my whole damn life. Pulling her in close and abruptly invading her space, she gasps. The first fucking sign of humanity in her.
Her body meets mine, one hand still on her wrist as another wraps around her waist. I don’t know why I’m doing this, or trusting her being so close to me. I almost want to save her.
The Top Dogs don’t know her fate. Not like I do. Not like the Society does. I wonder if they care. If they’re pissed and led her straight to me. I wonder if they planted Mother to find her.
Everyone’s yet to realize we haven’t had a new Stray stay for more than six months. But I do. I found out what has been happening to the Strays who were going to be recruited.
Mother sells them, and instead of selling Diora, she brought her here. Why?
“Keep your eyes on me. There are two cameras with audio in this room,” I say, with my nose in the crook of her neck. She smells of raspberries and jasmine, and I don’t register the sharp intake through my nose as I sniff the girl.
Soft skin welcomes the heat of my calloused hands.
“Mother finds up to three Strays a month, but she has never brought one to join her highest ranked team in under six months. Why do you think that is? Better yet, as of late, I’ve yet to see a new Stray after three months of training.
Where do you think they go?” I say this to knock her cocky confidence, but I also wonder what she knows.
People throw away things they render useless, but not Mother. She finds different uses, different jobs for Strays who can’t kill, yet, as of a year ago, these Strays have been disappearing.
A few months ago, I discovered Mother’s best kept secret, and it’s a lot worse than running a team of hitmen.
And now, after years of having a male only organization, she brings in Diora Moss.
Why? Does the profit of little boys not fill her greedy bank account enough? Do the deaths of her buyers piss her off?
Does she think I’ll stop if she switches her demographic?
“So, I ask again, why does she have an interest in you?” Her breath hitches, and I feel the loss on my cheek. I lean back slightly and watch her eyes darken. Her lips part with no hint of a word coming out. She only looks at me in question, as if I have the answer.
“I’d tell you to run,” I say as my fingers brush the soft skin of her wrist for probably the last time, “but it’s already too late.”
She’s not only stuck in Mother’s trap, she’s also stuck in mine.
I let her go, and she stumbles back, her eyebrows scrunching. I watch her face for one moment, one single moment, before I turn toward the door.
“Wait,” she calls, and I stop. I turn and meet her eyes, then tilt my head toward one of the cameras and raise my own brows.
She gulps, the first sign of her nerves, before she licks her thick strawberry red lips and takes a deep breath. “Why?”
Careful with my words, not knowing which Stray is watching the constant surveillance of this room, I shrug.
“Mother deals in more than good little hitmen.” She deals in skin too.