Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
ELLIOT
A bluejay flies by as I sit at Mallory’s coffee shop. I gaze away from my laptop, where notes upon notes lay, containing details for the Society’s ball I’m hosting this year. The last weekend in June is sneaking up and the final details need to be set in motion.
I’ve reserved the Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature in Paris. The nature museum seemed like an interesting spot for worldwide serial killers to meet.
My mind races back to Diora again and again. It’s fucking annoying how much space she takes in my head.
I can’t draw people. But sometimes, when I’m looking at her, I wish I could.
The intricate beauty of her face, the symmetry of it, itches my hands to touch, capture.
It’s as if I, Elliot Jay, am not my own person anymore.
I can’t move, I can’t breathe without thinking about Diora Moss.
It’s entirely frustrating, since I’ve only known the woman for about a week.
Looking up from my computer, I scratch at my eyes, tired of staring at a screen. I gaze over the outside seating of Mallory’s; it’s much more packed than it was a few days ago.
Wait. Is that Diora, or am I hallucinating? I scratch my eyes again, and sure as shit, it’s her. The Diora Moss, walking my way.
She sees me before I see her. She strides over in dirty white sneakers.
Her black skirt flows with her strides, and she wears a long-sleeved black shirt, tight to her body, in eighty-degree weather.
I resist raising an eyebrow at her questionable fashion as she gets closer.
I resist watching her hair blow off her slender neck.
That same pearl necklace, with the heart and skull pendants, hangs around her neck.
I bet she never takes it off. I bet if she got close enough, the scab of my cut across her throat from our sparring session would still be there—
“I’m in,” Diora says as she immediately approaches my table and sits across from me. I snap my attention to her face. I raise an eyebrow, trying to gauge if the Little Crane truly knows what she is truly getting into. Does she care?
The danger she’ll put herself in?
By joining me, she basically signs her death warrant.
I don’t know what came over me in that greenhouse yesterday. Why the hell would I ask a newbie like her to join me? Work with me, as if I can’t get enough of her already.
“In what?” I ask, playing stupid. I lean back into the metal chair, wondering if the white shirt I’m wearing will have stains from the black metal of the chair.
The time I used to spend here, dedicated to my bird studies, has been replaced with planning this ball the Society has me hosting, and to be honest, I’m not the happiest about it.
It is the only time I could do either task in peace, and I’d much rather read my books than aid in the plans of this ball any further.
Though, my involvement in the ball planning is killing Mother’s sanity.
Her jealousy of me hosting this ball instead of her is ripping at her seams, and I get nothing done around her.
I’ve had to resort to planning it when I am alone, and now, here, her little distraction is disrupting my planning hour.
What made the Little Crane change her mind?
I was sure she was going to say no yesterday.
Her loyalty to Juliet seemed to go beyond good moral standing.
Nothing mattered more to her than her sister.
So, what changed? I watch as she scans our surroundings one time and flips her long, curly hair over her shoulder.
“Saving the missing Strays; all dogs deserve a chance to live,” she mutters, her eyes trained on her hands in front of her.
“Even if it means that you could get hurt. Dogs bite, Little Crane,” I say, trying to gauge her thoughts behind this decision.
I carefully slide my own coffee mug in front of her.
She wrinkles her nose as the smell hits her, and I raise my brows in amusement.
The girl doesn’t like coffee. Interesting.
Turning my head back, I make eye contact with the cashier at the front. Mallory’s is an inside-outside coffee shop, where the walls of the front of the shop open and the whole space is connected. I nod toward my new coffee date, and the cashier comes over to me.
“Can I get a tea for my date?” I ask as the woman whips out a notepad. She smiles and turns to Diora, who looks to be glaring. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she concentrates. On what, I'm not quite sure.
“How much is a cup of tea here?”
“It’s on me, Little Crane. Order,” I say. I know she is terribly poor. At least she was before meeting Mother. Maybe it was truly a coincidence that she joined Mother.
“A rose tea, please, for here,” Diora orders.
I still don’t know whether to trust her. As much as my mind may call to her, I can’t always trust my mind. It’s led me down roads I can’t recover from. I wonder if this is one of them.
Diora Moss is gonna get me in trouble. I should stay away from the Crane, and yet, every turn I make, there she is.
I lay my leather-bound journal down on the metal table as the birds around us chirp a musical melody. This scene would be nice if the two people occupying this table were any sort of normal.
If we were strangers meeting casually for the first time.
Not serial killers with an agenda.
Her gaze settles on her hands as if she’s nervous, but I doubt it’s nerves wracking her body.
Other outward signs of nerves are non-existent.
She rarely shows what she’s thinking. It calms me more than I’m used to.
I don’t have to try to read her so hard.
Try to find the lie. She’s so direct it turns everything I know about her back on to chance.
A simple choice that I could make mindlessly.
There are no signs, no signals, that I should’ve, could’ve, would’ve myself to death over.
Her chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Though her focus is on her hands. Her hands aren’t sweaty or trembling; they are slim and delicate. I have the urge to touch them. Feel the weight of them on me.
Deciding then to cave into thai single urge, I take one. Her fingers gently uncurl onto my palm, and I see what she is focusing on. Tiny white scars lace her fingers. My gaze shoots up to her face. She didn’t get these from kills, did she?
“Thorns,” she says without me having to ask. Not that I was going to. Or maybe I would’ve. I don’t seem to have control when it comes to her. You don’t ask about scars or wounds in this business.
“Thorns can leave scars?” I ask. I never knew plants to have a bite like that. Scars?
“Yes, if they reach tendons, they can leave scars,” she says. Her eyes peer into mine. Two predators lounging at a coffee shop.
I hum in response, reluctant to let her soft, scarred hands go. Her dainty hand fits in mine, resting atop mine, and I don’t have the desire to change it.
“Little Crane, why did Mother bring you in?”
“Do you have memory loss? I told you I don’t know,” she says, scrunching her eyebrows as if she is concerned I may actually have memory issues. It almost makes me laugh. Somewhere deep down, I wonder if she’s genuinely concerned.
“You’re not working for her to stop me from ruining her, are you, Little Crane?” I ask, her hand in mind as I trace my thumb over each little scar line. I watch her face, though. For any sign of a lie, an omission of truth that could ruin everything I’ve worked for.
Diora Moss has to pick a side now, mine or Mother’s. One monster or another. Neither of us can be trusted. Neither of us are heroes in any light.
But I need to trust she’s on my side for this one. I need to know she won’t go running into the Mother’s arms when shit hits the fan, because it always does.
Diora has to be stronger than me.
“No, Elliot, I’m not. It’s personal now.” I raise my brows. A truth. A deep truth. It’s become personal. I can’t determine if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
“How is it personal?” I ask.
“It’s probably the last chance I’ll get to do the right thing.”
Her brown eyes track the room, as if looking for a listening ear.
She isn’t completely trusting. That’s good.
That’ll keep her safe. “These Strays are puppies, correct? Mrs. Jay finds her recruits as puppies, which is another tick against me, a disruption in her usual pattern,” she concludes.
Mother collects Strays as kids and grooms them for all her different ventures.
Whether to be a killer or to be sold off, children are the easiest to manipulate. A score that hits deep in my chest.
“You’re in, Diora.”
I snap up, grabbing my journal and keeping her hand in mine. If she’s in, then she’s gotta know what all she’s agreed to. “Let’s go, then. We’ve got work to do.”
“Where are we?” she asks. Her face gives nothing away as her eyes run over the studio apartment in bum fuck nowhere—also known as Downtown Litchfort.
“My lair,” I chuckle. Her hand is soft in mine. I got to hold it in the silent car ride here, and I grabbed it again on our way in. I don’t trust her, or know her, but I know I like her hand.
“Stop being funny,” she quips. “What’s this?”
“What do you think?” I ask as I sit in the desk chair in front of my four monitors.
This little apartment was bought for one purpose, and that is to keep my findings on Mother’s doings a secret.
Once I started digging into her little side projects, I had to completely disconnect from everything she had access to.
“Okay.” She bites the inside of her bottom lip as she stares at one computer screen at a time. She runs over the names, places, dates, trafficking rings I’d compiled over the last year. When I noticed I wasn’t the only one Mother was abusing.
“You’re new, I’ll give you that, but you’re not the first girl.”
“No?” she asks.
“No, you’re one of four. There was Sage Newman, Theresa Miken, and Cami Lovestand. Ordinary names for ordinary little girls. They’ve killed, but they weren’t killers. Not like us.”
“Little girls?” she asks as she glances over their pictures.
“Aged seven, twelve, and fourteen. All went missing three months into their training with the Society. Directly under Mother’s supervision.”
“So, why did Mrs. Jay put me under your supervision, then?” she asks.
“You’re a killer, and you’re a distraction. She’ll ask you what you know about my findings on her or what I’m going to do about it, eventually,” I say.
“Do I tell her I know nothing? She’ll see that lie coming a mile away.”
“You’ll give her a piece of the bone, but not the whole treat. Something to satisfy her, but not enough for her to do anything,” I say.
“Where are these girls now?”
“Sold to their highest bidders,” I clip, anger skimming off the skin of armor.
“What?” Her head whips toward me, and I like the attention she gives me. All mine.
“What does Mother love more than anything else?” I ask, even though Mother’s desires are practically written across her forehead.
“Money? Fun?” Diora guesses. She’s leaning against the desk, and seeing her in my space warms me from the inside out. I wonder if I looked in a mirror, if I would see a blush. She’s so close to me. I can feel the pressure in my upper cheeks, but what does that actually look like?
“Power, Little Crane. She loves power,” I say, turning toward the screens. “Alive bodies are more valuable than dead ones.”
“She’s trafficking kids,” she says. I don’t hear a note of disbelief in her voice. I don’t see a drop of shock in her eyes or her posture. She lowers onto my desk chair, though. She stares at the girls’ pictures and sighs. “Fuck, are we taking down a trafficking ring?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. She scrunches her eyebrows, and I tilt my head toward the next screen, showing where each girl was sold and who they were sold to.
I wondered if she knew. Had an inkling that something was off with Mother.
By the lack of shock on her face, I questioned the strength of Mother’s exterior and if her exterior only fooled me.
Maybe Diora’s gut instincts are truly better than mine.
Cause I didn’t know. I didn’t know I was walking into the arms of a disgusting beast.
“When did you figure this out?” Diora asks; she doesn’t waste time. She pushes me aside to study the screens closer. Everything I’ve found out is spread across them, and I watch her eyes trail over each detail.
Her jasmine and raspberry scent wafts under my nose and over the skin of my cheeks as she leans forward in front of me. I’m compelled to get closer. To touch the innocent skin of her lower back mere inches from me.
I could trace my fingers over her skin. Get a taste she may never give me willingly.
I shake my head, stepping away from her. No. I can’t touch. I shouldn’t touch. I shouldn’t have touched her in that damn meeting room or her hand at the coffee shop, and I damn sure shouldn’t touch her now.
But the addiction has already started. I knew I’d get attached and yet I tried it, anyway.
Fuck.
“A year,” I say. It’s taken me a year to find out who these women were to Mother, where they went, and how they died.
I’m not a hero by any means, but even serial killers have their boundaries. My boundary is the skin trade. I’ll take a life, but selling something I do not own is crossing a line. I hated how Mother used to touch me, and I know these people, the bidders, are doing much worse.
So much worse.
I’m not a hero. I never have been, never will be. But these trafficking rings—these rings end with me.
Diora snaps back, turning and facing me, as the questions I’m sure she has run marathons in head.
Clearing my throat, I back away from her, so she can have the space to look at whatever she wants. Stepping away from the computers, I stride to the kitchen.
It’s hard not to go racing after these trafficking rings and start shooting people, but I can’t rush this.
I can’t risk the kids there by fucking this up.
I watch as Diora sits in my chair, deeply into the information on the screens. The more I watch her here, the more I’m sure it was the right call to bring her on.