Page 121 of X Marks the Stalker
Death has a boardroom, and it smells like old money.
I step inside a chamber where dark-red walls absorb what little light exists, as if the room itself feasts on illumination. An obsidian table dominates the center, surrounded by seven unique chairs.
The door seals shut behind us with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
My heart rate spikes as I scan the room. No windows. One exit, now sealed.
I’m so stupid. A few mind-blowing orgasms, and I let Xander walk me into a room full of predators without even thinking twice. My eyes dart to the closed door.
Xander’s hand settles on the small of my back, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I force my breathing to steady. These men could have killed me a dozen times already if they wanted to. But they agreed to help.
“Welcome to where democracy ends and true powerbegins,” I whisper. “Did you get the murder table on sale at Oligarchs-R-Us?”
“Show some respect. Thirty executions were planned where you’re standing.”
I trail my fingers across the obsidian table dominating the center of the room. It drinks the light, cold and unforgiving.
“Only thirty? That’s restrained for men who could make bodies disappear during their lunch break.” My voice ricochets off walls that have witnessed verdicts without appeals. “I guess even murder needs quality control. Can’t have the body count getting too much attention.”
I can’t keep my hands still despite Blackwell’s ticking clock. My fingers trace hemlock flower etchings on crystal tumblers. Chairs, each one crafted to its master’s body, surround the table.
“That’s Thorne’s,” Xander warns as I circle the seat at the head. “Touch it and lose fingers.”
“Official rule or just murder club etiquette?” I move to examine a wall-mounted display case. “Wait. Is that John Wilkes Booth’s Derringer?”
“A replica. Thorne collects historical instruments of justice.” Xander activates screens embedded in the wall. “Can we focus? Blackwell crosses international waters in hours.”
My eye catches an antique apothecary cabinet, its tiny drawers labeled in Latin. “What’s in there? The special blend of the month? Hemlock with a hint of arsenic for the discerning assassin?”
“Oakley.” My name in his mouth sounds like a warning.
“Sorry.” I tap my fingers against my thigh. “There’s justso much to see. It’s like a museum of murder with comfortable seating.”
Xander looks at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. “You’re standing in a chamber most people would kill to know exists, surrounded by enough evidence to bury us all, and you’re sightseeing?”
“Ironic, isn’t it? I’ve stumbled into Boston’s most exclusive murder club, and I’m admiring the furniture.” I run my finger along the buttery leather arm of one chair. “These are obscenely comfortable. Nothing says ‘I condemn thee to death’ like doing it from an ergonomic throne.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m not explaining our furniture choices.”
I count the chairs again. Seven distinct seats around the obsidian altar.
Seven chairs. Six members.
The realization hits me like cold water. “There’s a seat for me,” I whisper.
I trace the blank chair opposite Xander’s. Untouched leather, pristine, waiting. No wear marks from another body. No creases from repeated use.
Lazlo appears behind me, draping one arm across my shoulders. “Of course there is. We’re gentlemen. Did you think we’d let you stand through all the meetings?” He drops a medical bag on the table with a metallic clang. “Though Xander insisted on reupholstering it three times. Too blue, too firm, too something. Perfectionist.”
Xander’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you have arteries to memorize somewhere, Lazlo?”
“Don’t get your surveillance wires crossed.” Lazlo pulls me into an unexpected bear hug, lifting me off my feet. “We’re just welcoming the newest member. Unlike some people who keep their toys to themselves.”
“I’m not his toy,” I say, but my voice is muffled against Lazlo’s chest.
