Page 46 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“ K eep walking,” Xander whispers, his hand firm against the small of my back as we slip through the service entrance of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. “Don’t stare.”

Boston’s oldest members-only club is exactly what you’d expect. Oak paneling, portraits of dead old men, and the unmistakable scent of privilege.

Xander guides me through a labyrinth of corridors, each turn taking us deeper into the building. We reach an ornate library where leather-bound books climb from floor to ceiling.

“Wait.” Xander pulls me toward a particular shelf and reaches for a volume of Dante’s Inferno.

“Seriously?” I whisper. “Could you be any more cliché? What’s next, a secret handshake and matching robes?”

The bookshelf slides aside without a sound, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness.

“After you,” he says, his eyes glinting with amusement.

I hesitate for a split second, the gravity of what I’m doing hitting me. I’m following a man I’ve known for a few weeks into a secret passage in a building full of powerful men. Every true crime podcast begins this way.

But I’ve already killed a man. This is hardly the time for second thoughts.

I descend the stairs, each step taking me further from the world I’ve known. At the bottom waits a heavy steel door with no handle on this side. Xander reaches around me to press his palm against a scanner I didn’t notice. The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.

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 power begins,” 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 just so 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.

Calloway appears from nowhere, adding his arms to the group hug. “Hemlock’s first journalist! We need someone who can write. Thorne’s mission statements read like funeral directives.”

“Could we focus on the impending deadline?” Thorne’s voice cuts through the room. “Blackwell’s plane leaves in a few hours.”

Lazlo sets me down but doesn’t step back. Instead, he plants a lingering kiss on my forehead, his hands still resting on my shoulders. “Welcome to the family, Little Journalist.”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Xander extracts me from Lazlo’s touch with such controlled violence that it makes my pulse jump.

His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him until I feel every hard line of his body. His eyes never leave Lazlo’s, a silent warning that speaks volumes.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.” Each word falls like a blade.

The air between them crackles with dangerous energy. I press my palm against Xander’s chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my fingers. His possessiveness shouldn’t thrill me like this, but heat pools low in my belly.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. I let my hand slide down his chest, a deliberate caress that makes his breath hitch. “I’m yours, baby. Only yours.” I press closer, my voice dropping to something only he can hear. “You’re the only one I’m going to fuck later. ”

His grip on me tightens, and the look he gives me promises delicious retribution.

Thorne clears his throat, activating the central display embedded in the obsidian table. Building schematics materialize, rotating in three dimensions above the surface like a hologram from a sci-fi movie.

“That’s so cool,” I whisper.

“Blackwell Enterprises. Twenty-three floors of excessive security and corporate ego.” Thorne’s finger traces the executive floor. “Our target occupies the penthouse office. Unfortunately, our original medical approach is no longer viable.”

Xander steps forward, swiping through security footage. “Current situation is far from optimal. Blackwell knows someone’s coming for him.” The display shifts to live feeds of Blackwell’s building. Men in black suits with telltale bulges under their jackets patrol every hallway.

“There are twenty-four armed guards in the building, sixteen security cameras, and biometric scanners on every door in the executive floor,” Xander continues, highlighting each security measure. “He’s converted his corporate headquarters into a fortress.”

I wander away from the table, drawn to the bookshelves lining one wall. Ancient volumes on toxicology sit beside modern forensic textbooks. Each spine is perfectly aligned, not a speck of dust anywhere. Who cleans the secret murder chamber?

“What about a direct approach at his home?” Darius suggests.

“Better. The Archer has more guards than usual,” Calloway notes, “but the building itself wasn’t designed as a fortress. It’s luxury apartments, not a corporate vault. ”

“Even with doubled security, his penthouse is more accessible than that office building,” Lazlo says.

I run my fingers along the spines, catching bits of their impossible conversation. My attention diverts to a small wooden box tucked between two volumes on criminal psychology. I ease it out, feeling its weight.

“We can’t guarantee he’ll be there,” Thorne says. “But he’s in his offices right now.”

I open the box, revealing a collection of antique keys. Palace keys, by the look of them. Heavy iron things with elaborate patterns. I pick one up, feeling its weight against my palm while the men continue arguing behind me.

“He’ll be there. He still needs to go home before flying to Zurich.” I move toward the table, studying the schematics floating above the obsidian.

Xander’s expression shifts as he follows my logic. “She’s right. His plane leaves in the morning. He’ll need to pack.”

“He could send someone,” Darius notes.

“No. Not Blackwell.” I shake my head. “His personal safe is at home. He’ll want whatever’s inside before disappearing, and he won’t trust anyone else with it. He’ll be there.”

“And we don’t need full building access,” Xander murmurs, already pulling up new schematics. “Just one specific location within it.”

The display shifts, rotating to show detailed layouts of The Archer’s penthouse floor. “Here,” Xander points, zooming in on a reinforced room nestled in the center of Blackwell’s residence. “His panic room.”

“What good does that do us?” Lazlo asks. “If he reaches the panic room, he’s untouchable. ”

“Not if we’re already inside it,” Thorne says, understanding dawning on his face.

Xander’s fingers manipulate the 3D model. “The panic room is soundproofed, reinforced, and sealed. No one can get in without the override codes, which only Blackwell and his ex-wife possess.”

“Perfect isolation,” Darius says with a grim smile. “No one will hear him scream.”

I step closer to the display, studying the room’s specifications. “But how do we get inside in the first place? You need his codes to get in.”

“And more importantly, how do we get out after he’s dead?” Calloway adds. “Once Blackwell locks it, the panic room will stay locked for forty-eight hours. It's a security feature we can't bypass. Whoever is there with him will be sealed in.”

“We go in before he returns home,” Xander says, already pulling up The Archer’s maintenance schedules. “There’s a ventilation tunnel that runs behind the panic room wall. It will be our way in and out.”

“And once inside,” Darius continues, “we wait for Blackwell to seek refuge in what he thinks is his sanctuary.”

“We’ll need to give him a reason to use it,” I say, the pieces clicking together. “Create enough of a threat that he rushes straight for the panic room.”

“The distraction needs to be big,” Lazlo adds, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Something that will pull all the guards away from their posts.”

“I can handle that,” Calloway says with artistic pride. “Nothing sends a person running to safety like the right...theatrical elements. The juxtaposition of his safe space becoming his final gallery is iconic, honestly.”

The plan unfolds before us in a glowing blue light.

I watch as each member adds their expertise, transforming a last-minute desperation move into something almost elegant.

We’ll need to move fast. Create a hidden entrance into the panic room.

Stage a threat loud enough to send Blackwell running straight into our trap.

I look around at these men who have appointed themselves judges, juries, and executioners. Who made this obsidian table their courtroom. Who carved out this hidden chamber beneath Boston’s elite to deliver the verdicts the law couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

And now I’m one of them.

“It’s perfect,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.

Thorne’s watch beeps, breaking the moment. His eyes flash to the timepiece, then back to us with lethal focus.

“Gentlemen. Miss Novak. Blackwell’s flight leaves in four hours and twelve minutes.”

“So we’re doing this?” I ask, looking from face to face. “Really doing this?”

The men exchange glances, a silent communication system built on blood and shared secrets.

“We are,” Thorne confirms, his voice like a gavel falling. “But there’s one detail Miss Novak should understand before we proceed.”

Calloway’s eyes widen. Lazlo shifts in his chair. Even Darius looks uneasy. Only Xander stays perfectly still, his eyes never leaving my face .

“What detail?” I ask, my throat dry.

Thorne’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “The panic room we’re about to breach? Only you are small enough to go through the ventilation tunnel.”