Page 6 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Before Thorne found me, I was just another isolated killer, paranoid and alone, making mistakes that would have eventually gotten me caught or killed.

The Society gave me purpose. Structure. A family of people who understood that some people deserve to die, and that the world is better when we remove them from it.

The Society isn't a hierarchy, exactly. Thorne leads because he founded it, because he has the resources and the vision.

But we're brothers first. Each of us brings something different to the family—my surveillance expertise, Calloway's artistic perfectionism, Darius's legal knowledge, Lazlo's medical training, Ambrose's military precision.

Together, we're unstoppable. Alone, we were just damaged men with violent impulses.

We have rules. Five sacred tenets that keep us alive and united. And I've broken the most important one. I left a security breach.

I weave through leather armchairs and hushed conversations about market futures and divorce settlements.

The library wing sits empty tonight—most members prefer the main lounge or the cigar room for their networking.

I slip inside the private library room and close the heavy oak door behind me.

The lock engages automatically with a soft click, a security measure that won't disengage until the bookshelf mechanism resets.

My fingers trace along the third shelf from the bottom, finding the barely perceptible groove behind Dante’s Inferno .

A gentle push, and the mechanism clicks. The bookcase slides inward with hydraulic precision, revealing the narrow staircase beyond.

I step through; The bookcase sliding shut behind me. The staircase descends in a tight spiral, the temperature dropping with each step. Motion-activated lights illuminate my path, casting sharp shadows as I move.

At the bottom, I face a steel door with a biometric scanner and press my palm against the cool metal. A soft blue light traces the unique pattern of veins beneath my skin. The lock disengages with a soft hiss.

The room opens up. Understated luxury compared to the ostentatious displays upstairs. Walls painted deep crimson, leather furniture arranged around a central table of polished obsidian. The lighting is subdued, coming from recessed fixtures that cast no shadows.

No plaques announce what this place is. No membership certificates hang on the walls.

Nothing to connect us to the world above.

Only the subtle motif repeated throughout—the delicate white hemlock flower etched into the base of crystal tumblers, embossed on coasters, subtly woven into the carpet pattern.

The Hemlock Society is already assembled around the large obsidian table.

I slide into my usual chair. Calloway is already critiquing the lighting. Across from him, Darius, our lawyer, who can argue a confession into an acquittal, is checking his fantasy football scores.

Lazlo, our resident paramedic and walking hypochondriac, is probably diagnosing himself with a rare disease from the hors d'oeuvres. Ambrose, ever the soldier, sits with a ramrod-straight posture that makes his whole ' retired black-ops' story almost believable, his cane resting beside him.

Thorne Ravencroft sits at the head, naturally, his steel-gray eyes flickering to me as I enter.

“Nice of you to join us, Xander,” he says, checking his vintage watch. “You’re seventeen minutes late.”

“Got caught up in surveillance,” I reply, sliding into my usual chair. “The Gallery Killer case is bringing out all kinds of interesting observers.”

Calloway Frost looks up from his phone at this, his pale blue eyes narrowing. “Is someone jeopardizing my artistic integrity?” he asks, long fingers tapping an agitated rhythm on the table. “The compositions are precise for a reason.”

“Your ego remains intact, Calloway,” I assure him. “Though someone is connecting the dots between your ‘exhibitions’ and the club.”

This gets everyone’s attention. Thorne leans forward, his normally impassive face tightening.

“Elaborate,” he says.

I pull out my phone, swiping to the photos of Oakley’s investigation board.

“Crime journalist named Oakley Novak. She’s been surveilling our club for at least four nights.

The Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association.

Tried to infiltrate with a British accent and fake credentials.

Her apartment has quite the evidence wall, complete with photos of the murders. ” I pause, looking at Calloway.

Thorne's eyes narrow. “You told me there were no complications.”

The accusation hangs in the air like a blade. My throat tightens. “I wanted to make sure first. Confirm the threat level before bringing it to you. ”

Lazlo Vega, the youngest of our group, lets out a low whistle as he examines the photos I’m displaying.

“Smart girl.” His eyes gleam with the manic energy that makes him both valuable and unpredictable. “Should I prepare a special cocktail for her? I’ve been experimenting with a new paralytic that?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I’ve got this handled. I’ve established surveillance in her apartment. Been following her for a few days now. I want to understand what she knows before we make any moves.”

“You want to get under her skirt, period,” drawls Darius Evers from across the table, straightening his knotted tie. “I recognize that look. You like her.”

My jaw tightens. “No.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I make a move? She’s hot,” Darius says.

“She’s mine!” I growl, jumping up.

Darius laughs. “Don’t like her much, huh?”

I drop back into my seat. I fell for it.

“Well-played, counselor,” I mutter. “But for the record, that wasn’t my smoothest move.”

Darius’ eyebrows arch above his designer frames. “Oh, we noticed.”

Thorne clears his throat, silencing the room with minimal effort. “Gentlemen, focus. We have a potential security breach, not a dating opportunity.”

I rub my temples, feeling the familiar throb of a headache forming. “Look, I’ve got eyes and ears in her apartment now. I’ll monitor the situation, see what she knows, who she’s talking to.”

“And what exactly is your plan if she gets too close?” Thorne asks, his voice dropping to that particular octave that makes even hardened killers straighten their posture.

I shrug, trying to appear more casual than I feel. “Same approach I always take. Watch. Learn. Adapt.”

“If she’s already connecting victims to the club, she needs to be neutralized,” Thorne says.

My throat tightens. “No. She’s smart, but she’s missing key pieces. Let me handle it.”

“You seem unusually protective of a threat, Xander,” Thorne observes, eyes narrowing. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“I’m being practical. A journalist disappearing right after investigating our club would only confirm her suspicions to whoever reads her notes. She’s backed everything up. She has an editor.”

“Xander,” Calloway interrupts, leaning forward, “are you watching her sleep?” He’s pointing to a particular surveillance shot showing Oakley crashed on her couch, hand still clutching a highlighter.

My face heats. “It’s surveillance.”

“It’s stalking with extra steps,” Calloway says, examining the photo more closely. “Though I can’t fault your composition. The lighting on her face creates gorgeous contrast against the chaos of her apartment.”

“You’re one to talk,” I mutter. “Your idea of a first date is probably staging someone as a corpse in a Klimt tableau.”

“At least I talk to people,” Calloway fires back. “When was the last time you had a conversation with someone you weren’t planning to kill?”

Darius leans back in his chair, that lawyer’s smirk spreading across his face. “Oh, he’s talking to her alright. Every night. Alone. With one hand on the keyboard and the other on his dick.”

“I asked her out,” I blurt, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Five pairs of eyes lock onto me with predatory focus.

“You what?” Thorne’s voice drops to a dangerous register.

“I...asked her to dinner.”

“Let me get this straight,” Lazlo says, barely containing his laughter. “You walked up to the journalist investigating us and asked her on a date?”

“It was a calculated move,” I defend. “Gauge her suspicions, misdirect if needed.”

“And?” Thorne prompts.

I swallow hard. “She said no.”

The room erupts in laughter. Even Thorne’s mouth quirks up at one corner, which for him is practically howling with mirth.

“The master of surveillance got shot down!” Lazlo wheezes, slapping the table. “You poor baby.”

“Try flowers next time,” Ambrose offers with a scholarly air. “Women love flowers. Been working since Roman times.”

“No, no,” Lazlo interjects. “Tell her you’re a doctor. Works every time.”

“You’re the only one who uses that line, Lazlo,” I remind him. “And you’re actually a paramedic.”

“Please tell me you weren’t wearing that blue shirt with the ink stain you think no one notices,” Calloway says, with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I wasn’t?—”

“Oh God,” Calloway says, genuine horror crossing his face. “You wore the tactical pants, didn’t you? The ones with seventeen pockets?”

“They’re practical,” I mutter, giving my best friend a middle finger that holds no real malice. “And no. I was wearing a suit.”

“Never send this man undercover for a date,” Darius announces to the room. “He’d probably wear an earpiece and ask us for conversation prompts.”

“Okay, enough,” Thorne says, cutting through the laughter.

His face turns serious as he locks eyes with me.

“This journalist is a genuine concern, Xander. I want daily reports. Any new connections she makes, any evidence she uncovers, any person she speaks to about this case, I need to know right away. Understood?”

I nod, my smile fading. “Understood.”

“And Xander,” Thorne adds, his voice dropping lower, “if she becomes a threat, I expect you to handle it. Regardless of your...interest in her.”

The room goes quiet. I swallow, nodding again.

“Good. Since we’re all gathered,” Thorne says, shifting topics, “let’s discuss our most recent work. Calloway, your art dealer piece was distinctive.”

Calloway’s face transforms as he switches into aesthetic mode. “The David and Goliath tableau was my most challenging composition yet. Getting him to hold his own severed-looking head required extensive preparation.”

“How’d you manage that?” Lazlo leans forward, eyes bright with professional interest.

“A combination of hemlock derivative to paralyze the throat muscles first,” Calloway explains, “then a specialized toxin that maintains muscle rigidity after death. I positioned him while he was still conscious but unable to resist.”

I grimace. “That’s a bit sadistic, even for you.”

“The real challenge,” Calloway continues, ignoring me, “was the blood patterning. I needed an authentic arterial spray for the composition, but controlled. I inserted a catheter into his carotid while he was paralyzed and used a modified paint sprayer to create the perfect arcs.” He mimics the spray pattern with hand gestures.

“Jesus,” Lazlo whispers. “That’s why the blood looked almost like brushstrokes on the wall.”

“Exactly!” Calloway beams. “Sometimes the canvas requires different techniques.”

Thorne nods. “Impressive control. Though my latest work took a different approach. Heart attack induced by targeted digitalis overdose, delivered through his favorite scotch.”

“Boring,” Calloway drawls. “No visual flair.”

“Not every elimination needs to be a spectacle,” Thorne replies. “Sometimes elegance is in the simplicity.”

“Speaking of spectacle,” Darius says, his brown eyes sparkling, “my judge last month presented a unique challenge. The man was on blood thinners.”

“Oh God,” Lazlo groans. “Bloodbath?”

“Like a sprinkler,” Darius confirms. “Hit the jugular, and it was like someone turned on a garden hose. Ruined my second-favorite tie.”

“Amateur mistake,” Calloway scoffs. “Always account for medications.”

“I had to improvise,” Darius defends. “Gotta adapt when the block gets hot. ”

“What about you, Lazlo?” I ask. “That pediatric abuser from Cambridge?”

Lazlo’s expression darkens. “Let’s just say he got a taste of his own medicine. I extracted bone marrow while he was conscious. Told him I was taking away pieces of him like he took pieces from those children.”

The room falls silent.

“Too dark?” Lazlo asks.

“No,” Thorne says softly. “Appropriate.”

“What about your pharmacist, Xander?” Calloway asks. “The one selling tainted cancer drugs?”

“Clean work,” I respond. “After three weeks of surveillance, I learned he had a peanut allergy. Replaced his EpiPen with a faulty one. When he consumed hidden peanut oil I’d introduced into his lunch, the empty injection was...educational.”

Darius raises an eyebrow. “Watching him die slowly?”

“Watching him realize it was happening because of what he’d done to others.” I shrug. “Poetic, really.”

“You’re all overlooking fundamental aesthetics,” Calloway complains. “Where’s the composition? The meaning?”

“Not all of us need to turn murder into an art exhibit,” I retort.

“Death should be beautiful,” Calloway insists. “Or at least meaningful.”

“It’s beautiful when it’s deserved,” Lazlo counters.

“Might I remind you all,” Thorne says, his voice slicing through the debate, “that we’re not here to compete for most creative dispatch method. We’re here to support each other. ”

Calloway scoffs. “My standards are simply more elevated.”

“Your standards require a gallery curator,” I mutter.

“That’s rich coming from the man who watches his targets brush their teeth for weeks before making a move,” Calloway fires back.

I’m about to respond when my phone pings with an alert. I pull out my device, expecting a standard notification from one of the dozen monitoring systems I maintain.

But this is different.

My pulse quickens as I see it’s from Oakley’s apartment. Specifically, her email surveillance program. The alert shows a message just arrived in her inbox with a subject line that makes my blood run cold.

“Shit,” I whisper, staring at the preview.