Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
The twilight deepens as the first guests begin to arrive. By seven thirty, the driveway starts filling with cars. The early birds, island locals dying to see the mansion they’ve only glimpsed from a distance. I recognize the grocery store cashier, the pharmacist’s daughter, a few waitresses from the harbor restaurant. They clutch wine bottles and wear clothes that try way too hard. Their voices carry as they exclaim over the grandeur of Windward Estate.
I move to the greenhouse to change. If I’m playing watchdog tonight, I need to blend in. Dark jeans, a black button-down with sleeves rolled to show my tattoos, hair tied back. I glance in the mirror above my sink, looking more like my old man than I care to admit. Wonder what he’d think if he could see me now.
In my trunk, beneath jars of dried herbs and bags of soil amendments, I keep a wooden box. Inside: a knife with a bone handle, a small glass vial of powder that looks like sugar but isn’t, and a black leather cord with a silver charm, protection from the old country, or so my father claimed. Beside these, tucked in the corner, is my Hunt mask, bone-white with black accents, worn enough seasons that the edges are smooth from use. I’ve played both hunter and hunted more times than I like to remember. I grab the mask, along with the cord, tying it around my wrist, and after a moment’s hesitation, I take the bone-handled knife, too. Something feels off tonight. Like watching prey wander into a predator’s den without knowing the rules. Better safe than sorry.
The party is in full swing by the time I make my way back to the main house. The driveway is nearly full. New arrivals park along the road leading to the estate. I recognize most of the vehicles, local business owners, middle-class families with kids Briar’s age, a few harbor guys who’ve cleaned up for the night. But there are others who make my jaw tighten. A matte black Range Rover with tinted windows belongs to Xavier Reed, a rich regular at The Vault with too much money and zero morals. A sleek Mercedes that Asher Brook drives when he’s slumming it with the locals. And worst of all, the chrome-heavy motorcycles belonging to the Bastian brothers, who handle security at The Vault and get off way too much on their job.
I’m surprised the Bastian brothers showed up. They don’t usually attend social events unless they’re planning something. I catch sight of them talking near their bikes, heads close together, expressions too intense for a simple birthday party. Fucking great. I should’ve known the Hunt theme would attract these types. From what I can see through the windows, this isn’t going to be the casual celebration Briar imagined. Not with these people.
I approach from the side of the house, avoiding the main entrance where two hired guys in black check names against a non-existent list. Security theater, they’re not stopping anyone.
Music pulses from inside, heavy tribal drumbeats that vibrate through the stone steps and straight into my bones. The bass is primal, hungry, making my pulse quicken despite myself. Smoke machines pump mist across the floor inside, creating the effect of ground fog that curls around dancers’ ankles. Someone’s brought actual torches that throw wild, dancing shadows everywhere. Lights have been strung across the terrace, giving everything a golden glow that combats the fog. Heat lamps create islands of warmth where people cluster with drinks. Inside, through windows now completely uncovered, I can see bodies already moving, dancing, the great room morphed into something between a nightclub and a fever dream.
The smell hits me as I slip past security, sweat and expensive perfume mixing with something wilder that makes the hair on my neck stand up. Anticipation. Desire. Danger.
I slip past the security guys with a nod they return without question. They know me. Or at least they know not to mess with the guy who supplies certain plants to their bosses at The Vault.
The full impact of the party slams into me as I enter. Women in white glide through the crowd like spirits, their dresses reflecting the firelight in hypnotic patterns. Men in black with silver-and-bone-white masks stalk behind them, eyes fixed on chosen targets through the thickening haze. This goes way beyond costumes and decoration. Everyone’s embraced the Hunt theme with unsettling commitment. The air vibrates with something primal and raw. Bodies pulse to the rhythm, swaying in what feels less like a birthday celebration and more like an ancient ritual, like the island’s oldest traditions have woken inside these people.
The entry hall is packed with strangers, voices overlapping as they shout over the music. Crystal decanters from the Waters family collection have been arranged on a table, filled with various liquors, alongside buckets of ice and mixers. Self-serve, like Briar couldn’t afford actual bartenders. Or maybe she wanted it casual, more like the college parties she probably missed during all those years of treatments.