Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Fifty-seven tributes this year. He had read every application and studied every answer. They came from broken homes, from jobs that paid nothing and futures that promised less. By morning, they would be millionaires. Their debts erased. Their options expanded. Their lives, for better or worse, irrevocably changed.
The last limousine pulled away, and the front doors closed behind the final tribute. Jack pocketed his phone and turned from the hearth, catching his reflection in the darkened window.
The tuxedo was custom. Deep emerald wool, so dark it read black until the light caught its threads. The waistcoat beneath was cut close, the pocket square a shock of teal silk. No watch. Flat onyx cufflinks. And the signet ring on his right hand glinted like a wound that refused to heal.
He adjusted the ring, twisting the RA straight as he exited the suite and headed toward the bear’s den. Time to greet the hunters.
The Great Hall had been transformed into a Gothic feast for the senses, obscene in its beauty. Intricate iron chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen medieval torches. The marble floors had been polished to a mirror-like shine that made guests appear to walk on black water, their reflections rippling beneath them.
Orchids spilled from urns taller than men, their blooms so vibrant they glowed in the shadows. Ropes of jasmine wound through the banisters, perfuming the air with sweetness where the tributes would first emerge.
A string quartet played in the corner, the music elegant and utterly ignored. Servers in white gloves circulated with silver trays bearing oysters on crushed ice, caviar-topped blinis, and wagyu carpaccio, thin enough to read through.
Champagne flowed from a fountain shaped like a stag mid-leap, the golden liquid cascading from its antlers into a basin of crystal flutes. Mammoth ice sculptures presented artwork in the shape of does fleeing by, foretelling, in their rapid poses, and accurately temporary in that their heart-fluttering urgency would melt away by morning.
But the hunters appreciated none of this as they gathered throughout the ballroom, sipping cocktails and verbally stroking each other over their ongoing success.
Several stowed their masks in the breast pockets of their tuxedos, or crushed the forgotten accent in their hands as they mingled among peers. They laughed loudly and stood too close, voices carrying the particular timbre of men who had never been told no. The steady drone would grow more rambunctious as the night wore on.
The scent of cigar smoke lingered like an afterthought, mixing with cologne and the potent stench of ambition. Inhibitions loosened. Soon, the masks would go on, and the pretense of civilization would fall away.
As always, Jack kept to the periphery, a shadow that never lost touch with his pursuit.
Near the champagne fountain, Hadrian Welles held court. He had arrived that afternoon with two valets and enough luggage for a month, though the hunt would last only one night. Now, he stood at the center of a cluster of men, his flamboyantly plum tuxedo immaculate, a glass of scotch sweating in his manicured hand.
“Sixteen virgins this season,” he counted, voice pitched to carry. “I tallied them in The Cull. Sixteen. Christ, it’s like a bloody convent.”
The men around him chuckled. The Cull. Jack had no control over the crude nicknames that stuck over the years. The masquerade originated as a respectable debut for the tributes, a cotillion ball meant to commemorate what would soon be a memorable rite of passage, but once the hunters coined it the Wrecking Ball, few referred to it as anything else.
Same with the Tribute Registry, which provided details on each tribute while protecting their identity. But the hunters insisted on calling them does and stags, then referring to each season’s registry as The Cull, as if the tributes were livestock to be sorted.
Jack kept his own book of sorts. Not on the tributes, but on the hunters. And that quiet karma provided the patience he needed not to call out their crude terminology. Tonight was intended to seduce them as much as the tributes. An ancient game of power and exchange that would reveal their true nature by dawn.
“You’ve memorized the whole book already?” asked a stout man with a red face and a German accent.
Von Berg, Jack thought, quickly identifying the hunter.
“Only the relevant pages.” Hadrian laughed without warmth. “I know what I like.”
“And what’s that?” another man pressed, leaning in with the eager expression of someone hoping to learn from a master. This one, Jack didn’t recognize right away, but it would come to him soon.
Hadrian swirled his scotch, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Fear,” he said simply. “Not the performative kind. The real thing. That moment when they realize the rules won’t protect them.” He took a slow sip. “When their bodies start responding despite their terror.” His grin was slow, his eyes seeming to narrow at the corners. “Nothing beats that slick give when they resign themselves to the truth. Feel how powerless they actually are. That’s when it gets interesting.”