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)
“So,” Mari says, reappearing from the back room. “What was that about?”
“Liam’s missing.” I keep my voice neutral. “Viktor’s worried.”
She snorts. “Liam’s probably face-down in some tourist’s bed. Or in some ditch drunk. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“You okay? You look pale.”
“Fine,” I lie. “Just tired and hungover.”
The door swings open again, and my heart stops before I realize it’s only Locke Hartwell, one of The Vault’s owners. He strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—dressed in his usual all-black designer suit, silver rings glinting on his fingers.
“Bishop,” he says, nodding at me. “Interesting night ahead.”
“How so?”
He leans against the bar, lowering his voice. “Viktor’s offering ten thousand to anyone with information about his brother. Cash. No questions asked.”
Fuck.
“That’ll bring out every liar and con artist on the island.” I try to sound casual.
“Exactly.” Locke smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Which means we’ll be busy tonight. People will be coming in to gossip, hoping to overhear something worth ten grand. I need you on your game.”
“Always am.”
Locke glances around the bar, then leans in closer. “Also, the partners had a meeting this morning. We’re hosting another Hunt on the summer equinox.”
I keep my face neutral even as my stomach drops. “Bit early in the season, isn’t it? Thought you guys usually waited until the Harvest Moon.”
“We’re making an exception.” His fingers tap against the polished wood. “Demand’s high this year. Lots of new money from Seattle wanting to experience island traditions.”
“Right. Traditions.” I reach for another glass to polish. “You need me to handle prep?”
“Yes. Same as usual—medical screenings, contracts, security protocols. And we’re adding something new this time.” Locke’s voice drops even lower. “Soren wants to extend invitations to non-members. People who’ve expressed interest in joining The Vault.”
“Non-members?” I can’t keep the edge from my question. “That’s not how The Hunt works.”
“It’s how it works now.” His tone makes it clear this isn’t up for debate. “We’re recruiting. Growing our membership.”
“These ‘outsiders’ understand the rules? The boundaries?”
“That’s your job.” Locke straightens up. “Make sure they do. We need this to go smoothly. No incidents. No complications.”
I nod, mind already running through the implications. The Hunt. Hunters and prey running all over the island. Including abandoned properties. Including the Waters estate. Including the maze where we just buried a body.
Fuck.
“Good.” He straightens his already perfect tie. “And Bishop? Viktor’s a valued member of our security team. If you hear anything, you bring it directly to me. Understood?”
The threat is subtle but clear. The Vault protects its own.
“Understood.”
As Locke walks away, I grab my phone and send another text to Damiano: VIKTOR OFFERING 10K FOR INFO ON LIAM.
His reply is immediate: SHIT.
Yeah. That about sums it up.
And then I add: THE HUNT IS HAPPENING EARLY THIS YEAR. SUMMER EQUINOX. PEOPLE WILL BE ALL OVER THE PROPERTY. THE MAZE.
Three dots appear, then: SHIT. NEED TO SECURE IT BETTER.
I type quickly: CAN YOU? HUNTERS DON’T CARE ABOUT TRESPASSING.
His response takes longer this time: HOW DO WE KEEP THEM AWAY FROM THE GRAVE?
I close my eyes briefly. Fuck: NEED A PLAN. MEET TONIGHT AFTER MY SHIFT. WARN BRIAR.
I glance at the clock—seven more hours of my shift. Seven hours of pretending I don’t know exactly where Liam Bastian is. Seven hours of watching people speculate, watching Viktor question everyone who walks through that door, watching this whole situation spiral further out of control.
I pour myself another shot and down it quickly. The liquor burns all the way down, but it’s not enough to wash away the taste of grave dirt that seems permanently stuck in the back of my throat.
The door opens again, bringing a group of loud weekenders from Seattle. Friday night crowd starting to trickle in. I plaster on my professional bartender face and get back to work. One drink at a time. One hour at a time. Just get through tonight.
But as I mix an overpriced Manhattan for some tech bro, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re already screwed. Money talks on this island. Ten thousand dollars is more than most locals see in six months. Someone will talk, whether they know something or not.
And Viktor won’t stop until he finds his brother.
Or what’s left of him.
Chapter 12
Damiano
The yarrow isn’t growing right.
I’ve checked the soil pH three times, adjusted the water, moved it to a different part of the greenhouse, but something’s still off. The stems are weak, the leaves pale. I could force it, add chemicals, but that defeats the whole point. Medicinal plants need to be strong on their own, or they’re useless.
My phone buzzes again. Fourth time in an hour. I already know it’s Flint with another update about Viktor’s search. The first text was bad enough—VIKTOR OFFERING 10K FOR INFO ON LIAM—but the follow-ups have gotten worse. Search parties combing the eastern shore. Viktor personally questioning everyone at the Waters party.