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)
“Good to know some things never change on this island.”
“You’ve been here before, then?” He’s studying me more carefully now.
“I am Briar Waters.” I don’t offer my hand. “The big house on the north shore.”
“Ah, Waters.” Recognition flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t look impressed. “Thought you guys only haunted the island in July and August but years ago.”
“Usually. I’m on extended sick leave this year.”
“Lucky us,” he says dryly. “Flint Bishop. I run the bar here.”
“So you’re the person to know if I want to have some fun around here?”
“Depends on your definition of fun.” He studies my face. “What’s the Waters definition these days?”
I make a split-second decision. “I’m throwing a party tomorrow night. At Windward Estate.”
That gets his attention. His eyebrow shoots up, the piercing above it catching the light. “A party? At the Waters fortress? That’s different.”
“It’s my birthday.” I shrug, trying to come across casual. “Though nobody knows that. Or cares.”
“Including your father?”
“Especially my father.”
He gives me a look that suggests I’ve just become slightly more interesting to him. “Bold move, but why tell me? We just met, and I’m hardly on the Waters guest list.”
Something clicks in my brain as I glance back at Mooncrow’s window display. “I want to throw a Hunt-themed party.”
His posture shifts slightly—more alert, more wary. “Hunt-themed? What do you mean?”
“You know… inspired by The Hunt. Not the actual thing, obviously,” I clarify quickly. “But the aesthetic. Red lights everywhere, guys in masks, girls in white, tribal drums playing. Something primal. Wild. The opposite of the stuffy parties my father throws.”
“So not an actual Hunt, just dressing up like one.” He seems relieved but also slightly amused. “Still pretty daring for a Waters party.”
“I know what The Hunt is,” I reply, thinking of all those nights watching from my window. “That’s exactly why I want it as my theme.”
He studies me for a moment, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “A Waters girl hosting a Hunt-themed party. That’s one for the island history books.”
“So will you help? I need people to show up. People who get the theme and will really commit to it.”
“What’s in it for me?” he asks, though I can tell he’s already interested.
“Open bar. Plus the satisfaction of corrupting a Waters. Isn’t that enough?”
He laughs. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I start walking backward, away from him. “Nine o’clock tomorrow. Tell everyone you know. Especially the people who know how to have a good time.”
“If you’re serious about this,” he calls after me, “you’re gonna need proper decorations. Not that tourist crap in the window.”
“Any suggestions?”
“You need actual Hunt masks. Edith at Mooncrow keeps the real ones in the back.”
“Perfect.” I turn to go, then spin back. “Oh, have you seen Damiano Ricci today? The groundskeeper at my place?”
The shift is immediate. His entire body tenses, his expression shutters. “Why would I know where your gardener is?”
Interesting reaction. There’s definitely history there.
“No reason. He made me something that helped me sleep. Thought he might be in town.”
“Yeah, he’s good at mixing things that mess with your head.” Flint’s voice turns cold. “Free advice, be careful around Ricci. He doesn’t exactly have a history of leaving people better than he found them.”
“Noted.” I start heading away, then call back over my shoulder. “See you tomorrow night, Flint Bishop.”
I can feel his eyes following me as I head down the street. There’s something about him that gets under my skin. Not in a bad way, necessarily, just... unsettling. Like he sees right through the Waters heiress facade to the mess underneath. But at least now I’ve got one potential guest for my impromptu party. Time to see if I can drum up a few more.
I head straight to Mooncrow Artifacts. The shop is exactly as I remember it from past summers—dim lighting, that weird mix of tourist crap and actual mystical stuff, the smell of incense and old books. Edith, the ancient owner who seems like she’s been running this place since the island formed, looks up from behind the counter.
“Briar Waters,” she says, recognition in her eyes. “Been a while.”
“I’m having a party tomorrow. Hunt-themed.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “At the Waters place? Your father hasn’t thrown a party—”
“My father’s not here.” I meet her gaze directly. “And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” I draw a calming breath. “I saw the masks and thought they’d be perfect for decorations.”
“Okay.” She nods slowly. “But the authentic masks are in the back. Follow me.”
She leads me to a storage room where she shows me a collection of masks far more elaborate than the ones in the window. Genuine bone, hand-carved with intricate symbols, adorned with feathers and small bells that make a haunting sound when they move.
“These are the real deal,” she says. “Handmade by island craftsmen, not the mass-produced ones we sell to tourists.”