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The weak light illuminates maybe three feet in front of me before dissolving into the fog. Useless. I’ll save the last bit of battery in case I need to call someone.

I keep moving, hoping I’ll stumble across a landmark I recognize or find my way back to the entrance. The distant thump of music helps orient me somewhat, at least I know which direction the house is in.

Then I hear it. A low whistle, melodic and haunting, coming from somewhere in the maze. It rises and falls in a pattern that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

The Hunt. That’s the whistle from The Hunt.

Behind me, gravel crunches. Not my steps.

Someone else is in the maze. Someone whistling a Hunt call.

“Hello?” I call out, then immediately regret it. If it’s someone from the party who followed me out here, the last thing I want to do is make it easier for them to find me. But if it’s Damiano, he can help me find my way back.

No answer. Just more crunching gravel, closer now. The whistle comes again, closer this time.

“Damiano? Is that you?”

Still nothing. But whoever it is, they’re not trying to hide their approach. The footsteps are steady,unhurried, like a hunter who knows their prey is cornered.

My heart starts hammering against my ribs. I turn and start walking faster, taking turns at random, no longer caring if I get more lost. Distance from whoever’s following me seems more important.

I round a corner and find myself in a small circular clearing I don’t recognize. Multiple paths branch off from it like spokes on a wheel. I pick one without hesitation, moving as quickly as I can without running.

The footsteps speed up, too. The whistle sounds again, almost playful.

Oh fuck this.

I start running, no longer caring about the noise I’m making. My lungs burn almost immediately, my crappy body reminding me it’s not built for running anymore. Fear is a powerful motivator.

I take another turn, and another. The fog gets thicker with each step, or maybe that’s my vision going dark as my lungs fail to get enough oxygen.

Something moves through the hedge to my right, someone taking a shortcut through the plants themselves, branches snapping as they force their way through.

I must stop, for a second. Just to catch my breath. I lean against the hedge wall, trying to be quiet despite the desperate heaving of my chest.

The footsteps and breaking branches stop, too.

Then a figure steps out of the fogahead of me. The bone-white mask of a stag skull covers his face, antlers rising above his head like a crown. The Hunt mask. I freeze, terror washing through me.

The whistle comes again, this time from the masked figure. He tilts his head, studying me.

I try to run, but he’s too fast. He closes his hand around my arm, above the elbow, yanking me back.

Chapter 7

Briar

“Whoa, hey, relax.” The mask muffles his voice, and he pulls it off with his free hand to reveal Liam Bastian’s face. His smile looks almost friendly. “Sorry if I scared you. Just having a little fun with the whole Hunt theme.”

“What do you want?” I try to sound confident, but I sound breathless and weak.

“Nothing bad,” he says, releasing my arm but staying close. “Just saw you slip away from the party. Thought you might need company.” His tone is casual now, like we’re just two people who ran into each other. “I brought this for the party,” he adds, gesturing at the mask. “Pretty authentic, right?”

“I’m fine.” I straighten, trying to look stronger than I feel. “I just needed some air.”

“In the maze? At night?” He takes another step closer. I can smell alcohol on him. Way too strong, meaning he’s been doing more than only drinking. “That seems dangerous for someone in your... condition.”

The way he says “condition” makes my skin crawl. Like I’m dirty somehow because of it. I also hate that clearly the people of the island are talking about me. Everyone seems to know of my “condition”.