Page 61 of Breaking Isolde

We stop. Colton stares at the field, then back at me. “She’ll be in white, right?”

“Yep,” I say.

He nods. “You ever think about wearing white instead?”

“Not my color.”

Julian smiles from behind. “I think it would suit you, actually, given your entire room is white. Maybe with a crown of thorns?”

Bam grunts, “He’d wear the blood better than Jesus.”

“Black doesn’t show stains.”

We keep walking.

Boulders and stones lie haphazardly across frosted grass as we go, moving towards where the main event will take place. The field beyond is dusted with light snow. At the far side, a low platform has been set up, draped in black velvet, two chairs facing the arena, elevated above the rabble.

The crowd is here, just as I expected. Mafia in tailored suits, Eastern Euro types with scars and tattoos, two dozen of the old-money funders in navy cashmere and double-breasted wool. The Board sits together, all in black, hoods up and faces half-hidden. Abelard and Valence stand in front of the boulder that serves as our alter, backs to the wind, motionless.

They’re all looking at me.

I lead the Boys down the path towards them. No one claps. No one even whispers. All you can hear is the wind and the faint crackle of torchlight.

We take our seats on the lower tier, a half-circle around the ritual zone. On the boulder is a white cloth and two daggers—one for the Hunter, one for the Hunted. It’s a redundancy, but the Board loves its symmetry.

Slight variation from Caius’ ritual, where they decided that for the sake of cleanliness and hygiene, each of us gets our own to cut our palms with and bind ourselves together.

Not that I get the fucking point, we’ve swapped bodily fluids so whatever the fuck she’s got, I got it too.

I don’t care, in any case. I’m watching the other entrance, the path where Isolde will be coming from. It’s empty. For now.

Abelard turns to the crowd. His voice, even in a whisper, carries. “Tonight we honor tradition. Tonight we test the worth of our future. Should the Hunter succeed, he claims both the prize and his place. Should he fail—”

Valence cuts in, “—the consequences are self-evident.”

A low chuckle from the Board. Everyone loves a little theater.

Bam leans over, voice low. “You see her?”

I shake my head.

Colton cracks his knuckles, restless. “Hmmm. Interesting.”

Julian licks his lips, tapping his toes on the ground. “Wonder if she will run or fight. Bets on fighting. Maybe she will hit you with a stick.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I snarl. “Idiot.”

Abelard drones on, but I’m not listening, I’m waiting.

Watching.

Soon, my little wildcat will walk down that path and the games will begin.

Chapter 13: Isolde

I’mhalfwaythroughscrubbingthe sweat-stench from my armpits, over the sink, when the knock comes. Not a polite rap, not the bored tap of a roommate checking if I want to order late night Chinese, but a formal, two-beat hammer that belongs to cops and cults and funeral directors. My skin goes electric, every follicle up and at attention. I dry my hands on the towel, then wipe it over the sink.

They knock again. I ignore it, count the seconds until the door opens anyway. Three. Four. Five. Then the knob rattles, and in they come.