Page 18 of Cruel Pleasures

I bring a hand to my face to ease the migraine throbbing to life. I imagined the annual event would be some drawn out gala that spanned the course of several days. Some kind of never-ending party where they celebrated how rich and fabulous they were. Maybe with some sex and kink thrown in considering who they are, but never this…

Never some sort of competition where real people compete for their amusement.

Compete in what, I’m still not even sure.

“Who are you choosing?” Talia asks. She jots down number eleven. “I’m never good at these things. My players never last past the first or second round.”

“What happens when they’re eliminated?”

She giggles again as if I’ve told a joke.

The cards are promptly collected. Mine is ripped out of my hand before I can barely jot down the number I’ve chosen: twenty-five.

I’ve counted the number of people in the secret room, and there’s exactly twenty-four. Twenty-four players to match the twenty-four society members seated around the table, excluding myself and the Hostess. Ideally, each member could pick a different player if they wanted to.

From what I gather eavesdropping on those around me, many are choosing the same five or six players.

I’m forcing myself to keep cool, but anxiety claws away at me. It tightens in my throat and makes me restless, my heel tapping under the table. I came here for answers about Lyra; I didn’t come here to be involved in some kind of degrading tournament.

Get the fuck out of here. Right now. While you can.

I begin pushing out my chair.

Jerome returns to the microphone and the room falls silent. Which would make exiting even more obvious. I stay put with the sinking realization I’ll have to sneak away the moment everyone else is distracted.

“Your choices are in. And, unfortunately, we have three individuals who have not been chosen by anyone.”

“What does that mean?” I ask under my breath.

My question goes unanswered. Jerome continues, but rather than addressing the Midnight Society Members, he addresses the players. The recognition dawns on their faces as, suddenly, they hear his voice too. Their heads tip up as if searching for the speaker hidden in the room.

“Players eight, fifteen, and twenty-four, remain where you are. The rest of you may proceed to the exit, where you will follow the warden to your quarters.”

A door springs open on its own from inside the secret room. The twenty-one players who have not been singled out rush toward the exit as if they’re afraid something bad will happen if they don’t exit fast enough. Soon the room empties ’til it’s just eight, fifteen, and twenty-four.

Eight is a small woman with dark rings around her eyes. Fifteen a man easily past retirement age.

Number twenty-four… the kind-faced, teary-eyed woman who’s spent the entire time huddled in a corner.

Oh no… this can’t be good…

“Players eight, fifteen, twenty-four,” Jerome says, his tone more feverish than before, “you have received no bets from any of the members, which means you are eliminated… unless you prove you deserve to remain in the games. In the center of the room, you’ll find a device that may be useful in earning your spot. Only one makes it out of this room still breathing.”

A tile in the ceiling opens and out falls what appears to be a machete. It thunks onto the ground as it lands in between the three remaining players.

My mouth drops open in a silent scream as it happens so fast.

Player eight seems to immediately understand the set of instructions. She dives for the machete before the other two can even think to act. The kind-faced woman backs away in horror as player eight goes for the older man first.

He puts up a fight, throwing up his arm as she swipes at him. His arm is no match for the machete. Blade meets flesh in horrifyingly gory fashion. It slices through the fabric of his shirt, sinking deep into his limb. He staggers back in grimaced pain as blood oozes from the deep gash and the woman wrests the machete out of him.

Then she goes in for another strike. The first one was shocking enough. When she brings the machete down on him a second time, a squeal escapes my throat. I jump in my chair at what I’m witnessing—a woman who’s just brought a machete down on a man not once but twice.

Three times as she goes in for the kill and he crumples to the ground.

She rounds on the other woman next. The kind-faced woman who has otherwise remained tucked into the corner of the room.

I glance around wildly at the others seated at the table. The expressions that greet me are those of shiny-eyed excitement. An unmistakable thirst to see what happens next.