Page 6

Damiano

I watch her from the treeline as she carries boxes from the house to the terrace.

Third trip now. She’s pushing herself too hard, her breath forming small clouds in the morning air.

Her hair catches the weak sunlight as she pauses, hand pressed against the stone balustrade, taking a moment before she heads back inside.

She really shouldn’t be lifting stuff. Not with how her body constantly rebels against her.

The greenhouse gives me cover, a legit excuse to be here, taking care of the grounds, watching the big house.

But let’s be real, I’d be watching anyway.

Something about Briar Waters draws me. Maybe it’s her defiance, the way she pushes against her limitations.

Or maybe it’s simpler, the way her hair looks like it’s holding moonlight, how her skin has that translucent quality like some rare orchid I’ve been trying to grow for years .

Shit. I sound like one of my dad’s angsty poems. This is exactly why I keep to myself.

I clip a branch with more force than necessary, adding it to my collection.

Echinacea root, yarrow leaves, angelica.

Each goes into separate pockets of my work vest. Later, I’ll dry them, grind them, mix them with other things from deeper in the forest—things that don’t exactly grow in gardens where just anyone can see them.

She appears again, this time with strings of lights tangled in her hands. A party. Mrs. Fletcher mentioned it when she left this morning, worry practically carved into her face as she asked me to “keep an eye on things” while she was gone. Like I wouldn’t do that anyway.

I know all about keeping watch. Been doing it since I was ten, when I learned the hard way how fast people can vanish on this island.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it.

Probably Flint, and I’m so not in the mood for his crap today.

Last night at The Vault was enough. His hands on me, angry and demanding, his mouth tasting like whiskey and lies.

Same old pattern. We crash into each other like wrecking balls, leave each other in pieces, then pretend we’re total strangers until next time.

Through the windows, I can see Briar moving around the great room, pushing furniture to create open space.

Whatever she’s planning, it’s definitely bigger than “just a few friends.” The house has been closed to visitors for years.

Maxwell Waters doesn’t bring his business buddies here anymore. Not since his wife died.

I could go up there. Offer to help. Tell her she should rest between trips, that her lips are turning blue from the cold. But then she’d ask questions I don’t want to deal with. Like how I know so much about her condition. Or why I even care.

So I stick to the cypress shadows, moving when I need to keep her in view. Not stalking. Just watching over. There’s a difference.

The afternoon stretches on as the sky darkens slightly with gathering clouds.

Cars begin arriving, first a trickle and then a steady flow.

The delivery vans come first, caterers from the mainland hauling food and supplies that practically scream “Waters money.” Then the rental people with extra chairs, portable heaters for the terrace, speakers for music.

All arranged through phone calls Briar made yesterday after visiting town.

I move closer to the house as the sun starts to drop. The fog is rolling in early tonight, thick with moisture, swallowing the lower garden. Perfect cover for me.

From behind a stone statue, Neptune with his trident I’ve deliberately covered in moss, I watch the catering staff arrange platters of food inside.

Through the French doors, I can see Briar directing them.

She’s wearing white, a flowing dress that reminds me of The Hunt, women in their ghostly nightgowns before they sprint barefoot through the darkness.

Her dark hair pulled half-up shows the delicate curve of her neck, making her look like the perfect target.

Whether she realizes the significance of her outfit, it will send a message to certain guests who’ve yet to arrive.

She seems stronger today. The herbs I left for her must be working.

That’s something at least.

She catches sight of me through the window as she turns. Our eyes lock for a moment before I step back into the shadows. Let her wonder. Better than explaining why I’m lurking outside like some creeper. Though that’s exactly what I’m doing.

My phone buzzes again. This time I check it.

Heard about the Waters girl’s party. Looks like unofficial Hunt season is starting early this year. You playing security guard tonight? Or are you actually invited?

Flint. Always knowing exactly which buttons to push.

I don’t respond. But the message confirms what I suspected, this isn’t going to be “just a few friends.” If Flint knows about it, half the island does—including people who have no business getting anywhere near Briar Waters.

The twilight deepens as the first guests begin to arrive.

By seven thirty, the driveway starts filling with cars.

The early birds, island locals dying to see the mansion they’ve only glimpsed from a distance.

I recognize the grocery store cashier, the pharmacist’s daughter, a few waitresses from the harbor restaurant.

They clutch wine bottles and wear clothes that try way too hard.

Their voices carry as they exclaim over the grandeur of Windward Estate.

I move to the greenhouse to change. If I’m playing watchdog tonight, I need to blend in.

Dark jeans, a black button-down with sleeves rolled to show my tattoos, hair tied back.

I glance in the mirror above my sink, looking more like my old man than I care to admit.

Wonder what he’d think if he could see me now.

In my trunk, beneath jars of dried herbs and bags of soil amendments, I keep a wooden box.

Inside: a knife with a bone handle, a small glass vial of powder that looks like sugar but isn’t, and a black leather cord with a silver charm, protection from the old country, or so my father claimed.

Beside these, tucked in the corner, is my Hunt mask, bone-white with black accents, worn enough seasons that the edges are smooth from use.

I’ve played both hunter and hunted more times than I like to remember.

I grab the mask, along with the cord, tying it around my wrist, and after a moment’s hesitation, I take the bone-handled knife, too.

Something feels off tonight. Like watching prey wander into a predator’s den without knowing the rules. Better safe than sorry.

The party is in full swing by the time I make my way back to the main house.

The driveway is nearly full. New arrivals park along the road leading to the estate.

I recognize most of the vehicles, local business owners, middle-class families with kids Briar’s age, a few harbor guys who’ve cleaned up for the night.

But there are others who make my jaw tighten.

A matte black Range Rover with tinted windows belongs to Xavier Reed, a rich regular at The Vault with too much money and zero morals.

A sleek Mercedes that Asher Brook drives when he’s slumming it with the locals.

And worst of all, the chrome-heavy motorcycles belonging to the Bastian brothers, who handle security at The Vault and get off way too much on their job.

I’m surprised the Bastian brothers showed up.

They don’t usually attend social events unless they’re planning something.

I catch sight of them talking near their bikes, heads close together, expressions too intense for a simple birthday party.

Fucking great. I should’ve known the Hunt theme would attract these types.

From what I can see through the windows, this isn’t going to be the casual celebration Briar imagined. Not with these people.

I approach from the side of the house, avoiding the main entrance where two hired guys in black check names against a non-existent list. Security theater, they’re not stopping anyone.

Music pulses from inside, heavy tribal drumbeats that vibrate through the stone steps and straight into my bones.

The bass is primal, hungry, making my pulse quicken despite myself.

Smoke machines pump mist across the floor inside, creating the effect of ground fog that curls around dancers’ ankles.

Someone’s brought actual torches that throw wild, dancing shadows everywhere.

Lights have been strung across the terrace, giving everything a golden glow that combats the fog.

Heat lamps create islands of warmth where people cluster with drinks.

Inside, through windows now completely uncovered, I can see bodies already moving, dancing, the great room morphed into something between a nightclub and a fever dream.

The smell hits me as I slip past security, sweat and expensive perfume mixing with something wilder that makes the hair on my neck stand up. Anticipation. Desire. Danger.

I slip past the security guys with a nod they return without question. They know me. Or at least they know not to mess with the guy who supplies certain plants to their bosses at The Vault.

The full impact of the party slams into me as I enter.

Women in white glide through the crowd like spirits, their dresses reflecting the firelight in hypnotic patterns.

Men in black with silver-and-bone-white masks stalk behind them, eyes fixed on chosen targets through the thickening haze.

This goes way beyond costumes and decoration.

Everyone’s embraced the Hunt theme with unsettling commitment.

The air vibrates with something primal and raw.

Bodies pulse to the rhythm, swaying in what feels less like a birthday celebration and more like an ancient ritual, like the island’s oldest traditions have woken inside these people.