A dam cracked open in his chest, rupturing the stillness inside of him. His vision blurred, and his chin trembled as one lone tear slid into her touch. But as she attempted to wipe it away, he caught her hand and brought her fingers to his lips, pressing all his gratitude into a single kiss.
“Thank you,” he whispered in a voice so tight it was barely audible.
“You don’t have to thank me, Jack. It’s okay to simply expect human decency.”
At that, he wept. Great, shuddering sobs that tore through him like storms.
Myrtle held him, patient as the longest night that faithfully waits for day. Jack cried until there was nothing left, as Myrtle softly whispered that he would be okay.
Like the promise of dawn, the ache in his chest finally subsided enough that he could breathe again. No expectation to do anything but.
“That’s it. Just breathe,” she whispered, as she hummed and stroked his hair with a tenderness he’d forgotten existed in the world.
Jack opened his eyes to the glow of surveillance feeds resting in the palm of his hand, the memory of Myrtle’s warmth fading like smoke.
That was nearly twenty years ago.
The phone screen split into six frames showing the front drive of The Preserve. Limousines arrived in a slow procession, their headlights cutting through the lavender haze of dusk.
His favorite time of day. The hour when light surrendered to dark, when the world held its breath between what was and what would be. When more than time shifted, he transcended from a raw nerve into a tapped well of hope.
Myrtle used to sit with him during this hour, back when sitting was all his broken body could manage. She never filled the silence with empty words. She simply stayed.
Always there. Always dependable. And while she wasn’t with him now, he could still feel her caring for him from afar.
As the tributes emerged from their vehicles, each figure small and tentative against the grandeur of the estate, Jack smiled. He knew what they were feeling, that potent mixture of fear, distrust, and hope. Some clutched their hands, wringing their fingers as they were led into the unknown. Others stood frozen on the gravel, necks craned upward at the ivy-wrapped Gothic towers and glittering windows, their faces caught between wonder and terror.
The disorientation of being transported into a world that operated by different rules could drive a person to tears. So when some tributes covered their mouths or held their stomachs, he only viewed it as a natural response, recalling all too well how the unknown could twist into sickening dread.
The tributes looked like royalty, but they were anything but. There was an intellect about them that privilege couldn’t buy. And that intellect was warning them now, sending their stomachs spinning as instinct screamed inside of them that nothing good came without cost.
Fifty-seven tributes this year. He had read every application and studied every answer. They came from broken homes, from jobs that paid nothing and futures that promised less. By morning, they would be millionaires. Their debts erased. Their options expanded. Their lives, for better or worse, irrevocably changed.
The last limousine pulled away, and the front doors closed behind the final tribute. Jack pocketed his phone and turned from the hearth, catching his reflection in the darkened window.
The tuxedo was custom. Deep emerald wool, so dark it read black until the light caught its threads. The waistcoat beneath was cut close, the pocket square a shock of teal silk. No watch. Flat onyx cufflinks. And the signet ring on his right hand glinted like a wound that refused to heal.
He adjusted the ring, twisting the RA straight as he exited the suite and headed toward the bear’s den. Time to greet the hunters.
The Great Hall had been transformed into a Gothic feast for the senses, obscene in its beauty. Intricate iron chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen medieval torches. The marble floors had been polished to a mirror-like shine that made guests appear to walk on black water, their reflections rippling beneath them.
Orchids spilled from urns taller than men, their blooms so vibrant they glowed in the shadows. Ropes of jasmine wound through the banisters, perfuming the air with sweetness where the tributes would first emerge.
A string quartet played in the corner, the music elegant and utterly ignored. Servers in white gloves circulated with silver trays bearing oysters on crushed ice, caviar-topped blinis, and wagyu carpaccio, thin enough to read through.
Champagne flowed from a fountain shaped like a stag mid-leap, the golden liquid cascading from its antlers into a basin of crystal flutes. Mammoth ice sculptures presented artwork in the shape of does fleeing by, foretelling, in their rapid poses, and accurately temporary in that their heart-fluttering urgency would melt away by morning.
But the hunters appreciated none of this as they gathered throughout the ballroom, sipping cocktails and verbally stroking each other over their ongoing success.
Several stowed their masks in the breast pockets of their tuxedos, or crushed the forgotten accent in their hands as they mingled among peers. They laughed loudly and stood too close, voices carrying the particular timbre of men who had never been told no. The steady drone would grow more rambunctious as the night wore on.
The scent of cigar smoke lingered like an afterthought, mixing with cologne and the potent stench of ambition. Inhibitions loosened. Soon, the masks would go on, and the pretense of civilization would fall away.
As always, Jack kept to the periphery, a shadow that never lost touch with his pursuit.
Near the champagne fountain, Hadrian Welles held court. He had arrived that afternoon with two valets and enough luggage for a month, though the hunt would last only one night. Now, he stood at the center of a cluster of men, his flamboyantly plum tuxedo immaculate, a glass of scotch sweating in his manicured hand.
“Sixteen virgins this season,” he counted, voice pitched to carry. “I tallied them in The Cull. Sixteen. Christ, it’s like a bloody convent.”
