Trisha’s sharp stare pegged her like a nail sinking into a cross. “I’m trying to warn you. Hiding won’t save you. It’s not even fully dark out yet. They have until dawn. You can’t hide forever.”
Trisha pivoted and bee-lined to the ignored buffet in the corner. Maybe she was right. What if the best way to approach this was to run towards it rather than try to run away?
“I can’t breathe in this dress,” Maggie said, gasping as she pressed a hand to her emerald bodice.
The room hummed with nervous energy. Fifty-seven tributes in various states of panic and bravado, their gowns catching the firelight like jewels scattered across velvet. Some paced. Some prayed. A few laughed too loudly, their champagne courage already wearing thin.
“Just stick to your plan,” Daisy said, but her words were hollow, distracted by her own panic.
The double doors swung open, and she flinched.
“Attention, my beautiful tributes.” Aunt Vanessa glided into the room, her champagne gown flowing behind her like liquid gold, and her hair was swept into an elaborate crown. “It’s time to find your places. Please line up in order of your numbers. Lowest to highest. Quickly now.”
The room erupted into motion.
Daisy found herself shuffled toward the front of the line, her number among the lowest. They formed rows of eight, lining up like beautiful soldiers. Dolls that would be broken by dawn.
Her fingers fidgeted into fists. Palms sweaty, she tried to dry them on her gown, but silver beading swirled over every inch of the fabric. She looked down at her shoes. How was anyone supposed to run, on pebbles and grass, in such ridiculous footwear?
Maggie appeared just behind her at 1938. They exchanged a look that said everything words couldn’t. Trisha, 1952, stood a few bodies back, her chin raised like a queen unapologetically walking toward her own execution.
“Remember,” Aunt V called out as the lines took shape, “when your number is announced, you will descend the grand staircase, pause at the landing for the hunters to acknowledge their interest, then proceed to the ballroom floor.” She approached the first tribute and adjusted a curl hanging by her ear. “Masks on. Chins up. Do not think of yourselves as prey, my darling does. You’re the prize.”
Was there a difference?
The doors opened, and she forgot how to swallow.
The line started to move, pouring them into a corridor lined with candles, their flames flickering in an unseen draft. Male voices carried from a distance, drifting over the soft whirr of classical music.
The air grew thicker as they walked, heavy with exotic floral scents with undertones of dark dread lurking underneath. Anticipation. Hunger. The combined weight of God knew how many predators below.
Visions of wild animals raced through her head. Rabbits snatched out of thin air by teeth. Bobcats growling. Claws sharper than razor blades.
She subconsciously reached for her locket, fingers pressing to her naked collar bones when she recalled it wasn’t there.
They reached the top of a grand staircase, and the voices grew louder. The scent of smoke and liquor hung in the air as a warning. They weren’t sober. Buoyant laughter erupted like a wave, spirited and entitled.
Daisy’s lungs turned shallow, each breath only scraping the surface before expelling in a rapid rush of fear. The stairs curved into a ballroom of impossible opulence. Crystal chandeliers sparkled over countless heads.
They were outnumbered. For every tribute, there was at least one hunter. How was she ever going to get away?
They clustered on a black marble floor, like gods walking on water. A full orchestra performed a seductive number, the luxury completely ignored.
“Over here, my does and stags,” Aunt V directed, luring them back from the landing’s edge.
One man spotted them and whistled, then they all howled like animals. A pack of wolves, ready to hunt. Hungry for blood.
They filled the room like shadows shifting into substance. Dark suits and gleaming masks. Drinking. Prowling. Every face obscured, as eyes flashed in firelight.
“We’re on the fucking menu…” Trisha’s words echoed in her mind.
If this were a feast, they were the sacrificial lambs heading to slaughter.
Stunned by such performative permission for what would be an unholy ritual of sin and sacrifice, Daisy’s jaw hung in shock as she took it all in. Everything about this was dystopian and wrong. They could die here, and not a single person would know. Vanish into the fog like darkness into the moaning earth. Not a single person would know. Her mother’s ashes would sit on that mantle forever, waiting for a daughter who never came home, while Maryanne and the others at the laundry slowly accepted she was never coming back.
An unsolved mystery that quickly went cold and lost interest.
The thought chilled her to the bone.
