The Hunt

10. Rhett

10

Rhett

The Wild Hunt headquarters loomed ahead of me, its towering spires clawing at the night sky. The building was ancient, older than anything else in Havenport, its Gothic architecture a reminder of a time when fear and reverence were carved into stone. The dark gray facade was cracked and weathered, ivy snaking up the sides as if nature couldn’t help but claim a piece of its menace for itself.

I pulled my coat tighter as I stepped inside, the heavy wooden doors groaning ominously as they swung open. The air shifted instantly—colder, heavier, filled with the scent of melting wax and old stone. Black candles lined every crevice, their flickering flames casting distorted shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

As I strode down the main aisle, I glanced up at the masked figures seated in the pews above and below, their faces obscured behind intricate skeletal designs of silver and black. They didn’t move, didn’t speak. It was a sea of anonymity, the masks making them all identical.

Only the brand-new members at the front remained unmasked like me. We’d receive the masks for meetings after we went through our first hunting season.

To be honest, I’d never quite understood the reasoning behind masking at meetings. It just seemed so overly theatrical and ultimately pointless. After all, anyone who’d passed the summer trial knew who all the members were, because there was a list in the encrypted files we were granted access to after passing.

Not to mention all the society parties and other events, where we saw everyone in person. So what was the point of the older members hiding their faces during meetings? It only seemed logical to wear a mask around non-members.

I asked my father once, and he gave me some blathering excuse about adhering to tradition and the sanctity of the society’s rituals.

‘The masks aren’t just for secrecy,’ he’d said, puffing on his cigar with a pompous look on his face. ‘They’re a symbol. A reminder that in the society, we’re all equals. No names, no status. Just the Hunt.’

It sounded like nonsensical bullshit then, and it still did now. No one was truly equal in The Wild Hunt. Power was everything, and everyone knew exactly who wielded it: the Patriarchs.

Especially the Head Patriarch—JJ’s father Peter.

I’d let my father have his explanation, though, nodding like I understood. You didn’t challenge the society’s traditions. At least not if you valued your place in it.

But still, every time I walked into this building and saw those skull masks staring back at me, I couldn’t help but think about how much of it was just a show.

It was a show I enjoyed, though. The Wild Hunt had given me what I always needed: a place to channel the chaos inside me. All that anger, all that restlessness that used to get me into trouble, now had a purpose.

Here, I wasn’t just some reckless guy with a chip on his shoulder. I was part of something bigger. Something that demanded control, precision, and ruthlessness. The training, the rituals, the hunts… they were mere outlets, carefully crafted opportunities to unleash everything I kept bottled up.

Out there in the real world, losing control was a liability. In here, it was power. The society didn’t care if you were angry, probably didn’t even care if you were a full-fledged psychopath, as long as you were smart about it. As long as you used it to win.

And I definitely planned to win.

I spotted Jake seated in the second row, casually leaning back. I slid into the pew next to him, nodding at Ari, JJ, and Nick, who were on his other side. They slightly tilted their heads back at me.

At the front, the altar dominated the space. It was a raised platform of smooth, dark stone, illuminated by a dozen candles arranged in a perfect circle. Behind it stood the eight Patriarchs, their presence towering even from a distance.

Their masks were different to the others, adorned with intricate gold designs that reflected the dim light, marking them as the ones who wielded absolute power here.

The Head Patriarch—Peter Jennings—finally stepped forward and raised his hands. The room fell silent.

“Welcome, everyone,” he said, booming voice laced with the kind of authority that made every word feel like a decree. “We gather here tonight, not only to mark the upcoming game, but to acknowledge the strength, dedication, and commitment of those who have earned their place in this room. As always, it is an honor to be in your company.”

He paused, waiting for everyone to nod and murmur their acknowledgement. Then his voice carried through the room again, calm and deliberate. "As you all know, the year’s most important event is fast approaching. The Hunt."

The mere mention of it sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd, subtle shifts and murmurs of anticipation.

"This year, one-hundred-and-six of you applied to participate as hunters. From that number, thirty were selected, including seventeen of our college senior members. That’s a record for the seniors, so I offer my heartiest congratulations to them."

Peter paused again, allowing the thunderous applause that erupted to finish before continuing. "As we all know, senior year of college is the first time any member may compete in the Hunt. So, for these seventeen individuals, this will be their debut, and I’m sure they are more than ready to prove themselves."

More applause followed, louder this time, accompanied by whistles and cheers from the upper pews. It was part encouragement, part recognition of the challenge ahead.

"For those who didn’t make the cut this year, or those who chose not to apply, you’ll still be part of the excitement. Via our video link, you can watch every moment unfold from the privacy of your own home. Or, for the more adventurous, you can watch from the Lodge. Those who booked early enough to get one of the east or north-facing rooms on the top floor may even catch glimpses of the action with the binoculars provided on each balcony.”

The mention of the Lodge brought a fresh wave of murmurs. The rambling Victorian monstrosity was as much a spectacle as the Hunt itself; a place for voyeurs to revel in the chaos without stepping foot on the hunting grounds.

"Now," Peter said, his tone brightening. “Let’s talk about this year’s betting pool. Wagers are already rolling in, and I’m pleased to announce that the top three favorites to win are already emerging. I’ll read them out now, in ascending order.”

He gestured to one of the other Patriarchs beside him, who handed over a tablet displaying the leaderboard. A name was read out, followed by thunderous applause. The same for the second name.

"And the number one favorite," Peter continued. "We have a first-time player, Rhett Sinclair." His gaze swept the room, searching for me. "Rhett’s performance in the trials over the past few years has earned him this coveted position in the rankings. Congratulations, Rhett.”

The applause came fast and heavy, but I barely reacted, my face a mask of calm as I accepted the acknowledgment.

"But that’s not all," Peter said, lifting a hand to quiet the crowd. "This year’s seniors have shown exceptional promise, with three more earning places in the top ten. Chris Delfino, Luke Czerniak, and Jacob Jennings. All formidable competitors who are sure to give the veterans a run for their money."

A roar of approval swept the room as he finished his praise. "This year’s Hunt is shaping up to be one of the most competitive we’ve ever seen. We should all be very proud of what these members represent. Tradition. Strength. Excellence."

He raised his hands in a signal for more applause, and the room erupted once more, the sound echoing off the building’s ancient walls.

When it finally died down, he spoke up again. His tone had shifted, a slight edge of excitement creeping into his voice. “For the first time in decades, we’ve managed to secure exactly fifty prey players for this year’s Hunt,” he said. “Twelve in Group 1, seven in Group 2, and thirty-one in Group 3.”

The crowd erupted in applause yet again, the room buzzing with anticipation.

“We were at forty-nine for a while, but I’m pleased to announce that a last-minute applicant was approved, bringing us to the perfect number. You can find the details in your encrypted files, so let’s take a moment to go over them. Phones, everyone.”

The room shifted as each member reached into their robes or pockets, pulling out their devices. The soft tapping of screens filled the air.

I slowly scrolled past all the profiles in Groups 1 and 2. Every face looked familiar, meaning that the new applicant had to be in Group 3.

Interesting.

Group 1 was what I considered to be the most obvious, basic kind of prey to pick off. They were death-row prisoners who’d committed heinous crimes—murders or similar atrocities; the kind of offenses that made your skin crawl. The worst of the worst, trapped behind bars with nothing left but time, slowly ticking down to their execution dates.

The Hunt offered them a way out. In exchange for playing—and therefore risking their life—they had a shot at the $5 million prize awarded to the last standing civilian player.

More importantly, they’d have the chance to have their sentence commuted. Of course, this was made possible through the deep pockets and influence of the society, bribing corrupt judges, officials, and prison administrators to grant them that second chance.

The existence of Group 2 had left a bad taste in my mouth ever since I learned about it. They were terminally ill people, diagnosed with diseases that left them with only months to live. Maybe a year, max. They were still fully mobile—for now—but death was knocking at their door, and they knew there was nothing they could do to stop it.

For them, the Hunt offered a twisted sort of opportunity. They knew they were dying either way, but now they had a chance to win $5 million before they went out; a prize that could change the lives of their families forever. And if they didn’t make it to the end? Well, they were going to die soon anyway. Harsh but true.

Still, it’d never sat right with me. Unlike Group 1 and 3 members, Group 2 members hadn’t done anything that would make them deserving of a violent death at the hands of a Wilder.

Also, they might be active and mobile, but from what I’d heard, they weren’t much of a challenge. Some of them wanted to die in the Hunt, preferring a shot to the head over the weeks or months of suffering they’d endure once their illness finally started to ravage them. The $5 million they’d get if they actually survived to the end was just a consolation prize, really. Death was their real prize.

People like that—those who either wanted to die or were already on death’s door anyway—weren’t the sort of challenge I liked.

No, the challenge I preferred lay in Groups 1 and 3.

Group 3 members were both free and healthy. They were people who’d committed heinous, often-illegal acts in their past, and while their dark deeds weren’t known to the world, they were known by the society; discovered through careful surveillance and our network of informants.

They’d be approached with an offer they couldn’t refuse: a chance to atone for their sins by participating in the Hunt. If they won, all evidence of their wrongdoing was wiped from existence, and they could walk away with both the $5 million prize and their peace of mind. A twisted form of redemption.

However, if they refused the offer to participate, the alternative was very unpleasant. The evidence against them would be handed over to the authorities or any other relevant parties, and with the kind of power the Wilders wielded, that wasn’t a threat to be taken lightly.

I’d always found these people to be the most interesting prey, because for them, participation in the Hunt wasn’t just about freedom from prison or securing a future for their family.

Instead, it was about the struggle to keep their darkest secrets buried. That was what really intrigued me, and I liked to make a game of trying to figure out those secrets as I sifted through their profiles.

I scrolled to the next player profile, and my stomach lurched as my eyes landed on the new addition to Group 3.

It was Ev.

What the fuck?

I blinked slowly, certain I was seeing things, but the profile was still right in front of me.

Name: Everly Rose Marlowe

Age: 20

Occupation: Student

Height: 5’2

Weight: 120lbs

I stared at her scanned signature and driver’s license photo with wide, disbelieving eyes. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. What the hell could Ev possibly have done to end up in the Hunt?

I had no fucking clue.

She was a bigot for sure; a painful fact I had to force myself to remember whenever I saw her pretty face and thought about kissing her or fucking her brains out. But just because someone was an asshole didn’t mean they deserved to die … and the people in Group 3 usually had secrets so terrible that they’d rather die than see them exposed to the world.

That meant that whatever it was Ev had done, it had to be something really fucking bad. So what had she done? What the hell was she hiding?

My mind raced, but no answers came. Only more questions.

I nudged Jake and tilted my screen to show him. “Look,” I muttered, wanting to gauge his reaction before I said too much. “It’s Ev.”

His eyes flickered with confusion. No recognition. “Uh… okay?”

“You know her, don’t you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, she looks kinda familiar, but I don’t think I’ve met her.”

I frowned. “You sure?”

“Oh, wait.” He leaned closer, eyes narrowing on the photo. “I think I saw her on Holler last week. But they retracted it and said it was a fake tip, right?”

I nodded, lips pressed in a tight line as I wondered why he was pretending not to know Ev.

Was he trying to distance himself from whatever mess she’d gotten herself into, or was he just trying to distance himself from the past version of himself that used to know her?

A darker thought crossed my mind. What if he wasn’t lying, and he genuinely didn’t know her? What if Ev was only ever pretending to know Jake when she gave me that whole spiel about him being a terrible person? Hell, she could even be mentally ill, spinning a web of lies in her head that she honestly thought was the truth.

The thought unsettled me, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Whether she was caught in a lie or hiding something else, one thing was crystal clear to me—I couldn’t let her die. I didn’t like her, but the way she’d gotten under my skin made me want to protect her anyway. Fiercely.

I clenched my jaw and stared straight ahead at the altar, considering the issue. On my own, I didn’t have the power to petition to have Ev removed from the Hunt. Too many people stood in my way. Too many powerful hands holding the strings.

That left me with only one option.

When the game started, I’d have to hunt Ev down before anyone else could find her. Keep her safe and hidden until she was the last one standing.

Then I could claim her for myself.