13. Wolfgang
13
WOLFGANG
T he waxing moon is high above our heads, soft light caressing our faces as if the moon itself yearns to be a part of this divine moment with us. We have gathered at the center of the maze, the large statue of an archer with his arrow pointing to the sky, covered in moss and vines, lording over us.
The six helpless fools are facing us. Faces smooth of worries.
Still unsuspecting.
Still so trusting.
The silence is filled with febrile anticipation. One look to my right tells me Aleksandr is feeling it too. His grin is feral as he stares at his sacrifice with promises of slaughter in his piercing gaze while Constantine paces beside him like a wild animal, the spiked ball of her morning star swishing in the air to and fro.
There is an electric energy humming through the six of us, tying us together with an invisible thread. I’ve never felt so attuned to them. Never felt so connected .
Time has finally come to lift the veil. To break the spell and remind our fools that we were never friends but foes all along—hungry wolves starving for blood.
It only takes a small breathless instant to release them from my hold. An effortless snip of the leashes I had collared around their minds.
They blink. Startled. Confusion sweeps over their faces as they look around before their gaze finally lands on us. They must notice the predatory glint in our eyes because the realization of where they are, and who they are with, ripples across their faces like a deadly crashing wave.
“Boo,” Gemini says with a sneer.
Constantine giggles as she continues to pace in place. A few whimpers float up in the air like weightless mist, and the thrill coiling in my stomach turns into something much larger—much more lethal.
I clear my throat.
Terrified eyes turn to me.
“I suggest,” I say with a slow drawl, “you run.”
Gemini’s sacrifice bolts as soon as the words are out of my mouth as if she was somehow waiting for the order. The soft sound of her bare feet on grass marries with her harried breath, as she quickly disappears into one of the tall hedged paths surrounding the maze’s center.
Gemini barks out a wicked laugh but doesn’t run after her. “I think I’ll give the little rabbit a head start,” he says to no one in particular.
We all plan to do the same.
The hunt doesn’t start until they’ve all successfully scurried away.
It takes a few seconds for the others to follow suit. But finally, they all make a mad dash for different paths, some stumbling over their own feet, slamming to their knees before hurriedly pushing themselves up and continuing their escape. While we wait, Belladonna, Constantine, and Mercy step out of their heels and remove their earrings while the men step out of our dress shoes, readying for the eventual sprint around the maze.
My gaze flits to Mercy, still in her black dress, her dagger visible around her exposed left thigh. My eyes dip down to her bare feet, toes painted red.
“It’s time for us to take what’s ours,” Aleksandr says ceremoniously as he slowly rubs his palms together.
Before any of us move, we share a final, loaded glance.
Like taking a long deep inhale before a guttural scream.
Then finally …
We commence.
The serrated knife I specifically chose for my sacrifice hangs loosely in my grip as I stroll through the maze. The same knife my father used when he first partook in the Feast of Fools, bestowed to him by his father before him.
It’s been a little more than half an hour since the fools skittered like mice. I caught my little rodent within ten minutes of the chase. But it was much too fast. I wanted to prolong the kill. Prolong the sick thrill thrumming through my veins. So I let him go. But not before biting half his ear off and slicing my knife through his right eye as punishment for being such an easy catch. I can still taste his blood on my tongue, the echo of his screams like a delicious, haunting melody.
With my free hand, I trail my fingers over the bush beside me, the hedges over twelve feet tall. I’ve worked up a sweat, the sleeves of my black shirt rolled up, the collar unbuttoned. I’m growing eager, knowing that next time I catch him, it will be for the kill.
I cock my head and listen. I know he’s close. No matter how hard he tries to hide, there’s a subtle, but powerful, force guiding me to him.
An agonizing wail suddenly rises up from the depths of the maze, then another. My breathing turns shallow, my heart beating faster as if the harrowing screams are pumping me full of unadulterated adrenaline.
When the silence returns, I hear a rustle of leaves.
Turning my head, I follow the sound.
Another rustle.
A low chuckle rumbles through my chest while I begin to run, knowing he’ll soon be in my grasp. I spot a figure dart across the opening of the path and I speed up, knife in hand. Turning the corner, I find him stumbling haphazardly through the maze attempting a futile escape.
The dreadful mite doesn’t stand a chance.
I tackle him from behind and he goes down hard. Flipping him over, I climb over him with effortless grace, dodging his vain attempts at a struggle. Taking his left arm, I lift it above his head and jam my knife straight through his wrist, the blade burrowing into the earth underneath.
He howls in pain, tears streaking through the blood from the wound across his eye. Pinning his other arm under my leg, I grab his face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks together. His skin is slippery under my touch, wet from blood and tears.
I let out a small tut, followed by a few tsks. “Have a bit of decorum,” I say casually while I dig my finger into the wound on his face. His howls turn to wailing pleas. “No one likes a bellyacher.”
Leaning over, I pull the knife out of his wrist, his screams only intensifying. Tugging his shirt up, I slowly dig the blade into his soft stomach, carving a W with the sharp tip. My eyes skate up to his face, and I flash him a grin. “I hope you’re honored,” I say as I spread the fresh blood over his stomach with my open palm. “To be marked by a Vainglory before you die.”
I hear another terrified scream from a few paths away, and my fingers begin to tingle with anticipation. My smile widens. I bury my blade in his gut. His eyes grow wide, his shocked gasp dying on his lip as I pull the serrated blade up to his ribs.
Pulling it out, I slam it back down, this time through his heart, breaking through the sternum. The knife squelches through blood, bones, and organs as I stab him repeatedly. I am enraptured by the sight of my sacrifice slowly waning beneath me. I don’t stop when his eyes turn glassy and lifeless, only when my arm grows heavy and tired.
Pushing myself off the corpse, I try to catch my breath as I wipe the blood dripping over my eye with the back of my hand, knife still in hand. I take a few haggard steps forward and fall to my knees.
I peer up at the moon and grin foolishly.
I feel light-headed—intoxicated even—as I try to repress the uncontrollable laughter bubbling in my chest.
A small tingle at the back of my neck has my gaze jumping to movement ahead.
A few yards away, Mercy appears at the mouth of the path, cloaked in moonlight and gore. She takes a few steps and then stops, her dagger loosely clutched in her hand. Her dress is ripped, uncovering the swell of one of her breasts, strands of her black hair, wet with blood, sticking to her face.
My breathing slows as I silently take her in, reluctant to alert her of my presence.
I’ve never seen her so … at peace before.
Her eyebrows are smooth of any divots, green eyes devoid of their usual hardness. She wipes the blade of her dagger on her tattered dress while smiling up at the moon before she walks down the opposite path.
I stare at where she disappeared for much longer than I care to admit.
After a few minutes, I find the strength to stand up and exit the maze before the adrenaline plummets and the bone-deep exhaustion takes over.
I need my beauty sleep.
Because tomorrow, the Lottery begins.