Chapter 11 Isolde
The fever has burned itself out and left me in a shell, shaking with cold and memory, but at least the physical pain is gone. I’m empty. A cup overturned. So I slide under, deep and fast.
Dreams are for the weak. I always said that, and now I’m paying the price.
I’m five, maybe six, and Casey is holding my hand at the edge of a lake.
The water is pale and glassy, sunlight so bright it turns us both to ghosts.
Casey is taller, already strong in the arms, and she pulls me in despite my best “no, no, it’s too cold” face.
She doesn’t even laugh. She just wades ahead, calf-deep, then thigh, then yanks me by the armpit and hucks me in.
It shocks every cell in my body. I thrash, wild for a second, mouth full of cold water.
Casey surfaces right beside me, grabs my chin in her palm, squeezes until my lips make a fish mouth.
“You’ll float, Issy,” she says. “Stop acting like a baby and swim.”
I dog-paddle, water slapping my face, and glare at her with pure venom. But she’s already turning, doing her perfect backstroke, auburn hair fanned in a ribbon behind her, mouth open in a toothy smile.
That’s how it was—always following her wake. Always.
We swim until our arms ache and lips go blue.
On the shore, Dad has a towel spread out, but I ignore him, chase after Casey.
She’s running barefoot, grass slicing her feet, all the way to the old willow tree.
We flop down under the canopy, and she starts to braid my hair, hands still wet and shaking.
“Why’d you make me go in?” I ask. The voice in the dream is my child-voice, stupid and small. I hate it.
“Because you’re a Greenwood,” she says, tying the braid with a fistful of grass. “Greenwoods don’t get scared of water.”
“You were scared of the dark last night.”
She flicks my ear. “Shut up, Isolde.”
We both crack up, breathless, hair tangled, dirt all up the backs of our legs. We sprawl there until the sun drops behind the trees and the bugs start to find us.
“You think we’ll always be together?” I ask. It’s the kind of question only kids ask. In real life, I don’t remember saying it, but the dream gives it to me anyway.
Casey doesn’t answer. She leans her head back, eyes closed, and just hums a weird tune, not even music. Like she’s making her own song because the world is too boring.
I blink, and the dream flickers. The beach is gone. The ground is wet, slimy under my legs. Casey’s still there, but the sky’s gone gray, and the air smells like rot.
A voice—her voice—says: “Run, Issy.”
But I’m not a kid anymore. My arms are long, my hands scabbed over, nails bitten raw. Now we’re at the edge of the old dock, night falling. There are figures on the water, shapes moving under the surface, but I can’t see faces. Casey is gone. I can’t find her.
I turn, trying to call out, but my throat is full of mud. Every sound comes out a croak.
A flash of white at the tree line—someone watching. Someone in a mask.
No, not a mask. Just a face I can’t see.
A hand grabs my shoulder, fingernails biting in. I whirl and it’s Casey again, but her eyes are wrong. Too black, too big. Her lips pull tight.
“Run,” she says. “Now.”
I want to run, but I can’t move. My feet are stuck, caught by roots that wrap my ankles, squeeze until it hurts.
She tries to shove me, but her hands pass through. Like she’s a ghost. Like I’m already the one left behind.
The water is up to my knees now, then my waist. It’s thick, heavy, not water at all but something slow and sticky. Oil? Blood? I try not to think about it, but the smell is real, copper and chemical.
From the trees, the shapes step out. They’re wearing white, all of them, even the men. Their faces are blank, too bright to look at. I can’t see their eyes, but I know they’re looking at me.
Casey grabs my hand again, squeezes. Her nails are sharp enough to cut.
“I can’t come with you this time, Issy,” she says. “But you have to go.”
I try to scream, but my jaw is locked. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
The water is rising, up to my chin now. Casey’s face slips under. Her hair floats on the surface for a second, then vanishes.
I kick, thrash, anything to get air. My lungs burn.
Suddenly the water’s gone, and I’m lying on cold ground, on my back, staring up at empty sky.
I roll over. Dirt in my mouth. Blood in my nose. My ears ring.
I crawl, scrambling, and every inch of me is wrong—my bones don’t line up, my skin doesn’t fit right. I try to stand but the ground is soft, sucking at my knees. I look down: the grass is hair, matted and damp. The soil is teeth and bone.
I scream, finally, and the sound is real.
The dream skips again. I’m running, legs heavy, arms pumping. The woods are alive, full of voices, all chanting the same word: “Run. Run. Run.”
I look down and I’m in the white dress, the one from the file, from the ceremony. It’s stained, ripped at the hem, but I’m still wearing it.
I don’t know who’s chasing me, but I can feel them getting closer. Every breath is a countdown.
Branches whip my face, slice my arms. I taste blood. I keep going.
Casey’s voice is everywhere, bouncing off the trees: “Faster, Issy. You’re almost there.”
But I’m not. The trees are endless. The ground is a treadmill, never letting me gain an inch.
There’s a clearing ahead, bright with moonlight. I aim for it, lungs on fire.
I burst through, stumble and fall to my knees. The clearing is ringed with faces, every one a mirror of mine, but all wrong—mouths too wide, eyes sewn shut. They’re all in white, all of them, and they point at me in unison.
I want to beg them to stop. I want to wake up.
Footsteps behind me. Heavy, deliberate.
I turn, and Rhett is there. His clothes are black, but he’s wearing the mask. Not the party one—a mask from some horror movie nightmare, blank and smooth and infinite. Where his face should be is nothing, a hole, sucking in all the air and sound. It hurts to look at him, like staring into the sun.
He moves toward me, not fast, but with the certainty that he’ll get to me in the end.
I try to run, but I can’t. My legs are lead. My mouth is glued shut again.
Rhett reaches for my arm. His hand is bone and ice.
“Found you,” he says, but the voice is wrong. It’s not his, it’s Dad’s, or Abelard’s, or every man at the Academy, mashed together.
He pulls me up, and I’m weightless. I try to kick, but my body isn’t mine.
He drags me to the center of the ring. All the faces are chanting now, louder and louder:
“Greenwood. Greenwood. Greenwood.”
I want to tell them I’m not her, I’m not Casey, I’m not anyone they want.
But the dream won’t let me.
Rhett turns me to face him. His mask cracks, a fault line running down the center.
I look inside and see my own face, warped and screaming, pressed against the glass.
He puts his hand on my throat, gentle at first, then tighter.
The world goes silent. The only sound is my heartbeat, wild and ragged.
The faces close in. I can’t breathe.
I wake up gasping, clawing at my own neck, sheets twisted so tight around my legs they may as well be ropes. Sweat soaks my scalp, trickling down my spine, stinging where I’d torn at myself in the dream.
I jerk upright, heart slamming, breath coming in wheezes. My body aches like I’d run a marathon. Every muscle locked, every nerve fried.
For a second, I think I see Casey at the foot of my bed. Hair hanging over her face, mouth open, eyes all black.
I blink, and she’s gone.
The room is gray, air dead. I check the clock: it’s almost four p.m. The fever is gone, but the dread is worse.
Rhett must have left at some point, but he left me water, Tylenol and a muffin.
Nice of him, I guess.
The ghosts of the dream won’t leave. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face, empty and endless.
I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, and wait for the shakes to stop.
They don’t.
It’s just as well.
I deserve the nightmare.
I reach for the water glass. My hand is shaking so bad I spill half of it down my shirt. Doesn’t matter. I chug what’s left, then cough until my throat is raw.
The window is open a crack. The wind is freezing, but it feels nice on my skin. I sit there for a long time, just breathing. My arms and legs are noodles. My head’s so light it could float off.
Finally, I force my legs to work, standing carefully.
I shuffle to the bathroom, flip on the light.
My face in the mirror looks like a stranger’s.
My hair is stuck to my scalp with sweat, cheeks sunken, lips chapped and split.
The skin around my eyes is so purple and puffy it looks painted on.
The bruises on my neck from last night are blooming, fresh and obvious.
I splash water on my face. It stings, wakes me up. I brush my teeth with hands that won’t stop shaking. I spit red.
I go back to the room, flop on the bed, and stare at the ceiling. I count every little dent and stain. The more I focus on nothing, the less I feel.
I almost fall back asleep, but something’s wrong. I sit up, eyes scanning the room.
That’s when I see the box.
It wasn’t there last night. I’m sure of it.
It’s on the dresser, huge and white, tied with a cream ribbon. There’s a card on top, propped up, glaring at me.
How did I miss this?
I don’t move. I just stare at it, heart thumping.
After a minute, I get up. My feet drag across the floor. The box seems bigger the closer I get, like it’s breathing.
I pick up the card first. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop it.
The envelope is thick, smooth, expensive. The script is perfect—old money calligraphy.
I slide my thumb under the flap, tear it open.
Inside: one line, black ink, no signature.
“The Night Hunt begins tomorrow evening at 8pm.”
I read it twice. My vision blurs. My stomach flips.
I want to scream, but I can’t. The panic is so bright and loud, it drowns out every other thought.
I ball the card in my fist, turn to the box.
It’s heavy. The lid lifts off slow, like it’s been glued.
Inside: a dress. White, perfect, pressed flat like something dead. There’s tissue paper, but it’s barely doing its job—the fabric glows, practically radioactive.
Fuck, it’s like the one in my dream.
I reach in and touch it. The material is soft, slippery, cool. I pull it out and hold it up to the light.
High neck, capped sleeves, cinched at the waist, the skirt long enough to tangle your feet when you run.
On top of the dress, wrapped in more tissue, is a crown. A real flower crown, heavy and cold. Lavender and white roses, stems braided so tight I can’t see the wire underneath. The flowers are fresh, their scent a punch in the face.
I drop it on the dresser and back up until the backs of my legs hit my bed. My hands are shaking so hard I have to sit down. I clutch the dress to my chest, rocking back and forth, the panic rising until it’s a scream behind my teeth.
I stare at the card, the words burned into my skull.
The Night Hunt begins tomorrow evening at 8pm.
I want to throw the box out the window, light the dress on fire, smash the flowers to pulp. But I can’t move.
All I can think is: this is it. The endgame. The point of everything. I’m the prey, the target, the sacrificial animal for all of Westpoint’s elite to see.
Rolling my eyes over my desk, I land on Casey’s photo.
I want to talk to her, but I don’t know what to say.
Instead, I just sit there, curled around the dress, breathing in the smell of my funeral flowers.
I whisper, “Casey, I’m about to relive your death.”
The words taste like blood.
I say it again, louder, to make it real.
The Hunt begins tomorrow.
And there’s not a Goddamn thing I can do except make it interesting…
I have just the idea.
Maybe instead of letting him claim me, humiliate me, destroy me…
I’ll wait, I’ll hide.
And I’ll stake my claim on him first.