Chapter 13 Isolde
I’m halfway through scrubbing the sweat-stench from my armpits, over the sink, when the knock comes.
Not a polite rap, not the bored tap of a roommate checking if I want to order late night Chinese, but a formal, two-beat hammer that belongs to cops and cults and funeral directors.
My skin goes electric, every follicle up and at attention.
I dry my hands on the towel, then wipe it over the sink.
They knock again. I ignore it, count the seconds until the door opens anyway. Three. Four. Five. Then the knob rattles, and in they come.
Two masked freaks. The first is a woman—maybe mid-thirties, hair in a tight bun, face half obscured by one of those white half-masks you only see at eyes-wide-shut parties and fascist parades.
The second is a man, taller, built like he bench-presses beds for fun.
They’re both wearing matching uniforms: navy jackets, crisp slacks, shiny black shoes.
The woman glances at my photo of Casey, my empty soup bowl, then right at me. “Miss Greenwood, it’s time.”
Her voice is clinical, the kind that could ask if you want fries with that or if you’d like to sign the DNR. I sit on the edge of my mattress, hands knotted together, and let her words hang there.
“I need you to change,” she says, pointing at the box I’ve tried ignoring for the last day. “Now.”
I shoot her my best fuck-you glare. She stares back, unaffected.
The man moves to stand by the door, arms folded, eyes on the floor. The message is clear: there’s no saying no, not unless I want them to forcefully change me.
I take the box and walk it into the bathroom. There’s a lock, but I don’t bother. Privacy is a joke here.
Inside, I set the box on the toilet lid, pop the top. I lift it out, and sigh.
Let’s get this shit over with.
I strip, fold my sweats with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the dying, and step into clean underwear, then the dress.
The lining is cold, slippery against my skin.
I have to fight the zipper for a full minute before it gives, and even then, the bodice is so tight I wonder if I’ll be able to breathe later.
The skirt falls to the floor, whisper-light and unwrinkled.
I tie my hair back in a ponytail, then undo it, then braid it, then undo that too.
I have no idea what they expect, so I leave it down, wild and red and in total rebellion against the white dress.
The crown goes on last. It’s heavier than I expect.
It digs into my scalp, pinching a nerve at my temple.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My skin looks see-through, every vein a road map. Black bags sag under my eyes. The bruises at my throat from last week’s chokehold are turning sickly yellow, like aging fruit. The white makes me look like a corpse already, which is probably the point.
I want to cry, but all I get is a snort. “You look like a corpse bride,” I say to my reflection. My teeth are dull. My lips are cracked. The crown is crooked, but I don’t fix it.
For a second, I close my eyes and imagine it: all those rich fuckers in their golden seats, the Board looking down like a jury of vampires, Rhett watching with his predator’s eyes, waiting to pounce.
The picture in my head is clear as a photo: me on the run, dress torn to hell, mouth full of blood and flowers, holding out longer than any of them think possible.
I can do this. If he wants to catch me, he’ll have to work for it. Every step. Every touch.
I leave the bathroom. The woman is waiting, hands clasped, mask unmoved.
“Lovely,” she says. “Follow me.”
The man opens the door. I walk between them, feeling like the meat in a very polite sandwich.
The Archer House halls are empty. It’s as if I imagined that I ever met Charlie and Lucy.
The sun is barely setting, casting the windows in a red that makes the bricks look like they’re bleeding. The woman leads, steps precise and fast, never looking back. The man trails close, silent, but I can feel his attention crawling up my spine.
We head down the main stairs, out the side door, and across the quad. There’s no one. Not a single fucking person. Even the lights in the admin building are off, and the usual hum of the heater is silent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the place was abandoned.
The wind cuts right through the dress, raising goosebumps up my arms and legs. I don’t shiver. I will not let them see it.
The path to the Hunt is marked with lanterns, the kind they use for garden parties or overpriced weddings.
They’re spaced too far apart to do much good.
Each pool of light is a little island, surrounded by dark.
We walk straight down the center, past the old greenhouse, past the frozen fountain, past the edge of campus where the woods start.
The woods are alive with cold. Every step, the mulch and frost crack under my feet, the hem of the dress soaking up water and dirt.
My feet are freezing, but it makes me feel alive.
Frozen toes are the least of my concerns right now.
I walk with my head up, arms at my sides, like a bride in a shotgun wedding, except there’s no groom at the altar—just a firing squad.
The woman stops at the entrance to a small clearing, the old amphitheater looming in the background.
Makeshift seats are full. Not just the Feral Boys, but suits, old men with white hair and younger ones with eyes like wet marbles.
I recognize the faces from the masquerade, now stripped of their masks but not their malice.
At the center, on a raised dais, is the altar: a waist-high slab of rock, ringed with torches. Behind it, standing like a scarecrow with a PhD, is Dr. Abelard. He’s in a black robe, but his face is bare, and the smile he gives me is so thin it’s barely there at all.
To his right is Rhett. He’s in black, too, tailored so tight he looks poured into it. The only bit of white is his mask—he’s wearing the same one from the party, half his face blank, the other half watching everything.
The woman points at a spot on the ground, a circle of white sand. I walk to it, stand dead center, and stare at Abelard. He raises his hands for silence. The crowd hushes instantly.
His voice is nasal, unamplified, but the silence carries every word.
“We are gathered to observe the Night Hunt, a tradition older than any of us present. Tonight, the Prey will be given a chance to demonstrate her fitness. To survive, to submit, or to exceed all expectations. The rules remain unchanged. The outcome is uncertain.”
He looks at me. His eyes are cold. “Miss Greenwood, do you understand?”
I don’t blink. “Yeah.”
Except I don’t. I don’t know what the point of any of this is.
Why couldn’t he just find a nice girl, date her, marry her and have babies? What the fuck was the point of all these shenanigans?
He smiles. “Very well.” Abelard turns to Rhett. “Are you prepared?”
Rhett sounds bored when he answers. “I am.”
The crowd stirs, a rustle of expensive fabric and anticipation. Abelard picks up two objects from the altar—daggers, one black, one white. He hands the black one to Rhett, the white one to me.
I take it, weighing it in my palm. It’s heavier than it looks, handle carved with thorns.
Abelard nods. “As is custom, you will mark yourself. The Hunt begins with blood.”
He motions for me to go first. I hold up the blade, press it to the heel of my hand, and push. The pain is sharp, but not as bad as I expected. Blood wells up, dark and sticky, dripping onto the white dress.
Rhett does the same, only he doesn’t flinch. His blood is brighter than mine, almost orange in the torchlight.
Abelard steps forward and joins our hands over the boulder, marking the completion of the ritual. “In the name of the Founders, let the Hunt begin.”
There’s a cheer, not loud but unanimous.
I look at Rhett. His eyes never leave me, not for a second. He lets go of my hand and wipes the blood across my face.
“Make it good, Isolde. Make it hurt when you fight back, but make no mistake, I will win your heart.”
I stare back, unblinking, and in that moment I know: if I can’t kill him, I’ll at least make him bleed.
Abelard gestures to the woods. “You have a one-minute head start,” he says. “Then he comes for you.”
A man in a black robe steps down, hood pulled over his face and lifts a giant horn to his lips and blows, the sound echoing.
“Run.”
I don’t wait for another warning. I turn, hike up the skirt, and bolt into the trees.
The branches tear at my arms, the cold burning my lungs, but I run anyway. Every step is a dare.
Catch me if you can, motherfucker.
And if you do, you better finish the job.
There’s a lull in the woods, a freeze, like the whole world is waiting for someone to say “stop.” It’s only after I crash through two layers of underbrush and almost bust my ass on a patch of frozen moss that I realize I’m not sure which way to run.
There’s no fucking map, no game plan, just the dark and the sound of my breath and the wet flapping of the dress around my ankles.
I lurch left, then right, trying to get my bearings, but the trees are identical, the ground sloping every direction at once.
My heart is punching holes in my ribs. Each time I step down I expect to feel the burn of Rhett’s hand around my ankle, dragging me back to the ground, but he’s not here yet.
The memory of his eyes at the altar won’t let me go. That whole ritual, all of it, was for him.
The ceremony is still fresh—my hand stinging, the warmth of my own blood sticky on my palm, the way Abelard’s voice hovered just above my head as if he was narrating my eulogy instead of a rite.
The bastard’s Latin was textbook, but I caught the meaning, even though I wasn’t really listening.
Sacrifice, submission, rebirth. A checklist for breaking girls.
Don’t make it easy. But I will win your heart in the end.