Chapter 19 Isolde
The air outside is fucking freezing. I run, Rhett’s hand crushing mine as if letting go would drop me through the earth.
The quad is empty. Not a single window burns yellow. Even the statues look like they’re ducking for cover. We cut past the ruined benches, the ice-rimmed fountain, towards the chapel.
We hit the path by the greenhouse and swerve left, not toward the streetlights but into the woods. Rhett never looks back, never hesitates, not once. I’m surprised he doesn’t snap my wrist with how tight he holds me, but I won’t complain.
We did something bad and if Bam doesn’t get rid of the evidence...
A shiver crawls up my spine.
Branches claw my face and arms. I taste salt and dirt and cold. By the time we reach the old chapel, my feet are numb. I stumble, go down to one knee, but Rhett yanks me up. His jaw is set, his breathing hard and heavy.
He says nothing. The only sounds are our shoes slapping the wet ground, my occasional grunt, and the impending doom sitting in my chest.
We clear the woods and the path opens to the Night Hunt site.
The field is half snow, half muck, a wasteland of rituals.
On the far side, the woods slope down toward the river.
There’s a trail I haven’t been down before, barely wide enough for a golf cart, lined with the trash of generations: broken bottles, condoms, cigarette butts, the shed skin of a thousand bad decisions.
We take it, moving fast. The canopy closes above us, turning the sky into a choking mass of shadow. My lungs are burning. My hands are numb, but I don’t dare let go.
Somewhere behind us, I hear the faint snap of a twig. Or maybe it’s in my head. Maybe I’m already dead and this is the final run of my life, a speedrun to hell.
We burst out onto an old access road. We don’t stop, don’t even slow, but skirt the edge of the water until the dark hulk of the turbine plant rises in front of us, broken glass and rusted metal, a monument to the last time anyone tried to modernize this shithole town.
“Hurry, Issy, if we miss them, our chance to leave evaporates.” His voice is strained, ragged from running.
There, under the jagged awning, is the SUV: matte black, windows tinted, engine already running.
It’s 12:50 p.m. on the dot. Before one, just like we were told.
I almost collapse, but Rhett shoves me forward. He gives the signal—three quick raps on the trunk—and the back door opens.
Caius opens it, one foot out, arm braced on the door. He looks exactly like his photo: slick hair, black suit, face hard. He gives us the once-over, then grunts.
“Get in.”
I do, not because I want to, but because if I don’t, I might be signing my own death warrant. Rhett slides in after me, slamming the door so hard my ears pop.
There’s someone in the vehicle, up front in the driver’s seat. I have never seen him before, but maybe he’s security of some kind. He doesn’t look back, just puts the SUV in gear and pulls away from the curb.
Caius turns in the seat, one arm across the headrest. His eyes scan every inch of me, and for a second, I see a flicker of something that might be regret. Or maybe he’s just trying to figure out if I’m worth the risk.
“I’m Caius, you must be Isolde.”
“Yep.” It’s all I can think to say.
He nods to Rhett, who nods back. The whole thing is so fucking formal, I want to scream.
“Slade, this is Rhett,” Caius says, then, after a beat, “and Isolde.” He says my name like he’s biting down on a pill.
Slade grunts in response.
No one asks if I’m okay. No one offers a tissue or a jacket or a “hey, sorry about the Hunt and the attempted branding and the murder and your sister dying and this whole fucking mess.” The only warmth in the car is the heat blasting from the vents, and even that smells like engine oil and danger.
We drive in silence for a while. Rhett never takes his arm off me—one hand cupped over my knee, the other wrapped around my wrist. Caius keeps looking over his shoulder, scanning the rear window every thirty seconds, as if expecting the world’s shittiest parade of Board thugs to tail us.
I use the time to take stock: my hands are shaking, my breath comes in short, ugly bursts, and my left foot is leaving a dark streak on the floor mat. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and watch as snot smears across my skin.
Nobody says a word about it.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably ten minutes, Caius leans in. “You have a plan, Rhett?”
Rhett doesn’t look at him. “You were the plan.”
Caius snorts. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Rhett finally speaks again. “We need to lay low for a while. Just long enough to get the Board off our backs. We killed Valence. Bam is taking care of it, so hopefully they won’t notice her missing.” He snorts out a laugh. “Wishful thinking.”
Slade glances in the rearview. “They’ll never stop. You know that, right? You just killed a Board member.” His voice is dry, almost bored. “That’s not the kind of thing they let go.”
“I am sworn in as Chair now,” Rhett says. “We have resources.”
Caius studies him. “You sure about that?”
Rhett shrugs. “I’m not my father. They know it.”
Another silence, this one heavier.
Slade turns the car off the main road and onto a gravel drive lined with pines. The trees here are older, taller, the kind that live through firestorms and keep growing. The drive winds for miles, passing through shitty trails that bump so hard it makes my stomach queasy.
Finally, we hit a gate. It’s massive, steel bars thick enough to stop a tank, topped with coils of razor wire. A camera blinks red as we approach. Slade hits a code, and the gate swings open with a whine.
Inside, the perimeter is lined with motion sensors and, I kid you not, two men in full militia gear, holding what look like real assault rifles. They give us the nod, then melt back into the trees.
We drive another half mile before the house comes into view: a monster of glass and stone and wood, perched a few meters from the edge of a frozen lake.
It’s beautiful, if you like the whole “last stand of the rich and damned” aesthetic.
There’s a second SUV in the driveway, and the lights inside the house are all on.
Slade parks, kills the engine, and steps out. Caius is already at the door, unlocking it with his thumbprint. Rhett ushers me out, one hand around my waist, as if I’ll break in half if he lets go.
Inside, the house is all open space and cold light. There’s a fireplace, but no fire. The kitchen looks untouched. A spiral staircase leads up to a mezzanine with a row of closed doors.
Standing at the base of the stairs is Ophelia. She’s barefoot, wearing a sweatshirt and leggings, hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her belly is rounded, but not huge. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, but she doesn’t say a word.
Caius goes to her, hands on her shoulders, and whispers something in her ear. She nods, then looks at me again.
I can’t read her expression. Maybe she’s wondering if I’ll eat her baby. Maybe she’s just sizing up the next victim of this bullshit legacy.
Rhett leans in close. “You okay?” he whispers.
I want to say yes. I want to say I’m fine, that I can take it, that nothing those fucks at Westpoint did was enough to break me.
But I’m not okay.
I’m terrified.
And I’m not ashamed of it.
I let Rhett lead me to the living room, where I collapse onto the couch and curl into a ball. The world goes blurry. My teeth chatter, not from cold but from the shock of it all. I feel his hand on my back, steady and warm as he helps me out of my boots and my jacket.
She’s dead… I’ve never actually seen someone die before… right in front of me…
I stare at the wall and wait for the next disaster.
Caius says something to Slade, too quiet for me to hear. Slade disappears down a hallway, feet silent on the hardwood. Caius doesn’t acknowledge us; he’s too busy checking every lock and window, eyes flicking to the monitors, then to the frozen lake outside.
Ophelia is now standing by the fireplace, just watching me. She looks different in real life, compared to the photo I saw of her—less tragic, more real. Her face is tired, the skin around her eyes bruised by sleeplessness. She looks like the kind of woman who can outlast a siege.
I envy her… for a moment. Before I remember that she’s a product of her own hunt. Her own ritual.
She contemplates for a second, then moves. She doesn’t glide or float or do any of that uppity shit. She walks like a regular person, feet flat on the floor, one hand on her belly, the other on her hip.
She stops two feet away, stares at my face, then at my ruined clothes.
“You’re here,” she says, voice soft.
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.
She hugs me. Full-on, arms-around-my-back, belly-pressed-to-my-guts hug. It’s so normal and human and unexpected that I start to shake. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I hug her back, gently, afraid I’ll break her or the baby.
When she lets go, she looks at Rhett, then at Caius. “She needs a shower and some clean clothes,” she says, voice all business. “Shower’s upstairs, go in the spare room, there’s clothes in the drawers that might be a close enough fit.”
Rhett nods, already in motion. He leads me down a hall, up a set of stairs, and into a bedroom bigger than my childhood home. There’s an attached bathroom with a tub the size of a small pool, a big shower head and towels folded chaotically, and an entire shelf of first-aid supplies.
I sit on the edge of the tub, staring at the marble floor. Rhett kneels in front of me, his hands shaking as he pulls off my socks.
He grabs a washcloth and wets it, wiping down the worst off the dirt in silence, eyes never meeting mine. His hands are strong but gentle. He finishes my arms, then my hands, then my face. Each touch is careful, almost reverent.
When he’s done, he sits back on his heels, staring at the dirty stains on the towel. “Sorry,” his voice is broken.