Chapter 4 Seeds of Doubt
Chapter Four
Seeds of Doubt
Daisy awoke on Tuesday with a dull throb in her mouth, easily ignored beneath the weight of her responsibilities.
But by Thursday, that dull ache sharpened into a persistent gnawing that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
She went to sleep with a headache and woke up on Friday with a migraine that made it impossible to think of anything beyond the consistent pounding of everything above her shoulders.
She’d chewed on the left side for three days, avoiding anything too hot, too cold, too sweet, too hard. Which left approximately nothing on the menu except lukewarm tea and the soft centers of day-old bread.
Two weeks had passed since she’d visited the library.
Fourteen days of checking her phone for emails before truly giving up hope.
Stupidity crept in with each unanswered refresh.
Believing, even for a moment, that she might be spontaneously rescued from her circumstances was a level of foolishness she couldn’t afford.
This was reality. Not some fanciful romance book that promised a happy ending.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she climbed the front stairs to her flat.
The stench of mildew and someone’s burnt dinner greeted her in the foyer as she stepped out of the cutting wind.
A fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow.
The mailboxes, as always, were overflowing with takeaway menus and bills, but a flash of emerald made her pause.
Her heart stuttered. There, polished and glinting against the grey, perched atop the pile of rubbish, sat a deep emerald envelope with gold filigree calligraphy.
“Oh, my God.” She rushed to the mailboxes and lifted it with shaky hands.
Daisy Burdan
They knew her name now. The game was changing.
Her hand trembled as she reached forward, half-expecting it to dissolve like a ghost, but the paper was solid beneath her fingers. Heavy. Real. Thick as a promise and stiff enough to break.
She stared down at the emerald linen envelope as if it held more than paper inside, and her fluctuating doubts renewed to hope. Somehow, the wait had made its appearance that much more meaningful.
No address. No return. Just her name embossed in gold. On the back, a hand-pressed wax seal in gold with stalk twisted upward around the letters JT.
Her head snapped up when a door on the second floor opened and slammed. Footsteps moved quickly overhead. She stuffed the envelope inside her jacket and rushed upstairs.
The lock to her flat stuck, as it always did. “Come on, you bugger.”
Jiggling the key, she shouldered her way inside, and slammed the door behind her.
She rushed to her bed and sat on the edge, withdrawing the formal envelope from her jacket. She stared in awe at the pristine, filigree calligraphy and rich paper in her work-roughened hands.
They knew it was her. Wrote it in gold ink. Her thumb glided over each letter. Never before had she thought of her name as pretty until seeing it scrolled in metallic gold with letters that slanted and twirled like living vines on a page.
Her thumb slid beneath the wax seal, releasing a satisfying crack. A faint scent she couldn’t name tickled her nose. Something rich and smoky, like expensive things she’d never owned.
Inside, she found a single card.
You have been selected.
Your presence is requested at The Feast of the Fallen.
To confirm your attendance and receive further instructions, visit:
Enter your one-time access password within twenty-four hours:
TheHarvesting
This code will expire.
This invitation will not be extended again.
—J.T.
Daisy blinked and read it again. The words didn’t change.
You have been selected...
“I won.” Her mouth curved as she stared in shock.
What she won was unclear, but there was a deeply satisfying sense of validation in being chosen for whatever this was.
Daisy glanced at the kitchen clock. The library closed in ten minutes. She preferred not to use her limited data plan, but this invitation expired. Fishing her phone from her bag, she powered it on.
As soon as the search bar appeared, she typed the address. The screen went emerald. Gold filigree bloomed from the edges as vines twisted into scrollwork with a small space prompting her to enter the access code.
She carefully typed: THEHARVESTING
The screen shimmered, dissolving from the glamorous welcome into what looked like a legal agreement of sorts. Daisy frowned as she read the words plastered boldly at the top of the page.
NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT
By proceeding beyond this point, you acknowledge and accept the following terms: All information regarding The Feast of the Fallen is strictly confidential. Violation of this agreement will result in immediate legal action and financial penalties not to exceed ￡10,000,000.
“Ten million pounds?” Her heart sank as a sharp sense of unease punctured her excitement. Who were these people?
A timer appeared at the top of the screen.
01:59:47
01:59:46
01:59:45
“Oh, shit.” She had less than two hours before her choice would disappear and the site would likely vanish again.
Not thinking about the consequences, she read on.
Her mouth went dry as she massaged her sore cheek. This wasn’t just about silencing. It was about making sure that whatever happened at this thing they called The Feast stayed buried beneath a mountain of legal terror.
What kind of gathering required this level of secrecy?
Any contract this intense should terrify her. And it did. Nervousness churned in her belly, outdone by her extreme curiosity. What was the worst they could do to her? She had nothing. If they came after her for some sort of violation, they’d be sorely disappointed with the outcome.
Daisy typed her name, her birthdate, and the numbers they asked for, all while watching that timer from the corner of her eye.
“Here goes nothing.” She signed her signature in clumsy digital scrawl. When she clicked ACCEPT, the page dissolved.
THE FEAST OF THE FALLEN
Dear Potential Tribute, Please read the following terms in their entirety…
“Potential tribute?” Words like tribute didn’t stir confidence.
SECTION I: PAYOUT STRUCTURE
All confirmed tributes will receive a participation payment of ￡1,000,000, deposited directly into their designated account upon commencement of The Hunt.
Tributes who are successfully “captured” by a Hunter during The Hunt will receive an additional bonus of ￡1,000,000 for each consequential capture. The total potential payout is at the discretion of the participants.
Her brain short-circuited. For a split second, it looked like she was winning a million pounds—maybe two. She went back to read the legal print again. The words hadn’t changed.
Her heart tripped out of beat. What the fuck was going on? This had to be a joke.
She almost signed out. Almost.
Fingers wedged into her cheek, she massaged the vicious throb radiating from her tooth and read it again with unblinking eyes. This had to be a prank.
SECTION II: THE SAFEWORD
All tributes have access to the universal safeword: TIMBER.
If a tribute is unable to speak, the safeword may also be communicated through sign language (the letter T).
Use of the safeword will immediately halt all physical interaction with any Hunters present.
Tributes will be escorted to a designated safe zone.
Use of the safeword forfeits any bonus transaction for that specific encounter.
A teasing sensation of excitement and fear slithered through Daisy’s belly. They were giving her an out. But an out of what, exactly?
Words popped from the text. Hunters. Tributes. Physical interactions. Hunt. What the hell was this?
SECTION III: MEDICAL REQUIREMENTS
All tributes must submit to the following screenings prior to The Feast: complete blood panel, STI screening, pregnancy test, physical examination, and psychological evaluation.
Upon arrival, all tributes will receive a mandatory contraceptive injection effective for ninety days. No exceptions.
Her brain stuttered to a stop. Contraceptive? Was this about sex?
Things started to click. They were demanding protection because there was something the tributes needed to be protected from.
The hunters.
SECTION IV: HUNTER PRIVILEGES & TRIBUTE OBLIGATIONS
Her stomach flipped. This was it. The fine print beneath the fairytale.
Her gaze returned to the timer at the top of the screen, and she sucked in a breath.
01:28:01
01:28:00
01:27:59
She read quickly, hoping speed might make what she was reading less shocking. It didn’t.
THE CHASE: Tributes agree to be pursued across the designated grounds from dusk until dawn. Hunters may track, follow, corner, and capture tributes using any non-violent means.
CAPTURE: A tribute is considered “captured” when physically apprehended by a Hunter for sixty continuous seconds. Upon capture, the tribute enters the Hunter’s possession until released or until the tribute employs the safeword.
RESTRAINT: Hunters may employ physical restraint, including pinning, holding, binding of wrists and ankles, and the use of bondage.
INTIMATE CONTACT: Upon capture, Hunters may initiate intimacy, including kissing, touching, fondling, oral contact, digital penetration, and sexual intercourse at whatever degree of intensity the hunter deems desirable. All intimacy must cease immediately upon use of the safeword.
“Jesus.” Her heart was racing, and her mouth had gone completely dry.
Her phone had grown hot in her hands. She forced herself to exhale. She didn’t know what was more shocking, the terms or the fact that something so depraved could exist at all.
This feast wasn’t a dinner party. It was a hunt. An actual hunt, where she would be the prey, chased through darkness by wealthy strangers who had paid for the privilege of catching her.
And if they caught her...
She shivered and threw her phone onto the bed.