Chapter 13 The Body and the Blood #3
The Great Hall had been transformed into a Gothic feast for the senses, obscene in its beauty.
Intricate iron chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen medieval torches.
The marble floors had been polished to a mirror-like shine that made guests appear to walk on black water, their reflections rippling beneath them.
Orchids spilled from urns taller than men, their blooms so vibrant they glowed in the shadows. Ropes of jasmine wound through the banisters, perfuming the air with sweetness where the tributes would first emerge.
A string quartet played in the corner, the music elegant and utterly ignored. Servers in white gloves circulated with silver trays bearing oysters on crushed ice, caviar-topped blinis, and wagyu carpaccio, thin enough to read through.
Champagne flowed from a fountain shaped like a stag mid-leap, the golden liquid cascading from its antlers into a basin of crystal flutes.
Mammoth ice sculptures presented artwork in the shape of does fleeing by, foretelling, in their rapid poses, and accurately temporary in that their heart-fluttering urgency would melt away by morning.
But the hunters appreciated none of this as they gathered throughout the ballroom, sipping cocktails and verbally stroking each other over their ongoing success.
Several stowed their masks in the breast pockets of their tuxedos, or crushed the forgotten accent in their hands as they mingled among peers.
They laughed loudly and stood too close, voices carrying the particular timbre of men who had never been told no.
The steady drone would grow more rambunctious as the night wore on.
The scent of cigar smoke lingered like an afterthought, mixing with cologne and the potent stench of ambition. Inhibitions loosened. Soon, the masks would go on, and the pretense of civilization would fall away.
As always, Jack kept to the periphery, a shadow that never lost touch with his pursuit.
Near the champagne fountain, Hadrian Welles held court.
He had arrived that afternoon with two valets and enough luggage for a month, though the hunt would last only one night.
Now, he stood at the center of a cluster of men, his flamboyantly plum tuxedo immaculate, a glass of scotch sweating in his manicured hand.
“Sixteen virgins this season,” he counted, voice pitched to carry. “I tallied them in The Cull. Sixteen. Christ, it’s like a bloody convent.”
The men around him chuckled. The Cull. Jack had no control over the crude nicknames that stuck over the years.
The masquerade originated as a respectable debut for the tributes, a cotillion ball meant to commemorate what would soon be a memorable rite of passage, but once the hunters coined it the Wrecking Ball, few referred to it as anything else.
Same with the Tribute Registry, which provided details on each tribute while protecting their identity. But the hunters insisted on calling them does and stags, then referring to each season’s registry as The Cull, as if the tributes were livestock to be sorted.
Jack kept his own book of sorts. Not on the tributes, but on the hunters.
And that quiet karma provided the patience he needed not to call out their crude terminology.
Tonight was intended to seduce them as much as the tributes.
An ancient game of power and exchange that would reveal their true nature by dawn.
“You’ve memorized the whole book already?” asked a stout man with a red face and a German accent.
Von Berg, Jack thought, quickly identifying the hunter.
“Only the relevant pages.” Hadrian laughed without warmth. “I know what I like.”
“And what’s that?” another man pressed, leaning in with the eager expression of someone hoping to learn from a master. This one, Jack didn’t recognize right away, but it would come to him soon.
Hadrian swirled his scotch, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
“Fear,” he said simply. “Not the performative kind. The real thing. That moment when they realize the rules won’t protect them.
” He took a slow sip. “When their bodies start responding despite their terror.” His grin was slow, his eyes seeming to narrow at the corners.
“Nothing beats that slick give when they resign themselves to the truth. Feel how powerless they actually are. That’s when it gets interesting. ”
Jack’s fist tightened until his knuckles cracked.
“There are quite a few virgins on the menu this year. A sweet Level II on page eleven.” Hadrian licked his lips.
“Number 1922. Working class, young, fragile enough to break. You can see the hunger in her photograph, even with the eyes blacked out. The desperation… It practically bleeds through the page.”
“I’ll have to look her up. They never match their pictures once they get here. What did you say her number was?” the German asked.
“None of your fucking business,” Hadrian took another sip. “Do your own homework.”
“You can’t claim them all,” the man joked.
“You can have them when I’m done breaking them in.”
Jack turned away before his expression betrayed him. The virgins were broken into levels to ensure the hunters took proper care.
Level I virgins showed signs of resistance.
They were most likely to freeze, fight, or shut down.
Level I demonstrated a high likelihood of safewording.
Level IIs were more responsive. Curious more than fearful, with a low resistance threshold.
Level IIIs were considered eager. Those were merely inexperienced based on circumstance.
Last year, Hadrian nearly got his eyes scratched out by a Level I tribute. She used the safeword three times with Hadrian, who pretended not to hear the first two. This year, that wouldn’t happen. Jack already instructed the Volkovs and Cole to hold Hadrian under close scrutiny.
He wasn’t sure which tributes were on which page of the registry, or what numbers had been assigned.
He knew them by name. He was the only man present who looked into their eyes.
They weren’t numbers to him. They were human.
The numbers were applied to protect them long-term from pigs like Hadrian Welles.
Across the room, flames roared in the massive fireplace, and another cluster of hunters mingled.
Each one familiar. Men who returned year after year, treating The Feast like a standing reservation at their favorite restaurant.
They passed around a copy of The Cull, comparing notes like gamblers studying racing forms.
“I’ve got my eye on the redhead, page seven.”
“Too obvious. Everyone wants a redhead. I prefer the understated, quiet-looking ones. They surprise you.”
“You want a surprise? Take a look at page nineteen. Stags are getting a bit pretty for my taste, but Kron’s probably already circling.”
At the mention of Kron, Jack’s gaze shifted to the far corner of the hall, where the lone female huntress stood apart from all the men.
Her gown was a work of architectural, structured black silk built for speed as much as elegance.
Though her silver hair swept back from her face, the style revealed nothing.
Her amber eyes tracked the room with the cold patience of a black widow, hiding whatever intentions lay beneath.
She caught Jack watching and raised her champagne flute in acknowledgment. Many guests didn’t recognize him as the host, assuming the Volkovs orchestrated everything since The Feast had always taken place on their property. But Kron did her research, and she did it well.
Jack inclined his head, mirroring her subtlety, and moved on.
“Thorne!”
The voice cut through the dull roar of masculine chatter, and Jack turned just as Peter Pangbourne strode toward him with the loose-limbed confidence of a man who had never known a moment’s uncertainty.
His mask dangled from his fingers, a golden affair embellished with a crown of bright green leaves.
“Didn’t see you arrive,” Peter said, clapping Jack on the shoulder as if they were old friends rather than passing acquaintances. “Keeping to the shadows as usual? You know, for a man of your means, you’re remarkably hard to find at these things.”
“Perhaps that’s the point.”
Peter laughed, helping himself to a glass of champagne as a server passed with a tray. “I’ve been coming to these for years. Take my advice. You have to go where the action is. You’ll never get your money’s worth if you stick to the sidelines and observe.”
“I beg to differ.”
Peter rolled his green eyes. “That’s boring, man.” He took a long drink and surveyed the room. “Hell of a setup this year. The Volkov brothers really outdid themselves.”
Jack said nothing.
“Speaking of which, where’s the third one? I’ve seen Stone and Ash, but Hunter’s gone to ground.”
“I’m sure he’ll make an appearance.”
Peter snorted. “Word is he’s gone soft. Shacked up with some woman and playing house while his brothers do all the work.”
Jack wasn’t touching that, so he simply held Peter’s stare until the younger man buckled under the intensity of silence.
Shrewdness flickered behind his easy smile. “You know, Thorne, I can never quite figure you out. You show up every year, drink the champagne, mingle with a few hunters, but never chase a single doe. What’s your angle?”
“Is that not appropriate behavior for a party?”
“Party? The party’s foreplay.” Peter drained his glass and set it on a nearby table. “The hunt’s the main event. Get in the game.”
Before Jack could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. The cluster of hunters surrounding Hadrian had doubled.
“What do you mean he’s not coming? Saint-Clair was confirmed. I spoke to him two weeks ago.”
“Uninvited,” someone murmured. “Had his access pulled at the last minute.”
“On what grounds?”
“No one knows. You know how it is. Invitation at the host’s discretion.”
Hadrian’s jaw tightened. “Since when are the Volkovs picky?”