Page 9 of Hollow

“Yep. Tomorrow night. Tell your friends.”

“Oh my god, this is gonna be insane.” She grins. “Everyone’s gonna lose their minds.”

“That’s the plan,” I say, grabbing my bags. “See you there.”

Back at Windward, I throw myself into preparations with an energy I haven’t felt in months. The basement is full of treasures—strings of garden lights, paper lanterns, even an ancient sound system that still works when dusted off. Mrs. Fletcher watches my whirlwind activity with obvious concern but says nothing beyond reminding me not to overexert myself. She also mentions she has numbers for caterers and event planners, but I ignore her because I’m enjoying doing this myself.

By evening, I’ve set up the great room and terrace for tomorrow’s party. I’m completely wiped out, but it’s a good kind of tired—from doing something productive instead of being sick. But looking around, I realize my decorations look too... nice. Too pretty. Paper lanterns and fairy lights aren’t exactly screaming “The Hunt” theme.

The bag from Mooncrow sits unopened on the couch. I pull out one of the masks, feeling its weight in my hands. The bone is cool and surprisingly heavy, the antlers curving up in sharp points. I place it on the mantel above the fireplace, and immediately the room feels different—darker, more dangerous.

“This isn’t working,” I mutter to myself. The space still looks too prim, too Waters. I need redlights everywhere. I need tribal drums playing instead of classical music. I need drinks that make people forget their inhibitions.

I need to transform this place into something animalistic.

I need this party to be unforgettable.

“Mrs. Fletcher!” I call out. “Can I get those numbers you mentioned earlier, please? For the caterers and DJ? And... what do you know about The Hunt?”

She freezes, her expression shifting from helpful to horrified. “Where did you hear about that?”

“I’ve always known about it,” I say with a shrug. “Everyone does.”

“That’s not a suitable topic for a young lady,” she says firmly. “Especially not a Waters. Those... activities... are for a different sort of island resident.”

“It was just a question,” I lie. “I was curious.”

“Well, curiosity about such things isn’t appropriate,” she says primly. “Your father would never approve of even discussing it.”

Perfect. Exactly the reaction I was hoping for. But I decide to drop the subject because I don’t want to stroke out the poor woman by making her talk about it more.

After dinner, I text Dad some BS about “feeling stronger” and “enjoying the island air.” No mention of my birthday or the party I’m planning. He responds with his typical clinical checklist ofquestions about my symptoms and a reminder to take my meds on schedule.

In bed, I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts about tomorrow. For years, I’ve been going through the motions, my entire existence reduced to treatment schedules and test results. But here, away from Seattle and all the medical crap, something feels different. Freedom, maybe. But definitely alive.

Tomorrow, I turn twenty-eight—a birthday nobody bothered to remember. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m doing something totally reckless. Inviting strangers into my family’s house. Turning my father’s pristine home into a scene from some pagan ritual-inspired bacchanal. Potentially trashing the place Dad keeps in museum-perfect condition.

Mom would have considered this hilarious. Dad will have a coronary. Maybe that’s exactly why it feels so right.

I’m playing with fire, and I know it, but I feel the heat of it on my skin, and I can’t bring myself to pull away.

I fall asleep wondering if Flint will show up, if Damiano might appear from nowhere, and what happens when people from opposite sides of this island end up in the same room. For the first time in forever, I’m actually excited about tomorrow.

Chapter 4

Damiano

I watch her from the treeline as she carries boxes from the house to the terrace. Third trip now. She’s pushing herself too hard, her breath forming small clouds in the morning air. Her hair catches the weak sunlight as she pauses, hand pressed against the stone balustrade, taking a moment before she heads back inside.

She really shouldn’t be lifting stuff. Not with how her body constantly rebels against her.

The greenhouse gives me cover, a legit excuse to be here, taking care of the grounds, watching the big house. But let’s be real, I’d be watching anyway. Something about Briar Waters draws me. Maybe it’s her defiance, the way she pushes against her limitations. Or maybe it’s simpler, the way her hair looks like it’s holding moonlight, how her skin has that translucent quality like some rare orchid I’ve been trying to grow for years.

Shit. I sound like one of my dad’s angsty poems. This is exactly why I keep to myself.

I clip a branch with more force than necessary, adding it to my collection. Echinacea root, yarrow leaves, angelica. Each goes into separate pockets of my work vest. Later, I’ll dry them, grind them, mix them with other things from deeper in the forest—things that don’t exactly grow in gardens where just anyone can see them.

She appears again, this time with strings of lights tangled in her hands. A party. Mrs. Fletcher mentioned it when she left this morning, worry practically carved into her face as she asked me to “keep an eye on things” while she was gone. Like I wouldn’t do that anyway.

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