Page 62 of Breaking Isolde
Two masked freaks. The first is a woman—maybe mid-thirties, hair in a tight bun, face half obscured by one of those whitehalf-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 toofar 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?”
