Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
The champagne flutes were arranged with such mathematical precision that it had to be a trap. She swallowed, her parched throat clicking like dry bones.
One sip.
She scanned the surrounding gardens, knowing it was bait to lure them out of hiding. They preyed on desperation, knowing it made them capable of the unthinkable.
She crept closer. Each glass balanced deftly on the thin rim of others below. A pyramid of sweet relief waiting to collapse. The shatter would be startling, she decided, noticing the small stone patio beneath the table.
To the right of the trap, lay a collection of velvet cushions sprawled out in tones of emerald, sapphire, and ruby. An invitation of elegance to cushion another tribute’s defeat.
Not yours.
Daisy drew back, licking her dry lips. Her throat scratched like sandpaper, but it was too risky.
Across the quad stood silver platters piled high with fruit so ripe she could smell them from fifty meters away.
All of it was a trap.
One glass could cost her everything.
She flinched as another bell rang.
She had to keep moving.
Forcing her head down, she rushed on, the soft whisper of her footfalls kicking up pebbles as she scurried through the night.
The occasional scream always preceded a shiver, usually followed by a bell. But nothing chilled her more than the hunters’ booming voices as they claimed victory.
“Get over here,” one growled from the other side of the hedges.
A scuffle ensued, and Daisy stilled, falling back into the nearest shelter. Making herself as still as stone.
“Ouch! You want to play rough, you little slut?”
Daisy closed her eyes at the rip of fabric tearing. A muffled whimper cut off with a grunt. Then the bell tolled.
Daisy covered her ears and crouched low. If there was an escape hatch beneath her, she would have taken it.
The hunter’s animalistic groans punctured the air in a staccato beat as the woman begged him to wait.
Timber…
Timber!
Why wasn’t she using the safeword?
“That’ll teach you.”
Daisy couldn’t listen anymore. Even with her hands covering her ears, the depravity was inescapable.
Keep going.
She abandoned her hiding spot beneath the trees and ran to the next covering.
The music changed as a brass note punched through the air, startling her like a fist through glass. The strings faltered, stumbled, then surrendered to a new pace. Her steps did the same, as if somehow tied to the sound.
Chaotic bursts of instruments ruptured the beat. A trumpet’s lazy drawl. A bass line that swung. Softened only by a woman’s thick crooning. Her words were smoke and honey, eliciting amber visions around the botanical scent of gin.
Jazz. These fuckers are playing jazz.
The vintage tempo belonged in a speakeasy from the last century.
Like your clothes.
She looked down at her tattered dress, struck by how easily they convinced their targets to change.
It’s role play to them.
And every single one of them smiled as they complied. Bought for one evening. Transformed into treasures, objects to covet and own.
She looked back at the distant lodge, its blazing windows glowing like tiny golden eyes against the black backdrop of endless sky.
“Gatsby,” she whispered, seeing it now. The whole thing was a set. They were the actors. This was the plot.
A chaotic representation of mere mortals among giants. The powerless pitted against capitalists, in a sepia-toned nightmare that dripped with sins.
1922. Even their numbers seemed intentional.
The dissonance they created was deliberate. Rushed by luxury, to blur morality in the nick of time.
Everything here was intentionally designed to disorient them so they would fall faster into compliance. From the music to the decadent clothes to the abundance of food, every detail was devised to keep them off-balance in every possible way.
A tribute yelled—this one male. A stag.
A scuffle broke out on the lawn as the hunter, equal in size, tried to tumble the tribute to the ground.
“Fuck you, you fat fuck!” The tribute shouted, shoving the hunter back and racing away.
Daisy peeked through branches as the robust hunter labored after him. “Slow down, you bloody puff!”
She smirked as the tribute got away.
Slipping beneath an arch of wisteria, she cautiously traveled further from the fading house. Purple blooms brushed her shoulders like soft fingers, the smell so sweet it carried the dizzying warning of a narcotic.
To her left, a sharp cry cut off before it completed. Terror or pleasure? Daisy couldn’t tell anymore.
This place blurred the fine lines of propriety into a murky smear of taboo grey.
Another bell wailed. The single, resonant gong fell from high above and lingered like an echo in her mind. Who was overseeing all of this? Someone was keeping score.
She looked back at the shrinking lodge. The further she ran, the more it shrank into the earth. A dot in the distance until it was gone. She wandered on, disturbed by the unsettling quiet, accompanied only by the disjointed retro jazz.
She was lost.
“At a boy, Forester!”
Daisy drew back into the shadows as two men passed another hunter with a tribute thrown over his shoulders, her hands tied at her back.