Page 8 of Beautiful Prey

The silver-haired man waits until the noise dies. An attendant kneels where the man spat and wipes the marble clean with a white cloth.

I almost snort. Of course they clean that up too.

“The Hunt has never promised every candidate the future written in their file. You came here because you need something.”

The map disappears. Words replace it in gold.

“Medical sponsorship. Citizenship. Debt relief. Pardons. Education. Family relocation. Protection. Marriage. The Houses have granted each of them before.”

Medical sponsorship.

For one second, all I can see is Onyx lying in that hospital bed, asking me to come back.

That is the only one that matters.

“The Houses will grant them again. But sponsorship is not charity. A House chooses the contract and the terms.”

He turns toward the nine men behind him.

“As always, those terms remain at the sponsoring family’s discretion, which brings me to the men who will be watching you.”

He lifts a hand, and the Adjudicators step closer to the railing.

“Our sons. The Adjudicators of the Hunt. Each represents one of the sponsoring Houses. They are here to watch, assess, and decide who may be worth bringing home.”

The man in the queue was right. They’re shopping, and we’re what they came to buy. I hadn’t understood until now that these men could simply decide you weren’t worth taking.

“Their decisions are final. They may remove you from the Hunt at any time. Try not to give them a reason to notice you for the wrong one.”

A few people laugh.

The silver-haired man does too, though I doubt it’s for the same reason. “How you conduct yourselves toward one another once you enter the forest is your own affair. The Hunt does not referee.”

Nobody laughs at that.

The visor near the center tips toward me by a few degrees. Then he turns to the Adjudicator beside him and says something I can’t hear. The other man angles his visor toward me, lets it travel from my boots to my face, then gives the tiniest tilt of his head.

I drop my eyes to my boots and keep them there.

“The gates open in ten minutes,” the ceiling says. “Candidates, assemble.”

The hall moves at once. Rucksacks are shouldered, straps are tightened, bottles disappear into pockets. The spot where the blind girl sat is empty now.

Metal groans as the gates slide apart. Cold air rolls across the marble, and for a moment we all stare at the dark pines beyond.

Nobody wants to be first. Nobody wants to be last either.

Somewhere behind me, a man prays in a language I don’t understand. The words come fast, as if he’s running out of time.

Then one candidate steps through, and the rest of us follow.

I cross the threshold and tip my face toward the sky. On Calder, even in daylight, at least one planet always hangs somewhere above the horizon. Here, between the branches, only grey remains.

The forest feels real under my boots, but something feels wrong about a sky with nothing beyond it. This place was built for the Hunt. Built to keep five hundred people inside until someone decides which of us gets to leave with what we came for.

The air is heavy and dry, humming as if it’s about to change its mind. Dark clouds gather beyond the trees.

Within minutes, the crowd disperses.