Page 13 of Primal

Vanessa blows a kiss. “Try to keep up, boys.”

Group 3? Foxy me. Kristy too. At least we’ll get to coordinate our screams.

“Prey #7,” the staffer calls.

Amanda startles. “I’m with you guys?”

Kristy fake-cheers. “Congrats. You’ve been voluntold.”

Our hunters materialize—the three Ghostfaces moving as one. Two of them are showing off their knives. The third Ghostface just watches, his hollow gaze burning through my clothes. Like I said—lucky me.

One of the three college girls with us whispers, “Did we just get sorted into Horny Azkaban?”

Her friend giggles. “Think they’ll be more stabby or grabby?”

Amanda whimpers beside me. “I changed my mind about the baby giraffe thing. I want to be a rock. A very small, very boring rock.”

“Group 4—Rabbits. You’ll be hunted by The Wolf and …” The antlered woman trails off, scanning the tree line. A staffer whispers in her ear. She plasters on a smile. “One of our Demons. Third hunter’s running late, but don’t worry, darlings—he always catches up.”

Lana’s in Group 5, touching up her lipstick like this is a spa day. Plus Mia. The rest are just bodies waiting to happen.

Their hunters emerge from the shadows.

The Reaper, dragging his scythe.

Pigface, fresh ‘blood’ dripping from the snout of his filthy mask.

The Bane-masked brute, rope slithering around his forearm.

The antlered woman beams. “Our Stags requested fewer restrictions. No safe words. No check-ins. Just pure hunt.”

Mia smirks at Lana. “Told you this would be more fun.”

Lana snaps her compact shut. “Darling, I invented fun.”

She eyes the Bane-masked hunter like he’s the menu at her favorite steakhouse.

Prey #9 flexes. “So, we can fight back, right?”

“Within reason,” the antlered woman deadpans. “Try not to damage the merchandise. They’re … difficult to replace.”

The brunette in a corset raises her hand again.

“Yes, Jessica?”

“There’s no Prey #13?”

The antlered woman chuckles. “Tradition, little rabbit. Too many past participants complained about the bad luck.”

So that’s why I’m number thirty-one.

Kristy grips my wrist and nods at the Ghostfaces. “The edgelords, huh? We’re so fucked.”

“Nah.” I watch Lana adjust her perfect hair. Behind her, Pigface’s miming licking his chops, rubber lips glistening. “But someone definitely is.”

Chapter Four

The changing room fucking stinks. Sweat and dollar-store body spray undercut by the tang of iron. My boots peel off the tile with the kind of sound only congealed blood or questionable fluids make. Someone got enthusiastic. Or sloppy. Knowing this crew, probably both.