Page 218 of Primal

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.

I check my watch. Fuck.

I’m ‘They started the horror movie before the killer got his mask on’ late.

Max’s fog machine short-circuited five minutes before go time. Mom was three bottles deep and reenacting The Shining with Dad’s hunting knife. Not to mention the fucking contacts I put on instead of my glasses itched like hell until I blinked one out. Had to pull over and dig through my glove box for a spare.

And my custom mask—the one I spent six Sundays carving—is now gone.

I upend my duffel onto the locker room bench—gloves, zip ties, the Halloween Special knife. No mask.