Page 4 of Collared

We start walking toward the forest. As we make progress toward the first line of impressive oak trees, others are joining us from different angles, until there are four guys in school uniforms wearing masks to cover up our faces. No one speaks.

Where are we going? I want to ask, but don't. Instead I follow the group as we make our way through the dark, sinister-looking forest with its fluttering leaves and unknown sounds. My heart races, and I realize just to what extent my life has always been boring and predictable.

School, homework, football, some friends, Mamie and the occasional night out. In my defense, that had always felt like it was enough. I might have had the occasional daydream about something spectacular, such as just leaving everything behind and traveling the world, discovering different cultures and languages, but they were never meant to be anything more than that, just wishful thinking.

Because somewhere deep inside of me I believed that I was simply made to be average. Thurel Aubert the Insignificant. Lives with his Mamie for the rest of his life.

The thought gets forcefully swept out of my brain as we make our way deeper into the forest.

Turning to glance over my shoulder, I cast a look at the glorious view behind us. The gardens are lit up by their usual decorations—antique street lights and ribbons with bulbs of light that are attached by a string to the numerous trees. Behind there, in the dim horizon, the castle materializes like some dark, gothic era sketch with its floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the large reception rooms and those endless corridors.

I turn my head back making sure to keep in line with the others.

The atmosphere is electric as we slowly pass the herb garden. Instead of taking a right, we go left, bringing us deeper into the woods.

Here, the air is cooler. There’s an iciness to the breeze that makes me shiver, just like the low shrubs whisper in the wind. We wind through the forest, as we leave one sand trail and cross a green plot in order to connect with another. Perhaps it’s my own trepidation that is causing this sensation tingling down my spine.

Spring Break began earlier today, and students went home after our final classes to spend their holidays with family. Which means that apart from our little group, there shouldn’t be anyone out here.

Right?

The hoot of an owl, echoed by a similar reply coming from the nearest tree, makes me nearly jump out of my skin. One of the bodyguards turns to check on me with a blank expression. I nod to signal to him that I’m okay, swallowing away the sudden chills, and he nods in return before he picks up his pace again.

I have never been in this part of the woods before, the awareness shooting another zing of something through my tightening chest. Lit torches create a path of rusty beacons dotted randomly along both sides of the trail, casting a faint golden light over the sleepy woods around us.

The haunting sight makes me shiver and I pull my school jacket a little tighter around myself before brushing the velvet material of my mask with surprisingly clammy fingers. I’m nervous, and it’s a strange thing to wear, all soft and secretive, it feels very mysterious and…I'm scared.

The guy in front of me comes to a sudden stop and I nearly trip over him, apologizing as I do so, heart leaping in my throat. He doesn’t respond to me, but through the faint light I catch his wide eyes. He’s feeling it too, his shoulders equally stiff and rigid. Another odd request, stated in tonight’s invitation—to arrive in our school uniforms.

“We are here,” someone says. The four of us eye each other curiously. Though it’s hard to tell in the semi-darkness and with these silken masks that cover most of our faces, I’m sure we’re all trying to figure out the same thing.

Do I know you?

“Where’s here?” Someone asks, the unfamiliar sound nothing more than a croak.

Then someone appears through the bushes like he is the freaking boogie man himself, and my heart rate picks up. He's wearing a long, black, velvet cloak that reaches down to his toes and a hood that is wrapped over his head, obscuring him entirely. He too, is wearing a mask, but his carries the shape of a bird, its beak pointy and too large. It's a crow. And it’s the same bird as the golden print carved onto the cane he holds as he slowly makes his way toward our little group.

I think…this is really about to become a lot more freaky than I’d thought it would be.

“Here’s where it begins,” the man simply replies, planting the black cane firmly into the ground where it gets swallowed by the darkened earth. He takes his time eyeing us one by one, the holes of his dark mask not leaving much space for his eyes. A suspicious smirk curls his unshrouded lips. When I feel his unsettling stare on my face, I look away, only to force my gaze back up.

It's part of the act, I tell myself. This is meant to be spooky. It doesn't work.

“Thank you for being with us tonight, gentlemen,” he continues, and when he spreads his arms wide, making his cloak wave in the wind like flapping wings, another distinctive, rustling sound comes from the bushes. And then…

Four cloaked figures appear from between the trees and slowly make their way toward us. They all wear the same black cloaks, the edges pooling around their ankles, their black hoods draped over their heads. They’re wearing Venetian masks, with elegantly embroidered details meandering across their disguised, facial features, creating different lines and shapes. It's...fascinating and ominous.

I shiver.

The three bodyguards gesture for us to form a line, which we silently do, since probably every one of us is too fucking shocked to even consider disobeying at this stage. There’s something so darkly entrancing in this unfolding scene. So inexplicably creepy about this flash of air. I take a deep inhale, harsh and crisp, but still feel short of breath.

The four arrivals match our line up, each one of them facing each one of us. Uniforms versus black cloaks. Dark, plain masks versus four shiny ones. Gold, silver, copper and bronze. Like us, they hide the better part of their faces, only revealing their jaws and mouths. The one standing across from me wears a silver mask, and his unwavering dark gaze stares right through mine in a silent challenge.

“Monterrey Castle is a magnificent place," the man with the cane continues. "It carries many secrets. Do you believe in fate? Anyone?" No one replies. He lets out a hoarse chuckle. "Yet here you are. Our participants. Because you received an invitation to something of importance. Perhaps you weren't told just that, but I am sure you could feel it. The weight of something remarkable, something significant that is about to happen. Well, let me tell you this. You were right."

Far away, through the forest, the local church bells chime, the sound echoing deeply through the forest, softening in force only to eventually reach us in a comforting wave.

“France is a melting pot of culture and history, of wealth and fortune. Wouldn’t you agree?” He smiles at us, but there’s no warmth in the dark pool of his eyes. Silence. “We are proud of our heritage,” he continues. “Proud of being French. Proud of being amongst the most powerful families this country has. Remember this tonight, when the Chase commences. Remember the prize. Power, wealth and privilege. It can be all yours.”

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