Page 1 of Trapped

SUR SCÈNE

PROLOGUE

Spiders.

So much more than air-breathing insects with eight limbs, fangs that inject venom, and spinnerets that extrude silk. Did you know that they are either aggressive or docile? Black. White. Bad. Good. There is no in-between. No grey area.

They carry the creepy kind of beauty that freaks most of us out.

Not me though.

Ever since I was a child, I have been fascinated by them. Such stealth for a creature so small and delicate. Such precision in the way they walk, run, or crawl. And it’s not just the outward prowess that is to be admired. A spider is also cunning. The way they seek out their prey through smell, and actively pursue or cautiously stalk, waiting in ambush— it’s a game of the mind too. Sometimes they catch their prey’s attention by aggressive mimicry, before grabbing and holding them between their pedipalps and front legs. And then they bite.

That bite.

I love using my teeth. Blood seeping into my mouth. My tongue dragging softly over the broken flesh, sealing the wound with a kiss. Fuck yeah…

The thought makes my insides tingle, and for a fraction of a second I’m oblivious to my surroundings, forgetting that we’ve just come out of the bushes like a troop of cloaked fiends, scaring the shit out of the participants whom we’ve invited for tonight’s quest.

For the Wicked Chase.

Classmates from Saint-Laurent Boarding College for boys, lured into the woods with the promise of an altered life.

Wealth. Status. Heritage.

Membership in the prestigious, secret brotherhood of the Alpha Fraternarii. Forged by the blood and sacrifices of those that came before us, we now carry the mantle of control in this modern age. We continue to use politics to control the masses, as our ancestors did. Our methods are unorthodox to the unlearned, but they are effective, as our participants will soon learn. Fear, when infused with sex of all kinds, can prove to be a potent control mechanism. After all, who doesn’t want to play a role in today’s political climate? Even if it starts here, at Monterrey Castle.

Or to be precise, at Monterrey forest. In the middle of the night.

“During the Chase, you may be subjected to physical violence—with no lasting injuries—as well as being drugged, tied up or even used for the brother's sexual pleasure. You agreed to this,“ Elder Jacques booms. The Elder's black cloak flitters around his shrivelled shoulders. The head of his long, wooden cane rests within his enclosed fist. To our participants, he might look like a scary 'cult man'. They might be right. To the outside world, we may very well be considered exactly that. Not here. Here, we are those who possess so much wealth, who command so much respect from the mindless public, that we do as we please and everything is acceptable—the depraved, and the dark. The vile and the primal urge to dominate and control.

Yes. Elder Jacques paints an eerily perfect picture for our esteemed guests.

Sometimes I wonder if the Elder has ever been through the Initiations himself; his younger, insecure self afraid to join the secret society. He’s always so collected. Like he never ages. Like he was never young to begin with.

The formalities are meant as an appetizer, an introduction to what’s to come. Standing across from our four contestants in a line, my brothers and I stand proud. We’re impatient, and the air is thick with anticipation as we wait for the game to begin. Someone from the line across from us stutters a reply, a string of unintelligible words, as he fidgets with the mask on his face. All four participants wear a similar camouflage of a silk—a dark mask, knotted with a soft ribbon at their napes. The shape and softness radiate sensuality, but lack the power and aristocracy of the Venetian masks that we, the brothers of the Alpha Fraternarii, sport in bright colour and lascivious shapes. Gold, silver, copper and bronze.

“You signed up for this,” Elder Jacques says. Raising an arm, he points with his cane back to the castle, where students left earlier today for Family Break, an initiative from Saint-Laurent to encourage families to spend time together over the weekend. “But if you insist on backing out, be my guest. Leave.” No one answers, but apparently that’s not enough for the Elder, who’s only just starting to let his rage show. “Anyone else? Hmm? Anyone else wants to turn their backs on the invitation and refuse the opportunity of a lifetime? Because if you do, please, do it now.”

Silence.

He takes another step, his dark mantle sliding through the neatly formed lines. The participant who complained flinches, clears his throat, then straightens up. Poor boy. He’s facing Alex, whose face is covered with his glorious bronze mask. His hunting weapon hangs from his hand—a leather swing and stone balls. A bola.

Just like the previous time, the guy won’t last one hour. I’m not sure what game Alex is playing with his prey, but he seems to enjoy chasing him down, eliminating him, only to bring him back in the game. Knowing how tonight will end, the poor guy will have to come back once more. Because tonight’s showtime for me, my check is the highest. Which means this will be my final time partaking in the Wicked Games, because unlike the first time when I was merely out there to have some fun, tonight’s prey is my chosen one.

Standing across from me, in his school uniform, the upper part of his face obscured by charcoal lace, curled into the same shape as my own copper mask, is my target.

Robin Pinault.

“D’accord,” Elder Jacques seems pleased as he trots back to his place at the head of our line-up. No one has left. “Now that we have that cleared up, let’s move on to the interesting part. Participants, did you know that the monks who lived in Monterrey Castle in the eighteenth century offered shelter to some of the elite when the streets of Paris burned?” Some hesitant nods.

Robin just stares at the Elder, his jaw pinched tightly.

“It was those families who rewrote our past,” the Elder continues. The wind picks up through the evergreens that frame the horizon, swinging their endless branches slowly like uncontrolled tentacles. I shiver involuntarily, anticipation slowly unfurling in the pit of my stomach. I’m hungry for tonight. Although this part of France has already dealt with its first heat wave over the past weeks, with temperatures hitting 38 degrees, we were surprised by heavy rainfall at the beginning of the week. For a second, we believed that tonight’s Initiation would be called off.

We were lucky though.

What started as a glorious and hot day has transitioned into a pleasant night. Crisp, with a hint of a lukewarm breeze. The perfect night to hunt.

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