Page 7 of Hollow

“We don’t open until nine,” says someone behind me.

I turn to find this guy who looks like he walked straight out of some underground rock show—tall, with angular features, jet-black hair boasting a white streak at his temple. Multiple piercings, a silver lip ring, and these gray eyes that are almost silver. He’s sizing me up like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble.

“Yeah, figured that,” I say, not backing down from his stare. “Just scoping the place out.”

“The Vault isn’t big on walk-ins.” He crosses his arms. “Members only. Though exceptions get made.”

“Let me guess… if you’re rich enough or hot enough?” I raise an eyebrow.

One corner of his mouth twitches. “Pretty much. Helps if you’re both.”

“Good to know some things never change on this island.”

“You’ve been here before, then?” He’s studying me more carefully now.

“I am Briar Waters.” I don’t offer my hand. “The big house on the north shore.”

“Ah, Waters.” Recognition flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t look impressed. “Thought you guys only haunted the island in July and August but years ago.”

“Usually. I’m on extended sick leave this year.”

“Lucky us,” he says dryly. “Flint Bishop. I run the bar here.”

“So you’re the person to know if I want to have some fun around here?”

“Depends on your definition of fun.” He studies my face. “What’s the Waters definition these days?”

I make a split-second decision. “I’m throwing a party tomorrow night. At Windward Estate.”

That gets his attention. His eyebrow shoots up, the piercing above it catching the light. “A party? At the Waters fortress? That’s different.”

“It’s my birthday.” I shrug, trying to come across casual. “Though nobody knows that. Or cares.”

“Including your father?”

“Especially my father.”

He gives me a look that suggests I’ve just become slightly more interesting to him. “Bold move, but why tell me? We just met, and I’m hardly on the Waters guest list.”

Something clicks in my brain as I glance back atMooncrow’s window display. “I want to throw a Hunt-themed party.”

His posture shifts slightly—more alert, more wary. “Hunt-themed? What do you mean?”

“You know… inspired by The Hunt. Not the actual thing, obviously,” I clarify quickly. “But the aesthetic. Red lights everywhere, guys in masks, girls in white, tribal drums playing. Something primal. Wild. The opposite of the stuffy parties my father throws.”

“So not an actual Hunt, just dressing up like one.” He seems relieved but also slightly amused. “Still pretty daring for a Waters party.”

“I know what The Hunt is,” I reply, thinking of all those nights watching from my window. “That’s exactly why I want it as my theme.”

He studies me for a moment, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “A Waters girl hosting a Hunt-themed party. That’s one for the island history books.”

“So will you help? I need people to show up. People who get the theme and will really commit to it.”

“What’s in it for me?” he asks, though I can tell he’s already interested.

“Open bar. Plus the satisfaction of corrupting a Waters. Isn’t that enough?”

He laughs. “You’re not what I expected.”

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