Page 260 of Primal

‘Entrance is totally that way, Red.’ Liar. Human compass with the accuracy of a Magic 8-Ball. Future star witness at my murder trial.

Maybe Vanessa genuinely believes north is wherever her phone charger isn’t. Or—worst-case scenario—she’s making heart-eyes at I’m-The-Real-Ghostface currently turning this hunt into a fucking snuff film.

Goddammit. I should’ve grabbed Vanessa’s phone. Should’ve run with it or smashed it against a tree. Should’ve done anything except stand there like a slack-jawed extra while she strutted toward her own horror movie ending.

I spin, searching for any flash of safety—a trail marker, staff vest, anything.

My watch beeps a low battery warning. 11:48 pm. Twelve minutes to midnight, and the damn hunt ends at dawn.

Fuck this place. Screw the NDAs. If the staff won’t believe me, they can explain what’s left of Jessica to the cops. Right now, I need to find Lana and Kristy. Get the hell out of here.

As for Kade … he can handle himself. Unless he’s the one I need to handle.

Footsteps.

I whip around so fast my ankle nearly rolls. Nothing. Just trees stitched tight by darkness.

Twigs snap.

Shitshitshit. Ghostface. He’s caught up.

But the figure emerging isn’t Ghostface.

Tall. Broad. A shadow given form. His chest is bare, of course, abs sculpted and dusted in neon paint. That scythe. Bone-white mask.

The Reaper.

And the guy’s currently staring at me like I’m dinner and a show.

I back up, hands raised. “No, no, no—wait. You don’t understand. There’s a real killer out here—he just murdered someone—Jessica—he slit her throat—”

The Reaper tilts his head. Then, he intones: “Death comes for all.”

I blink. “What? No—listen, that Ghostface guy? He’s crazy. He killed one of us!”

He prowls closer. “The guilty beg. The innocent plead. All fall before the scythe.”

I gape at him. “Are you serious right now?”

Another step. “You resist. How … delicious.”

“For fuck’s sake.” My voice cracks. “I’m telling you there’s—”

He lunges.

I stumble back. The scythe slices past my shoulder. “Go to hell.”

“Such fire,” he muses, circling me. “Such passion.”

Fuck, there’s nowhere to go—just trees and teeth in the dark. I bolt anyway.

Something snags my ankle—a root, a hand, Death’s fucking joke.

I hit the ground. He wrenches me up before I can breathe—slams my spine against a tree. Bark showers into my hair.

I thrash, elbow catching somewhere near his ribs. He doesn’t even flinch. Just pins me tighter. His body paint smears across my hoodie—way too intimate for someone holding a scythe.

“Let me go,” I grit out.