AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hey, Storee,” called out a gruff voice from behind me. I turned to see Joe, a fisherman I worked with regularly, struggling with his net full of fish. “Need some help?”
I shook my head and flashed him a quick smile. “No, thanks, Joe. I’ve got this,” I replied, my voice steady despite the chill that whispered through my bones.
The independence that clawed at my heart wouldn’t allow me to accept help, not even from the familiar faces that dotted the small fisherman’s town. I was half the size of these men, but I was stronger than I appeared. Determination and years of earned muscle gave me that edge.
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, moving on to unload his catch.
The salty tang of the ocean filled my nostrils as I grabbed the handle of my cart full of fish and began to haul it back toward the market. I didn’t have much time before my next job and needed to get a move on.
My days were spent gutting and hauling fish to the local markets and buyers, the metallic scent of fishy blood staining my hands. My nights were consumed by serving the island’s elite at private parties—those held at the Godwins’ mansion, Olympus, being the most extravagant of all. The wealthy patrons barely noticed my existence, but their indifference suited me just fine. I preferred to blend into the background, like a phantom lurking in the shadows.
Heathens Hollow was an old fisherman’s island hidden in the fog of the Puget Sound, just under four hours by boat from Seattle. There were two very distinct class structures living beneath the evergreen trees and drenched in the constant rain.
The very rich and the working-class poor.
I was on the side of the poor.
The market was busy as usual, with people haggling over the prices of fish and other goods. I made my way to a stall, nodding to the familiar faces as I passed. As I began unpacking the catch, my best friend approached, breathless.
“Hey,” Fiora said. “The gig tonight got pushed up an hour. The caterer wants more help setting up. We need to get to Olympus Manor now.”
I glanced down at my hands coated in fish guts. “Now?”
“I don’t know why you work this stupid job.” Fiora eyed me up from head to toe. “I can get you enough serving gigs to make up for this one easily.”
“I like to diversify.” I gave her a smile and wink.
“Yeah, well, you and I both know there are other ways of making more money too,” she began.
“Fiora…” I warned. “Not this again.”
I knew she was referring to The Hunt. It was a seasonal, pagan-like ritual that happened on Heathens Hollow after the Harvest Moon where rich assholes dressed up in stag masks of bone and chased women into the woods to fuck them. The Harvest Moon kickstarted the hunts, but then they occurred every weekend after and consumed the island.
Crazy sounding would be an understatement.
Did it sound barbaric? That was because it was.
The payout was good if you agreed to be one of the hunted, although I didn’t want to know just how good, for fear I’d be tempted to be part of the depravity. And every weekend, around this time, Fiora would try to convince me that it was the answer to all my financial woes. I had heard all of the justifications by not just her but everyone ever since I had become of the age where I could actually be part of the ‘festivities’:
It’s just one night.
You don’t know who the person fucking you is, so it’s not like you have to face them again.
It’s just part of a long-standing tradition.
Everyone on Heathens Hollow has done it at least once.
You get a basket full of jewels, expensive shoes, money, and other gifts on your front porch as a reward for your part in the chase.
It’s not being a whore. It’s just having a little fun.
It’s what makes Heathens Hollow, Heathens Hollow.
None of her reasoning worked on me, however. I had no intention of ever being part of this wicked game. Tradition or not, I was never going to be hunted by a man in a mask and fucked just so I could get a basket of goodies that may or may not pay my rent that month.
Or at least that was what I told myself. Although the temptation and the curiosity grew each day, I’d never admit as much.
“You’re being a prude,” she snapped back. “Seriously, one night a month, and you’d never have to gut a fish again. And they don’t hold it during the winter. Just from the Harvest Moon and the weekends before the first snow flies. So you’re about to lose your window if you don’t act fast.”
