Page 130 of Reverie

“It definitely is,” Leo says.

I run a hand through my hair, grateful for the sensory feedback my body gives me as I’m pulled under by my memories.

“Ominira.” I say her name, even though she’s long gone. Blood cakes beneath her head, a deep crimson. I feel pressure to give her my time and honor her life. Her life which was spent, against her will, on Isla Cara. But now I was able to give her a choice—a single choice—to die as she wanted, on her terms.

“I hope you find peace,” I say to her body.

I listen to the waves as they crash on the shore.

Minutes later, the hunters stumble across us. Two men groan at missing their opportunity to catch their target.

The third man—the man in the center—hums.

It had to be him.Alistair.

The other men walk off, diving into the dense jungle to stalk the scarce group of survivors from phase one.

But that leaves me and the corpse. And him.

Alistair.

Mosquitos buzz past my ear, and I stay completely still, willing him to leave. Leave me alone.

So I continue to ignore him, even though keeping my back to him feels like standing in front of a firing squad.

“Excellent, Hunter. Truly an excellent job,” Alistair says. “All hail The Huntsman!”

He yells so loud in his posh accent that birds flap away from the dancing palm trees.

He gets closer—one step, two. His breath ruffles the hair at the back of my neck. I grip the switchblade still in my hand and?—

Maybe it’s not just a message, but an invitation.

“What are you thinking, Hunter?” This comes from Winter. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

Almost, because my body can’t forget her proximity anytime we’re in the same room together.

“I think this is a calling card. An invitation for The Legion—maybe some of them, maybe all of them—to show up at this place,” I point to the map on Misha’s screen, “on this date. And if I had to guess, it’s for The Hunt. I never thought too deeply about The Hunt and all that happens over that week, but clearly there’s more.”

Winter’s eyes widen, and there’s a bit of excitement in them.

“That could be—Hunter, that could be huge,” she says.

“It’s for the anagram,” Max pipes up, agitation plain in his voice, even though he doesn’t look at any of us.

“They’re coordinates,” Misha emphasizes.

“And it’s the date,” Leo and I say at the same time.

I’m confident that the message is an invitation for The Legion to gather on the summer solstice. That’s two weeks from now.

Max throws his hands up and pushes back from his desk. Whirling to grab the laptop docked next to the monitor, he grumbles, “Do whatever the fuck you want,” and leaves the room.

Leo blows out a breath and says, “I’ll go talk to him,” and follows Max out the door.

“Hunter, you think you heard The Architect on Isla Cara. When was it?” This comes from Luna. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, waiting for my answer.

I close my eyes and bring up the memories.