They Draw Lots

The realization of what he'd just done settled in his gut like a stone, but before it could fully land, Zoë took charge.

That was the thing about the lieutenant, Matt was learning. She could go from breathless and trembling in his arms to iron command in the space of a heartbeat, and the women around her responded to it like soldiers hearing a horn. The dazed wonder from the kiss was still there, tucked behind her eyes, but it had hardened into something with edges. This was the woman who had led the Hunt for three thousand years.

"Enough," she said, and the cheer died down into restless quiet. Not cowed, not resentful, just attentive, dozens of hungry eyes flicking between her and him. "We are not animals. We will not tear him apart on the first morning."

Pisidice made a noise that suggested she was perfectly willing to tear him apart, actually, but she held her tongue.

Zoë turned to face the whole camp, and Matt watched her become someone else entirely. "We draw lots," she said. "In order. One at a time, so that each of us has him to herself for a while. The others wait their turn."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Some of it sounded like relief. Some of it sounded like complaint. A tall Hunter near the front, hair cropped short and a scar splitting one eyebrow, folded her arms and asked the obvious question.

"For how long?"

"One hundred and sixty-two minutes," Zoë said.

Nobody questioned the number. Matt opened his mouth to ask, then closed it again, because the Hunters were already nodding, some of them counting on their fingers, all of them apparently finding the answer satisfying. He filed it away as one more thing about these women he didn't understand.

"You will each wait your turn," Zoë continued, pacing slowly down the line of them, her gaze sweeping across the assembled Hunters with the weight of a general inspecting troops. "Those still waiting will remain here and stay out of the way, and when your turn comes, he is yours. Take him to your tent, or somewhere you love. Cherish that first time, and make a good impression on him, as he will on you."

The command came out clipped, the way orders did, but her face had softened by the end of it. Behind her, something shifted in the crowd, a ripple of murmurs bright and nervous, the sound of women who had spent years, decades, centuries being told what they could not have and had just been handed permission. Some looked dazed. Others were already counting the minutes until their name came up, and a few shifted on their feet, restless, as though standing still had become an effort.

Zoë returned to Matt and stopped in front of him, close enough that he could see the pulse beating in her throat, the only part of her that betrayed how much the last few minutes had cost her. She reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, letting her fingers linger there, the gesture startling in its gentleness after all the grabbing and grinding.

"You will survive this." She met his eyes and didn't blink.

"I'm not sure yet."

The corner of her mouth curved, warm now, almost fond. She cupped his cheek for a moment, her thumb tracing his jaw as though memorizing the shape of it. "You will. And you will be kind to them, Matt. They have waited a long time, and most of them are more frightened than they will ever admit." She paused, and something vulnerable flickered across her face, softening the sharp lines of her. "And be kind to me too. This is new for all of us. We are not... practiced at this."

She said it quietly, like a confession, and Matt realized that under all the command and the steel, Zoë Nightshade was just as lost as the rest of them. Three thousand years old, and she had never once had to learn how to be someone's. Behind her, the Hunters had gone quiet, watching the two of them, and he understood that she was not just speaking for herself. She was speaking for every one of them, three thousand years of cold discipline, and now they were all fumbling in the dark together.

"I'll do my best," he said.

"That is all we ask." She stepped back, and her voice lifted again, carrying across the camp. "The lots."

One of the Hunters jogged off toward the tents and returned a moment later with a leather pouch, worn soft with age. She held it open while the others came forward, each woman dropping in a small carved token before stepping back into line, fist closed, eyes fixed somewhere far away. Matt caught a glimpse of the first few before they vanished into the pouch, markings burned into the wood, a symbol or a name he would learn soon enough. The shuffle of feet and the clink of tokens was the only sound.

When the last token had gone in, Zoë pulled the drawstring tight, shook the pouch once so the wood clacked together inside, and held it out at arm's length. For a moment nobody moved, as though the whole camp was holding its breath, and then the nearest Hunter stepped forward and reached inside.

She drew slowly, fingers searching, and when she pulled her hand free she didn't look at the token right away. She cupped it in both palms first, the way someone might hold something fragile, and Matt found himself watching her face rather than her hands. Then she glanced down, and something passed across her features, a quick flash of emotion he couldn't name, before she closed her fingers over the wood and stepped back into line.

The next woman did the same. And the next. There was a rhythm to it now, a quiet procession, each Hunter taking her turn at the pouch and then retreating with her secret clenched tight. Some of them peeked immediately, and Matt caught the way their expressions shifted, a smile here, a furrowed brow there. Others refused to look at all, tucking the token into a pocket or a boot, saving it for later like a gift they weren't ready to open.

Nobody spoke. That was what struck him most. Dozens of women, and not a single word passed between them, only the soft shuffle of feet and the dry click of wood, and the air around the camp had thickened into something almost heavy with anticipation.

When the last Hunter had drawn, Zoë took the pouch back and reached in herself. She was slower than the rest, her hand lingering inside as though she were weighing something more than a scrap of wood, and when she finally pulled her token free she held it flat in her palm without looking.

She did not look at hers either.

Matt opened his mouth to ask what any of it meant, and Zoë answered before the question could form.

"Later," she said. "When the sun is higher. You should eat first."

Behind her, the Hunters were already drifting apart, finding private patches of shade to examine what they'd drawn, some of them smiling to themselves, some of them going very still.