Appetite

Chapter 1 | The Knife’s Edge

The kitchen pulsed with a frantic energy, the kind that teeters on the edge of chaos, where motion masks the inevitable unraveling—pushed beyond its limits, straining under its own weight, yet somehow never breaking. Flames hissed, knives clashed against cutting boards, and the air carried the thick, metallic scent of raw meat, butter, and burning ambition.

Moxie moved through it like an eager soldier on the first day of war, stomach tight with nerves but hands steady. The weight of the chef’s coat felt heavier than it should have. She had dreamed of this moment for years—standing in a world-class kitchen, under the command of the infamous Davina Von Laurent. A place where perfection wasn’t a goal. It was the bare minimum.

"Two Wellington, plating in sixty seconds!" Gabriel’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as the blade in his hand.

Moxie wiped the sweat from her brow and reached for the sauce reduction she had prepared, her fingers curling around the warm handle of the pan. Every movement had to be precise. One mistake and she wouldn’t just ruin the dish—she’d ruin herself.

From across the kitchen, Davina watched.

She had been watching all night.

Moxie felt it in her bones, a weight heavier than the heat of the stoves. The Executive Chef stood at her post near the pass, posture regal, hands clasped behind her back. She didn’t bark orders like the others. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone ensured obedience.

Moxie plated the dish, brushing the edges clean before stepping back. A second of silence stretched unbearably long before Davina finally spoke.

"Passable," she said, voice smooth, unwavering.

Gabriel shot Moxie a barely perceptible glance. In this kitchen, passable was the closest thing to a compliment from Davina Von Laurent.

Moxie exhaled, but the moment of relief was short-lived.

A commis chef stumbled near the pastry station, knocking a bowl of caramelized hazelnuts onto the floor. The sound of scattering nuts was deafening against the controlled hum of the kitchen.

The air shifted.

Davina’s head turned slowly, eyes settling on the unfortunate chef like a blade pressing against skin.

"Clean it up," she said. Her voice held no anger, no inflection at all.

The chef scrambled, hands shaking as they gathered the fallen ingredients.

Moxie didn’t look away.

She had seen chefs scream in other kitchens. She had watched them break under pressure, their tempers flaring hot and fast like oil to flame. Davina didn’t scream. She didn’t need to. Her silence was a scalpel, dissecting those who failed beneath her gaze.

Moxie had idolized her once.

Now, standing in the heat of her domain, she wasn’t sure if she had stepped into a temple or a tomb.

The air in the kitchen was thick—not just with heat, but with tension. It coiled around Moxie’s ribs, constricting with every passing second.

"Two Wellington, plating in sixty seconds!" Gabriel called again, but this time, something was wrong.

Moxie’s eyes flicked to the cutting board. The reduction she had prepped was gone.

Her stomach lurched. Someone had moved it.

She scanned the station, heart hammering against her ribs. No time to look. No time to panic.

Across the room, Davina remained at the pass, still watching.

Moxie had two options: freeze and fail, or adapt.

She reached for the nearby demi-glace, grabbing a fresh pan. The sauce wouldn’t have the depth of the original reduction, but she could salvage it. With practiced movements, she deglazed with a splash of red wine, reducing the liquid in rapid time. The scent of caramelizing shallots and thyme bloomed in the air, masking the acrid taste of panic creeping up her throat.

Fifteen seconds.

She whisked in butter, smoothing out the sauce.

Ten seconds.

With the precision of a surgeon, she drizzled the glossy reduction onto the plate, cleaning the rim just as Gabriel’s voice cut through the heat.

"Service!"

The plates were lifted and carried out of sight. The second they disappeared through the doors, Moxie felt the weight of Davina’s gaze sharpen.

A single beat of silence.

Then Davina turned to Pierre. "Wine pairing?"

The moment passed. Moxie exhaled, light-headed from the adrenaline.

Gabriel, standing beside her, let out a low chuckle. "Not bad, rookie."

She wanted to ask if that had been a test—if someone had deliberately moved her sauce just to see if she could recover. But in this kitchen, questions didn’t matter. Only results.

Still, as she cleaned her station, she caught Davina watching her from across the room. The woman’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she regarded Moxie now.

Something close to approval.

But not quite.

The kitchen had its own rhythm, a brutal symphony of motion and steel. Moxie had begun to adjust to it—learning when to move, when to stay out of the way, and when to become invisible. Yet some nights, the rhythm faltered. Something slipped between the beats, like a discordant note only she could hear.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The dinner rush had finally slowed, and the scent of rendered fat and smoldering rosemary clung to Moxie’s skin. She exhaled, pressing her palms against the cold edge of the counter, steadying herself. Gabriel and Pierre were already making their way toward the back entrance for a smoke break, their voices low, distant. The kitchen was never truly empty, yet at this moment, it felt abandoned.

A dull hum filled the space—the refrigeration units, the lingering heat from the stoves. Yet beneath that, something else.

A whisper.

Moxie froze, fingers tightening around the metal surface.

It had come from the walk-in freezer.

She turned her head toward the heavy steel door, its surface beaded with condensation. The sound had been faint—just a soft murmuring, the kind of noise a half-conscious person makes in the haze of sleep.

She forced herself to breathe.

Someone must still be inside.

Moxie stepped forward, boots tapping softly against the tile as she approached the freezer. She hesitated for only a moment before gripping the handle and pulling the door open.

A gust of freezing air coiled around her skin. Metal shelves stretched in neat rows, packed with hanging cuts of dry-aged beef, tubs of duck fat, sealed jars of fermented vegetables. Her breath came out in pale plumes as she stepped inside.

Nothing moved.

She scanned the space, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The whispering had stopped.

She reached out, fingers brushing against a crate of vacuum-sealed foie gras. The plastic crinkled beneath her touch.

Something dripped onto the back of her hand.

Her breath hitched. The droplet was thick, slow-moving. A deep, dark red.

Blood.

Her gaze snapped upward.

Above her, nestled between the hanging cuts of beef, something else dangled from the hooks.

A butcher’s apron.

Torn. Stiff with dried blood.

It shouldn’t have been there.

A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature crawled down her spine. Her instincts screamed at her to step back, close the door, and walk away.

Yet, she didn’t move.

The freezer felt different now. The weight of something unseen pressed against the edges of her perception, the air thick with more than just cold.

A flicker of motion in the reflection of the steel shelf—not hers.

Her stomach twisted.

She turned sharply, expecting—what? A chef who had lingered too long? A trick of the light?

Nothing.

Only the neatly stacked inventory, the sterile hum of the refrigeration unit, and the lingering scent of raw flesh.

Moxie inhaled sharply and stepped back, forcing herself to walk, not run.

She gripped the handle and pulled the freezer door shut behind her, sealing the cold and whatever else might have been lurking inside.

The kitchen’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The room looked the same as before. Yet something had changed.

Moxie wiped the blood from her hand, staring at the dark smear on her palm before rinsing it away.

It had to be from the meat. It had to be.

She didn’t look at the freezer again for the rest of the night.

The scent of burnt sugar lingered in the air, cloying and sharp. Elise stood at the pastry station, eyes half-lidded as she caramelized a delicate lattice of spun sugar over a plated dessert. The golden strands hardened almost instantly, forming an intricate cage around a quenelle of blood orange sorbet.

Moxie barely noticed.

Her mind was still in the freezer, replaying the moment over and over. The blood, the torn apron, the flicker of motion she had imagined—hadn’t imagined—out of the corner of her eye.

She worked on autopilot, filleting a branzino with practiced precision, the blade gliding through flesh and cartilage with ease. The muscle memory was there, but her mind was not.

"You're distracted," Davina’s voice sliced through the din, smooth and effortless as always.

Moxie’s fingers twitched around the knife. She forced herself to keep her movements steady, her face neutral.

"Just tired."

Davina hummed as if considering whether or not to believe her. The sound sent something sour curling in Moxie’s gut.

"Fatigue breeds mistakes," Davina said, her gaze flicking to the fish under Moxie’s blade. "Mistakes breed failure. Do you want to fail?"

Moxie didn’t answer.

The air was too thick. The kitchen was too loud, yet somehow still too quiet. She could feel the eyes on her—Davina’s most of all.

The moment stretched, heavy and taut.

Then, somewhere near the prep station—a scream.

Sharp. Raw. The kind that came from deep inside the body, not just the throat.

Moxie turned, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

One of the junior chefs was clutching his hand, his fingers slick with bright red blood.

It poured from his palm, thick and fast, pooling onto the stainless steel counter. The knife had slipped—no, not slipped. It had sunk into his flesh, embedding deep enough to nearly sever a tendon.

The kitchen erupted into movement. Gabriel grabbed towels, pressing them into the wound. Elise had already turned away, uninterested. Pierre barely flinched.

Moxie’s stomach twisted.

The sight of blood wasn’t new. It was the reaction—or the lack of one—that sent a sliver of ice into her chest.

Then Davina stepped forward.

"Back to your station," she said, voice quiet but firm.

The injured chef’s breath hitched. He looked at her, wide-eyed, as if she had spoken in a language he couldn’t understand.

His fingers were still bleeding.

"Hospital," Gabriel muttered. "He needs stitches."

"No." Davina’s head tilted, just slightly. "He finishes service first."

A heartbeat of silence.

"Yes, Chef." Gabriel said dejectedly, a look of shock flickering across his face.

The room pulsed with something dark and unseen.

Moxie knew what was about to happen before it did.

Gabriel, jaw clenched, nodded once. The injured chef’s hands trembled as he tried to wrap his fingers in the towel, as if sheer willpower alone could stop the bleeding.

Moxie stepped back. She could taste the iron in the air.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

She placed her knife down on the counter—deliberate, final.

Davina’s gaze shifted to her.

"I’m done.”

The words fell like a blade, severing something she hadn’t realized was still tethered to her.

For the first time, Davina’s expression flickered.

She handed over her apron. “I just can’t do this anymore.” she said, almost like she was about to break in a million pieces. 

Moxie waited for a reprimand. A warning. Some kind of resistance.

Instead, Davina simply smiled.

"Don’t worry! You’ll be back."

Moxie’s blood ran cold.

She turned, ignoring the weight of Davina’s stare burning into her back. Ignoring the whisper of something wrong curling around her ribs.

She stepped through the doors and didn’t look back.

Moxie had spent five years behind the pass at Château Noir, plating dishes under the cold, watchful eye of Davina Von Laurent.

It wasn’t just a restaurant. It was a world of its own—elitist, exclusive, and utterly relentless. A place where tables were booked months in advance, where a single misstep in execution could mean the end of a career.

Moxie had been the perfect soldier. A steady hand beneath Davina’s iron rule, mirroring her precision, her ruthlessness. She had studied every glance, every subtle shift in tone, every impossible standard Davina set—not because she admired her, but because survival demanded it.

She had simply handed over her apron and left.

Château Noir closed shortly after. No explanation. No press release. Just shuttered doors and whispers that Davina had vanished.

Moxie never looked back.

She told herself it wasn’t her problem anymore. 

5 Years Later

The air smelled of rain and city asphalt, a far cry from the stifling heat of a kitchen. Moxie sat by her apartment window, watching the evening traffic bleed red and white across wet pavement. Five years. It didn’t feel that long, yet somehow, it felt like a lifetime.

She had spent the first year trying to scrape Davina’s voice out of her head. The second convincing herself she had made the right choice. By the third, she had stopped waking up in the middle of the night, expecting to hear the hum of the ventilation hood or the sharp clap of a chef’s knife against the cutting board.

Now, at thirty years old, she had built a new rhythm. Not better. Just different.

Her fingers drummed against the wooden table, absentmindedly tapping out the cadence of a knife against a cutting board.

The knock at the door cut through the quiet.

Moxie turned her head, brows knitting together. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She pulled herself from the chair, stretching out the stiffness in her shoulders before crossing the room. The city noise buzzed faintly outside as she unlocked the door.

No one was there.

Her stomach tightened. A package sat on the welcome mat, wrapped in a crisp, black envelope.

Moxie stared at it.

A cold prickle crept up the back of her neck. She hadn’t ordered anything.

The envelope was heavy in her hands, the kind of luxurious cardstock used for wedding invitations or elite galas. A gold wax seal pressed into the flap bore an emblem—an intricate ouroboros, its serpent body twisted in an endless loop.

Something deep in her chest tightened.

She already knew who had sent it.

Moxie peeled the wax seal away, unfolding the paper inside. The handwriting was precise, elegant, and painfully familiar.

Chef Moxie Harlow,

You are cordially invited to an exclusive, transformative culinary experience.
A weekend of indulgence, discovery, and transcendence.

Come taste the extraordinary.

Where: Witchitaki Luxury Lodge, Witchitaki, Wisconsin.
When: Friday, August 22nd, 2025 - Sunday, August 24th, 2025.

A second sheet was tucked behind the invitation—a plane ticket, already booked in her name.

Moxie exhaled slowly.

Davina.

It had been five years. No letters. No calls. No unfinished business.

So why now?

Her fingers curled around the thick paper. The logo at the bottom of the invitation glinted under the apartment’s dim lighting. The ouroboros.

A symbol of devouring oneself. Of never-ending cycles.

Moxie’s lips parted, an exhale she didn’t realize she had been holding slipping out.

She could tear the invitation in half. Toss it in the trash. Walk away like she had before.

Instead, a wry smirk ghosted over her lips.

"What’s the worst that can happen?"

She placed the letter back into the envelope and set it aside.

Three days.

Then she’d see Davina again. 

---

Chapter Two | The Arrival 

The airport was smaller than she expected.

Moxie stepped off the plane, the artificial chill of air-conditioning quickly replaced by the weight of the humid Wisconsin air. Witchitaki Regional Airport was a single terminal, the kind of place that felt abandoned even when people were present.

She pulled her carry-on over the scuffed linoleum floors, weaving past a handful of other passengers—all of them quiet, too quiet. There was no post-flight chatter, no exhausted sighs of relief. Just the distant hum of the baggage carousel and the slow, rhythmic click of polished shoes against tile.

She scanned the space, looking for any signage or transportation desks. Instead, her eyes landed on something else.

A driver stood near the exit, dressed in a crisp black suit. His face was unreadable, pale against the dim lighting of the terminal. A small white placard rested between his fingers.

Miss Moxie Harlow.

Her pulse gave a slow, measured thud.

He didn’t move. Didn’t gesture for her. Just stared.

Moxie adjusted her bag and approached, stopping just short of a comfortable distance.

"All this for me?" she said sarcastically.

The driver didn’t blink.

"Your car is waiting, Miss Harlow."

His voice was neutral—no warmth, no inflection. He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, assuming she would follow.

The automatic doors slid open, revealing a sleek black Mercedes S-Class, polished to a mirror sheen. The windows were too dark, swallowing reflections.

Moxie hesitated for just a breath, then pulled the door open and slid inside.

The ride through the Wisconsin countryside was long. Too long.

The farther they drove, the less civilization surrounded them. No cars passed in the opposite direction. No towns. No road signs. Just the dense stretch of trees pressing against the highway, swallowing them whole.

She checked her phone. No service.

Of course not.

The silence inside the car thickened. The driver hadn’t spoken a word since they left the airport, his eyes locked on the road, posture impossibly still.

Moxie cleared her throat. "How far is this place?"

The driver didn’t look at her. He tilted his head—just slightly. As if listening to something she couldn’t hear.

Silence filled the car with unease. 

“Ah. Of course!” Moxie said, realizing that the driver was not there for conversation and pleasantries. 

A flicker of something crawled up the back of her skull.

She glanced at the dashboard. No GPS. No visible controls.

Just the slow ticking of the analog clock, hands moving too smoothly, too precisely.

She exhaled through her nose and leaned back against the seat, watching the trees grow taller, their branches twisting into skeletal shapes. The sky had darkened prematurely, the kind of heavy gray that pressed against the horizon.

Then, through the thinning tree line, she saw it.

The Witchitaki Luxury Lodge.

It didn’t look modern.

Tucked into the valley, the sprawling estate looked as though it had been carved out of another era. Stone walls stretched toward the sky, the architecture somewhere between a European hunting lodge and a cathedral. It was massive, yet it blended too seamlessly into the surrounding woods, as if it had grown there rather than being built.

The gates creaked open without prompt, and the driver pulled through.

As the car rolled toward the grand entrance, the first drops of rain spattered against the windshield.

Moxie’s grip tightened around the handle of her bag.

Why did it feel like the world was closing in?

The doors swung open before she could reach for the handle.

A man stood in the threshold, dressed in a tailored black suit. His hair was slicked back, his posture too composed, too still. He regarded her with an unreadable expression, the sharp angles of his face perfectly arranged, as if he had been sculpted rather than born.

Pierre DuBois.

Moxie recognized him instantly—the Head Sommelier under Davina’s command, a man who approached wine like a sacred text. He never swallowed, never consumed. Instead, he let each sip bloom across his palate, extracting every hidden note, every whispered story, before parting his lips and letting it slip away—discarded like a prayer unanswered.

His gaze flicked over her once, subtle but exacting.

“Miss Harlow.” His voice was smooth, but something about it felt… dry. Like it had been spoken a thousand times before, each repetition erasing a sliver of authenticity. “Welcome to Witchitaki.”

Moxie stepped out of the car, gripping her bag tighter than necessary. The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet stone and pine.

The lodge loomed above them, larger up close, its gothic edges softened by candlelight flickering from within. Despite its elegance, the windows were impossibly dark, reflecting nothing back.

Pierre extended an arm, motioning for her to follow.

“This way, Miss Harlow.”

Inside, the entry hall swallowed sound.

Despite the polished marble floors and high vaulted ceilings, there was no echo—no ambient noise at all. Only the hush of her own footsteps.

The scent hit her first.

Not the usual luxury hotel sterility. This was different—deep, layered. Notes of herbs, slow-roasted stock, something vaguely metallic. A smell that should have belonged in a kitchen, not a lobby.

Her gaze flicked upward. A massive chandelier, wrought iron twisted into the shape of a serpent eating its own tail, hung above them. Its candles burned too steadily, their flames unmoving despite the draft.

She shivered.

The reception desk was immaculate—a grand slab of black marble, polished to a perfect mirror sheen. A woman in a high-collared uniform stood behind it, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

Pierre stepped aside, letting Moxie approach.

“Miss Harlow,” the woman greeted, dipping her head slightly. “We have your suite prepared. If you would sign in?”

She gestured toward a guestbook, an old, leather-bound thing resting on the counter. The pages were thick, yellowed at the edges.

Moxie picked up the pen. The ink flowed smoothly, but as she signed, her eyes drifted to the previous names.

There weren’t any.

The pages before hers were empty.

Moxie’s stomach tightened. “I thought this was a full event?”

The woman’s smile was polite but hollow.

“Everyone that should be here will be here. You’re just the first to arrive.”

Pierre exhaled through his nose—something between amusement and approval.

The woman turned slightly, reaching into a drawer. “One last formality.”

She placed a small, velvet-lined tray on the counter.

Moxie’s gaze flicked to it.

“Your phone, please,” the woman said smoothly. “And any other electronic devices.”

Moxie hesitated. “Excuse me?”

The woman’s expression didn’t waver.

“This weekend is meant to be immersive. No outside distractions. No interruptions. All devices will be secured and returned upon departure.”

Moxie didn’t move immediately.

A dozen thoughts flickered through her mind—an immediate unease, a prickle at the back of her skull.

Still, she had agreed to this.

With a measured inhale, she pulled her phone from her pocket and placed it on the tray.

The woman’s smile deepened slightly, as if she had expected no less.

She slid the tray away, out of sight. “Enjoy your stay, Miss Harlow.”

Pierre gestured down the corridor.

“This way,” he said. “The parlor awaits.”

Moxie hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

Something was wrong.

She knew it.

She followed anyway.

The hallway was lined with tall, antique mirrors.

Moxie tried not to look, but her gaze kept flicking to the reflections. The candlelight bent in strange ways, shimmering against the glass like it was struggling to hold its shape.

Pierre walked ahead of her, his reflection moving in sync—at first.

Then, as they passed a particularly large mirror, Moxie saw it.

Her own reflection walked as expected.

Pierre’s… lingered.

Just half a second too long.

Her breath caught in her throat. The moment passed. The next mirror showed nothing out of place.

Pierre glanced back at her. If he had noticed her hesitation, he didn’t comment.

“Right through here.”

He pushed open a set of mahogany double doors.

The parlor beyond was warm, rich, and gilded. A massive fireplace crackled, casting deep orange light over plush seating and a towering bar stocked with only unlabeled bottles.

Moxie took a slow breath. 

The parlor was empty.

Moxie stood at the threshold, fingers flexing around the strap of her bag. The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows across the rich velvet seating and the towering bar lined with only unlabeled bottles. The air held the scent of woodsmoke, aged spirits, and something deeper—something metallic.

She took a slow step forward.

The silence settled over her like a heavy coat. She had expected murmurs, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversation. Instead, the space was utterly still, save for the shifting embers in the hearth.

She was alone.

Pierre had vanished the moment she entered, slipping away through a different door without another word.

Moxie exhaled through her nose. Maybe this was a staggered arrival. Maybe the other guests hadn’t made it yet. Maybe.

She dropped her bag beside one of the armchairs and stepped toward the bar. The bottles gleamed under the dim light, their dark glass reflecting nothing. No labels. No markings. Just rows and rows of perfectly uniform decanters.

Moxie reached for one.

The moment her fingers brushed the cool glass, a whisper scraped against her ear.

Not words. Just a shape of breath, a presence too close.

She turned sharply.

No one was there.

Her pulse climbed, steady but alert. A trick of the firelight. The quiet settling wrong in her bones. That was all.

Still, she let go of the bottle.

A soft chime rang out from somewhere deep in the lodge, low and resonant.

Moxie stiffened.

The kind of sound meant to call people to attention.

Or to summon them.

She glanced toward the entrance. No footsteps. No approaching voices.

Just the echo of that distant, ringing note.

A slow exhale slipped through her lips.

Fine. She’d play along.

She turned from the bar and walked toward the sound.

© Dereck Pritchard, 2025. All Rights Reserved.