The Assassin Game (13 page)

It's Sunday. I'm definitely alive, but that's all I know.

I wake up and I have no idea where I am. That used to happen all the time when I first started at Umfraville, but I'm so assimilated to the cult of boarding school that I'm now used to being woken up by umpteen reluctant bodies trying to get dressed and down to breakfast in time to avoid a detention. This morning all is quiet, however, and this must be the reason I feel weird. The sun is shining in through a gap in the curtains.

Memories of last night suddenly slap me around the face. Did that really happen? Vaughan. I should have checked if he got back last night; for all I know he's lying naked in a ditch somewhere. Or maybe I imagined the whole thing.

Before I move, I glance over at Marcia's bed; it is unoccupied and made. So that means she got up and got out. Avoiding me, as well she might.

Sitting up, I glance at the clock. 11:13 a.m. Perfect. I've missed breakfast, then. I swing legs out from under the duvet, and my feet touch a bunch of cold, wet clothes on the floor. Oh, it did all happen last night. A dip in the Irish Sea did that.

Among my soaked clothes is Mr. Flynn's jacket. I hope I can return it without anyone noticing; that would really fire up the rumor mill.

I dress quickly, because it's chilly in the room and I'm shivering. My throat feels scratchy; my head feels hot. But what about Vaughan? What kind of a state must he be in? I leave my dorm room, run to the stairs lightly, and make for outside. It's warm; there's a bright-blue sky against the orange and yellow of the autumn leaves. Someone, somewhere is having a bonfire. Not a soul is around, and that will work in my favor. I must search Vaughan out; we can regroup and think about where we go from here. I run across the Main House lawn, toward the quad—feeling a little ridiculous, because it's Sunday, and nobody over the age of twelve runs in this place, especially at the weekend. Will he be holed up in his study or hiding somewhere else? I duck into the main entrance to the studies, turning left to go down the corridor to Vaughan's room, which is on its own at the end of the hall. In the light of day, will he want to continue with the Game? Will he report Rick and Alex—everyone, really—because who would blame him if he did? I need to find out what's inside his head because he must be feeling lousy as hell—

There's a roar of laughter behind me. I stop in my tracks and spin around. The laughter comes again from the direction of the common room. I retrace my steps and continue toward the closed door. I hear Rick's voice—and Marcia's too. Oh, lovely. What are they all talking about? Are they actually laughing about last night? I feel the anger rising in me again. I grasp the door handle and enter the room.

The common room is large and airy. It has a battered sofa and a couple armchairs in front of a TV in the corner nearest the door. There are beanbags around a low coffee table, where the previous day's paper can normally be found, eviscerated for the crossword. And there is an oven, a long kitchen counter, and a sink on the left side of the room, where you can make toast and coffee if you need the kick to propel you to study harder, longer.

But nobody is making toast or watching TV or sprawled on a beanbag. Everyone—Rick, Alex, Marcia, Martin, and the Triumvirate of Pretty: Tesha, Whitney, Anvi—is grouped around one of the half dozen computer terminals in the far corner of the room. And Vaughan is right in the middle of them.

He's laughing the loudest of all.

“Some of these are so friggin' obvious!” Tesha is howling. “I mean, ‘IceColdBlond'? Totally Cynthia. And “Banana Hammock” has got Roger written all over it!”

“Yes, well,” Vaughan says, “I cannot be held responsible for the selection of usernames. And who knows? It could all be an elaborate facade.”

“Roger doesn't do subtle,” Anvi giggles. “Can you imagine him trying to type something else?” She puts out her hands in front of her. “Must. Not. Put. That.” She groans like a mummy, arms outstretched. “Must. Not. Oh, sod it, Banana Hammock it is!”

Everyone laughs again, and then Vaughan looks up and winks at me. “Hi, Catey. Come and look at Crypt.”

He knows I hate being called Catey. I walk up slowly. “Er, isn't this kind of risky?”

“Nothing to see here if the wrong person walks in.” Vaughan smiles at me brightly.

“I could have been the wrong person,” I reply.

“But you're not!” He gives me a wink.

“I followed the laughter. You should stop.”

“Looking at Crypt or laughing?” His smile is fixed.

“Hey, we're just having a quick look. Chill the hell out,” says Tesha, like I've suggested everyone does something totally unreasonable, like, oh, I dunno, jump off a cliff or something.

“You after your jacket, is that it?” Vaughan says. “I put it in your room.”

Rick makes a suggestive whistle. Tesha laughs out loud. Whitney shoots me daggers.

I stiffen. Heaven only knows what he told them about what happened last night. I instinctively glance toward Alex, and he averts his gaze and drums his hands on the desk.

“Right! Let's break this up.” Alex stands and gives Vaughan a clap on the shoulder. “Great job with Crypt, seriously, mate.”

Vaughan gives Alex a dweeby thumbs-up as Alex strolls toward the door. Marcia, Rick, Tesha, Anvi, and Martin follow. As Marcia passes me, she flashes me a quick smile. My heart sinks. No, friend, this is not all over just because Vaughan thinks it is. Not by a long way.

As Rick exits, he cocks invisible guns at Vaughan and shoots him with a fake-friendly wink. They all leave.

I quell the urge to puke and turn my attention back to Vaughan. Whitney is standing behind him, leaning over and pressing herself against his shoulder ever so accidentally-on-purpose as she points to something on the screen.

“Come on, Whit,” Anvi calls to her.

Whitney whispers something to Vaughan and they both laugh. Anvi turns and looks at me, rolling her eyes, shouting behind her as she leaves, “Put the boy down, Whitney.”

Whitney trots after her finally, with a slight pitying glance at me, and then Vaughan and I have the room to ourselves.

“You might want to wipe the drool off your chin,” I say.

Vaughan raises his eyebrows at me, then reaches over to the computer next to his and types something. He pats the seat next to him. “Sit?”

“Why? Can't get up?” I reply. “Has she turned your legs to jelly?”

He huffs, shakes his head, and starts typing something.

I stay where I am. “I cannot believe you're best chums with them this morning.”

“What's not to be chummy about? I'm part of the Game now.”

“Rick pushed you off a cliff.”

“I asked for it.”

“Wow.” I walk over to the chair he patted and sit in front of the screen. Crypt is displayed in full glory. “That sounds like victim-speak if ever I heard it.”

Vaughan doesn't say anything, just tappy-taps away on his keyboard, typing something that I can't see from here.

I swivel away from the screen and face Vaughan. “So are we just conveniently forgetting what happened last night, or what?”

Vaughan speed types some more, punctuating whatever he is writing with a couple pronounced key strikes. “No, we are not forgetting.” He stretches out his fingers. “But what we are doing is playing the Game. Because otherwise, my Peter Pan into the drink last night is for naught.”

“And what about Mr. Flynn?”

Vaughan resumes typing. “What about him?”

“Aren't you worried about what he's going to do?”

“He's not going to do anything. If he was, he would have done it by now.” He leans forward and stares intently at his screen. “You have a ‘special relationship,' don't you?” Before I have time to respond, he plows on. “It's reasonable to assume that he'll give you a big talk about how you have to be careful to stay on the straight and narrow for the sake of your blessed exams and burgeoning art school career, but beyond that, I doubt we'll have any trouble with him.” He stops suddenly, turns around to me. “Aren't you curious? About Crypt?” he whispers. When I don't respond, he leans over, takes my hand, and gently places it on the mouse. “Take a look.”

“I cannot believe you're letting this slide.” I move my hand away.

“What?” He's genuinely confused. “Oh, the initiation thing?” He tuts at me. “Cate, keep up. That was so twelve hours ago.”

“Not even!” I shout back.

“OK, OK.” He sighs. “Be assured, Cate, I forget nothing. But it doesn't serve me to get upset about it now. This is where my focus lies.” He taps the screen.

I loll my head back and groan.

“I also haven't forgotten that you saved me,” he says quietly. “I never will. Thank you.”

OK. Well that's something. I give a kind of half grunt of acknowledgment, and we both sit there in uncomfortable silence for a second.

“Now, I ask you—beg you”—Vaughan points to the screen again—“make it all worthwhile and take a look…please?”

I turn around to the screen again, slowly, and read this time.

There, on the wall is a roll call of all the users who have signed up so far:

Grand Master

CharlotteCorday

DeadMcTavish

I_did_it

Banana Hammock

AllKillerNoFiller

13*is*my*lucky*number

IceColdBlond

Vaughan watches me. “So, this is the first time you're viewing this list. I can therefore deduce you're not any of those already signed up.”

“That's overconfident of you. For all you know I was here logging on while you were showering off the salt water.”

“Too true.” He chuckles. “All I know is that you weren't in the shower with me. Other than that, I'm in the dark.”

“Anyway,” I say, running my fingertips along the edge of the desk. “Can't you tell who everyone is? You are the mighty webmaster or whatever.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I was telling the truth when I said it's all anonymous.”

“But you said we can keep private notes on here, files we don't want to share?” I click through some of the posts. “What's to stop you from logging in as someone else and checking out all their ruminations?” I look at him. “Other than a sense of honor.”

“That's the great part!” He leans forward, excited. “The hardest aspect of this was to keep the passwords secret, even from me. Because the system has to align a password with a username, but it also has to keep that hidden. I don't fully trust myself not to look.”

“What do you think? Has the Killer signed up yet?”

Vaughan sits back, thinks. “No. Three attempted Kills in the first week? We know this Killer is eager to spill himself all over this—he's dying to, if you'll excuse the pun—but he wants to sit back and see what other people do first. He won't risk the deadline, but he'll leave it as long as he can to sign up.”

The list refreshes. There's a new name:

General Disarray

Vaughan barks out a laugh. “Oh, nicely played!”

I lean in. “Someone is online somewhere else?”

“Yes!” He's thrilled. “Now if the tracking were in play, we could see which location. And I'm itching to switch it on. But Alex gets to decide when that kicks in, so I will restrain myself for now.” He grins as he taps on the keyboard. “Soon as that happens, I'll have this Killer pegged, you'll see. I'll get him.”

I sigh. “Tell me why you keep insisting the Killer is a boy.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head and staring at the ground as if he's astonished I can't see it. “I'm disappointed in you. You really don't know?”

Irritation flashes through me. “I really don't. Enlighten me with your wisdom.”

He sits up, excited. He loves to explain, always has. “Look at the victims. All girls.”

“So?” I think about it. “It's always the way. It's almost traditional.” I reach into my pocket and flick through the little black Game book until I find the pages I need. There in the back of the book are the lists of Games past. The victims are listed in the order they were Killed. I read and think some more. “Actually, it's pathetic, but it is true. Girls are always picked off first. I think they're seen as easier Kills. The Guild used to be more of a boys' club, certainly, back in the day—and it was kind of seen as lacking respect to Kill the bigwigs first. Start with a few newbies, then move on to the real players.” I scratch my head. “Ugh, that's so insulting.”

Vaughan nods dismissively, as if this is hardly the point. “You could put it down to the pattern of ‘Girls First,' but it's more than that. Look at who's been targeted. Becky, Cynthia, and then probably Tesha or Whit.”

“Yeah?” I shrug, ignoring the fact he said Whit. “Cynthia's an Elder, so that doesn't exactly fit what I just said, but she's still female.”

“They're being Killed in order of fit.”

“What fit?” I say, exasperated. “I fail to see the pattern.”

He laughs, and it comes out like a bark. “As in, how fit they are. Hot.
Bellisima
.” He leans forward and touches my knee. “Are you familiar with any of these terms?”

“Urgh!” I pull back. “Stop it! Of course I am.” I feel myself going red. “It's certainly a theory. And now I consider it, it's quite an insulting one.”

“What?” It's Vaughan's turn to be confused, but that doesn't last long. “Oh lordy, how female. You're actually insulted that you're not sexy enough to have been Killed. You'd rather be dead and hot, than alive and mediocre.”

“Mediocre?” I bellow at him.

“No! No!” He holds a hand up. “I don't think you're mediocre. I just mean that as far as the Killer is concerned, you're not top three.” He tries to grasp my knee again, but I'm too quick for him. He sighs, gives up. “If it's any consolation, I think you'll be next.”