The Assassin Game (18 page)

Trouble finds me straight away.

The ballroom is evacuated swiftly and more efficiently than I ever thought possible. Kids are rushed into the corridor like cows on the way to slaughter.

A hand grips my upper arm. “We need to get a look at that robot spider,” Vaughan says, pulling me aside under the stairwell. “What's left of it anyway. Before they sweep it up.” He thinks fast. “You create a diversion; I'll sneak in and grab the pieces.”

“A diversion?” I say. “Were you actually in the room just now? How do I divert from a robot spider biting a pupil who goes into anaphylactic shock?”

Vaughan shrugs. “Take off your clothes?”

“Isn't that your thing?” I begin to walk away but turn on him before I get swept into the crowd heading out of Main House. “Do you really think they'll let anyone in there? It's a crime scene now. Emily actually got hurt, and for all we know, she may die.”

Vaughan looks amazed. “Do you think so?”

“Yes!” I splutter. “She collapsed, and Flynn was shouting about EpiPens, you heard him! She has some nut allergy or something. Everyone knows. She's even got a flippin' necklace on that tells you so. I would have thought you'd have noticed that with your amazing skills of observation.”

He looks stricken. “The Rod of Asclepius?”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “If you say so. The snake and sword symbol thing that means medicine. On the back of it, it says she's allergic to stuff.”

The hallway has cleared. In the distance, I think I can hear shouting from the ballroom. Vaughan does too. He edges out from under the stairs and starts to float toward the double doors.

“Vaughan!” I hiss at him, but he's not having it. I pad after him. “Look, if you must—come with me.” I grab him and pull him right, along a short corridor and through another door into a second corridor. There's not much light in here, and I'm perfectly happy with that.

“Where are we going?”

“Backstage.” I hang a left and we find the door. The ballroom isn't used for theatrical performances often, as we have the amphitheater and a barn that has been converted into a theater, but I happen to know there's a small backstage area to the ballroom stage that is stuffed with chairs and hymn books. Once Daniel was rehearsing in the ballroom for a recital, and we ducked back here for a look.

I open the door to backstage. A light is on, a reading light balanced on a pile of chairs at the far end of the room.

“Whoa.” I put a hand on Vaughan's chest. “Someone's definitely been here.”

Vaughan pushes past me, starts searching the floor. He whispers to me, “Oh—I see, there's a safety curtain between here and the stage. And here! A gap. Just enough for the spider to be launched.”

I tiptoe over to him. The thing he's calling a safety curtain looks more like a sliding door that folds into itself when retracted. Normally it's locked into place, but someone has pulled it open a little to reveal the velvet curtain which hangs on the stage in front of it. On the other side, we can hear the voices of the people in the ballroom, muffled—and some kind of scrabbling noise.

“They must have moved her from the stage,” Vaughan whispers. I nod. The voices aren't very near. We listen for a few seconds. I can recognize Mr. Flynn's voice and Ms. Lasillo's, and I think I hear Emily groaning, but it's hard to make out actual words.

Vaughan bends low. “It's so dusty in here you can see the marks where someone knelt to line the spider up properly.”

“Yeah.” I trace our steps back a little. “Shame we've probably scuffed away any footprints with our own.”

“Cate, this isn't Nancy Drew,” Vaughan snarks. “What were you going to do, trace a drawing of them?”

I fume at him, hand on hip. “At least we could see what size the Killer's feet are. Could determine girl or boy.”

Vaughan sighs. “Boy. Do I need to repeat again? Another female victim. A mechanical spider, for heaven's sake.”

“That's sexist. And pretty ignorant, given the robo girl-geeks we have at this school.” I give him a look.

“Hmm. Still something very male about sinking your teeth into a girl's leg.” He does vampire teeth at me, and I roll my eyes. He chuckles and continues. “So, the Killer places the spider here, and then he's free to operate it remotely.” Vaughan moves away from the curtain, on hands and feet like a monkey, bobbing his head down to look beneath chairs and dusty boxes. “What are the chances?” He reaches under a low table. “Wake up, little spider, wake up.” He retrieves something slowly, with a handkerchief. He looks at it, being careful not to touch it directly, and then holds it out on his palm to show me. Half a spider's face, with one googly eye and a little metal fang.

“Be careful!” I can't help but warn, even though the thing is pretty mashed.

Vaughan sniffs it, then places a gentle fingertip under the fang.

“What are you doing?” I say, alarmed. He rubs the fang, then sucks on his finger.

“Vaughan!” I say. “Are you insane?”

He mock chokes, then smiles at me. “Yum.”

I shake my head. “So go on, tell me. It's peanut butter, isn't it?”

“Smooth, not crunchy.” He nods. “The Killer knew about Emily's allergy.”

“Jeez.” I shudder. “That's not red paint in the shower. That's messing with someone's actual life.”

Vaughan pushes his sleeves up and rubs his hands over his hair. “It doesn't make sense, does it? This Kill is completely different from the other three. No, this Killer has a completely different personality.”

“Two Killers?” I pull a face. “Would Alex put two Killer cards in the mix?”

Vaughan looks at me. “You know him better than me. What do you think?”

“Maybe.” I clear my throat. “It would certainly make this Game memorable. Alex would like that.”

“Yeah, well.” Vaughan wanders over to the gap in the curtain again. “Killer number two is maybe forgetting this is all just a game.”

On the other side of the safety curtain, the noise suddenly ramps up. Vaughan beckons me over, and we crouch together, ears against the gap.

“They're not here yet?” It's Flynn, shouting. “Then what's their ETA?”

Whoever replies is too far away for us to hear.

“…causeway…emergency…” It's Ms. Lasillo, but her voice doesn't carry as far.

“Of course,” Vaughan whispers to me, his face serious. “How does the ambulance get here if the tide is in?”

“Ssh!” I listen again.

“…the lifeboat, although if it wasn't under control…helicopter…” It's Mrs. James, the deputy head.

“By boat or by air.” Vaughan shakes his head. “They're taking no chances.”

There are some bumping sounds and murmurs of instruction and then everything goes quiet.

We do a quick scan of the rest of the room, but there's nothing else to find. Vaughan pockets the spider parts, and we leave.

The staff has succeeded in getting most students into classrooms, but when the helicopter flies over, there's little they can do to tear people away from the windows.

I'm in psychology, with Marcia, Tesha, Carl, Alex, and Daniel, plus a couple non-Guild. We're not close enough to Main House to see Emily being stretchered out, but we see the helicopter fly over on its way back to the mainland.

Our teacher, Ms. Carol, puts up no fight as we line the window.

“Don't worry,” she says. “Emily's in expert hands now. I'm sure she'll be all right.”

“She'd better be,” says Carl grimly.

“Do any of you know if this was some kind of prank?” Ms. Carol says gently.

No one speaks. But really, Ms. Carol—what else could it be?

“I'm sure no one intended Emily to actually get hurt.” The teacher fills the gap. “Anyway, let's begin the lesson now.”

“Did they call the police?” Marcia asks Ms. Carol, but the teacher only shrugs.

“I know as little as you. It may be up to Emily's parents.” She beckons us from her desk. “Let's all sit down now.”

As the lesson begins, I'm willing Ms. Carol to tell us to do something on our laptops, because then I can surreptitiously log on to Crypt and see what the chatter is. But perhaps there won't be any—after all, every Guild member is in the same boat: stuck in a lesson, dying to talk about what's happened. Except Emily, of course. She could just be, well, dying.

The first half of the lesson is a discussion, but after a while, we're tasked to begin an essay and everyone breaks out the hardware. As soon as I can, I log on. I'm impressed by how much talk is already going on. I look down the thread from the last half hour; sooperdooper has been online, as has DeadMcTavish, AllKillerNoFiller, RAW, Banana Hammock, and General Disarray. As far as I can tell, those users can't be in this room, because nobody here has had the opportunity to get online until now.

Or have they? Daniel had his tablet out briefly. Carl was called up to look at something on Ms. Carol's machine, and she stepped away from her desk for a few minutes. But it would take balls of steel to log on and post in that short space of time, wouldn't it?

As more posts begin to pop up, I look around at my classmates. Laptops are being abused left, right, and center. Tesha is sitting with Ms. Carol at the teacher's desk, going through a worksheet. I can tell she's really frustrated not to get online. I watch users join the fray. 13*is*my*lucky*number appears. Becky_is_Dead starts posting, and IceColdBlond. Everyone is reaching out for more info on Emily, but no one knows anything.

Then Alex posts:

ATTENTION, all members, this is your GRAND MASTER.

Emergency Summoning today @ 6:30 p.m. SHOW UP to high tea; we do not want to draw attention to ourselves. Leave promptly when you have finished, and go directly to the caves. Do not be late.

STRICTLY NO MORE POSTS OR MESSAGES FROM ANYONE BUT ME ON CRYPT UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

The bell rings for end of lesson. I'm just about to shut down my machine, when:

Skulk

Death is a debt we all must pay

Skulk

(That was Euripides)

Skulk

Bitch asked for it

Skulk

(That last one I made up all on my own)

I shake my head and shut down my machine. Whoever Skulk is, they're a moron. And what do they mean by that anyway? Is Skulk claiming responsibility?

As I leave the room, Daniel is standing outside, leaning against the wall, bag of books over his shoulder and the ever-present violin case. He looks at me, and just as I'm about to make some excuse about how I have to run, he leans in and hugs me. Right there and then. In public.

“I'm sorry for how I've behaved.” He squeezes me, his hands rubbing up and down my back. “I've been a prat.”

“Yeah, me too.” I do the half-reciprocated back-pat thing because I'm completely blindsided by this. In the distance, I spy a group of our year heading for the studies. I really hope they don't see us.

“Let's just forget about it all, shall we?” He nuzzles his face into my neck.

“Um, yeah. I'd be happy to.” I push him off me a little so that he's at arm's length, then try to cover it up by looking at him intensely, as if I needed to see him face to face or something. “Are you genuinely OK with it all?”

“Yes.” He smiles at me. “I've been doing a lot of thinking, and well, with this morning's events, we're yesterday's news already.”

I pull a face. “Not for the best reasons.”

“No!” He drops my arms. “Of course not. But every cloud has a silver lining, and this is ours.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.” I look toward the group of kids, but they've gone now. “And you're OK with…us?” I can't help but blush at the word.

“Totally.” He nods, picking up his violin case and pulling it in front of him like a shield, running his fingers a little nervously over the big, swirly cat sticker on it. “We're friends. It's…cool.” He turns around, looking in the direction of where the kids were too, and starts to walk backward, long fingers drumming on the violin case. “Things to do…”

“Sure!” I shout, a little too loudly. I don't move until he's disappeared. I should be pleased that he's over our awkwardness, so why have I got a knot in my stomach?

Later that day, in the precious gap between the end of classes and high tea, I'm in Vaughan's study. The only news on Emily is that she's in the hospital and that she's in a stable condition. There's a rumor that the police will be coming over to the island when the causeway's open, later this evening or tomorrow.

Vaughan's room is the tiniest of the tiny, but he has it all to himself. It has bare, pale-yellow walls and is mainly furnished with boxes of junk—oh, sorry, computer parts—that cover every square inch of floor and desk space. He has an oversized beanbag in place of the usual sofa, and in honor of my visit, he's thrown a pile of coffee-stained scatter cushions on top. We're lying on the resulting squishy nest, side by side, feet up on the radiator. Vaughan is balancing a tablet on his chest, alternating between reading old Crypt posts and coding something too dense and clever for me to even guess at what it might be. I'm staring out of the window at the sky. The sun shouldn't set for another couple of hours, but it's weirdly overcast, and there's an expectant, pinky twilight in the air.

“It's Tesha.” Vaughan's face is lit only by the light from the tablet.

“What is?” I watch starlings streak across the sky in a huge swarm.

“Smee,” Vaughan says. “Tesha is Smee. Tesha posted that video.”

I sit up abruptly and look at him. “I thought you couldn't tell who is who from the usernames?”

He shakes his head. “This is not a techy thing.” He snorts. “More of a de-techy thing. I was in the girls' bathroom an hour ago and I just overheard Anvi, Whitney, and Tesha talking. Tesha took the video at the party last term on her mini-video-cam. They all knew about it, Alex too, apparently. Tesha was denying she'd posted it, but the others weren't convinced, and neither was I.”

“OK,” I say. “Skimming over the part where you were in the girls' bathroom for now—just for now, mind—what makes you think Tesha definitely posted it?”

“Well”—he places the tablet on the floor—“after I heard that, I had a little search in her room.”

“You did?” I lean on one elbow. “Naughty.”

He shrugs. “She gave me reasonable cause. Anyway, I found the mini-cam with the video still on it.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Nothing.” He does some more typing, then turns around to look at me. “Oh. Should I have deleted it?”

“Yes, Vaughan, you should have deleted it,” I say, exasperated. I say it, and yet what I truthfully would have wanted is for him to bring it to me so that I could delete it.

“She'll have a copy on her laptop from when she uploaded it anyway,” Vaughan says. He stops typing and faces me. “Look, I'll go back later tonight and delete it. And it won't take much for me to get onto her machine and wipe it off there if you want?”

“You'd hack her laptop?”

He blinks at me. “The less you know, the better.”

The equivalent of twelve long-stemmed roses from him. I smile.

“Thank you.”

“You're very welcome.”

I stretch out on the beanbag nest again. “Tesha as Smee makes sense. Smee didn't post this morning on Crypt. I was in psych with a bunch of Guild, and Tesha was the only one who didn't get on her computer all lesson.”

Vaughan nods. “Smee was quiet. So was Clouseau and Nimrod, RAW and CharlotteCorday.” He smiles at me. “And we can deduce that Tesha is one of them—probably Smee—and Emily, of course, has to be one of the others. We'll work it out when we see who doesn't start posting again.”

I feel like testing him. “Think she might be Clouseau?”

“No. Clouseau…is you.” He puts his tablet down on the ground and twists around to me.

“And why do you think that?”

He stares at me. “Hunch.” I hold his gaze, daring him to look away, but he doesn't. His eyes widen. “Well?”

“I'm not telling.”

He sighs, head to one side. “Even if I tell you who I am?”

“You don't need to. You're DeadMcTavish.”

His eyebrows shoot up indignant. “How did you guess?”

“Because of ‘Magic McTavish'!” I blurt. “When we were little—that made-up superhero you used to channel when the other kids were making your life hell. I'd forgotten all about him, but DeadMcTavish kept bothering me, and then it finally dawned.”

“Bury me now for I am deaded.” Vaughan flings his head back on the beanbag. “I thought that was all after you'd left!”

“Where on earth did you get McTavish from anyway, when you were a kid?” I laugh. “It's not your average superhero moniker.”

“I had a Scottie dog toy when I was a toddler called McTavish. I lost it, cried for days, but then the name came back to me when I needed it.” He half smiles, half cringes at the ceiling. “I am so busted…”

“Your secret's safe with me.” I put a hand on his. “Why the ‘Dead' bit though?”

He continues to look at the ceiling, but his hand squeezes mine, his thumb slowly stroking my knuckles. “I don't know. Given the Game, it seemed appropriate?”

We lie there, with him stroking my hand.

Eventually, I speak. “Speaking of alter egos, I'd like to know who Skulk is.”

Vaughan nods at the ceiling.

“Crypt's very own troll. Every forum has to have one.” He looks at me. “It's probably reasonable to assume that Skulk is somebody's evil twin, the extra username. Maybe they are the Killer.”

“Or maybe they're Killer number two, the rogue,” I say. “Skulk is certainly nasty enough.”

“Perhaps,” Vaughan says. “Although, the losers who get nasty online generally haven't got the guts to do it in real life. They're too cowardly.”

I pull my hand away from his, because it suddenly feels all wrong to be talking about trolls and Killers while holding hands. I turn around a little to face him. “But this is cowardly. Whoever hurt Emily is pretending it's all part of the Game, aren't they?” When he doesn't agree, I turn away again. “I guess we'll know more after the Summoning.”

He grunts, and we lie there in silence a while. I wish he'd hold my hand again. There's nothing stopping me from taking his hand. Except that, perhaps, I'm too…cowardly.

“Daniel is OK,” I say finally.

“Oh?” Vaughan tries to sound casual. “You've spoken to him?”

“Yeah. He said that he's over the video. And he's fine with me and him just being friends.” I frown a little. “At least, I think that's right.”

“Good,” Vaughan says. “I'm pleased for him. And you.” He looks at me. “And I'm pleased for me too.” He moves crunchily on the beanbag, toward me, eyes full of longing. He leans in. I hold my breath. Is he going in for the kill? I know it, bloody hell, he's going to. He opens his mouth slightly, takes a breath. “And Alex?”

I sit up, startled. “What about Alex?”

“You and him.” His face is unreadable, eyes searching mine. “That a thing?”

“No!” I splutter. “I… We… Just once. Look, how do you know this stuff anyway?” I'm bolt upright now. Vaughan sits back, ruffles his hair.

“Instinct.”

“Rubbish!” I say, slapping the beanbag with both hands. “All your sneaky insider info! The way you know all the gossip and just about every inch of Skola. How? Tell me, now!”

Vaughan rolls his eyes back, shuts them, then takes a moment to examine his beloved ceiling. “The Alex thing? Again, I overheard Tesha talking; girl loves to talk. But to be honest, I kind of had a feeling. The way he looks at you, like you're chopped liver.”

“Always such a nice expression,” I mutter.

“And how come I know my way around Skola?” He pauses again. “I came here, beginning of summer. Walked the causeway, broke into school.”

“You lunatic.” I look at him sharply, but he's still staring at the ceiling. “Why?”

“Recce.” He licks his lips. “Prep work for the Game. Tinkering with Crypt on the servers here. I camped out for a couple days in the dorms, explored the island. Apart from some gardener, there was no one about.” He gives me a shy flash of the green eyes. “Turns out I slept on your bed.”

“Oh my God!” I shriek at him. “You creep!” I grab one of the scatter cushions behind me and try to whack him with it.

“What?” He laughs, dodging the blows. “I didn't know it was yours then, did I? Besides, if I had, I wouldn't have chosen your bed. I would have chosen Whitney's—”

“Loser!” I hit him over the head with the cushion, and he wrangles it away from me, holding my hands so that I can't get it again, and my cries of indignation turn to hopeless giggles. I lose my balance and half fall on him, and the beanbag sags and our heads almost knock together, making us laugh all the harder until there is no laugh left.

And then I kiss him.

We both hold our breath. The kiss is gentle at first, and then I pull him closer, the beanbag sags once more and this time he almost topples onto me. We part slightly, stupid with giggles again, but then he kisses me back, and this time it's more confident, passionate. My arms slink around his back, and I hug him to me, not quite daring to believe this is happening, scared it will stop, but a little frightened about what will happen if it doesn't.

There's a banging on the door.

We both freeze.

The banging again. I suppress a snort.

“Oh God, perfect timing!” Vaughan struggles to sit up on the beanbag. “Yeah?” he shouts.

Whoever it is doesn't reply. Vaughan groans and staggers to his feet. I sit up a little on the cushions and wonder if it's completely obvious what we've just been doing. Vaughan gives me a quick look, checking that I'm ready to face the outside world, then flings the door open.

Nobody there.

“Hello?” Vaughan steps out into the corridor, looking in both directions. I get to my feet and look at my watch.

“Someone helpfully telling us it's time for high tea?” I say.

Vaughan comes back into the room.

“How nice of them.” He smiles guiltily and raises an eyebrow. “After all, we don't want to be late…”

As he's speaking, something rolls into the room, coming to a stop between Vaughan's feet. A can with a white furl of smoke coming out of a hole in one end.

“What the—” Vaughan leaps toward me and pushes me into the farthest corner of the room, which, given the study's tiny dimensions, isn't too far. He stands in front of me protectively. The can continues to smoke, the smell of sulfur filling the room quickly.

“Vaughan,” I whisper to him. “What the hell is that?”

He gulps. “I know what I really hope it isn't.”

“Which is…?”

“White phosphorus.” He shakes his head. “Mixed with carbon disulphide, hence the smell. Highly incendiary. Highly unstable. Check your
Anarchist's Cookbook
.”

“Damn,” I murmur. “Must have left my copy in the dorm.” I look to the window. “Can we climb out? I mean, is the thing going to explode?”

“Maybe not. Look.” Vaughan nods toward the can; the smoke has stopped.

“Now what?” I say.

“We have to be very, very careful.” He takes a baby step toward the can. “Just because it's not smoking, it doesn't mean it's completely safe.”

“Hey, hurry up!” Alex appears in the doorway. “You two see my post?” He walks in, not seeing the can, not noticing we're petrified. “Don't want to be late for high tea. Get a move on.” As he turns and walks away, his foot catches the edge of the can, skittering it across the carpet toward Vaughan and me. We gasp, transfixed as it rolls. It stops just short of us, bumping into the beanbag.

“What are you waiting for?” Alex pops his head back around the doorway. “Now!” He screws his face up. “Vaughan! This room stinks. Cut down on the eggs, bro!”

With that, he's gone. But I don't really watch him go because I'm too busy staring at the side of the can, the side I didn't see when it first rolled into the room. There's a plain white label on the aluminum, and it has red letters on it:

YOU'RE NEXT

Vaughan has read it too, but he leaps over the can to rush out to the corridor. He looks left and right, and I can tell by his reaction that there's no one else out there. I give the can the widest berth and join him. At the far end of the corridor, Alex is striding toward the exit, but apart from him, there's no one there.

Vaughan starts down the row of study rooms, opening doors. I run after him. He flings doors open, finding no one home. The last room in the wing, the door is locked. He rattles the handle. “Whose study is this?”

“Er.” I rack my brains. “Non-Guild. Peter Glames. He's in my design class.”

Vaughan thumps the door with his fist and shakes his head.

“You can't picture him?” I lower my voice. “Thin, geeky kid? With jam-jar glasses?”

“Yeah, that really narrows it down in this place.” Vaughan is threatening to kick the lock in.

“Oh! And Martin,” I remember. “Peter shares with Martin.”

Vaughan lowers his foot. “Martin,” he whispers. “He absolutely could be the Killer. He does chemistry and physics. This would be a breeze for him.” He puts his ear up to the door and listens.

“Well?” I whisper.

“Ssh!”

I put my head to the door too. I hear nothing, only a low hum somewhere, the wood of the door carrying the sound to my ear. But it could be anywhere, not even necessarily in the room.

A door slams violently at the end of the corridor. Vaughan and I run flat-out toward it. It's still daylight outside, but the sun has slipped behind clouds, and on running out into the cool air I feel exposed, leaving the warm, safe light and bursting into the scary unknown.

“So who was that?” I pant, looking around. “Someone's messing with us. Are they crazy? Alex was right there. He must have missed them by seconds.”