Glorious Rivals(12)

Rohan doubted that very much, but he was not in the business of correcting false beliefs that he could use. “Frankly, love, I’m less interested in how you received your ticket to the Grandest Game than I am in knowing who got to you immediately thereafter.” Rohan knew exactly how to pitch his voice to ensure that he was not overheard. “That sponsor of yours.”

“Your interest is of little concern to me,” Savannah said tartly.

In the distance, Grayson made it to the base of the cliff, and Rohan allowed himself to turn and drink in the sight of Savannah once more, his gaze going slowly to the thick platinum chain just above her hips. “That’s going to slow you down.”

“Is that why you didn’t bring our sword?”

Their sword—or more accurately, Rohan’s—was well hidden, and it would stay that way until its use in the game became apparent. Being weighed down was a liability, a risk. Weakness.

“There is limited utility,” Rohan advised Savannah, “in the kind of weapon that other people can see.” With a magician’s flourish, he produced a photograph seemingly out of thin air, one he’d helped himself to earlier as he’d brushed past Brady Daniels. Zippered pockets provided little protection against an accomplished thief.

“What is this?” Savannah asked, less question than demand.

In the photograph, a teenage girl with heterochromia—one blue eye, one brown—drew an arrow on a longbow.

“The scholar had it in his jacket pocket,” Rohan told Savannah, allowing her a moment longer to look before he made the picture disappear as easily as he’d stolen it in the first place. “For every lock a key,” he quoted, his lips twisting into a not-so-subtle smile. “Weakness and motivation are often one and the same. The girl in that photograph is Brady’s.”

His weakness. His motivation.

Savannah took a second to reply—only one. “You knew about this girl coming into the game.”

Rohan had made it his business to gather as much information as he could about all of the other players, which made the things he did not know that much more enticing. “Puppy love, tragic endings, etcetera, etcetera,” he told Savannah. “The girl is missing, presumed dead. Has been for years.”

Rohan didn’t tell Savannah that the girl’s name was Calla Thorp or that Calla’s father had sponsored one of the eliminated players, Knox Landry, in this year’s game. Even without those details, the lovely and merciless Ms. Grayson zeroed in on the appropriate question with admirable efficiency.

“Does Brady have a sponsor?”

“Not that I know of,” Rohan replied. He neglected to point out that this lack of knowledge was itself significant because it suggested either that Brady Daniels was not much of a threat at all… or that his sponsor was a very big one.

Discretion, Rohan had learned over the years, was not merely the better part of valor. Discretion—flying below notice at will—was a blade.

Chapter 11

ROHAN

Five minutes to go. Rohan tracked the game makers. Soon, the four of them began to assemble in front of the bonfire. Backlit, Avery Grambs and her Hawthornes stood shoulder to shoulder.

“Listen up, y’all,” Nash said. The fire crackled as the players went instantly silent. “There are a few things you’ll want to know before those timers on your watches hit zero,” Nash continued, and then he glanced at Avery, and she took over.

“If part one of this year’s game was the Grandest Escape Room,” the Hawthorne heiress announced, “you can think of part two as the Grandest Race—clue to clue to clue.”

“No shortcuts,” Jameson declared, his left hand finding its way to Avery’s right. “Each puzzle you solve will lead you to a new clue. Before you take possession of any such clue, you’ll have to sign for it. You’ll find an electronic ledger at each stop. Hold your watch up to the ledger, and your name will appear on the page.”

“You must sign the ledgers—all of them—in the order in which they appear in the game,” Avery said. “First one to sign all of the ledgers, make it to the end, and complete the final puzzle wins.”

What Rohan heard Avery saying was: It would be unfortunate if any player were to lose their watch.

“For any friends of Machiavelli among you…” Xander Hawthorne raised one eyebrow to ridiculous heights. “Allow me to stipulate that there is to be no watch-thievery, watch-tampering, or watch-shenanigans-not-otherwise-specified of any kind.”

Friend of Machiavelli. Rohan had been called worse.

“If an emergency arises”—Jameson, again—“you can use your watch to contact us. Touch the spade, and you can send the four of us a message at any time.”

“You’ll be wanting to make as much progress as you can before midnight,” Nash advised, and Rohan flashed back to the cowboy drawling other words. It’s not gonna be you.

Our games have heart, Nash Hawthorne had told Rohan. It ain’t gonna be you, kid.

“What happens at midnight?” Savannah asked.

“What doesn’t happen at midnight?” Xander replied. “But hypothetically, if you receive a message from us at around that time, you’ll want to do exactly what it says.”

It was nearly seven now. Midnight was a little over five hours away. Less than a minute left on the countdown.