Glorious Rivals (The Grandest Game, #2) (84)

“Stop.” There it was—more than just a hitch in her voice. A chasm, split open.

Burn it all down. “I’ll see you at the tree at nightfall,” Rohan told Lyra. It had been the fact that she and Grayson had retreated to the house for a nap that had let Rohan spot the trick in their latest clue, but he hadn’t slept.

He hardly needed sleep once the switch had been flipped.

In fact, right now, all he needed was to find Brady Daniels. Savannah had doubtlessly taken the scholar’s deal by now. Time to burn that down, too.





Rohan located the scholar in the ruins. Savannah was not with him, but as far as a deal went, that meant very little.

And Rohan wasn’t here about Savannah. He was here for his dart.

“You again.” Brady did not sound surprised.

“Me again.” Leaving all of six feet between them, Rohan lifted his left wrist—his watch. “I wanted you to observe as I sent this.” The message to the game makers was already partially typed. Rohan finished it off with no small amount of flourish. “A copy of your latest missive from your sponsor. I haven’t the faintest idea what it means, but perhaps the game makers will.”

Brady took a single step forward. “I can’t you let you do that.”

In his current state, Rohan truthfully felt very little, not even satisfaction at a move well made. “I know.”

“Has it occurred to you what it means that I don’t have to win this game?” Brady said with what Rohan recognized as an artifice of calm. “That all I have to do is take you down?”

“It would be egocentric of me,” Rohan replied facetiously, “to assume that I am your only target.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Brady stated. “But I will.”

Rohan read the truth of that statement in the way Brady stood, feet shoulder width apart, weight slightly to the balls of his feet. It means you have no incentive whatsoever to follow the competition’s rules.

Rohan was counting on that. To preserve his own place in the game, he could not attack first. He had to let Brady Daniels get in a couple of good hits—before he put the scholar down.

“Perhaps the game makers won’t just disqualify you when they receive my message,” Rohan said, his finger hovering over the screen of his watch. “Perhaps they’ll call off the game. I wonder what your sponsor will do to your Calla if they do.”

That did it.

One moment, Brady Daniels was standing perfectly still, and the next, his body was a blur. Rohan recognized immediately that Brady’s goal was close combat—close enough for the weight he had on Rohan to be an advantage. Close enough to grapple. Close enough for choke holds and forceful strikes delivered with elbows, shins, and knees.

Rohan let him have that—for a time. He let himself be beat bloody, and then…

Push him back. Rohan did exactly that, without leaving a single mark, without drawing a single drop of blood. It hadn’t taken him long to pinpoint the mix of styles Brady fought with. Unfortunately for Rohan’s opponent, Rohan’s strength as a fighter had always been that he had no style. Every move he made was calculated based solely on what his opponent was about to do. There were no restraints to the way Rohan fought. He was whatever he needed to be.

There was clarity in pain, and clarity—in a fight of this kind or any other—was always a matter of understanding one’s opponent.

You’re fighting like her life depends on it. Your sponsor made you believe that it does. In the labyrinth of his mind, Rohan could hear Nash Hawthorne telling him that he wasn’t going to win the Grandest Game. Our games have heart. It ain’t gonna be you, kid. But Rohan didn’t need heart to win this fight. All he needed to do was take advantage of Brady’s, to give the scholar an opening, one small enough that the intrepid and desperate Mr. Daniels would believe it authentic.

Rohan purposefully overswung. Brady ducked and charged—but Rohan was not as off-balanced as he seemed. He’d cut his teeth fighting in alleyways and palaces and everything in between. The best assaults were always masked with defeat.

He gave Brady a moment—just one—to believe that he’d gained the upper hand, and a fraction of a second later, Rohan was behind the scholar, his arm wrapped around his neck.

A choke hold. An arterial reflex. A sudden drop in blood pressure. A less-experienced fighter—or a more principled one—would have let go when Brady Daniels went limp. Rohan held on just a while longer. Not long enough to do permanent damage—not this time.

He hadn’t even left a mark.

Beaten and bloody himself, Rohan lowered his fallen prey to the ground, and then unzipped the man’s jacket, confiscating every object he had—including two golden darts. Brady hadn’t even bothered to hide them.

“Some people never learn,” Rohan told the scholar, and then, belatedly, he checked the man’s pulse. Steady. Strong. It was just as well. Death was messy. This was a moment for precision.

Rohan lowered Brady’s wrist, and his gaze caught on the tattoo he’d seen earlier, a spiral lined with letters on the inside of the man’s arm. Dozens and dozens of letters, spelling nothing, a seemingly random assortment, and then Rohan realized…

Not random at all.





A potential meaning of the third message that Brady had received from his sponsor hit Rohan as solidly as any blow. One out of three. Every third letter.