The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(19)

“Just a messenger,” Jameson repeated. That was all the recap of the situation that Avery would need.

“And not the only one whose acquaintance you’ll meet if the two of you keep this up, I’m afraid,” the messenger replied, slipping back into the waiter’s upper-crust accent with disturbing ease.

“I’m not scared,” Avery said.

The messenger looked at her, and the way his expression shifted made Jameson grind his teeth. Whoever this particular emissary was, whatever he was capable of, the set of his lips suggested a deep appreciation for beautiful women.

“There’s a list, love,” the messenger told Avery. “You don’t want to be on it.”

Jameson gave a small, affected shrug. “We’re on a lot of lists. I’ll have you know that most celebrity gossip sites rank me as the second-hottest Hawthorne.”

Avery rolled her eyes. “I thought you were going to stay away from those sites.”

Jameson brought his eyes back to the messenger’s. “I’ve never been very good at staying away when I should.” Your employer was right, his tone promised. I am the liability here. He lowered his voice. “Just a taste.”

That was all they were asking for, all they needed—for now.

The Proprietor’s emissary looked from Jameson to Avery, and his gaze lingered there. “I’ll convey your message.” Avery’s, not mine.

Without warning, the door Oren had propped open slammed shut, drowning their surroundings in darkness once more. Two seconds later, the streetlight came back on.

The messenger was gone.





CHAPTER 16





JAMESON


The drive back to the Hawthorne flat seemed to take an eternity, and the foyer was dark and quiet when they arrived. Jameson flipped on a light and was greeted by four sticky notes affixed in a straight line to the closest wall. There was a single word written on each one in Xander’s haphazard scrawl.

“Neck,” Avery read out loud. “Gotcha. Ringy. Goo.”

This was either Xander’s way of warning them that there was a prank involving bells and slime in their future… or a code. Fueled by the lingering buzz of adrenaline from the night’s endeavors, Jameson’s mind sorted rapidly through the letters, switching up their order. ING was a common combination, so he started there.

“Going,” he guessed. “Probably followed by to…”

“Sub in the c-h from gotcha for the n in neck?” Avery murmured beside him.

Jameson’s pulse ticked upward. This was practically their version of dirty talk. “Going to check…,” he murmured back, his body listing toward hers. “On… ”

Four letters left. A, G, R, Y. Jameson’s phone rang just as the meaning of Xander’s message clicked into place. “Leaving London so soon?” he answered.

Nash spoke on the other end of the line. “We’re trusting you, Jamie.”

“To take care of myself?”

“To remember that you don’t have to.”

The muscles in Jameson’s throat unexpectedly tightened. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” he said. I have Avery. I have the Devil’s Mercy. I’m going to be just fine.

“Make good choices!” Xander yelled in the background.

Jameson ended the call, and the next moment, Oren spoke. “We have company on the terrace.”

Company. Jameson was suddenly keenly aware of his surroundings. Every sound. Every shadow. Every element of security that Oren had put in place.

“My men will take care of it,” Oren said, but Avery shook her head.

“No,” she said. Jameson took that as his cue to move toward the terrace, his steps silent, his stride long, Avery right behind him.

The door was open. Jameson stepped out onto the terrace before Oren could stop him.

The messenger lazed in one chair, his feet propped up on another. “Your neighbor has excellent taste in wine,” he declared, swirling a bit of it in a wineglass and nodding toward the bottle on the table. “Horrible taste in cats, though,” he added. “Hairless, two of them.” He gave Avery a little wink. “I’ve always been more of a dog person myself.”

The waiter persona. The fighter cloaked in darkness. And now this. Jameson felt like he’d met three different people. But the dark brown eyes, the artful mess of barely curling black hair, the sharp features—they were all the same.

“You broke into the neighboring flat.” Avery stated the obvious.

“I break nothing.” Holding his wineglass between his thumb and his middle finger, the messenger tapped his other three fingers lightly along the stem. “Except hearts.”

Breaking into the flat next door was child’s play for you. Jameson was suddenly sure of that. You’re a chameleon. A conman. A thief. With that thought came a disturbing possibility. “How do we even know that you work for the Mercy?”

What if they were being conned?

“Because”—the chameleon swung his feet off the chair, turning slightly and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees—“your message was received.” He let those words hang in the air, then leaned back again. “Or at least,” he told Avery, “yours was.” He set down his glass of wine and reached into his trench coat.