The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(61)

“Pick up the keys,” his grandfather said. Grayson did as he was told. “They’re beautiful, are they not? You weren’t wrong to look for meaning in them. I designed each and every one myself. The story of my life is in those keys.”

For the first time, this confrontation seemed less like one of his grandfather’s lessons and more like the kind of conversation an ordinary boy might have with his ordinary grandfather. For a moment, Grayson let himself expect the old man to tell him that story—some part of it that he didn’t already know.

But Tobias Hawthorne wasn’t an ordinary grandfather. “Some people can make mistakes, Grayson. But you are not one of those people. Why?”

“Because I’m a Hawthorne.”

“No.” For the first time, the old man’s tone grew harsh. “You’re failing again. Right here. Right now. You are failing.”

There was nothing—nothing—he could have said that would have cut more.

“Xander is a Hawthorne,” the old man said intently. “Nash is a Hawthorne. Jameson is a Hawthorne. But you…” Tobias Hawthorne took Grayson’s chin in his hands and tilted it up, making sure that he had his grandson’s complete and undivided attention. “You’re not Jameson. What is acceptable for him is not acceptable for you. And do you know why?”

There it was again. The question. The test. Failure was not an option.

Grayson nodded.

“Tell me why, Grayson,” the old man said.

“Because,” Grayson replied, his voice coming out hoarse, “someday, it’s going to be me.”

He’d never said the words before, but on some level, he’d known it. On some level, they all had, for as long as Grayson could remember. The old man wasn’t going to live forever. He needed an heir. Someone capable of taking on the mantle, of doing what the old man did.

Growing the fortune.

Protecting the family.

“It is going to be you,” Tobias Hawthorne agreed, letting go of Grayson’s chin. “Be worthy—and never speak a word of this conversation to your brothers.”





CHAPTER 50





JAMESON


Branford was taken into another room to be dealt with—the Proprietor’s words—by Rohan. Jameson’s secret, on the other hand, the Proprietor chose to handle himself.

“You’ll write it down here.” The Proprietor laid what looked like a scroll on the table, then flattened it out. He placed a quill next to the scroll. Inspecting the quill, Jameson realized it was made of metal, hair-thin but blade-sharp. That served as a reminder: What he was doing could be dangerous. It was a risk.

Jameson told himself that it was a calculated one.

On the other side of the scroll, the Proprietor set a small, shallow dish, like the ones that held the lilies in the atrium. As Jameson watched, the man poured dark purple ink into the bowl.

“By the time the ink has dried, I will have determined if your secret indeed merits entry into the Game. If so, you will be required to provide me with an assurance of some sort—proof.” The Proprietor paused. “Do you,” he said, his voice low and silky, “have proof?”

The muscles in his throat tightening, Jameson thought about his pocket watch, about the object he’d hidden inside. “I do, but not on me.”

“If your secret passes muster, all you will have to do is tell me where and what,” the Proprietor said, “and I’ll send someone to fetch your proof.”

Jameson recognized the signals his body was sending out: the dry mouth, the sweat he could feel beginning to make its way down his palms, the clattering of his heart in his chest.

He ignored them all. Just like he ignored the warning ringing in his mind, a female voice issuing a very pointed threat.

There are ways, Jameson Hawthorne, to take care of problems.

There was a reason he’d kept what he’d learned in Prague a secret. Even from his brothers. Even from Avery. Some secrets were dangerous.

But this was his opening, his shot. He was only going to get one. Once you see that web of possibilities laid out in front of you, unencumbered by fear of pain or failure, by thoughts telling you what can and cannot, should and should not be done… What will you do with what you see?

“What happens to my secret if I write it down and you do find it suitably enticing?” Jameson asked, his voice coming out calm, irreverent by design. “Does it go in the ledger?”

“Oh no,” the Proprietor said with a shake of his head and a gleam in his eyes. “The ledger belongs to the Mercy. Your secret will belong to me. If you win, your scroll will be destroyed and your proof returned to you, no additional records created, my lips sealed.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then I may use your secret however I wish.” The Proprietor’s smile was a chilling thing. “Even once control of the Devil’s Mercy has passed to my heir.”

Something about the Proprietor’s words made Jameson think he wasn’t talking about a distant future. The man is dying, Jameson thought. And there is no risk if I win.

“This must be quite a secret indeed.” The Proprietor perched on the edge of his desk and reached his cane forward to tilt Jameson’s chin up. “So I suppose the question, Mr. Hawthorne, is this: How badly do you want to play my Game?”