The Assassin Game (17 page)

Skulk

Because I know who Cate is.

Skulk

I'm watching her.

AllKillerNoFiller

Yeah we all were, before her gal-pal Vaughany took the vid down! :P

I log off, quickly. “Skulk” knows who I am, do they? They're watching me? As in, hot-chocolate-watching me?

I move to the window of the office, but outside is overcast and gloomy. Anyone out there can see me, but I can't see them. I draw the blinds, but that seems even worse. I move to put out the lights, but before I do, I find my keys in my pocket and hold them between my fingers like a knife. It feels ridiculous—what am I going to do, stab one of my classmates in the eye?—but it makes me feel better to step out into the dark. I part the blinds a little and peer out. Now the darkening sky has more definition, shapes of trees in the distance, the roof of the Main House silhouetted against a scarlet-and-purple sky. I can't see anyone lurking out there, but that doesn't mean they're not hiding. There's Marcia's water bottle on the desk where she was sitting. It's almost full. I pocket my keys, take off the top of the bottle, and move back to the door. If Skulk—or anyone else—is messing with me, I'll drench them with water and run.

I make it back to my study and hide there, skipping high tea, doing little work, and watching the Crypt chatter. Around 7:00 p.m., Alex posts something:

Evening, assassins. This is your Grand Master.

Please remember that Crypt is to be used for the Game, and the Game only. All posts that contain anything outside the interests of the Game will be removed, and the user who has posted them will be banned from Crypt for the remainder of the Game. I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that there should be absolutely no reference made to Crypt or anything posted on it to non-Guild members. Breaking this rule means instant and eternal excommunication from the Guild without negotiation!

Thank you, and have a pleasant evening.

Phew. With the latter half of that post, Alex has effectively prevented the rot from spreading to the rest of the school. Of course, he's just protecting the Game, but I'm grateful to him anyway.

I await reaction, and the IMs start. There is a little comeback from a couple users, mainly arguing that anything concerning the players of the Game is relevant to post on Crypt, but that is quickly knocked on the head by Alex. The fact is, gossip about the video is already on the wane. People move on quickly.

I watch the users come and go, and post a few comments so it's not obvious I'm hiding. Only two users don't join the discussion this evening: Skulk has disappeared, and just before curfew, the other absentee finally shows up online.

Smee

Sorry, everyone

Smee

I'll be a good Smee from now on

Smee

Only hope I haven't upset the wrong person…

I log off. My watch is telling me I have precisely five minutes to run up to my dorm and check in with my housemistress or else risk getting a late mark. I close my laptop, run out into the courtyard. There is no one around. The lights in the library are off, and the studies are dark too. I exit by the archway, turn right, and start to run toward the Main House dorms.

Something—a noise? Or just the feeling of being watched—makes me look around, back in the direction of the courtyard.

A hooded figure is standing there. I can't see the face, but the height, the posture…

I'm sure it's Daniel. He stands perfectly still, looking toward me. I realize I'm standing under one of the Victorian streetlamps that line the pathways between Umfraville's central buildings. I feel exposed; he can see me, but I can't properly see him. I step into the shadows. He takes a step toward me.

Is it Daniel? Doubt creeps in now. I feel for the band around my wrist. I'm immune! But somehow, this doesn't make me feel any better. The figure takes another step. I turn on my heel and sprint for the dorms, not feeling safe until I'm up the stairs and in the comforting light and bustle of the girls' corridor.

Marcia is in the dorm, reading. When she sees me come in, she gives me a quick smile. But this time, it's me who doesn't feel like talking. I return the smile, however, and reach for my pajamas, changing quickly. I visit the bathroom, clean my teeth, and the lights are out in our room by the time I return. Thank goodness. I feel my way into bed, and as I do, I feel the rustle of a little slip of paper someone has placed in my bed. My heart beats faster in spite of myself. Oh, Killer. Let me guess: You're watching me?

I hold the paper up to the digital clock to see what is written there.

Chin up!

V xx

Warmth spreads through me. I hold the paper in my hand, and lie there, wondering if Vaughan will sneak in here tonight. Wondering and hoping.

I lie there awake for ages. He doesn't show up.

Friday, and the blood is still coursing through my veins.

I sit on a gray chair in the ballroom and play with the two bands around my wrist: the black one that denotes I'm still alive, and the red one that ensures I'll stay that way for another two days at least.

Morning Exchange is what other schools would call assembly, but Ezra had to be different. Once a week on a Monday, Ezra gets wheeled out of storage and talks, and we listen. Not so much of the “exchange,” but it's vaguely interesting to see he's still with us—physically, if not so much mentally.

On Tuesdays, some poor teacher is roped in to get things going. Usually they read something moderately profound or educational and then ask a bunch of questions at the end. In normal schools, they'd probably be hit with a wall of silence, but at Umfraville there are nerds just itching to pick the teachers to bits. It can make for some entertainment.

And then, once a week, on Friday, an individual or group of students steps up. Everyone has to do it eventually. In my school career, I've faced it twice, and it was torturous. My first effort was a group presentation about graffiti. Marcia talked, and Daniel and I gassed everyone by spraying inexpertly on a canvas to demonstrate what Marcia was talking about. All was well until the “exchange” part of the talk, when some gnarly dweeb two years below me made the point that graffiti wasn't supposed to belong on canvas, but on the wall…the furniture…and he dared us to demonstrate “properly.” Marcia talks a good game, but she couldn't find a convincing argument. Daniel and I went for it…and went down in the history books…and the detention books. I smile at the memory; what were we thinking?

The second time—when I was on my own—was a far more sober affair. I talked about the history of Skola and Umfraville and by extension, my family's history. Everyone was rapt. I think it's because they got some of the information that they'd always wanted to ask. Not so much about the horse rendering plant that was on the island in the nineteeth century or how Skola is an important breeding ground for the roseate tern or even why the school paper is called the Loathsome Toad. They were far more interested in how and why a “normal” like me was at the school. Who my family really are, and how we got so lucky.

Through death is the answer to that last question.

This week, however, I can relax. It's Emily's turn to speak. I don't have high hopes, because it's not her forte, but if she screws up, then at least it will give everyone something to talk about other than Daniel and me locking lips.

Emily's sitting at the back of the stage while we all pile in and take our seats, and for some reason that will no doubt become apparent soon, she's playing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin'” on her MP3 player through the school speakers.

I feel eyes on me. Marcia is on the other side of the room, and Daniel's not even here, thankfully. He probably has some kind of extracurricular fiddle scraping to do. The only good thing is that because of the Game, the kids who have seen the make-out vid are duty-bound not to gab about it with the rest of the school. I plonk myself a seat or two away from Alex, and then Vaughan sits next to me. I turn to him shyly.

“Thanks for the note,” I whisper.

His eyes widen. “What note?”

“Comedian,” I whisper back.

He winks at me, and his hand slinks over mine and squeezes it quickly.

The doors shut. The music cuts. We're all in, and we wait like hungry lions at the zoo, or in the gladiator stadium, more like.

Emily stands up.

Now, Emily technically had all summer to prepare. Her name was on the list way back in spring term. The pressure is on because, of late, these little student presentations have taken on the appearance of a TED talk or a lecture at the Royal Society. But in truth, I bet Emily was too busy being Emily over summer to write anything. There were track meets where she got to come first in a bunch of competitions of who can throw the pointy thing or the heavy thing the farthest, or who can jump over more sand than anyone else. I'm guessing that she also had a couple weeks tanning at her family's place in Barbados, which would be very time-consuming. And since she came back to school? Well, the Game, of course! She's a new apprentice. All of this excitement is not exactly conducive to prepping a school assembly talk.

Emily strolls easily over to the lectern. She's over six feet tall in her sneakered feet. It's warm in the ballroom with the morning sun beating in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Emily's wearing a tank top under a sheer silk-knit cardi, skinny capris, and that Barbados tan. Her long fingers touch the side of a tablet placed on the lectern, shaking ever so slightly, and as she flicks her eyes up to take in her audience, she licks her lips.

“Giants—are they really a myth?” she reads.

A flutter of laughter. Nothing like a bit of self-deprecation to get everyone on board. Beside me, Vaughan snorts. A few heads turn to look at him.

“Almost every culture has its tales of giants.” She looks at us for encouragement. “Indeed, giants, or cewri, feature prominently in Welsh folklore. But what are their origins? Did they really exist? And are they still walking amongst us?” Another smattering of laughter. “As a person of size”—she chances a little flirt with her audience—“I was excited to find out.”

Warming to her subject, she reads an essay that is clearly pseudo-copied from the school encyclopedia or some Wiki. But as an athlete, Emily should be applauded for even finding the library. Her talk is lightly amusing, and for what I suspect was an eleventh-hour under-the-duvet piece of frantic composition, it's none too shaming. There's a decent amount of Welsh to keep her tripping over bundles of consonants and a slight element of us laughing at, not quite with, her. But that's OK. In many ways it's a sympathetic audience of preoccupied genii—and the rest of us, who are just very glad it is not our turn.

“Canthrig Bwt, a giantess and witch notorious in the folklore of Gwynedd, lived under a great stone in Nant Peris and killed and ate a number of the community's children,” Emily enthuses.

Nice. Sometimes I think we could do with that kind of giant around here.

My mind begins to wander, regardless. Vaughan is bored too. He's shifting around in his chair and staring at various people around him, like he's trying out a remote Vulcan mind meld.

I'm wondering when I can talk to Daniel and what I'll say to him when I do, when I see something twitch in the corner of my vision. It's as though something was moving in the shadows of the velvet curtains, onstage to Emily's left. Vaughan thinks he sees it too; his head turns, and he squints. I rub at my eyes. No, nothing there. I need to start getting a little more sleep.

“Although, in most legends giants are not generally thought of as child killers. Indeed, in the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, it is actually an ogre and not a giant who is the villain of the piece.”

Vaughan titters. “Fee! Fi! Foe! Fum!” he bellows. Oh no. I clap a hand over my own mouth, as if I'd done the shouting myself. Vaughan grins to himself. “A popular misconception, indeed.”

Everyone is looking at him, including Emily, who clearly did not anticipate audience participation this early in proceedings. Down the line of seats, Alex leans forward and raises an eyebrow at me. I'm searching my database for a suitably resigned grimace, but before I can slap it on my face, the velvet curtains twitch again. I turn to look. Definitely something there. What is it? A mouse? I wouldn't be surprised; this place is old and Ezra is not big on pest extermination. Most nights I fall asleep to the sound of things scratching in the walls.

Something skitters forward on the stage. I sit up a little straighter. Not a mouse—it's the wrong sort of movement. I look around me. Does everybody else see it?

Most do, but Emily doesn't. She clears her throat, still red in the face with Vaughan's interjection. I don't think she's big on ad libs.

“Although typically attributed with prodigious strength and physical abilities…”

The skittering thing suddenly moves into her field of vision, and she does the classic double take. There's a ripple in the audience. Finally, we're all looking in the same direction.

It's a spider. A huge one. Tarantula-type huge. And it's heading for Emily.

“…prodigious strength and physical abilities.” She takes another run at the sentence, unable to stop glancing down at her feet. “Giants are frequently depicted as benevolent. And even if they have antagonistic tendencies, as with Goliath”—she glances again, and her voice wavers—“they can be swiftly brought down with something significantly smaller than them.”

The spider rears up on its hind legs and jumps. It lands on Emily's trainer. She yells and hops around, shaking her leg in a frantic jive. It clings on.

“Get it off me!” Emily is pointing her foot out to the side, getting the spider as far away from the rest of her as possible. She flaps at it with her tablet. It's not a terribly effective deterrent.

The spider jumps again, this time onto her bare lower leg. Emily screams a full-throated scream and snags the spider with her hand, sending it up into the air.

Everyone stares, nobody moving. The spider falls to the ground a mere foot away from Emily and starts to skedaddle back into the shadows of the velvet curtains. Emily watches it, and then her head falls back, her eyes roll white, and she sinks to the ground.

And then suddenly the room is churning. Kids screaming, some laughing, everyone standing up, some pushing forward to see, some cowering back from the drama. Mr. Flynn dodges the melee, runs up to Emily, and takes the stage with a flying leap. He lifts a foot, which hovers over the spider for a moment—

“No!” cries Vaughan beside me.

Mr. Flynn's foot crunches down on the arachnid. “Argh!” he cries. That spider was a lot hardier than he was expecting. He kicks it over the stage. Bits clink off it and bounce on to the floor.

“It's mechanical,” Vaughan mutters. “A mechanical spider.”

The staff starts herding, getting us all out of there, pronto. A couple teachers, plus Mr. Flynn, are bending over Emily, who has come around and is coughing and spluttering.

“Someone get the EpiPen!” Flynn roars. I try to catch a glimpse of Emily, but all I can see is one outstretched hand, reaching for something. The rest of her is obscured by staff.

“Right, upperclassmen, you're out!” Mr. Churley yells at us.

I make for the door.

“EpiPen?” says Vaughan excitedly in my ear. “Is she having an allergic reaction?”

Before I can answer him, the projector screen at the back of the stage starts to unfurl, remotely controlled from somewhere else. Something is written on it, in three-foot-high letters. I recognize the font before I fully take in the word:

Killed

I gasp. There are a couple screams and some laughter. Kids who exited the ballroom start to try and come back in to look, and there's a logjam. Teachers shout, telling everyone to leave, and I weave through the crowd and get the hell out.

No need to go looking for trouble. It usually finds me soon enough.