The Assassin Game (10 page)

The window is open, and red, circular things are flying out of it. Below the window is a black box with what looks like a big bowl on top.

Thock. Thock.

The balls are flying out of some kind of machine.

Vaughan walks up to it. “It's a tennis ball machine.”

I join him and pick a gooey, red tennis ball out of the large bowl at the top of the machine. I'm saving the ball from its fate. There's a hole in the bowl, and the balls fall down it to emerge a few seconds later out of the mouth of the machine at considerable speed. I squeeze the ball gently. There's a long slit in the ball that almost cuts it in two, and it oozes viscous red. It's gross—and highly effective.

“This Killer certainly likes blood.” I shake my head. “I suppose it's nice to have a theme.”

“He's reasonably inventive within the established tropes, I suppose,” Vaughan says. “Some might say these are classic Kills—the shower, the clock tower.”

“The pool one was just icky. And they're all so messy.” I put the ball back in the bowl and wipe my fingers on the rim.

“Killer's a boy. Boys like mess. They're like dogs; they like to mark their territory,” Vaughan says.

“Oh, yuck.” I can't quite look him in the eye. “Don't go applying your own disgustingness to the entirety of the male sex.”

“We're all the same, Cate.” He takes a step closer, and this time I make myself look at him. He smiles when he sees the effort involved. “We're animals, I tell you.”

There's a voice behind us.

“So?”

I spin around. Daniel. He walks up to us.

“I checked up the stairs. Door is locked, no way in. And nobody in here, I see.” Daniel looks at the machine. There's only my oozy ball left; it drops into the hole and comes out with a final thock. “Clever. The Killer didn't have to stick around.”

Vaughan is examining the machine. “The Killer didn't even need to be here to set it going. These things have remotes.”

“Wouldn't you have to be in the line of sight?” I say.

He shakes his head, impatient. “RF remote, not IR.” He sees my blank face. “These machines aren't infrared like your TV. They work by radio wave. Like a car key fob. They can go through walls, thirty-yard range easily.” He gestures to the courtyard below. “The Killer was probably sunning himself with the rest of them.” He grabs my arm. “Got any face powder on you?”

“You're in need of a touch-up?” I raise an eyebrow. “Best I can do is ChapStick.”

“Ach!” Vaughan paces up and down. “I should have come prepared. It's an ideal opportunity to take some fingerprints off the machine.”

“Hey, what's going on in here?”

“Were you throwing those things?”

Suddenly the room is filling up with the kids who all eventually had the same idea as us. The Triumvirate of Pretty—Tesha, Anvi, and Whitney—are here, looking like roadkill and talking ten to the dozen.

“This is not a righteous Kill!” Tesha says. She's as red in the face as the stuff on her clothes. “We all three got splattered, but the balls could have landed near anyone!”

“The rules say no multiple Kills, and nothing that could affect any passersby.” Whitney is calmer, but only just. “We are not accepting that we're Killed.”

“Anyway,” Anvi shouts, bleached ponytail waggling and brown skin flushed. “I hardly got any. It's just on my shoe. Tesha is covered!”

“Yeah, by accident!” Tesha's fighting for her life, globules of “blood” dangling off her curls. “The balls were falling nearer you but the first few bounced toward me. It was totally random!”

Everyone's monkeying with the machine now, and I can see Vaughan boiling at the lost opportunity to CSI the bejesus out of it. I'm actually a little surprised he doesn't carry some kind of kit on him for just this eventuality.

“Rick, Carl, take the machine away.” Alex has appeared. “Apprentices, clear the quad. Let's do this before any teacher comes by.”

“Alex!” Tesha squawks at him. “I'm not bloody dead, am I?”

He guffaws at her. “You're dead bloody.” Everyone laughs. “Seriously, enough for now. Get cleaned up and we'll talk later at the Summoning.”

I look around, and Vaughan has gone. I head down the stairs, Daniel following.

“If Alex thinks I'm cleaning fake blood from the flagstones, he's got another thing coming,” he mutters.

“I suppose he doesn't want to give the school any more ammunition to close the Game down.” We reach the ground floor. “The pool was an expensive prank.” Outside, Martin has already got a bucket of water and is washing the blood away. I turn to Daniel. “Do you want to get out of here and talk still?”

He looks up into the sky, as if the answer is written in the clouds. “No need. Think we both know where we stand. I'll see you later.” He makes a beeline for the archway without a backward glance.

“Oh that really helps, Daniel!” I shout after him. Martin looks up from his cleaning, but I don't care. And in that moment, I don't care about Daniel either. He's drama but not even in a fun way. He's just an energy sap. Even before the ill-conceived kiss, he was hard work. I'd put in endless hours of dealing with his moods and the frequent Eeyore-type nonsense he habitually threw, in return for what? An occasional wonderful, funny afternoon when he was doing manic, rather than depressive? And now I'm supposed to feel bad because I made a mistake and kissed him?

I close my eyes and groan. I do feel bad. I bounced into Daniel's arms on the rebound—meaning to stick the knife in Alex before he could stick it in me—but really the only person who got hurt in all of this is Daniel. And I think he's totally assuming I fancy Vaughan now. What a stupid mess. Daniel is my friend, and whatever bad romances are happening in my ridiculous life, I have to put this right somehow.

“Hey, stop!” I run after him.

“What's wrong?” To my surprise he does stop and turn, pale face alarmed.

“This!” I pant. “I don't want things to be weird between us, and I'm sick of your attitude. I know you're uncomfortable, and I know we, you know, kissed, but can't we get over it?”

He looks down at his feet, then up at me. I'm surprised by the fury in his dark eyes.

“Get over it? Just like that?” He looks down again. “You have no idea, do you?”

“What, that you ‘like' me?” I flick my fingers in the air. “Can't we just be friends though? We were good at that.” I take a deep breath. “I miss you, you know? I don't like it when you're not around.”

“But I am around!” He says, ferocious. “You just don't see me! Especially when there are other people on the menu.”

“On the menu…?” My jaw drops. “What does that mean? Who, for goodness sake, is on my menu?”

He turns and walks toward the music rooms again, refusing to answer me.

“You're not around!” I repeat. “When do you see me with all these people who are on my menu?”

He turns on his heel and stares me down. “Oh, I see you, Cate. You may not notice me, but I'm always there.”

He turns and disappears into the music department building. I groan, frustrated. What does he mean, he's always there? What kind of cryptic crap is that?

It's only when I'm dragging my heels back to my study that I remember the mug.

I'm watching you…

Saturday afternoon and my heart is still beating. Just.

I'm early for the second Summoning, but when I arrive the cave is already over half-full. Daniel is there, sitting at the back next to Marcia, his head buried in some old, dusty book. I'm not even sure that there's enough light in here for him to read, but he's certainly giving his best impression of it. There's a golden oldie Evanescence song playing in the background, and the atmosphere is hyper, fueled no doubt by the morning's pseudo Killing. There was already so much to talk about, but now the chatter is threatening to spill over into the surrounding chambers of the caves and flow out on to the sand and to the sea.

“Were you followed?” Alex calls out to me as I enter. I shake my head. “Sure?” he presses.

“I'm sure!” Blimey. If we ever were on our guard, it's now. I find a crate to sit on and park myself. It's cold in here, maybe even colder than outside. The generator isn't on, and the cave is only lit by a single oil lamp and half of the candles. There's a sense of everything being rushed. I eye the electric heater with longing, but clearly Alex is saving the juice for when we really need it. I plunge my hands into my parka, and pull out gloves. Stuff clatters to the floor—my keys, my Guild rule book, tissues, lip balm. I scoop everything up and shove it back in.

The cave is filling up, slowly but surely. People arrive in twos and threes; maybe everyone had set off individually as requested by Alex but recklessly gave in to the herding instinct when close to the caves.

“Sit quickly,” Alex says. “We have a lot to talk about.” He casts around the room. “Are we all here?”

“Tesha almost didn't come,” Carl says, a sly smile on his face. He's stirring the pot, but ever so casually, chin leaning on hands, his auburn hair looking startlingly red in the candlelight. “Tesha's in a huff at getting that crap all over her old-lady cardigan. Nice one, Killer.”

“Shut up, Carl.” Tesha sighs. “It's cashmere, and that paint won't come off.”

“You'll get over it, Tesh.” Alex can't quite suppress his own smile. With any of his ex-conquests, he's secretly a little delighted when they look foolish. “We are joined by the rest of the dead, and you don't hear them complaining.” He looks over at Cynthia and Becky.

Tesha looks ready to explode. “We're not dead though—are we, Alex?” She glances at her friends for support, but Whit and Anvi sit tight, black and blond heads bent together, yin and yang, twins in negative. Their best bet could be to stay silent and hope that the victim is decreed to be Tesha. “It was a mass Kill, and that's not allowed—”

Alex holds up his hand. “Tesha, we'll get to that. Don't pee your pants.” There's a tittering. “Now can we get started?”

“We're all here.” Marcia has done a headcount.

“One missing,” Rick says, jaw set.

“No,” Marcia says, “Thirteen players, one Grand Master.”

“You're forgetting our new recruit…” Rick growls.

“Hello, folks!” Vaughan is on cue at the doorway, waving like an over-animated clown. “Thought I'd give you all time to settle down before I landed on you.” His entrance is not quite as crazy as last time, but it makes as much of an impression.

“New recruit?” Martin cries. “He's in for definite?”

“In like Flynn!” Vaughan grins, then looks at me. “Oh—no offense, I know how keen you are on your
mentor
.”

I choke; I die and try not to look like I'm dying.

“We don't get to put it to the vote?” Daniel speaks up. Everyone looks at him, because it happens so rarely.

“Oh, you're still here, Daniel?” Vaughan says, all smiles. “Only this morning you didn't look like you were that keen. Not interested in getting to the bottom of anything, really. That being the case, the Killer would do well to spare you and keep you in the Game. Unless, of course, it's all an elaborate ruse and you're actually the Killer.” Vaughan puts his head to one side, genuinely interested. “No, I don't think you are. All that blood, eh?” He tuts sympathetically. “Not sure that you have the stomach.”

Daniel stands up, which in Daniel land is tantamount to throwing a punch.

“Settle down, boys.” Marcia stands up too. “It's done. Vaughan presented a unique case for being included, and the Elders voted him in. Everything he said about his intranet looks like it's true, and Crypt will take this Game to new levels.”

There's a murmur of discontent, mainly male discontent, and I understand why. People have waited years to make the team, and this new bloke just turns up and joins without any problems.

Alex hushes everyone. “Rules are this: Vaughan's obviously not the Killer. He can vote, and he can be Killed. That's it.”

“I think it's a great idea.” Whitney twinkles at Vaughan, peering at him coyly from underneath fronds of black hair. “Welcome.”

“Good decision, Elders.” Emily is smiling too, crossing and uncrossing those long, tanned legs.

“Don't worry. He will have his own special initiation,” Rick says, practically licking his chops.

The boys laugh at that. You can bet they've already discussed what the initiation will be. Rick Musclehead is obviously relishing the chance to be cruel and unusual with someone new.

“So, to this week's Kills,” Alex says. “We have much to talk about…”

Vaughan sits down on an empty crate beside me; I can feel the girls' eyes on him, and I surprise myself with a tiny slither of pleasure at the fact he is beside me.

“Our Killer has been very busy,” Alex says. “I can only commend them for that. I can't remember a year when there were three murders in the first week.”

“Two!” Tesha says. “Only two!”

Alex closes his eyes and pauses for a moment. “The first Kill. We boys didn't get to see it in the flesh, but of course we have our spies everywhere, even the girls' shower room.”

The boys laugh. Some of the girls tut and roll their eyes.

“You wouldn't dare put a camera in there!” Whitney says, loving the idea a little too much.

“Hey, Vaughan”—Carl grins, his freckled face lighting up—“can we post videos on this new intranet?”

Vaughan nods. “Oh, it's definitely possible.” He cracks his knuckles. “But let's not go there.”

“Enough!” Alex says. “As I was saying, the first Kill. We open with a classic: blood shower. Our Killer is kicking off to a great start with a nod to traditions past. Well done, whoever you are.”

No one speaks. We all sit there, eyeing each other, wondering who the guilty one is.

“Second Kill, however, Killer goes big,” Alex says. “And sadly, classy goes out the window.”

“That doesn't even begin to cover it.” Cynthia stutters out the words, pulling a blanket around her thin frame protectively.

“Yeah, well,” Alex says. “Cynthia has a bloody wake, and the pool is out of action for the rest of the term.” He sits up a little. “Now that in itself may be no bad thing, but the Killer broke the cardinal rule on this one: don't incur the wrath of staff. Because while they will tolerate stupid stuff and the odd mess that can be wiped away, Ezra does not like pool clean-ups that cost him major dough.”

Carl leans forward. “We removed the waterfowl, and the paint was all but diluted within minutes, but even so. The pool has to be drained. Ezra called Alex and me into his office to ask us what we knew about it. Obviously, we know nothing and told him it was a random prank, not part of the Game. He gave us the benefit—this time. But one more stunt like that, and the Game could be in jeopardy.”

“And you wouldn't want that,” says Roger, excitedly slapping his palms on to fat thighs as he sits. “Not while you've still got some more Kills in you, Carl.”

Carl grins wolfishly and winks at him. I wonder if it is him. There's something unsettling about Carl. He's the real strategist of the Elders. Alex is the mouthpiece, and Marcia the obvious brains, but I suspect a lot of the ideas originate from Carl. He's like a man in boy's clothing, and he unnerves me a little.

“And that brings us to Kill three, or at least, attempt three.” Alex finishes the sentence before Tesha can jump on in. “Now, I have nothing but awe for the concept. Nice creativity, but stupidly messy and stupidly random. Firstly, Killer, you need to remember that you're a serial psycho, not a mass murderer. One Kill at a time. You can Kill one victim, then do another five minutes later for all I care. But they have to be separate murders, not the result of raining blood-soaked tennis balls on the general populace. There were non-Guild there, and if you had hit them, you would be history. As it is, we all know you splattered three apprentices: Tesha, Whitney, Anvi. So who's dead?”

The three sit up, awaiting their fate.

“We Elders have voted on it,” Marcia drawls.

“And it looks like you were targeted, Tesha,” says Cynthia. Tesha's face drops. Even the curls droop a little.

“But,” Alex says, “we can't be sure. It was too imprecise. And because of that, all three of you live to fight another day.” He lets the girls have their noisy celebration and told-you-sos. “Be specific, Killer! This is your first and last warning; don't let it happen again or your reign is over. And”—he turns to the girls—“be on your guard! Chances are one of you was on the Killer's hit list. Don't make it easy for them.”

Alex relaxes a little and cracks open a can of something. “Right, before we vote on who the Killer is, there's time for Zuckerberg here to show us around our new digital home. Fire up the generator.”

Rick exits into the corridor, and the fairy lights flicker on. The generator hums as Marcia taps away on the laptop and then hands it to Alex. He swings the screen around to face us all.

“The Elders have discussed how this is going to work, and it's up to its creator to explain it all to the rest of you. Vaughan?”

Vaughan leaps up and takes the stage willingly. He taps on the keyboard, and the school's intranet home page comes up. It's a photograph of the school with links to the instant messaging app, a school bulletin board, and the online version of the school newspaper. In the top right-hand corner is the school crest, a large red flower against a yellow shield, with a phoenix rising behind the shield. Vaughan smiles at us all.

“I'm aware that almost everyone here is dazzlingly clever, but for the sake of the athletes among us, I've kept the log-in process simple.”

Rick mock laughs and swears under his breath. Vaughan is not winning himself many friends from that particular demographic.

“First time you log in, it must be from a laptop. All you need to do is this.” Vaughan talks as if to a toddler and moves the cursor until it is centered on the eye of the phoenix. “Left click, while holding down Control and K, I, L simultaneously, like so.”

“Oh yeah—like how many fingers do we need to do that, eh?” Rick scoffs.

“You do need two free hands, so you'll have to take one out of your pants,” Vaughan says seriously. Rick glares at him. It's true he has a full-on pocket billiards habit. The girls—and Alex and Carl—reward Vaughan with a laugh.

Rick points at the screen. “And nothing has happened. Uh- oh, broken.”

“I'd forgive you for thinking so, Rick,” Vaughan says. “But guess what? You have to press the buttons again! Input that key combo twice in more than five seconds and less than ten. So just one-crocodile, two-crocodile up to six, press again, and you're in. Simple…provided you can count that high.”

“Ha-ha,” Rick says. “Tell another one, I'm wetting myself.”

“Oh no.” Vaughan looks at him, concerned. “How unfortunate for you.” He presses the keys, his eyes on Rick all the time, and the screen with the William Blake picture comes up again. “And here we are. Now click on the owl, and when the password box pops up, enter ‘Neanderthal Ricky'—”

“Are you kidding me?” Rick yells.

“Ah, so astute.” Vaughan grins at him. “I am. Enter ‘Live2playPlay2live' in the box.” He grabs Marcia's pad and pen, tears off a piece of paper, and writes the password down. “Memorize this. Do not copy down. This note will self-destruct in ten seconds.” He displays it as we all read and commit to memory, and then he crumples the paper, pops it in his mouth, and starts to chew.

“Nutter,” Rick says.

Vaughan chews some more and some more, finally swallows, licks his lips, and hits Return. A second box pops up. “Now, it'll ask you to create a profile. Once everyone has done that, I'll Easter egg a prompt box on the school home page for easy access.”

“Easter egg?” Rick snarls. “What are you, a fluffy bunny?”

“He means he'll hide it, Rick,” Tesha says scornfully. “Do you know nothing?”

“Not everybody here speaks nerd,” Rick shoots back.

“Thanks for proving my previous point.” Vaughan smiles at him sympathetically. “Don't worry. You'll all be told how to find it. Then you'll be able to access the network from any laptop, tablet, whatever.” He types quickly and hits Return. “And we're off!” The page with the skull flashes up again. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Crypt.” Vaughan smiles at it lovingly.

“Everyone, even the recently deceased”—he nods at Cynthia and Becky—“everyone gets to create a profile. And here's the thing; it's up to you to decide if you want to give your real name. I suggest we all go incognito. More mystery that way, no?” Vaughan looks out at his rapt audience. “Once you've registered and created your own username and password, this little darling works like your common or garden social network. Here's the bulletin board, where all the official things get posted by Alex or Marcia or me, and then here's a rolling wall with everyone else's posts. You can post text, pictures, photos even.” He smiles at us. “Not that anyone's got their phones, presumably. But if you're a traditionalist with an actual camera, go crazy.”