The Assassin Game (6 page)

There's a nervous titter. Someone cracks open a can; obviously not everyone shares my reverence.

“Yeah, get comfortable now,” Rick says gruffly. “Kick back while you still can. Because in a few moments the Game begins, and when it does, nobody is safe. You.” He sticks out a stubby finger at the girl—new recruit Whitney—who flicked the ring pull. “You'll never open a drink the same way again, at least not for the next few weeks. Because all the stuff you just took for granted—eating, drinking, walking into a classroom or taking a dump, turning on a radio or opening a book—all that changes in a few moments. You're never safe, and you can trust nothing and no one. There will be booby traps, things lying in wait. The Killer will be active and after us. Every last one.”

Rick is warming up. Alex looks on from his beanbag approvingly. Rick continues, “Apprentices, you have been chosen because: (a) we like you—enough to want to see you die humiliatingly, and (b) you can be trusted. This is a Game, but it's not for little kids. If you are a little kid, leave now.”

Rick actually waits to see if anyone's going to vamoose. We're all frozen to the spot, barely daring to move. The candles flicker in the slight breeze coming in from the outside, but it feels as if we are tucked away, deep in the earth.

“Here's how it works.” Alex leans forward, his sandy hair falling into his eyes, keen eyes that flick from one person to the next, transfixing us all with his gaze. “I'm the Grand Master. I run the Game.”

As if we were in any doubt. I know he's been longing to be Grand Master for years, he even told me as much when we briefly got close last term. His big brother—some bona fide engineering genius—ran the Game a few years ago, and it was a legendary year. Little brother has a lot to live up to, and now his moment has come. Alex is no brainiac, no ace sports star or super-creative prodigy. He's kind of normal, like me. He's popular and quick-witted and more than averagely good at a whole bunch of things, but he's not special. He needs this Game to etch his name into the Umfraville history books.

So far, so good, Alex. He takes a moment to enjoy the suspense. “Later, everyone picks a card.” He points to a large velvet bag on the table beside Marcia. “On each card there's one word, and if you're the Killer, you'll know.” His laugh is low and soft—and short-lived. “Hear this!” He spreads his hands wide for emphasis. “Tell no one what is on your card. Do you understand?” He stares us down. “Nobody knows who the Killer is, except me, and I only know because the Killer tells me. That's his or her first job.”

“What, here, tonight?” Tesha says. “How does that work?”

“No, not tonight, doughnut.” Alex shakes his head as everyone laughs. “As soon as you can without your cover being blown. Don't be an idiot and tell me by Killing me either. As Grand Master I can't be the Killer or be Killed.” He flashes those white teeth, but it's more of a snarl than a smile. “Just slip me a note, IM me, whisper in my ear, whatever. Only make sure I know who you are before you go on your Killing spree, or the Kills don't count.”

“The rest of us are potential victims,” Rick says. “And only us. Don't touch non-Guild.”

Beside me, Martin shoots up a hand. Alex rolls his eyes. “We're not in the Cub Scouts, Martin. What is it?”

Martin beams, the gappy grin in full effect. “What if I don't want to be Killed?”

There's laughter.

“Sure, you can fight back to some extent.” Marcia scoops the sheet of hair back from her face and nods at him, encouragingly. “If a masked attacker is chasing you with a rubber machete, yes, you can run away.” She waves the book at us. “It says so in here. But look, it's really important that we all play fair. You get whacked, you stay whacked. Honor system.”

“That's right, Marcia.” Rick nods. “And remember, everyone, dead men don't talk. You know who did you, you keep mum on pain of excommunication from the Guild.”

Alex smiles again. “You manage to stay alive? Different matter. It's all about finding the Killer. We meet here every weekend for a Summoning. We hang out. We talk—”

“We par-tay!” Roger, one of the Journeymen, shouts, and everyone cheers.

“We vote.” Alex's words cut through the revelry. “Every weekend, everyone still in the Game casts a vote. If you know who the Killer is, write the name down. If you don't, write something else down—Mickey Mouse, Ezra, or ‘I don't know.'” He claps a hand to his chest. “I read the votes. I'm the only one who gets to see. If you guess right, the Killer is exposed, you win. You guess wrong, you're dead and out of the game.”

Rick picks up the ball again. “The Killer can Kill as often or as little as they want, but don't be a mug and bore us to death. Make your Kills entertaining. Give us something to talk about.” He looks down at us, struggling to cross his muscled arms over his broad chest. “Yes, if you can get your victim on their own, you can do anything you want—shoot 'em with a water pistol, stab them with a rubber knife, whatever. But it's much more fun to do stuff in public. I know—I know we're not supposed to let the Game be ‘disruptive to school life'”—he flicks his stubby fingers as quotation marks—“but give us all a show, won't you? It's what we deserve.”

The Elders and Journeymen all laugh in agreement.

“Don't go slapping little red skull stickers on people!”

“Don't be that doof that puts a note on someone's desk saying ‘Boom!'”

“If the Killer IMs me with ‘You're Dead,' I'm totally giving them up.”

“Oh no, that's been done and doner!”

Marcia cuts in, “We outlawed that one officially. It's a yawn. Check your book.”

“Yeah, read it thoroughly,” Alex intones. “No-nos are all in the book—paint guns, no; fireworks, no. No computer viruses and nothing that's going to hurt anyone or give Ezra cause to call the antiterrorist squad. Keep it classy. Put an alarm clock in a hollowed-out book or pop a friggin' balloon, but don't get our Game stopped, or you lose, big time.” He waggles a finger at us.

Marcia winds her hair into a thick rope with one hand. “The only major rule we haven't mentioned is that Killing more than one person at a time is not allowed; you're a serial Killer, not a mass murderer. Other than that, go crazy.”

I'm beginning to get serious anxiety that I'll be the Killer. What pressure.

Alex continues, “So be safe, be clever, and be exclusive. And remember, although your victim is sworn to secrecy, the best Killers are secret. It's so much more satisfying if you can be the ninja you were born to be and get in and out without being seen.”

Rick glares at us. “Questions?”

“Nope. Crystal clear, m'dear.” Becky smiles at Rick. I almost laugh out loud as he struggles not to melt under her gaze.

“What if no one guesses the Killer?” Beside me, Emily stretches her long legs out on the rug.

Alex checks out her legs, then answers her. “The Game goes on until there are only three people left, Killer included. A final Summoning and vote is scheduled at the earliest opportunity. The Killer then has to choose to try and Kill the others quickly before the Summoning or take their chances—go to the final vote and hope nobody guesses it's them.”

We all take this in. I make a promise to myself that I'll be in the final three, Killer or not.

“Enough talk!” Alex says. He stands, holding the large, dark velvet bag tied at the top with a ratty gold cord. “Time to choose your destiny.”

Everyone straightens up a little. I'm holding my breath. Alex unravels the golden cord and opens the bag just wide enough to put a hand in.

“No reading your card until everyone has one.” He offers the bag to the Elders first. Each solemnly takes out a folded matte black card. Then he moves into the group, everyone taking turns to cautiously dip in a hand. I'm one of the last to get the bag. Before I reach in, I wonder if this puts me at an advantage or a disadvantage, but not being a math genius, I can't work out the odds. I stretch out my hand toward the bag, feeling like it might be bitten off by something hidden in there. I feel around for the cards; just two or three remain. I toy with them for a second then choose one, pulling it out and in close to my chest, as if it will jump out of my hand and reveal itself unless I hold it tight.

The last few take their cards. Alex moves back to his place and sits, looking at us, smiling. He doesn't speak. We wait. We wait a little longer.

“Delicious, isn't it?” Alex's voice is hoarse and thick with pleasure. “The anticipation? This is one of the best moments, the moment before, the moment when no one is the Killer and all of us are.”

No one giggles. The generator hums in the background. The lights flicker a little, prompting a ripple of noise, half-muffled screams, and nervous laughter.

“Yes.” Alex nods, smiling. “The spirits of assassins past are with us! On my count, open your cards. Three, two, one…”

I hardly dare to. I'm not only afraid of what is written there, but also of how I will react when I see it. I mustn't give the Game away. I cup the card in my hands and slowly—oh, so slowly—unfold the stiff card. The inside of the card is bloodred, and there is black writing. I see the large capital
K
and feel a rush of adrenaline shoot up my spine into my head. As the lights flicker again, I squint at the card:

Kitten

Disappointment, then huge relief, then fear.

I look again, just in case I've read it wrong. But no, I'm a baby cat, not a murderer. Funny, Alex. I wonder how many different
K
words he could think of that would give everyone the same heart attack. I suppose I should be thankful I'm not “Kisser” or “Kipper.”

Of course, as soon as I've looked at my own card, I'm looking around at everyone else to try to read reactions. And that's exactly what everyone else is doing too. Alex is chuckling away to himself. How very amusing we must look to him. I wonder if he can tell who got the Killer card, because whoever did won't be looking around at everyone else to see who got it. Probably only a split second, but Alex would have been looking for it. One of the myriad ways he makes this all entertaining for himself.

“OK folks, cards away,” Alex says. “You need to keep your card so I can check the Killer is for real. But don't keep it anywhere anyone else can find it.”

“It's getting late,” Marcia says, leaning over onto a rock ledge and blowing out some candles. “We need to show up for high tea, or they might send out the search parties.”

I shove my card, burning hot, into the inner pocket of my parka.

“OK, we'll move out,” Alex says. “Staggered, not everyone at once.”

“Yeah, girls,” Rick sneers, looking at Tesha, Whit, and Anvi. “You do know you don't have to do everything together.”

Alex and Carl snicker. The girls sneer back at Rick. More candles are blown out. Martin and Anvi start to extinguish the oil lamps, and Martin knocks one down, smashing it on a rock.

“Think stealthy, people!” Alex moans, and looks at Carl, who shakes his auburn head. “Give me strength. If the Killer's worth his or her salt, I give these intakes a week, no more.” He gets up. “I'm around this evening if anyone wants to talk to me.” He winks. “Read your book, and remember to watch the board in the common room for news.”

Suddenly, the room plunges into darkness.

Several yells, and beside me, Emily screams.

“Nice one, Rick,” says Carl. “Did you not fill the generator up again?”

“I did!”

I hear Alex chuckle. “Seriously, Killer. Tasting blood already?”

Silence. Someone has grabbed me on the arm; I think it's Tesha. I hope it's Tesha.

Nothing happens.

“OK, Rick.” Alex sighs. “It is the generator. Where did you put the flashlights?”

A flashlight flicks on, but it's not one of Alex's. A huge figure is standing in the doorway, cloak billowing, flashlight pointed, and in its other hand, a dagger. The figure roars and slashes the air.

“What the—?” Alex says.

Someone barrels past me, heading for the door. There's a scuffle, the flashlight dances on the wall, and then suddenly the generator is humming and the lights are back on.

Rick is on the floor, panting. The figure is still there, standing above him, laughing at the assembled Guild. It flings the hood of the cloak back and screams, “Time to die!”

It's Vaughan. Time to die, indeed.

“Who the hell are you?” Alex is as purple as a beet. I've never seen him look so rattled.

“I'm Vaughan,” says Vaughan, smiling. He waves a hand. “Hello.”

“You're not Guild!” says Rick, struggling to his feet. “Bloody hell, Alex, he's not even Umfraville!”

Alex moves toward Vaughan, and my stomach hits the floor. But he stops short, and I see something I've never seen before: Alex is scared.

“Oh, I am Umfraville, I assure you!” Vaughan says brightly. “I'm new; I admit it. Missed the first week of school—just got here today, in fact—but I'll be in the classroom with you all on Monday, I promise.” He squints at everyone. “Well, with the clever ones anyway.”

Alex, Rick, and Carl all kind of surge toward Vaughan, but he's quick. He leaps back.

“How long have you been here?” Alex demands.

“Long enough,” Vaughan says. “You're playing a game. It's secret. Someone's a killer.” He tuts. “And you really shouldn't be in this cave.” He shakes his head. “Breaking all the rules…”

“You tell anyone, and I'll—”

“Oh, I don't want to tell anyone!” Vaughan says. “All I want is to join in.”

Alex barks out a laugh. Everyone in the room relaxes slightly. Some of the others begin to laugh too, except Rick, who looks like he's going to explode, his cheeks red with boiled-up rage.