Page 15 of They're Watching You

I reach for the play, my hope wavering: three copies stand on the shelf. I yank all of them down and start riffling toward the back of one. I don’t remember exactly which act, but it was near the end. Nothing tumbles from the first one, so I grab the second copy and search.

Sure enough, in act 4, a minuscule, arrow-shaped tab clings to the page, in the center of a line:

“‘As flies to wanton boys are we to th’ gods.’”

I remove the sticky tab, shoving the book into a stream of moonlight coming from the window. The words are written in tiny script.

Choose ye black, poison lack. One sip of yellow shall kill a fellow.

It’s a warped play on that saying about snakes. I shut off my light and make for the stairs.

Down in the open air, I sprint with everything in me toward the old cathedral. Still barefoot, I keep to the shadows of the mail center, Polly’s purse flapping against my waist. My once-combed hair whips into my eyes and sticks to my lipstick. I fly through the cool, prickly grass to the final stretch of cobblestone.

Off the path, something barrels like a wild animal over the hill leading to the lawn. My heart stops and my feet skid to a painful halt against the rough stone.

But it’s only another initiate, about to beat me back to the ladder.

I ignore the pain in my toes and sprint over the stone until my lungs nearly burst, reaching the bottom of the ladder seconds before my competitor.

I scramble up, feeling the ladder jolt as the other initiate starts behind me. A new fear suddenly spikes in my chest, and I grip the rails with sweaty fingers. The society is all about winning, no matter the cost. What if this person tries to pull me off?

I hurry, struggling against the horrible thought that I’m about to be overcome. I wait for the inevitable feel of a hand on my bare foot.

But it doesn’t come, and I reach the window. Making use of my strategy from earlier, I flip myself around to the front of the ladder and descend.

I jump the last few feet, landing with a thump. Only the moonlight guides my path as I fly to the trapdoor and clamber down the staircase.

Below, the lanterns still flicker, highlighting hooded figures posed in clumps along the walls. I peer past them to the display of chalices, and my entire body heaves in a sigh of relief.

I’m the first initiate to make it back.

But steps clunk behind me, and I race for the cup.

Lifting the ink-jeweled chalice to my lips, I push aside the screaming doubts and gulp it down.

My competitor, who I now see is Remington, pulls up next to me, slamming his hands down on the table and turning to me, eyes wide, the warmth drained from his face. “Which of these jewels is red?” he asks, voice frazzled. “Please, I can’t tell.”

Startled, I point to the chalice with the crimson-colored jewel dangling from the stem. Remington hesitates, having placed his life completely in the hands of his competition. But he reaches for the chalice I indicated and downs it with one flick of the wrist.

The wine works its way into my stomach, warming it. My head spins with what I hope is alcohol and not a lethal poison.

“Congratulations,” Annabelle says, gliding across the stones to shake our hands. She reaches toward me with some sort of necklace. I realize she expects me to bend down. I submit, and she fastens a silver chain around my neck. While she repeats the gesture for Remington, I straighten, letting the pendant lie flat in my palm.

A silver linchpin.

“Keep the pendant on you at all times,” Annabelle says, “but wear it discreetly. You are now members of the Gamemaster’s Society. Victory or dust.”

“Victory or dust,” Remington repeats without missing a beat.

“Victory or dust,” I mumble, still shaky from the wine and all the running.

Behind us, the staircase rumbles and Kara spills down into the crypt. Her face is pale as she lurches toward us. “Do you—will you tell me the answer?” she calls out to us. “I couldn’t solve my clue, and that other guy, he’s right behind me.”

In horror, I look to Annabelle.

“She doesn’t care if we cheat,” Kara presses. “Remember Ponchus? Or Pepcid? Or whatever his name was. He won by cheating!”

And sure enough, Annabelle stays silent, a sly curve to her mouth.

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