Page 42 of They're Watching You

Cringing, I glance to the left, where a wooden door with a brass knocker looms, and release a heavy breath.

We made it.

I hurry over and reach for the knocker, fumbling for the coins in my left pocket. But I pause, turning back to the guys.

“Go ahead,” Remington assures me, touching my shoulder lightly. “You have your coins. We’ll sort the rest. You go in and get Jordan.”

I inhale, wanting to agree but fearful of what I might find beyond this closed door.

And fearful of something else. Behind Remington, Gavin stands, fist in palm, ready for battle. “Gavin,” I say, taking two quick steps toward him.

“What is it?” He places a protective hand on my wrist, peering suspiciously past me at Remington.

“You have to let him win.”

Gavin’s head wrenches back. “What?”

“I can’t explain, not here.” I keep my voice low, remembering the cameras during the last game, remembering the way we felt watched every step of the way. “But Remington needs this. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Gavin stares at me, his ever-present smirk contorting. “But I—”

“Please.” Wincing, I turn back to the door.

I lick my dry lips and knock once. Twice. Three times. It bangs, brass against brass. The door remains shut. My palms are damp, but I try to yank on the knocker, to open it myself.

Suddenly, the door groans as it cracks open, and the breath flees my lungs.

I wander into the room, passing Annabelle, who smiles smugly at me. I search for the sarcophagus, listening—hoping Jordan still has enough life in her to call and scream and bang on the lid.

And I almost miss it, because it’s not a sarcophagus at all.

Perched on a stone ledge, candlelight turning her dark waves a radiant Bordeaux, is Jordan. She’s still draped in stark white, like a dove on a windowsill.

She bounces on the ledge when she spots me, her hands clapping together in delight. “Maren, you’ve won!” There’s a small bandage wrapped around her index finger, and the hem of her dress has been torn; other than that, no signs of bodily damage or whatever I saw on that scrap of fabric earlier.

Have I won? I stagger, feeling for the wall to hold me up. I have my coins. I’ve located the princess. Found her alive and well.

But winning feels a lot like being played.

Sixteen

“Maren, are you okay? Maren.” The voice rings in my ear, distant and foreign. I don’t want to get closer to it, so I shut my eyes and cover my ears with both hands.

“Maren!” Fingers tug on me now, removing my hands and shaking me. I blink the darkness away until the girl comes into focus, an angel in this inferno.

“Jordan.” Even my own voice sounds like it’s coming from a boat, far out at sea. “I thought they’d drained your blood and then trapped you inside a coffin.”

“What? No!” Jordan tucks a strand of my wild hair behind my ear and helps steady me. “Annabelle said all the initiates have to give blood, which was kind of gross, but I decided to be brave like you. She and I have just been chatting. And,” she says, leaning closer conspiratorially, “drinking something we’re not supposed to have at school.”

Panic blares in my head like an alarm. “She gave you wine?”

A laugh, light and airy, echoes through the chamber. “Oh Maren, you really missed your calling, didn’t you? There’s still time to get you up on the stage before graduation.”

“It’s not like you haven’t poisoned someone in the last week.”

Annabelle glares sharply at me. A warning. Speak up any more, and Polly could end up worse off than Alicia Jones.

“Just give me my next clue,” I say, exhaustion creeping into my head, my muscles, my everything. I’m tired of playing Annabelle’s games.

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