Page 14 of They're Watching You

This doesn’t sound so bad. She didn’t even mention burying us alive.

“However,” Annabelle continues, “as with any competition, there must be winners and losers. Only the fastest three contestants will be initiated into the Gamemaster’s Society tonight. The fourth contestant will not.”

My nerves buzz. If I’m last, I’ll never be allowed back in. Other than Annabelle—who refused to comment on my best friend’s whereabouts—I have yet to uncover the identity of a single member apart from Gianna Guardiola. I’m no closer to finding Polly than I was before I won the card game.

“Oh,” Annabelle adds as an afterthought. “And think again about guessing. The wrong chalice willkillyou.”

Remington leans over to whisper something in my ear, but before he can say a word, Annabelle’s hooded minions start passing each of us an envelope. When Remington and I try to accept ours, a low voice emerges from beneath the hood. “Phone first.” He lays a palm out in front of us, shaking it impatiently.

I bite the inside of my cheek, but beside me, Remington is already handing his phone over. Taking a deep breath, I tug my phone from my purse and slam it into the guy’s hand.

No sooner does he pass me the envelope than Annabelle says, “On your marks, get set…” Her hands unfurl at her sides—“go.”

I tear open my envelope, letting it fall to the floor as I squint at my clue in the phantom light.

LOOK FOR THE BARD’S BOOK. YOUR ANSWER LIES SOMEWHERE ON THE PATH BETWEEN FLIES AND GODS.

The bard’s book? My feet seem glued to the stone floor as the others spin around and head back through the tunnel. The swarm of hooded figures parts like the Red Sea to let them pass, pressing up against the walls as I race after them to the trapdoor.

I scramble to the top of the staircase, and my throat dries up.

I’d forgotten about the leaning ladder of doom.

The other three are already scaling it, one after the other. And this time, nobody’s standing below, holding the base.

I force a swallow and peel off Polly’s heels. Expensive leather or not, I can do this quicker barefoot. And I have to be quick. Discarding the heels, I step onto the first rungs. The entire thing quivers from the weight and movement of the others, but I’m a million times more stable without the heels. I make it up and over just after Double Espresso.

At the bottom, the others disperse, their shadowy shapes darting through the grounds. I start off barefoot in the direction of the library. Other places on campus with books exist—the bookshop, for example. But I have a feeling the creepy, seven-story library in the dead of night is more the society’s style.

Fortunately, I recognize “the Bard” as a nickname for Shakespeare, thanks to Form II World Lit. But that’s the extent of my progress. I figure I’ll just pick up the Shakespeare collections and dump them all over, one by one, until the card with my answer falls out.

The bigger question is: how do I break into the library after hours?

My feet throb as I continue barefoot over the cobblestones, darting onto the squishy grass rather than sticking to the path, which takes a wide, scenic course to my destination. These mangled feet are going to kill during tomorrow’s practice. Remington plays as many sports as I do, so he’s in equally good shape. But my speed may be an advantage over the other two initiates.

The lawn ends in another path, which I take around the mail center before abandoning it to push through one final copse of trees.

Shadows bleed from the library building as I slink up to the doors. To my disappointment, no society member is waiting to congratulate me on deciphering half the clue and wave me in with a key card. I’m alone with the shadows.

I scan the front of the building for another ladder or some way to breach it. With no answer, I reach for the door handle with a stiff arm and turn the lever.

It clicks and opens. My head sinks forward in relief. But there isn’t time to celebrate. I’ve got to find the Bard’s books.

An elevator looms to the left, but I can’t risk getting caught on the cameras. Instead, I take the staircase up to the fourth floor, where the classical collections are kept. Back in World Lit, we had to write a research paper comparing a Shakespearian play to a modern retelling. I mainly used the online databases, but I borrowed a couple sources from this aisle. I approach it, the sheer volume of Shakespeare’s works on the shelves pushing on my chest like smog-filled air. I reread the clue, hoping it will spark some memory from World Lit: YOUR ANSWER LIES SOMEWHERE ON THE PATH BETWEEN FLIES AND GODS.

Between flies and gods. The line sets off a nagging thought at the back of my brain. I’ve read something about flies and gods before, but I’m too hyped up and panicky to remember. I stuff the clue back into my purse and reach for the nearest tome: Shakespeare’s comedies. I riffle the pages, turn the anthology over, and shake. Nothing. I drop it to the floor and move on to the next one.

Five collections later, I’m just wasting time. My mind tumbles and spins. If I could just slow down, maybe I could solve the clue systematically. It does sound familiar.

What did we read during World Lit? The focus was histories and tragedies, so I pull out that anthology and skim the table of contents.

Richard III. We read that one, but it’s not stirring a fly-related memory.

Hamlet. We read that one too. Maybe that’s it. I locate a copy of the play itself and flip through rapidly, giving it a good shake. Nothing.

Grinding my teeth, I return to the table of contents, my finger tracing the titles.Macbeth. We read selections from it, but I don’t know. I keep going, skimming title after title until my finger stops. It trails back up, landing onKing Lear.

Hope expands in my chest. There’s a beggar in the story. Gloucester. He makes a comment—something about flies and little boys pulling off their wings. In class, we read the play aloud, and when we came to this line, a few guys snickered and Liana Gerard went off on them, calling them bullies.

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