Chapter 9
9
The cicadas quiet when I approach. West College sits on the outskirts of campus, close to the river. The dorm is small, with ivy crawling up the stone walls. While students have camped out to read on the lawn of the closest quad in the morning light, West College itself looks uninhabited, and only the rustle of leaves accompanies my footsteps.
I ditched the end of needlework. The hunt for my clue will probably deprive me of the start of the History Masters’ Seminar, which the description says involves an open mic opportunity for Experience attendees to read favorite passages aloud, with coffee served in the college library near the Great Hall.
Oh well. I’ve regained some of my confidence in my scavenger-hunt lead. Even if the walk demanded seventeen full minutes from our end of campus out to West College, it’s only half-past ten a.m. I can’t imagine many of my fellow fans have cracked other clues quite yet.
I check the heavy doors first, just in case. Like I expected, the handles rattle unproductively when I pull on them. Swiping the card reader, I receive a red light and an unfriendly chirp. Locked .
I’m undaunted. My clue is here—I know it.
Inspecting the premises of West College, I explore the courtyard in front of the hall. It’s quiet, vacant in the daylight. Fortunately for me, it’s unadorned, leaving few places where the clue could hide. There’s another door, and…a statue in the center of the courtyard. My most promising starting place.
I walk up to the monument. It’s an 1800s-y looking man, seated and reading. His plaque informs me he is the founder of West College. Cool. Does he have my Elytheum clue?
His stone pedestal seats him five feet above the ground. Knowing what I have to do, I feel a little ridiculous. It’s a college, not a playground for imaginative grown-ups.
Nevertheless…
Hastily, I climb up onto the statue. It’s what a heroine would do, I am certain.
If I were designing a scavenger hunt centered on a series of novels, I’d start with the statue’s book. I peer inside, prepared for Elytheum inscriptions in the pages…
Instead, I find a small scroll taped inside!
Exhilarated, I seize the parchment. I jump very gracefully to the ground, hoping no one sees me. While other Experience-goers would need to be pretty intrepid to reach the anagram’s coded location as quickly as I did, I don’t want to explain myself to campus security. You see, Officers, Queen Kethryn must uncover the spy in her royal court. She needs our help!
I want to examine the clue, but I hear approaching footsteps. I decide to unroll the scroll in my roommate-less suite. For now, I need to get out of here. What’s more, I would like to catch the History Masters’ Seminar if I can. I speed my steps into the archway connecting the courtyard with the path outside—
Scott enters the arch at the same time.
I freeze. He freezes.
Scott’s eyes dip to the scroll in my hand. His shoulders slump.
“Well, let’s get it over with,” he grumbles. “You found the clue first. I know you want to rub it in.”
Shock has robbed me of the instinct to gloat. “How did you figure the clue out?” I ask. I mean, honestly. Realizing the speech represented an anagram—okay, I guess our conversation inspired him the same way it inspired me, and he made the same deductions. Connecting the LAST anagram to West College, however, would require actual knowledge of Elytheum…
No, no, no. Scott is methodical. I know from his pitches in promo meetings, from the neatness of the lists I’ve glimpsed in his notebook. He’s organized. Focused. Diligent. I know he got up early. Instead of enjoying the Experience’s programming, he’s probably spent the morning hours searching everywhere on campus. We just happened to hit West College—
“The Last Court ,” he says easily.
His words silence my speculation.
“You’ve read the books,” I venture.
“Skimmed them,” he replies.
I’m not impressed. No way, even if Scott’s clue deduction leaves me seriously wondering what his definition of skimmed is. “Did you enjoy them?” I prompt him, unable to help myself.
“I found certain subjects intriguing,” he intones.
I frown. It’s not the derision I expected, not the counterpart to the impatient grumbles I would overhear when I championed special editions and new interior designs for my romance favorites on Parthenon’s list. Still, it’s intentionally cryptic. More evasiveness from the man spending the week pretending he’s Elytheum’s newest fan.
Whatever. I have no interest in gloating, or prying into his story, or prolonging this interaction in any way. I move to pass him in the archway.
He steps into my path.
I pause. Really? With fragile patience, I reroute to the side.
Scott matches me, standing in my way with arms crossed. It is incredibly immature.
“Can I see the clue?” he asks.
I am aghast. “No.”
“What a shame,” he intones.
What a shame? Scott doesn’t move. “Are you serious right now?” I demand, my voice pitching up.
He doesn’t reply. He only steps closer, his eyes locked on mine.
Unfortunately, it weakens my knees. I’ve never seen pressed-and-polished, methodical Scott Daniels this assertive. Or…intense.
It is, frankly, a turn-on. Obviously, given who my favorite book boyfriend is.
“Cut it out,” I demand.
His eyes never leave mine. His expression never wavers. “Cut what out?”
“You know what,” I reply impatiently. “The whole persona. It’s not you. Honestly, it’s very unconvincing.”
I aimed to cut him down with the remark. Frustratingly, Scott’s composure doesn’t falter. I’m—okay, underneath my exasperation, I’m impressed.
Not just impressed. I feel like a spoonful of sugar is melting in my mouth. Happy, Scott?
He isn’t. He frowns. Not like I’ve hurt him. Like I’ve…disappointed him.
“I’m not leaving without the clue, Jennifer,” he informs me.
His voice is low, rough, and hushed. It’s miserably sexy. Disastrously sexy. I never once heard him speak this way at work. I mean, I would’ve endorsed more of his promo plans—enthusiastically, even—if he’d asked this way.
Right now it makes me resist him even harder.
“Say my name normally,” I snap. “In a normal pitch.”
“This is my normal pitch,” Scott murmurs.
“You literally sound like Batman right now.”
Scott looks like he wants to laugh. Instead, he only shrugs, dashing my small victory. “Oh, so you’re saying I sound sexy,” he replies.
I roll my eyes, hating how he’s read my mind. Scott Daniels, expert diviner of Elytheum . I shake off the impossible, infuriating notion.
While I’m busy resenting his intuition, however, Scott uses the opportunity of my distraction. He reaches swiftly for the scroll.
Not swiftly enough. I clutch the parchment to my chest, swiping it from his reach. His surprise move has set my heart racing, and I chase the impulse. If he can move fast, so can I—I certainly don’t need to wait around fending off more rough-voiced attempts at persuasion while he stands in my way.
I make a run for it.
For once, I’m glad I’m not in an elaborate costume. In my worn-in sneakers, I fly out the archway and down the path into the wide green outside West College. I hear Scott following me, having dropped his dark and domineering persona in favor of good old-fashioned schoolyard pursuit.
I race right onto the lawn, ignoring students’ stares. For fleeting moments, my stride powerful under me, I feel like I’m going to make it. I have surprise on my side.
Scott, however, has long legs.
In mere seconds, I hear his footsteps close the distance my impulsive run gave me. Then his hands, reaching out, finding my waist. The context-confused collision of my coworker —my very cute coworker, my judgmental coworker, who vexes my every weekday—hits me hotly.
And then he’s grabbing for me. I shriek, hating the fact I’m…having fun.
Scott collides with me clumsily. While we fall, I manage to hold on to the clue scroll. Scott rolls us somehow, and I end up collapsing onto his chest when he hits the grass.
“ Ooof. ” I hear him exhale, and I find the utterance hilarious. I don’t even know why. I just do. I abandon my fury, just for the moment, and laugh.
“Real smooth,” I chasten him.
Scott’s hands haven’t left my waist. He’s pretending he’s only reaching for the clue. Or maybe I’m pretending he’s not only reaching for the clue. I don’t know. I don’t care which. “I sense you’re being sarcastic,” he replies while we wrestle, “but I’m not sure why.”
“We literally just fell down in front of random college students,” I remind him. Indeed, our spectators have not stopped watching us once while I struggle to stretch my clue out of Scott’s reach.
“Yeah, you aren’t being smooth, that’s for sure,” Scott returns. “I can only work with what’s given me.”
“Please.” I gasp, pivoting to extend the clue out of reach. “I’ve known you for a year. You’re not smooth.” I do not, of course, credit him with the— fine —smoothness he’s exhibited in our past couple interactions. No need to introduce that to the discussion.
“Maybe you haven’t brought out the best in me,” he retorts.
I roll my eyes. Then I roll fast to the side, wrestling to free myself. It doesn’t work. Scott grips me tightly, his hands locked on my hips.
I hate how my resolve weakens with my muscles. Hate how good it feels, being entangled with him, even in this absurd, utterly unexpected context. Hand-to-hand combat exercises, outside the courtly gardens…
I guess I should have known play-fighting would not feel far off from other kinds of exertion.
“Grow up,” I reply, not knowing which of us I’m admonishing.
Scott is unrelenting. “Let me see the clue,” he demands.
He’s dropped his dark, rough, Sexy Scott Voice. It’s just Scott. Unfortunately, it’s…still compelling.
I have the fastest-fleeting, hopeful, guilty vision of us collaborating. An enemy alliance. His methodical focus and head for problem-solving. My passionate drive and knowledge of Elytheum. We could join forces into the ultimate scavenger-hunt duo. Not unlike when a certain young queen, determined and fearless, allied with a certain fae lord, noble and cunning—
The idea vanishes when I remember what we’re competing for .
“No way,” I declare.
Scott meets my eyes. He reaches once more for the clue. Positioned the way we are, his effort is hopeless. I hold the scroll high overhead.
To the watching students, we probably look like scrabbling schoolchildren, and I want to reassure myself it feels like nothing more. Just competitors, dueling for the clue, refusing to give up.
Instead, part of me wonders whether I would wrestle like this—scavenger hunt or not—with someone whose body I didn’t want this close to mine.
Who I didn’t want pinning me…reaching up over my head…rolling with me on the ground…his scent everywhere, the sheen of sweat starting to slicken our skin…
Right then, Scott releases my hips.
It’s a calculated risk. I could easily get up and run from him now. Is he counting on my distraction to keep me here? No, no , I comfort myself. I’m not even really that distracted. It was nothing. Half of a silly daydream. Nothing worth registering.
Unfortunately for me, the combination of his gambit and the warm weakness invading my limbs works. Scott is fast. With his freed hand, he reaches up, his longer arms finally surmounting my reach. Grasping onto my wrist, he wages war on my closed fist with prying fingers. I clench my hand, panting with the exertion, knowing my fight is losing—my precious clue now crumpled like a note passed in class, only seconds from the enemy’s clutches—
Then I notice Scott’s notebook.
In our scuffle, it’s fallen from his pocket open onto the grass. The pages flutter invitingly in the light summer wind.
While Scott works on extracting the clue, I whip to the side, reaching for the Moleskine. Scott notices a second too late. Instantly, he abandons the scroll, rushing to defend his notebook.
He isn’t fast enough. I seize the leather cover.
In Scott’s flailing surprise, I’ve gotten free. I quickly scoot out of his reach, holding one of my prizes in each hand. Rising from my grass-stained knees to stand victoriously on the college lawn, I open the first page.
“Let’s see,” I crow. “So this is where you cracked Kethryn’s clue last night. What other clues have you started figuring out…?”
“No, Jen, don’t—” Scott says urgently.
Jen . Not Jennifer . Scott’s desperation has wrung from him the first time I’ve ever heard him use the nickname. Or—I don’t know. It’s probably not desperation. Perhaps he wants to confuse me. Wants to leverage the friendly moniker into hesitation or mercy.
Not today. While Scott struggles to his feet, I flip notebook pages.
At first, I can’t quite make sense of what I find inside. It holds no anagrams. No LAST . No mentions of West College. No other puzzles, either. No locations, no questions. Nothing Kethryn said.
Instead it’s full of observations…about Val.
Must smirk at every opportunity. No smiling except key moments. Leaning also important. Voice should be pitched low. Learn eyebrow thing.
It’s—well, it’s accurate. Scott has noticed everything the actor has perfectly imitated from Winters’s descriptions of the character.
Which addresses none of my confusion regarding why the listed observations fill Scott’s notebook. “What is this?” I inquire, honestly curious.
“None of your business,” Scott snaps. He’s flustered. The frantic fun of our war for the clue is forgotten.
He snatches for the notebook. Expecting the sudden movement, I dance out of his reach. I continue reading while Scott watches, helpless, knowing I won’t give up my new acquisition easily.
“You’re writing down notes on Val?” Only one ha per laugh , Scott’s jotted, which, although precise, is not wrong. Chin up, gaze down . Character observations, rendered with impressive precision.
Is he…writing a book? Crafting his own romantasy character?
The hunch fades when I remember the changes to Scott’s own demeanor. His Batman voice. His unfortunately effective smolder.
He is crafting a romantasy character. Just not for the page. “ This is what your whole personality change is about,” I say, realizing. “You’re imitating him. Why?”
My pulse, which had evened out after my escape from Scott’s clutches, picks up again, like my heart knows to distrust Scott’s intentions even if my head hasn’t figured them out yet.
“Give me my notebook,” he orders me.
“Answer my question and I will,” I say.
Scott crosses his arms. It’s ironic—the exasperated glower he gives reminds me more of Val than any of Scott’s recent posturing.
Until his shoulders slump. He sighs, defeated.
“I’m only admitting this to you,” he concedes, “because I saw you get dumped. You do not have the upper hand on me.” When I glare, he wisely goes on. “I, too, have found myself recently unsuccessful in romance. I…never seem to be able to get a woman to want to stay,” he admits.
I’ve never heard the disarming honesty in Scott Daniels’s voice. His downcast, defensive gaze skirts mine. I would find it pitiable, even relatable, if the confession wasn’t coming from Scott.
I grin. “So you’re saying you were recently dumped, too,” I clarify.
“It was much less embarrassing than your dumping.”
“Suuure.” I stretch out the word. “So much less embarrassing that you’re here ,” I point out, “trying to, what? Turn yourself into everyone’s romantic fantasy?”
Scott squares his shoulders. He doesn’t look like Val right now. He looks like the guy who frowns when someone says the e-reader experience is indistinguishable from hardcover. “How would you say I’m doing?” he challenges me. “You seem to enjoy my techniques.”
“I do not!” I protest, scoffing, instantly determined to reveal nothing of how I felt wrestling with him.
The wounding comment works. Scott’s frown deepens. “Whatever, Jennifer,” he says. “Don’t act all superior. I’m not the one trying to go on a date with someone imaginary,” he points out.
Jennifer . He’s right not to use the nickname now. We’re very, very not friends. In fact, if I could elongate his name to demonstrate our unfriendliness, I would. Scottathon. Or Scottifer.
“You’re trying to win this clue, too, buddy,” I retort. “Probably so you can learn from him.” I hold up the notebook. My prize. My hostage.
Scott glares, confirming my guess. “The difference is,” he declares, his voice low, in no imitation of Val, “at the end of this week, I’ll go home and use what I’ve learned to improve my real life. You’ll go home hung up on something that doesn’t exist.”
On the lawn, the mid-morning sunlight suddenly shines too dazzlingly, the heat sweltering too insistently. Our spectating students undoubtedly notice the wrestling pair have progressed to fighting.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand. I intend the question to come out pointed, not pained. Instead, real hurt softens my voice. Scott shouldn’t know me. He shouldn’t know how to pervade the corners of my heart, how to hit my insecurities like he has Kethryn’s aptitude for archery. He shouldn’t know how foolish I feel when I romanticize undeserving parts of my life, right up until they leave me feeling hurt and na?ve.
“Nothing,” Scott replies.
I shake my head, compelled to vehemence. “Oh, don’t start that ‘it’s too personal’ crap now. We’re clearly past it.”
Scott watches me. The defensive posture in his expression never changes, and I half welcome its ominous promise. I want to retreat from whatever charged, personal place we’re venturing into. I want to remember petty feuds over font placement and uncomfortable silences in the Parthenon elevator. I want to fight.
Of course, Scott Daniels doesn’t give me what I want.
He hesitates, then speaks measuredly. “Fine. I heard what your ex said to you,” he explains, “and I’m not sure being here is the best thing for you. I mean, you’re trying to win a date with a fantasy so you can avoid the real world.”
Hot, embarrassed anger heats my face. When will I learn? When will I stop asking Scott Daniels questions that only lead to him hurting me?
Now , I decide. In reply, I shove his notebook to his chest. Despite how eagerly he clasps the leather cover in his hands, I do not see relief in his gray eyes.
When I walk off the green, he lets me leave with the scroll.