CHAPTER 9 GRAYSON
GRAYSON
F ollow the Leader, the way Grayson and his brothers had played it growing up, had led—no pun intended—to numerous concussions and two-and-a-half broken arms. But when Jameson had issued the challenge—in the form of a flying tackle, followed by the requisite hand signal—Grayson had accepted.
He’d followed Jameson all the way up the vertical wall of the cliff, out of sight of those below, well aware that his brother was up to something.
Grayson knew Jameson—better, perhaps, than he knew anyone else in the world.
They’d been born three hundred and sixty-four days apart, one day short of a year.
For the entirety of their childhoods, they’d been formed in contrast to each other, in competition with each other.
Jameson was a master of the Hail Mary pass, a sensation seeker, a risk-taker.
The more Grayson had pushed himself to be what their grandfather wanted him to be, to be perfect , the more risks his brother had been forced to take, and the better Jameson had gotten at choosing his risks, the more formidable Grayson had been forced to become.
And somehow, despite it all, theirs was a rivalry that ran only half as deep as their bond. It was that connection that told Grayson, long before they finished the climb and Jameson took up position on the very edge of the cliff they’d just scaled, that something was wrong.
When it came to his family, Grayson took no risks. “Speak.”
“I love it when you give me orders, Gray. It makes me feel so seen and loved. An order’s the next best thing to a snuggle, I always say.”
Grayson’s immunity to Jameson’s sarcasm was absolute. “Jamie? Speak.” Tell me what’s wrong.
“I’ll do you one better. On Spake. ” Jameson issued the phrase like the trump card it was.
There was a set of rules that Grayson and his brothers had agreed to from the time they were children, traditions that none of them could break without significant penalty.
On Spake—an anagram for no speak —was one.
From the moment Jameson had invoked the phrase, Grayson could not say a word, not until Jameson called, at which point, it would be up to Grayson whether or not things would come to blows.
The question was why Jameson considered whatever he was about to say to be fighting words , worthy of invoking On Spake to begin with.
“Lyra Kane is a threat,” Jameson said, “whether you see it or not.”
That assertion could not stand. Only a lifetime of control kept Grayson from making that point out loud. Instead, he relied on his face to make it for him. Tread lightly, brother.
“I would tell you to stay away from her,” Jameson continued, “but I have eyes and rather remarkably no death wish at the moment, so instead, I will say this: Be sure that she’s worth it, Gray.” Jameson locked his eyes on to Grayson’s. “Make damn sure that she’s not Eve.”
The moment Jameson said the name Eve , Grayson unzipped his jacket, removed it.
“If you think I’m looking for a fight,” Jameson said, “you’re wrong.”
People find plenty of things they are not looking for, Jamie.
Jameson responded as if he’d spoken out loud. “I’m not done, Gray. You said something to Nash about our grandmother being alive. She’s not. Do you understand, Grayson? She is not. ”
Grayson did not, in fact, understand, but he was sure as hell going to.
“I mean it, Gray. Don’t even say the name.”
Grayson noted that his brother had not—Jameson had not once said the name Alice Hawthorne.
“Don’t breathe a word of whatever it is you think you know,” Jameson told Grayson. “And don’t ask.”
Don’t ask me why. Jameson’s message was loud and clear. Don’t ask me a damn thing about Alice Hawthorne. Seconds passed. “Now I’m done.” Jameson held Grayson’s gaze. “I call.”
By the rules of On Spake, Grayson could speak now. Also by the rules, it was up to him to decide whether or not they were going to fight this out.
“You know something.” Grayson stated the obvious.
“I’m a regular fount of knowledge, but when it comes to this, I know nothing. I’m not even curious. And, like you, I am not going to ask . I’m not going to pull at a single thread.”
Grayson stared at his brother. Jameson had been born pulling at threads, hunting for secret passages, and throwing caution to the wind. Something is very wrong.
“How dangerous is this?” Grayson demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jameson said blandly, his hands hanging loose by his sides. “And I called, Gray. Judgment’s yours.”
The option of forcing Jameson to talk was not without appeal, but Grayson also suspected it was little more than wishful thinking. In a physical fight, Grayson would come out on top, but not by much and not for long enough to make a point.
“I don’t want to fight you.”
“You never do,” Jameson said. “And yet…”
By the rules of On Spake, Grayson had to actually make the call, one way or another. “She’s not a threat.” Grayson didn’t even say Lyra’s name. “And she isn’t Eve.” She’s something else. Grayson let the thought come, let Jameson see it wash over him. “If Lyra’s in danger, I need to know.”
“I called.” Jameson’s tone made it clear: He wasn’t backing down here. “You know the rules, Grayson. If we’re going to fight, the first swing is yours.”
“We are not going to fight,” Grayson said, pausing slightly between each word to add weight to that declaration.
“But, Jamie?” Grayson took a step forward, placing himself firmly in his brother’s personal space.
“You have as long as it takes for the Grandest Game to conclude to get a handle on this—whatever this is. Find the threat and contain it or be prepared to tell me everything you know.”
About whatever secret you’re keeping. About Alice.
“Why, Grayson Hawthorne, has anyone ever told you that ultimatums really bring out your eyes?”
Grayson snorted. “You’re going to have to deal Nash in on whatever’s going on here. You know that, right?” Their oldest brother didn’t have a temper, but he did have a protective streak a mile wide.
“Let me handle Nash,” Jameson said—famous last words. “You just worry about playing the game. Phase two is really something.”