Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Carrson
Another dream. I remind myself I’m not really here. I’m with Laurel, safe in my bedroom at Ashford House. We just made love as the thunder boomed and the room flashed with lightning. I try to feel her, her warmth, her breath. I know she’s there, sleeping beside me.
The nightmare doesn’t care.
Sleeping me recognizes this place. I’m at my father’s house.
Our sprawling estate is backed by ancient woods and a lake, wide and still.
The water is black as tar, reflecting the night sky and the crescent moon overhead, curved like a grin or a grimace, depending on which way you look at it.
Younger me shivers, as a cold breeze rises off the lake.
It’s sharp as a knife, cutting through the fabric of my clothing and sinking into my bones.
Adult me knows this night. I’ve lived it before.
This is our senior year of high school. We’re seventeen, almost eighteen, a couple of months from graduating.
College is waiting, only an hour away in Ashfordville.
All of the brothers and sisters I’ve grown up with are excited.
Desperate, even, for freedom. For the High Council’s trials to end.
For the tests we face to look more like multiple-choice scantrons and study guides, not survival drills and bloodsport.
We just need to make it through tonight. Our last test, a final exam of sorts.
That’s why I’m crouched low in the forest, shifting from tree to tree, moving sideways and shuffling my feet to minimize my tracks.
I can’t see the others, but I know they’re close. I can feel them. Hear the soft rustle of movement in the underbrush, the snap of a twig a few feet away. Someone’s breathing way too loud. They’ll fail if they don’t get it under control.
A bell rings in the distance. One note, low and echoing, like something from a monastery.
It signals the start of the hunt.
Not the kind with prizes.
The kind with rules. With consequences.
The High Council had summoned us earlier tonight.
All of us, boys and girls, had met with them in my father’s grand ballroom, where he hosts parties for America’s elite.
The room glittered with crystal chandeliers, mirrored walls, priceless statutes and paintings that had been accumulated by my ancestors.
Passed down from generation to generation.
The twenty members of the High Council had stood in their robes and hoods with their faces in shadow. They explained we were going to play a game.
Immediately, dread dropped my stomach low. Their idea of a game and mine differed dramatically. Mine involved dice and fake money. Theirs involved weapons and bloodshed.
Sure enough. Turns out I was right. The game was called Secret Assassins.
“Someday,” intoned my father, with his deep voice echoing off the marble floor, “The Order may call upon you to eliminate a threat. When that time comes, you are to do so without question or hesitation.” He paused and let the weight of his words settle over us.
“Tonight is your chance to practice. To put to use all the skills we’ve instilled in you over these many years. ”
I tilted my head, listening closely. Whatever they were about to throw at us, I knew it had to be big. The High Council never did anything by halves, and this was their last shot at control, one final power play before we left the nest.
“The rules are simple,” Father explained. “You have each been assigned a single target, a brother or sister, to take out with a paint gun. There are no alliances. No negotiations. You hunt alone.”
His eyes swept the room. I remember the way they landed on me, sharp, appraising. Like he was daring me to fail.
“You will be released into the woods. If you accidentally shoot someone who isn’t your target, you’ll be removed from the game.
If you eliminate your mark, you will get a reward…
” He smiled, letting the tension build. “The winners will receive the first choice of rooms when you begin at Ashford University this fall. Ashford House and Rosewood Hall,” he added, his eyes sweeping the room, “our legacy fraternity and sorority. The heart of your future Order training.”
A ripple of noise moved through the crowd, murmurs, shifting feet, the rustle of clothing, as we all reacted. Some of us with barely contained excitement, others quietly calculating because we all knew what that meant. First choice didn’t just mean better views or bigger closets.
It meant power. Control.
Who you were near. Who you could keep an eye on. Which secrets you’d overhear.
We all wanted that prize.
His tone shifted. It turned colder. Harsher. “Understand this isn’t just about skill. Or speed. Or strategy.” His eyes landed on each of us in turn, and each of us wilted under that burning gaze. Except for me. I was used to seeing the challenge, the disdain in his expression.
“This is a test of loyalty. Of obedience. To The Order above all else.” His gaze darkened. “If there’s one lesson you take with you from tonight, let it be this.” His eyes turned my way as he said, “Trust no one.”
As if I needed that lesson.
Trust no one.
The fourth rule my father taught me.
He told me that when I was small and reinforced the lesson with every bone-cracking punch, every lick of his belt. I knew that rule better than anyone in the room. After all, I couldn’t trust my own parent.
His attention turned back to the rest of the crowd. “Now, you will all go into the forest. A bell will sound, signaling the beginning of the game. Go and may the best man or woman win.”
That’s how we ended up out here in the woods, holding paint guns customized to look exactly like the real thing.
I shift the weight in my hand, examining it.
They’ve done a good job. The metal is cool and smooth against my skin, the texture and balance nearly identical to the live weapons I’ve trained with for years.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it could kill.
I pull the slip of paper from my pocket and double-check the name of my victim.
Nelson. That smug little bastard I’ve never liked.
He’s a know-it-all, rude, condescending, always acting like the rest of us are wasting his precious time.
Even though he and I have never gotten along, it strikes me as odd that I’ve been assigned to take him out.
I’m sure the High Council didn’t pick our victims randomly.
Everything they do is a twisted mind game, and I doubt this is any different.
I’d assumed they would give me Jackson, since he and I have spent our entire lives vying with each other for the number-one spot.
We’ve competed in every arena, academically, socially, physically, always trying to outdo one another.
It would make sense to pair us up now. A final showdown to determine which one is better.
But they picked Nelson instead. I don’t understand it.
Is part of the game me figuring out why he’s my mark?
Is this a test of mental strength as much as it is of physical skill?
Noise breaks out through the trees, distracting me from my thoughts. A scream, sharp and fearful, sounds in the distance, followed by maniacal laughter. The kind that raises the hair along the back of my neck.
Immediately, I’m on the move, dodging and ducking as I head in that direction. I want to see what’s going on. To get a better sense of how the others are playing. To know who’s making stupid mistakes and who’s enjoying this a little too much.
Ahead of me is a clearing filled with white flowers and moonlight. For a minute time distorts, fractures. I see a hundred poles there and Henryson dead on the ground. I shake my head and force the image from my mind.
This isn’t that clearing.
This one was formed by nature.
Instinct, which I’ve honed for years, kicks in, screaming that I need to run, duck, hide. I act on it without thought, dropping to the ground as a blur of white comes at me from the side. A paintball hisses past my shoulder, smacking into a tree next to me with a sickening wet splatter.
I roll and spring up into a crouch with my gun raised, but no one is there. My attacker is gone, faded into the background.
My heart pounds and adrenaline buzzes through my body, lighting up every nerve with sparking electricity.
Whoever it was had gotten close. Too close.
I stay there, frozen for a moment with my breathing shallow, eyes scanning the trees.
Then I smile. That’s how they want to play?
Fine by me.
Within minutes, I’m the one in pursuit, following the trail they’ve left on the ground.
A broken pine needle here, a crushed tree root there.
The path is easy to follow. We’ve all had similar lessons in firearms, boxing, and martial arts, but I don’t know any other son who’s had the extensive tracking lessons I’ve received.
I also don’t know any other brother or sister who’s been sent on live assignments yet, like the ones I’ve done.
The ones in the desert that end with my finger on the trigger and blood in the sand.
It’s possible the others have killed before, and they’re hiding it.
Possible they’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I doubt it.
Those missions leave a mark on your soul.
They etch themselves into your body language, the way you speak or stay silent.
They leave your eyes haunted. I know because I see it when I look in the mirror, and I think I’d recognize it in the others.