Page 73 of The Brothers Hawthorne

An invitation.

“Open it,” the Proprietor told him.

Jameson did. A powdery substance exploded into his face the moment he broke the seal. Within seconds, his lungs began to seize. His muscles gave out. As his body slid from the chair to the floor and darkness closed in, he heard the Proprietor walk to stand over him.

“Welcome to the Game, Mr. Hawthorne.”

CHAPTER 51

JAMESON

Jameson awoke on a cold, hard floor. He gasped and tried to sit up. The darkness around the edges of his vision threatened to become absolute. He didn’t let it. Slowly, the blackness receded, and the room came into focus—starting with Avery.

She crouched beside him, her hands gently cupping his head. “You’re awake.”

The sound of her voice was all it took for the memory of the events that had led him here to come flooding back.Welcome to the Game, Mr. Hawthorne.

A realization accompanied that memory: the pockets of his tuxedo jacket were empty. No wallet, no cell phone.Cut off from the outside world.

“Where are we?” he asked Avery, as he climbed to his feet. “What time is it?”

“Early morning, just after dawn.” Avery’s answer came as his brain finally registered the scene around them: walls made of heavy gray-and-brown stone, wood paneling on the ceiling, moldings painted gold and blue. “And we’re at Vantage.”

If Jameson’s brain had begun noting the details of this place before, it drank them in now. The room was long and thin and looked like it could have belonged in the castle that Ian had said that Vantage wasn’t,exactly. The stone of the walls looked like the stuff of ancient fortresses; the detailing on the ceiling looked like it belonged in a palace. There was an elaborate X directly over the center of the room, with squares positioned to look like diamonds on either side. Inside each of the diamonds, there was a shield; on the shield, symbols, all in shades of gold and blue.

Aside from that detailing, the room was devoid of decoration. The stone walls were imposing, and Jameson counted only five places in the room where stone gave way to something else: two windows, one door, a fireplace cut into the stone, and, beside it, a second cut-out, equal in size and shape to the door, filled a third of the way up with firewood.

The only piece of furniture in the entire room was a long, heavy table made of dark, shining wood. The table was rectangular, plain. There were no chairs, which would explain why most of the people in the room were standing.

The other players, Jameson’s brain whispered as he registered their presence.Only three, besides Avery and me.It was never too early to take stock of the competition.

Jameson recognized Branford and Zella, who stood on opposite sides of the table. To their left, he saw a woman gazing out one of the windows, her back to them all. The woman’s hair was silvery gray. She wore a white pantsuit, and the fact that it was immaculate made Jameson wonder howshehad managed to avoid the knock-out treatment.

Maybe she’s someone even the Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy wouldn’t dare knock out.

With that thought, Jameson shifted his gaze from the woman to the opposite window, where Rohan sat on the stone sill. There were no curtains on the window, no adornments of any kind, just the Factotum, lounging there, reading a book, wearing a suit the same dark purple color as the ink in which Jameson had written his secret.

AnH. The wordis. The lettersvande.Jameson pushed back against the memory, and the sense of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Jameson asked Avery calmly. Focusing on her always helped. “Did they use the knockout powder on you, too?”

“I’m fine,” Avery said. “And yes.”

“Well, this is hardly sporting,” the woman at the window commented, turning to face the room. Her silvery hair came barely to her chin, but not a strand of it fell into her eyes. “Are the two of them to be allowed to play together?”

Rohan took that as a cue to snap his book closed. He waited to be sure he had the attention of the entire room, then stood, leaving his reading material on the stone ledge. “If it’s the rules of the Game you’re wanting, Katharine, I would be happy to oblige.”

Rohan walked to stand at the head of the table, his stride languid but his eyes electric.

“Where is Alastair?” Branford asked.

“The Proprietor,” Rohan replied, meeting Branford’s eyes with a dark glint in his own, “has left the design and running of this year’s Game to me.”

“A test of sorts?” Zella said. “For the boy who would be king.”

Jameson tracked each word spoken, taking measure of the players. Zella was attempting to get under Rohan’s skin, her reason for wanting to do so unclear. Branford had asked after Alastair and Rohan had come back with the Proprietor. And something about the shrewd expression on Katharine’s face reminded Jameson of his grandfather.

“As you will have noticed, this year’s Game has taken us to what most would agree is the Mercy’s most notable win of the past decade.” Rohan tossed a smirking look toward Branford. “Welcome home, Viscount.” The Factotum’s deep brown eyes lingered on Branford’s, then his gaze shifted to Katharine’s as he continued. “You are all aware of the stakes of the Game. The prizes you may choose from.Power. Riches.”