The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  WELLS (massaging the bridge of his nose): Let’s, um…let’s get into specifics with this…manuscript. I scarcely know where to begin.…

  BRYAN: (Silence)

  WELLS: Firstly, your dialogue is wretched. Your characters all sound alike, which wouldn’t be as exasperating if they were interesting. Unfortunately, they display the same robotic soullessness that you do. Furthermore, the monologue on page three is atrocious.

  BRYAN (flushed and sweating): You use monologues. In Overtree, when Joe confronts Maria—

  WELLS: I’m allowed to.

  BRYAN: Why are—

  WELLS: Because I’m better than you. For a master craftsman, every tool represents an opportunity. For the hack, the same tools present nothing but danger.

  BRYAN: That’s so damned…elitist.

  WELLS: Do you doubt it?

  ELAINE (quietly): Mr. Wells is right.

  BRYAN: You can fuck yourself.

  WELLS: More ingenuity.

  (Laughter from a few group members.)

  BRYAN: You use profanity in your books.

  WELLS: I repeat – I’m better than you.

  BRYAN (throwing up his arms): Of course you’re better than me. Your books have won everything. But you’re also older than God.

  (Wells smiles a furtive smile, but Bryan doesn’t notice, ranting now.)

  And where will I be in fifty years? I guarantee I’ll be more prolific than you. Three books in the past twenty years?

  WELLS: Drivel takes no time to create. Any artist can scribble the human form, yet few can capture the subtle delicacy of a nose or the lissome curve of the throat.

  BRYAN (strained): You’re one hell of a teacher. Browbeat your students, kill the creative impulse—

  WELLS: Assuming there is one. Your soul is impoverished, Mr. Clayton, your arrogance a brittle shell. We’re watching it crumble before us.

  (Scattered laughter.)

  BRYAN (looks around challengingly): You think he’s gonna be any easier on you?

  ELAINE (quiet but firm): You have to know the rules to know how to break them.

  BRYAN: Don’t give me that crap. I know how to show instead of tell. I know how—

  WELLS: Paint-by-the-numbers chicanery. ‘Read this book and write a bestseller!’

  BRYAN (thinly): I just mean—

  WELLS: Sit down, Mr. Clayton. I almost feel sorry for you.

  BRYAN: Mr. Wells, I didn’t mean—

  WELLS: Sit down, Mr. Clayton. Before you embarrass yourself further.

  Bryan sat. It took all the self-control Evan possessed not to cheer.

  “Bad fiction is an affront to the soul,” Wells said. “After enduring that torment, I need something to cleanse my palate. May I have a volunteer?”

  Evan’s pulse accelerated. When better to unveil his work than when his adversary was at his weakest? It was too delicious. Bryan dismantled before their eyes, Evan recognized as the preeminent talent of the group.…

  “Anyone?” Wells prompted. “You’ll not reach the mountaintop by cowering among the masses.”

  Do it, Evan thought.

  Wells surveyed the group with an amazed grin. “My God, people, can’t you endure a little honesty? Don’t you want a house like this? Don’t you want universities begging to bestow upon you honorary degrees? Award juries pleading with you to attend their ceremonies? Actors and directors cutting each other’s throats to adapt your novels?”

  Yes, Evan thought. I want all those things. By God, I need them!

  He began to raise his hand, but a stir of movement made him pause.

  Bryan was scowling at him and shaking his head.

  Hand half-raised, Evan stared back at Bryan, and it was as if every worry that had been nagging at him since that day in the woods was now crystalizing before his eyes. He’d told himself Bryan had just been threatening him for sport. That the rope spear was a harmless prop.

  Yet even if that were true, Evan had told Bryan some of his darkest secrets. Not only the humiliating business about watching his sisters shower, but his literary fantasies, the ones featuring leggy blondes and posh publishing parties. Evan had been sensible enough to withhold the most damning revelation, but Bryan still knew enough to ruin him.

  Evan jerked down his hand, but he was too late. Wells had seen him. Was watching him with merry good humor.

  “Don’t be shy, Mr. Laydon. I have high hopes for your work.”

  Evan suppressed a moan. He glanced at Bryan, whose forbidding glance made plain how severe the ramifications would be should Evan read.

  “Go ahead,” Sherilyn said. “I’ve been wanting to hear your stuff.”

  “Me too,” Lucy said. She gave him an encouraging smile, and Evan thought, Dammit. Don’t you know how much I’d like to read?

  Wells’s smile was fading. “Come, Mr. Laydon. I have no time for stage fright. A creature cannot evolve by huddling in the swamp.”

  Evan grimaced. “It isn’t…Mr. Wells, I, uh.…” A glance at Bryan, who reminded him of a bull shark who’s just scented blood. “I can’t.”

  Wells’s look was steely. “Fear is corrosive, Mr. Laydon. You mustn’t let it overmaster you.”

  Runnels of sweat streaked down Evan’s sides. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not feeling my best.”

  “You do look a little pale,” Will said.

  Lucy’s hand was on his arm. “You want me to walk you to your room?”

  “Mr. Laydon will remain with the group,” Wells said in cold, measured tones, “or he will go home.”

  Sherilyn made a face. “Come on, Mr. Wells. If a guy’s sick—”

  “I need someone with guts,” Wells said. A scan of their faces. “Don’t any of you want to sit where I sit? Are you that frightened of success?”

  Evan lowered his head and tried not to weep.

  Wells smiled without pity. “Yes, Mr. Laydon, cry over your weakness. We predators drink your tears.” Wells’s voice rose to a shout. “By God, isn’t there anyone in here with teeth?”

  To Evan’s left, he sensed someone rising. And when he looked up and saw who it was, his mouth fell open.

  Chapter Eight

  Her gaze unwavering, Anna faced Roderick Wells.

  Will stared at her, amazed. She’d never looked more frightened. Or more attractive.

  “Ah,” Wells said. “Are you a predator, Miss Holloway? Or merely toothsome?”

  She returned his smile, glanced down at her pages.

  Man, I hope it’s good, Will thought. For her sake.

  Anna asked, “Anyone know the legend of the Nachzehrer?”

  Wells frowned. “Don’t give us context, Miss Holloway. Your work should speak for itself.”

  “Just one little bit,” Anna said. “With your permission?”

  Wells looked irritated, but fluttered a hand as if to say, If you must.

  “Anyone?”

  Rick said, “A vampire myth, right? Something to do with a belfry?”

  “A combination vampire and ghoul,” Anna said. “It can feast on itself as well as others. Or bring death by ringing church bells.”

  Sherilyn chuckled. “Versatile creature.”

  Anna smiled, her white teeth showing. Will’s stomach fluttered.

  “Now that you’ve provided tonight’s lesson on German mythology,” Wells said, his words clipped, “perhaps you’ll be kind enough to read your passage.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and strode to the center of the circle.

  Holy Mary Mother of God, Will thought, noticing her dress for the first time. It conformed to the contours of her body as though it had grown on her, an emerald membrane that clung to her curves, accentuated the delirious musculature of her buttocks.

  Anna took a deep breath and read, “‘Karl mounted Ragna, who spread her pallid
legs farther.’”

  “What the hell?” Elaine said.

  “‘Over her husband’s shoulder floated the black square of window, beyond which no stars shone. Since her latest miscarriage, they’d not been able to beget a child, and though she tried to relax, she couldn’t help wondering whether Karl would leave her for a woman whose womb wasn’t fallow.’

  “‘Ragna’s body responded to her husband’s. The woven black hair of his chest tickled her breasts, tantalizing her, starting a fire in her belly, which joined with the greater heat between her legs.’”

  Will made sure to keep his expression dispassionate. Regard the excerpt the way you would a painting, he told himself. Focus on the brush strokes, the craftsmanship.

  “‘After a time, a pleasing drowsiness spread through her. His thrusts intensified, her thighs undulating…’”

  You’re at the Chicago Art Institute, Will reminded himself. You’re studying Monet…Manet…Mannheim Steamroller.…

  “‘…she hears a rustle from the window, but all that matters is their lovemaking. Karl’s mouth is on her throat. A delicious thrill scurries down her shoulder. She squeezes his member with her sex, and he is moaning into her ear now, his whiskers scraping her lobe.…’”

  Monet, Will reminded himself, his cargo shorts becoming uncomfortably snug. It’s art. It has nothing at all to do with hot sex or Anna’s increasingly husky voice.

  “‘The rustling sounds again, so Ragna opens her eyes to see if a large moth is fluttering outside their window. But Karl’s brawny shoulders blot out the pane, and she is glad of this. Because a molten heat is spreading through her—’”

  “Seriously?” Elaine said.

  “Don’t interrupt,” Bryan snapped.

  That’s right! Don’t interrupt the reading!

  “No, really,” Elaine persisted. “What the hell is this?”

  Anna lowered the pages. “Something wrong?”

  “It’s porn,” Elaine said.

  Anna watched her evenly. “You dislike erotic scenes?”

  Elaine removed her glasses, began to clean them with the stomach of her shirt. “A scene doesn’t need explicit sex to be steamy.”

  “Is the piece disturbing you, Ms. Kovalchyk?” Wells asked.

  “It’s grossing me out.”

  “You don’t look grossed out,” Bryan said.

  Anna smiled at Bryan who tipped her a wink.

  What’s this? Will wondered.

  Elaine shot Bryan a disdainful look. “I’m not disturbed. And you only like it because it’s whacking material.”

  “Got me hot,” Sherilyn said.

  Elaine threw up her hands. “Oh for God’s sakes.”

  Lucy was frowning at Anna. “I thought you wrote urban fantasy.”

  “The one my agent just sold is. But we’re supposed to do something horror-related, right? I’m writing about a woman who was driven to suicide by a rival. The dead woman becomes the Nachzehrer and preys on those who are most alive.” She glanced at Elaine. “Like people who are making love.”

  Elaine rolled her eyes.

  “Where will you take it from here?” Wells asked. His hands were tented, the index fingers touching his lips.

  “The vampire kills Karl and Ragna,” Anna said.

  “Come again?” Sherilyn asked.

  “It’s like those horror movies where we meet a character in the first scene, get attached to her, and then—”

  “—she gets hacked to pieces,” Will finished.

  Elaine grunted. “Real subtle.”

  “It’s all about the execution,” Will said. When Rick laughed softly, he added, “You know what I mean.”

  Wells stilled them with a hand. “I agree with Ms. Kovalchyk. This is titillation.”

  Anna gaped at him. “What?”

  “You hoped the subject matter would conceal your lack of skill.”

  She uttered a brittle laugh. “Lack of skill?”

  “It was a wretched sample, Miss Holloway. It didn’t even work as pornography.”

  Elaine tilted back her head and laughed.

  “Shut up,” Bryan growled.

  Anna had tears in her eyes. “If I’m so horrible, why did you choose me?”

  “I didn’t initially. You and Mr. Clayton were the nineteenth and twenty-seventh selections, respectively. Only Mr. Laydon and Miss Jackson were members of the original ten.”

  There was a thunderstruck silence. That explains a lot, Will’s inner critic remarked. What number were you, six thousand and eight?

  Bryan’s voice was thin. “What happened to the others? They realize how outrageous your methods were?”

  Wells looked amused. “They violated the confidentiality clause.”

  Elaine glanced around. “Wait a minute. That was real?”

  “Once you were chosen, you were all tempted to share the news.”

  “How could you know that?” Lucy demanded.

  “Do you deny it?”

  Will certainly couldn’t deny it. The moment he’d been selected, he’d snatched up his phone, opened his contacts, and dialed his parents’ number. He imagined his father, Mr. Disapproval himself, gasping with shock.

  But in the end he didn’t tell, not because of the secrecy clause, but because he knew what would happen if he didn’t win.

  Condescension, more than ever before. His mom patting his hand. I know you did your best, honey. How are things at the insurance company?

  Anna crossed her arms. “You’re trying to humble me.”

  “If I wanted to humble you, I’d share the truth about your debut.”

  Anna stiffened.

  Wells’s dark eyes gleamed. “Don’t want that getting out, do you? How the editor who acquired your drivel was forced into retirement—”

  “Mr. Wells,” Anna started.

  “—because he’d developed a habit of meeting buxom young writers and touting them as the next big thing—”

  “That’s not—”

  “—despite the fact that you had no talents beside the ones crammed into that little dress.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Am I lying, Miss Holloway?”

  “Yes,” she almost wailed. “Ed loved my writing. He got it from my agent, not from me.”

  “And did he acquire the book before or after meeting you?”

  “That had nothing to do with it.”

  “Once his successor got a look at your manuscript, he halted the editorial process. It will remain in limbo until their legal department discovers a means of breaking the contract.”

  There was a gravid silence. Anna kept her eyes on Wells, her bottom lip quivering.

  “Well, well, well,” Elaine said.

  Anna stood a moment longer. Then she dropped her gaze, and clasping her pages, she departed the circle of candles and returned to her seat.

  Will watched her, wishing he could say something consoling. She could be abrasive at times, but this?

  No one deserved this.

  Wells watched Anna without pity. “Put away your feminine wiles and earn your place at the table, Miss Holloway.” He faced the group. “Who’s my next victim?”

  Chapter Nine

  Rick worried he’d be chosen, but Elaine said, “Sherilyn should read.”

  Wells looked pleased. “Ah, yes. Miss Jackson. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  She regarded him dourly. “I’m sure you have.” She glanced at Elaine. “Want to see me beaten up?”

  Elaine’s eyebrows rose. “I genuinely want to hear your story.”

  Sherilyn’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but apparently what she saw in Elaine’s face satisfied her. “Okay.”

  Wells gestured. “The stage belongs to you, Miss Jackson. Don’t fail me.”

  Sherilyn rema
ined next to her chair. Rick didn’t notice she was holding two sets of papers until she raised them for Wells to see. “Before I begin, I need to know whether you’re going to eviscerate my work the way you did the others.”

  “A writer mustn’t fear criticism,” Wells said. “If you desired sugarcoated praise, you should never have accepted my invitation.”

  Sherilyn nodded, handed one sheaf of pages to Lucy. “I figured as much. That’s why I brought two samples.” She ambled into the center of the circle.

  “What if I require Miss Still to read the one you handed her?” Wells asked.

  Lucy looked alarmed.

  Sherilyn lowered her chin, regarded Wells with lifted eyebrows. “‘Require’ her, Mr. Wells? Just how would you do that?”

  Wells smiled, unabashed. “Offer a reward or punishment.”

  Lucy looked ill.

  Sherilyn’s mouth went thin. “You’d punish Lucy for holding my pages?”

  “For holding your pages?” Wells asked. “Of course not. For listening to a middling writer rather than a master storyteller? Yes, I would certainly punish her for that.” He turned to Lucy. “Please proceed.”

  Rick saw Lucy’s face tighten with panic and felt a sudden urge to slug Wells in the teeth.

  Lucy bit her bottom lip. “I don’t think it’s my place to read it.”

  Wells’s expression darkened. “Miss Still, I asked you to read the pages.”

  “Mr. Wells…they’re not mine.”

  “They are in your hands. Once a reader holds a book, the story belongs to her.”

  “They’re not my words.”

  “Miss Still, you signed an agreement, and now you deign to flout that agreement the first time I ask something of you?”

  Lucy glanced down at the pages. “I’m not flouting anything, Mr. Wells.”

  “If Miss Jackson didn’t want that excerpt read, she shouldn’t have brought it. She is deliberately trying to undermine my authority.”

  “Authority?” Sherilyn asked. “You’re our host, not our warden.”

  “You’re mistaken, Miss Jackson. In this realm, I am everything.” He glowered at Lucy. “Read it.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Mr. Wells, I—”

  “I said read it!”