No thanks. She didn't want to get involved. Not because she was afraid of the tall boy—not much, anyway—but he was creepy, and gave her an icky, slimy feeling. She didn't want a scene. She didn't like confrontations.
Val felt her friend's eyes bore into her back when she turned away. The beginnings of a headache burned behind her eyeballs and she thought, I'm going to pay for that later.
“Val?” James said, walking over with a glass of golden liquid. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”
She turned towards him, grateful for an excuse to look away from Lisa and GM. “I got ditched.”
“So I saw.” He took a sip of cider, frowning at the taste. Or maybe at her. “What were you guys talking about?”
“My name.”
The glass paused a few centimeters from his lips. “Your name?”
“That, and other things. He knew what it meant.”
James shrugged and took a sip. “What does it mean?”
“The flower. The symbolism. Love, sleep, something, something—I can't remember the rest.” She almost added, he knows a lot about flowers but that would have sounded like she was defending him, or parroting what he'd said before. “It was creepy, like he didn't even have to think about it.”
“So?”
“So valerians aren't common. James, even you didn't know that they were flowers.”
“And you're surprised he does? Did you not see that garden out front? Guy seriously needs to get laid.”
“He also knew we were going out.” She let that hang.
James exhaled deeply. “Well, duh. Of course he does. I invited you, didn't I?”
“So you told him.”
Impatience was starting to wear through his words. “No, I didn't tell him. Not exactly. But he's not an idiot, Val. I'm sure he just connected point A to point B—it's not like I needed to spell everything out for him. What's the big deal, anyway? Why are you so worked up over this?”
“I—” Her voice broke. She wanted to shake him for not understanding what she couldn't put into words, silly and irrational though it was. Why couldn't he see what she could? Was he that oblivious, or was she that crazy?
I don't like those odds.
GM was talking to Lisa now. She didn't appear to have any doubts about him at all.
What secret was he hiding behind that flawless facade? GM—who wouldn't tell them his real name, and yet knew so much about the meaning of hers. GM—whose initials happened to be the same as grandmaster, in addition to Gavin Mecozzi.
She felt like she'd been splashed in the face with ice water. GM was the abbreviation for grandmaster, she'd seen it used. Three coincidences were not a coincidence. They were a pattern. “He calls himself GM,” she said aloud. “Who else has those initials that you can think of?”
He eyed her a moment before slowly tilting his head to one side and studying GM. “I'm not sure.”
“Well, I think we should leave. Right now.”
James spat out his mouthful of cider and his spit-take drew stares from the other guests. “What?”
“James—people are looking! What's the matter with you?”
“What's the matter with me? What's the matter with you? You're acting completely paranoid.”
“Our host—GM—he gives me the creeps. He reminds me of my stalker. I don't feel safe. I'm not having fun. I don't want to be here, and I just want to go home.”
“Val,” he said, very gently, “Did you take your medication today?”
It was as if he'd slapped her. He thinks I'm crazy.
Without another word, Val stormed to the snack table and helped herself to a California roll. Then two. Then a third. The vinegar sweetness of the rice and avocado made her feel better, but it couldn't take away the bitterness in her mouth.
Am I crazy? She took another look at GM. I don't think so. But then again, crazy people never do.
“Good, huh?” Blake said. He was munching on a California roll, too. “I love these.”
Val nodded, but kept her mouth shut, not trusting herself to speak. If she did, she suspected she might explode. Or cry. Blake raised his eyebrows pointedly at her silence but didn't press the subject, which she appreciated. She had always liked him the most, out of all of James's friends. Most of them were rowdy, athletic golden boys just like James, but Blake was quiet, calm, contemplative.
I like James, she told herself. Unconvincingly. I just wish he weren't such a jerk sometimes. All the time. Most of the time.
But that wasn't completely fair. She had been accusing their host of being a psychotic stalker. That was jerky, too.
Not if he is one.
Everyone thought she was being paranoid. They couldn't see the resemblance; they thought it was all in her head like so much else. Even she was having her doubts. Yeah, the words were a little similar, but GM's behavior was quite different. And he'd mostly left her alone, speaking to her only to deliver an impromptu lecture on horticulture.
He still should have taken me seriously. She glared at James, who had joined Lisa and GM in their discussion. Traitor.
“Are you…all right?” Blake asked hesitantly.
“I feel a little sick.”
“That cider probably isn't helping then. Here.” He handed her a bottle of water, still cold. “Drink this.”
She took it gratefully downing a fourth of it in one gulp.
“Better?”
“Yes—thank you.”
“No problem.” He turned back to the sushi, his face a little pinker than it had been before.
Val hesitated. “Blake, do you think—” Oh wait. He didn't move here until last year. He wouldn't remember Gavin.
Blake was watching her, his expression curious but guarded. “Do I think what?”
“Do you, um…think GM is weird?”
“Who isn't?” Blake's eyes lingered on the trio on the other side of the room. Something in his face, some niggling suspicion, gave her hope that her own fears weren't entirely unfounded. Then he shrugged. His silence was more receptive than James's casual dismissal.
“He reminds me of someone.”
Blake lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? Who?”
“Someone…dangerous.”
Blake opened his mouth. Shut it. Val watched him glance over at GM again and frown. She would have given anything to know what was going through his head.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Then be careful,” Blake said.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
“Has everyone finished eating?” GM asked, noticing the lull in the conversation. No response met his query. He smiled at all of them. “In that case, shall we return to the parlor for introductions?”
His gray eyes seemed to search their faces intently before he spun on his heel and started back into the adjacent room, leaving them with little choice but to follow.
Val was still furious at James. When he motioned for her to sit by him, she sat between one of the other boys—the tall one—and Blake. The former gave her a critical once-over. She looked him in the eye and he turned his attention to the front of the room. Stiffed again.
James mouthed something, his face twisted into a concerned frown. Val ignored him and looked at GM. He'd gone too far this time. She couldn't believe he'd all but accused her of being mental in public.
“Why don't we start by saying our names, and then something interesting about yourselves? You go first,” he added carelessly, pointing at James.
“I'm James.” He smiled winningly. Hi, I'm a Big Fat Jerk. “I'm good with computers. I'm also an artist. I like drawing but find painting a waste of time, and recently I've gotten into digital art.”
“You find painting a waste of time?”
“Well…yeah,” said James. “It's messy, not to mention time-consuming. You can finish faster and with much better accuracy using a computer instead of a paintbrush.”
“Oh, but James—time is what makes it worth our while.”
Very creepy. His eyes started to move in her direction. She quickly looked away. Don't let him catch you looking.
The next guest was Lisa.
“Je parle français.”
“Comme je l'fais,” GM said.
Lisa did a double take. “Couramment? Votre accent est parfait.”
Not one to be left out, the girl on the white team broke in, giving Lisa a dour look. “Oui, il est. Je suis d'accord.”
“Non.” He gave a modest shrug that wasn't very convincing. “Comme ci, comme ça.”
“I know it's a lot to ask,” the boy beside Val said, “but do you mind speaking English?”
“I apologize,” said GM. “Moving on.”
The brunette was next. She introduced themselves as Charlene—Charlie—who said her biggest hobby was boys. She looked at GM when she said it, but he didn't seem to notice. Her statement did earn her a dark look from Lisa, though. Probably jealous she didn't think of the line first.
Lisa would have never looked twice at Gavin, so maybe it wasn't him. Val almost smiled until she realized it was almost her turn and she had no idea what to say. What was she going to say? She wasn't the least bit interesting. She thought about saying she spoke Spanish and wanted to go to Chile, but then it would sound like she'd copied Lisa.
The introductions wore on tirelessly as she fretted. The heavier boy was named Brent and liked sports. No surprises there. He apparently had a scholarship to some prestigious university back East to play football. Gravely, Brent informed them all how excited he was.
The other boy's name was Jason who enjoyed writing. He had won some minor awards in the past for some of his horror stories, about which he was arrogant. He wanted to be a “spook,” in his own words, and planned on visiting the District of Columbia this summer to look for possible research or job opportunities for his year off.
Then everyone's eyes went to her expectantly. Color seeped into Val's face. One pair was a pale gray. “Um.” She wet her dry lips. “I'm Valerian. Val. I volunteer at an animal shelter sometimes.” She winced—lame.
“Since when?” Lisa called across several of the guests.
“Since the beginning of senior year. It's for my community service requirements.”
“Crap. I forgot all about that.”
“You guys have to do community service? That sucks. At White Oaks we have a job shadowing program. It's basically slave labor, but at least we get work experience,” Jason drawled.
“I like working at the animal shelter,” she said hotly.
“Careful,” said James. “If you get Valerian going, she'll start lecturing you on the Rights of Man's Best Friend.”
She sent him a dirty look.
“What kind of name is that anyway, Valerian?” Charlie wrinkled her nose. “I've heard of Valerie, not Valerian.”
Val didn't think girls named Charlie should be all nitpicky about names. “It's my name.”
“Latin, I should think,” said GM, and this time Val got the force of her dark look.
Blake was last. He took off his glasses to polish them on his shirt and Val wondered if that was so he wouldn't have to look at any of them. “I played trumpet for eight years and violin for nine,” he informed his crotch.
“Who is your favorite composer?”
“Holst,” said Blake. “For his Order of the Planets, Goethe for Erlkönig, and Saint-Saëns and Debussy for—well, everything, really. They're great. Really great.”
“Fond of the Romantics and Impressionists, are we? And what of the Classicists?”
“Not as much. Though all of it's beautiful. But then, you did ask me for my favorite.”
“That I did.”
Val looked expectantly at him, wondering if this was some sort of segue into his own introduction. It wasn't. Of course it wasn't—and lose that creepy mystique? Instead, he said, “Who wants to play a game?”
“Strip poker?” said James.
“No.” GM's smile was tight-lipped. “I was thinking along the lines of something more familiar. Hide and seek, for example.”
He paused, and his eyes seemed to search each of them out individually. Val looked down at her hands before their eyes could meet, so she didn't see his expression when Blake said, hesitantly, “Isn't that a children's game?”
“A baby's game,” James clarified, rolling his eyes. “Ultra lame.”
“Ah, but this version has a little twist, you see.” He straightened, allowing his hands to rest on his hips. “The principle is still the same, of course. One person will count while the others hide. They must be tagged or they will not be counted out—but, rather than simply being 'out', the first person found and tagged will suffer a penalty round. I call this particular version Hunt and Capture.”
The skin on the back of Val's neck prickled in alarm. Penalty round? Hunt and capture?
“Does that mean they have to sit in the corner?” James again, in another stab at humor. This time, no one laughed.
“Not quite. Don't look so nervous. There won't be any real traps involved, my no. It just has a better ring to it, don't you think?”
“What's the penalty?” Jason asked.
“Play well enough and you need not find out.”
Val thought it sounded sinister. She thought it sounded like something she didn't want to play at all. She thought she wanted to be at home, in bed, curled up with a book.
Nobody else seemed to share her apprehension. One by one, the expressions of concern had dropped from their faces. James looked amused, Blake mildly entertained, and Lisa…well, Lisa was hard to read and probably resented GM for resorting to something so juvenile, but she had her game face on and so it was hard to tell. As for the others, the ones in white, their reactions varied from interest to boredom, in the case of the girl.
“Who's the hunter?” Jason asked, looking like he wouldn't mind having the role for himself.
And for some reason, Val thought, No.
“I'll do it,” James said. “Sure, why not?”
“Since you're volunteering.” GM gave a decidedly Gallic one-shouldered shrug. “Start counting down from one hundred. The rest of you—I suggest you run. Yes?”
Is he going to run, too? She had a hard time picturing him running from anything.
“Run?” Charlie pursed her lips. Not a good look. The gesture got lipstick on her teeth. “Run where?”
“Away. Any room that is not locked is not off-limits. You may hide wherever you see fit.”
James paused at ninety-two. “Are we not starting yet?”
“Technically, the game has been in play for ten seconds. I would get a move on, if I were you,” he added, glancing at the hunted, still seated in their chairs. “Nobody wants to be caught. Not usually, anyway.”
It is him.
She stared hard at him, but he did not meet her eyes.
Isn't it?
It felt like somebody had stolen her senses. The floors seemed to spin and tilt, making the climb to her feet seem as impossible a feat as scaling Mt. Everest.
What's happening to me? Panic-attack? Oh God, let it not be a panic-attack. Not here. Not now.
James continued counting off from eighty-seven, and Val stumbled along on unsteady legs as the rest of the players scattered.
Chapter Six
Capture
Val wandered the halls consumed by the childish but pressingly real sense of panic that she was going to be “caught” first. GM had been right about one thing—this variant had a twist, and she didn't like it. At all.
Every sound, whether in her head or from the floors above, made her twist around to glance over her shoulder while her ears buzzed with the silence and her pulse throbbed in her ears like shots from a gun.
Beads of icy sweat dripped down her back. With each backwards glance, she was sure she had seen something crawl from the shadows, gliding in and out of her periphery like a phantom…but there was never anything there.
I hate this game. I hate it.
> She remembered the series of rooms that GM hadn't really stopped to let them see at the beginning of the tour. Surely there was a hiding place there? Better than running around here, like a chicken with its head cut off. She doubled back, trying to retrace her steps in the dark, and her face brightened a little when she recognized a striking vase perched on the sill of one of the cathedral windows.
Yes. I remember that. I remember this hallway. It leads to the foyer, I think.
Val passed more vases and then, yes, there, to the right of the front door, was a spiral staircase. Footsteps creaked from further down the hall. For a moment she considered bolting—but no, that really was crazy. Where would she go? It was pitch dark outside and James had the keys to the car.
The bus? No. No, the bus didn't head this far out. Fuck this. She tightened her grip on the banister and took the stairs two at a time, grateful that her flats didn't make too much sound on the boards. Lisa had worn heels and Val could only imagine the ruckus she was making. She'll probably be the one caught first, she thought. Not me.
She paused, holding her breath, listening for the footsteps she thought she'd heard.
There's nothing there. Nobody's following you. Stop acting like a loon. She had been so sure about their host, and look how quickly her friends had dismissed that as another of Crazy Val's notion. Who is GM? She shook her head as if that could make her see more clearly through shadows and secrets alike. It's like he came out of nowhere. He practically did.
Even if he wasn't Gavin, he scared her. Behind that plastic mask his eyes burned.
The second story was cloaked in darkness. Her groping fingers located the sharp edges of a glass light-switch plate. She hissed, yanking her had back as though a snake had bitten her, and pinched her finger against her thumb. Liquid caused her two fingers to slip and slide against one another. Damn it—I'm bleeding. The house was so dirty and dusty; with her luck microbes were already gravitating to the wound.
It was all for nothing, anyway. She couldn't turn on the lights. If they were all off before and she turned them on she might as well just stick a neon “come and get me!” sign over her head. She clenched her injured fingers into a fist and moved on. The sooner she found a hiding place, the sooner she could try and calm down and see to it that this incoming attack went its course.
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