Jameson flew the helicopter, which surprised Lyra less than the fact that Grayson deigned to ride in back with the players—four of them in total. The introductions had already been made.
Focus on the competition, Lyra told herself. Not on Grayson Hawthorne. Rohan was to her right, conveniently blocking—or mostly blocking— Grayson from view. The British competitor sat with his long legs stretched out slightly, his posture casual—deliberately so. Opposite Rohan was a guy in his mid-twenties who Jameson had introduced as Knox Landry. Lyra
turned her attention to him.
Knox had frat-boy hair, gelled and combed back except where it fell artfully into his face. He was white, lightly tanned, and brunette with shrewd eyes, dark eyebrows, and a sharp jawline, and he wore an expensive fleece sports vest over a collared shirt. The combined effect of his outfit and his hair should have screamed country club or finance bro, but a nose that had been broken one time too many whispered bar fight instead.
As Lyra studied him, Knox openly returned the favor. Whatever he saw in her, the guy clearly wasn’t impressed.
Underestimate me. Please. Lyra was used to it. There were worse things in the world than being handed a strategic advantage, right off the bat.
Her temper fully in check, Lyra turned her attention to the old woman seated beside Knox. Odette Morales had thick, silvery-gray hair that she wore long and loose. The tips—and only the tips—had been dyed jet black.
Lyra wondered how old she was.
“Eighty-one, darling.” Odette read Lyra like a book, then smiled. “I like to think I’ve mellowed with age.”
Not mellow, Lyra registered. Something about Odette—her aging beauty, her smile—reminded Lyra of an eagle on the hunt.
The helicopter took a sudden, sharp turn, trapping a breath in Lyra’s throat as the view out her window banished every other thought from her mind. The Pacific Ocean was vast and blue—a rich, dark blue woven through with shades of green just as deep. Along the coastline, large rock formations jutted out above the water, like monuments to another time and a more ancient earth. There was something magical about the way the waves broke against the rocks.
As the helicopter peeled off the coast and soared out over the water, Lyra wondered how far they had to go. What kind of range did this helicopter have? A hundred miles? Five hundred miles?
Take it all in. Breathe. For an instant, as the chopper continued zinging along its path, all Lyra could see was ocean—fathomless, limitless.
And then, she saw the island.
It wasn’t large, but as the helicopter drew closer, it became clear to Lyra that the splotch of land wasn’t as small as it had first appeared, either. The view from above was mostly beige and green—except where it was black.
That was when Lyra knew: where they were, where they were going.
Hawthorne Island.
The helicopter dipped suddenly, diving downward, then straightening just in time to skim inches above the tree line. In the span of a heartbeat, the chopper crossed from healthy forest to the charred remains of long-dead trees, a reminder that this wasn’t just a private island, a holiday getaway, a billionaire’s indulgence, one of many.
This place was haunted.
Lyra knew better than most: Tragedy couldn’t just be wiped away. Loss left marks. The deeper the scar, the longer it lasted. There was a fire here, decades ago. She tried to remember everything she’d read about the fire on Hawthorne Island. People died. Blame fell on a local girl, not the Hawthornes.
Convenient, that.
Lyra leaned forward in her seat and inadvertently caught sight of
Grayson. He had the kind of face that looked like it had been carved from ice or stone—sharp angles, hard jaw, lips full enough that they should have softened his face but didn’t. His hair was pale, his eyes a piercing, silvery gray. Grayson Hawthorne looked, in Lyra’s opinion, exactly like he sounded, like weaponized perfection: inhuman, in control, without mercy.
To whom am I speaking? his voice said in her memory. Or would you prefer I rephrase the question: On whom am I about to hang up?
Lyra slammed herself back in her seat. Luckily, no one noticed. They were landing.
A circular target marked the helipad, and thanks to Jameson Hawthorne, they touched down dead center in a landing so smooth that Lyra barely felt it.
It was less than a minute until the helicopter doors opened, but even that felt like too long. Lyra couldn’t escape the enclosed space fast enough.
“In some senses,” Jameson announced once the players had deboarded, “the game starts tonight. But in another very real sense… it starts right now.”
Right now. Lyra’s heart rate ticked up. Forget Grayson. Forget the Hawthornes. They’d been children when her stranger of a father had died with the Hawthorne name on his lips. Maybe they could have found something out about the truth, if they’d cared to—if he had cared to—but that wasn’t why she’d come. Lyra was here for her family. For Mile’s End.
“You’ll have until sunset to explore the island,” Jameson told the players, leaning back against the helicopter once more. “It’s within the realm of possibility that we’ve hidden a few things out there. Hints about what you can expect in this year’s game. Objects that will prove of use, somewhere down the line.” Jameson pushed off the helicopter, prowling around the lot of them as he continued. “There’s a newly built house on the north point. Do whatever you like between now and sundown, but anyone who fails to make it inside the house by the time the sun fully disappears from the horizon is out the game.”
Explore the island. Make it in by sundown. Lyra’s body was ready, her muscles primed to move, her senses heightened. She walked straight past Grayson Hawthorne to the edge of the landing pad.
“Watch your step,” his crisp, self-assured voice ordered behind her. “There’s a drop-off.”
“I don’t fall,” Lyra said flatly. “Good balance.” There was no reply, and despite herself, she glanced back. Her gaze landed first on Jameson, who was looking at Grayson with the oddest expression on his face. And Grayson…
Grayson was looking at her. He stared at Lyra—not just like he was noticing her for the first time, but like her very existence had smacked him in the jaw.
Was he really so unused to anyone pushing back?
Lyra didn’t need this. She needed to move. Knox and Rohan were already gone. Odette stood facing the ocean, the wind blowing her long, black-tipped hair behind her like a flag.
Jameson looked from Grayson to Lyra and smiled a smile that could only be described as wicked. “This should be fun.”
