Nine minutes until sundown. Rohan seldom entered locations of interest through their front doors. Windows were much more his style, and of the dozens and dozens of windows on the house on the north point, there was a grand total of one that was penetrable.
Ocean side. Four stories up.
Rohan made it in with no one the wiser. He slipped through the shadows, committing the fourth-floor layout to memory. Seven doors with seven locks.
Then came the footsteps. Heavy boots, worn soles. A languid stride. The person in question made no attempt to mask his approach, but he was lighter on his feet than he should have been.
How very Hawthorne of him.
“Fancy meeting you here.” The eldest Hawthorne brother’s pronounced Texas drawl matched his boots—and the cowboy hat he was wearing. “Nash Hawthorne.” He introduced himself, then leaned back against the wall, crossing one foot over the other.
“Handsome bugger,” Rohan said. He let Nash think that was a compliment, then clarified. “Nash Hawthorne,” he said, nodding to Nash, and then he gestured toward himself. “Handsome bugger. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Nash snorted. “You got a last name? I already know your first.”
Rohan somehow doubted that all the players in the Grandest Game were
getting personal welcomes from Nash Hawthorne. He sighed. “If this is about your brother’s ribs…”
“I’ve never begrudged a man a fair fight.” Nash removed his cowboy hat and ran his thumb along the rim. “This is just me, making a prediction: It’s not gonna be you.”
Nash was talking about the game. He was saying that Rohan was going to lose.
“Behold my devastation.” Rohan held a hand to his heart.
Nash pushed off the wall and strolled toward Rohan. The fact that the cowboy kept eye contact should have felt like a challenge, just like Nash’s prediction should have, but Rohan couldn’t sense even the slightest hint of a dominance maneuver in the man’s words or actions.
Nash Hawthorne simply was.
“Our games have heart,” Nash said, and then he squatted to place something on the floor in front of Rohan and straightened back to his full height. “It ain’t gonna be you, kid.”
This time, the words felt less like a prediction than an admonition. In other circumstances, Rohan might have even considered the delivery… brotherly. But Nash Hawthorne wasn’t looking for another little brother, and Rohan wasn’t looking for anything but the monetary resources he needed to win to claim the Mercy.
He looked to the object Nash had placed on the floor: a bronze key, large and ornate.
“Find the room that opens,” Nash advised. “You’ll know what to do once you do.” With that, Nash turned to saunter away.
You think you know what I’m capable of, do you, Hawthorne? Rohan did love to make people think again. “Congratulations, by the way,” he called after Nash. “On the babies.”
