What kind of deal are you proposing?” Savannah asked.
A good sign, that. “You implied that you are playing this game for something other than the prize money,” Rohan noted, “whereas I am interested only in the money.”
“No deal.” Savannah tried to step past him, into the next room. Their final room.
Rohan blocked her, leaving them standing very close. “You haven’t heard my terms.”
“Are you suggesting that you would help me win, then willingly step back and allow me to claim victory under the mere promise that I would then give the money to you?” Savannah wore her skepticism like a crown. “You don’t trust me that much, Rohan—or at all.”
And there was the rub. “Then perhaps the deal is this,” Rohan countered. “We agree to work together on the next phase of the game—to a point.” Rohan had struck his first deal with the Proprietor—with the Mercy—when he was five years old. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to bargain with the devil. “Once you and I have dispatched the competition in whatever phase or phases come next, once the Grandest Game is nearly won…” He flashed his teeth in the kind of smile that he hoped reminded Savannah of hands fisted in hair, of grips that were just a little painful. “At that point, we’re free to do everything in our power to take each other down.”
In the end, he would win—no matter what lines he had to cross to do it. “You said that you would enjoy destroying me, love.” Rohan smiled.
“Consider the feeling mutual.”
“An alliance where the end goal is betrayal.” Savannah studied him for the longest time. “How novel.”
“It’s not betrayal,” Rohan said, hyperaware of every place that her body almost touched his, “if we both go into this with open eyes.”
“Believe me, British.” Savannah leaned forward. “My eyes are open.” Savannah pushed past him, stepping over the FINALE threshold. Rohan followed, turning sharply to what it soon became apparent was a hallway lined with mirrors.
He could see Savannah from every side. Angles. Curves. Power.
The mirrored hall let out into another room—a large one. The first thing Rohan saw was the mats on the floor, marked off just so. Propped against the closest wall were two sabers, two masks, two white jackets with metal overlay.
“Fencing,” Rohan said. How very appropriate.
“Swordplay.” Savannah glanced from the sabers to the sword in Rohan’s hand, then to his face, before striding to the far side of the room—a rock-climbing wall. Without a word, she began to climb, vintage silk gown and all.
Rohan noted, with some admiration, that she hadn’t let go of the three items she had taken from the previous room: the silk fan, the vial of glitter, and the lint roller. She held them and still managed to climb.
That left Rohan with the birthday card and the longsword. “That makes three swords in this game now, total,” he called out. “There could be something to that.”
He examined the blades on the sabers. Unlike the longsword, they had no inscriptions. Rohan tested the weight of each saber, tried on each mask, and turned the jackets inside out.
“If you really wanted me to consider making a deal,” Savannah called down from the top of the wall, “you’d offer me the longsword in exchange. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you guard that thing. Your body is always conveniently between it and me.”
Rohan thought he’d been more subtle than that. “You’re still wearing the lock and chain,” he countered. “Despite the fact that it’s served a purpose in the past.”
Grandest Game by foreshadowing the nature of the game, you cannot be sure it’s served its only purpose. Do you blame me for hedging my bets with the sword?”
“I’m fully capable of blaming you for everything,” Savannah said. “What do you make of the wall behind you?”
Is this a test, Savvy? Rohan turned. The wall in question appeared to be an enormous whiteboard. An intricate maze had been drawn upon its surface, with three end points:
A checkerboard.
A hangman’s noose.
And another game, a simple one.
“X’s and O’s.” Savannah scaled down the wall and strode toward him. “Tic-Tac-Toe.”
“Also known as Noughts And Crosses,” Rohan murmured. He looked to the checkerboard, which was set to play, its pieces, like the X’s and O’s, magnetic.
“Games on the wall. Rock climbing. Swords.” Savannah kept her summary of their surroundings brief.
“A lint roller,” Rohan added. “A birthday card. A vial of glitter. And a silk fan.” He opened the card, and music began to play—instrumental, the song familiar.
Opposite him, Savannah opened the fan. The stiff silk fabric was a dark, midnight blue, and there was a word embroidered on it in shining, silver thread. SURRENDER.
Rohan read the word out loud.
Savannah looked from the fan back up to him. “Never.”
He was taken back to the base of the flagpole. Now, as then, what she’d just said sounded tantalizingly like a challenge.
“Some of us don’t find surrender all that sweet.” Rohan leaned forward, closer to her and then a little closer still. “Some of us prefer the fight. I am not asking you to surrender, Savannah Grayson. And if you think there won’t be other alliances coming out of this phase of the game…” Rohan played his trump card. “You clearly didn’t spend much time watching your brother and Lyra Kane.”
Half brother. Rohan anticipated the correction. “Half brother.” And there it was.
Rohan waited. The ability to wait—in negotiation or in shadows—was one of his finest skills.
Savannah opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, darkness fell. Total, absolute darkness. The lights in the room. The strings of fairy lights on the shore. All gone.
There was a sound—the heater turning off.
“The plot thickens.” Rohan let his voice surround her. “It appears the game makers have cut the power.”
