To Best the Boys(50)

Vincent sniffs. “Well I’m here because my parents could use the money. If my way is paid, it’d free up their ability to donate to other things. And I feel strongly about my responsibility to contribute wisdom and talents to better our world.”

I study him. That’s the shallowest answer I’ve ever heard from him. Kind of like everything else these days. No heart, just a shell. In the past I would’ve demanded a real answer from him—a better answer—one that is true of a friend. Except I no longer care.

“Spoken like a politician’s kid,” Will says beneath his breath, and Seleni nods.

Beryll looks at Rubin. “Your turn, man.”

“Well, it’s none of your business why I’m here. But just to prove you wrong on this whole confession sesh—I’m here for the fame.” He raises his hands and waits. “Annnnd just as I predicted—your sweet assertions didn’t do a bleeding thing to get us any freer. In fact, it wasted our time.” He goes back to standing at the table near Will.

Germaine and Beryll go back to messing with the number pad, and I take a spot on the floor, from which to study the room and painting. Until, after ten minutes of pressing every combination we all can think of, Germaine throws up his hands and declares the thing broken, and surrenders himself to the floor, too, while Vincent gets up and tries his own attempt at it again. I shut my eyes to tune them all out so I can focus.

Someone bumps my foot and sits down, and even with my eyes closed I know it’s Seleni. I can feel her heightened nerves. I open my eyes to smile assurance at her—only it’s not her. It’s Lute.

He holds my gaze a solid ten seconds—long enough for me to blink—then he looks away.

My stomach hits the floor. Maybe he knows who I am after all.

I sneak him a side glance and am met with my answer clear as day on his somewhat handsome, stony face. Lute waits until Vincent rattles off more number combinations before he bumps his leg against mine and stiffly mutters, “You’re wearing pants.”

“So are you, thank Caldon.”

His lip twitches. “You dress as a boy often?”

“No more than you.”

A small smirk appears.

Vincent pivots from the keypad and says to the room, “You know my father would suggest no one rests until we’ve figured this thing out.”

Lute’s smile is instantly gone. He drops his tone. “I’m sure his father would also suggest how progressive you are to have followed your beau in here.”

Annoyance floods my veins. My mouth goes dry, and I start to whisper that Vincent is certainly not my beau, but Lute’s gaze interrupts me. “I saw your fears back in the maze,” he says quietly. “Seems like a pleasant future you’ve chosen, Miss Tellur.”

Pleasant?

He tips his head toward Vincent but doesn’t move from watching me. Just hardens his jaw beneath a swag of black bangs and says coldly, “He’s quite the catch. I’m sure your future will be too.”

Is he jesting? What is he talking about? Those were fears, not choices. Before I can reply to his rudeness, he stands and strides off to join Sam, and I am left wondering what in King Francis’s name is wrong with him. I glare until a sense of someone else watching me takes over.

I turn to see Vincent staring right at me. Eyes sharp. Blond hair perfectly in place. He furrows his brow, then shifts his interest to Lute.

With a scowl at both of them, I pat my cap to ensure it’s still in place, then rest my head on the floor because my brain needs a break from all the talking and Lute’s daft assumptions and Vincent being Vincent—whoever that is anymore.

The group of them keep mumbling things, but I tune them out and wander my mind back over the words from Kellen that I’ve heard three times now thanks to that blasted number pad. “Up and down and all around . . .”

“Why are you here?”

My shoulders relax against the cool stone floor.

“Up and down and all around . . .” The words and numbers on the painting are shifting order in my peripheral sight.

I tip my head a little farther upside down from the position I’m already lying in, and for some reason the room looks clearer from that perspective. In fact . . .

I frown and shove my hat tighter on my head—and do a headstand against the wall and take in the view. The room is almost an exact mirror image of itself from the top—with the number pad halfway up the wall, the clocks now flipped around, and, in fact, the painting itself looking more precise.

“Why are we here?” I murmur.

“Hey, kid, what’re you doing?” Germaine asks. “This isn’t playtime.”

“Shh.” I lift one finger to measure the distance between the floor and ceiling and that picture hanging much too perfectly to be a coincidence. “Look. Why are we here—instead of . . . there?” I point to the ceiling.

Rubin groans.

“Oh,” Seleni says.

It’s so simple I almost laugh in embarrassment. How could we have tried every combination but the obvious one? I turn my gaze on the boys. “Gentlemen, I think we’re supposed—”

A loud thump shakes the floor, followed by the sound of someone gurgling. I drop and flip back onto my feet to see Will writhing on the floor with foam bubbling from his mouth. The next second Sam’s going for Rubin—plowing his head into his chest and knocking him over.