Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (7 page)

Ariel shakes her head. “Like I said, they crammed all my training into one day. I haven't slept for — I don't even know. At least a day.
Maybe more, between tutorials and unpacking. Tash has been bringing me coffee nonstop. If it weren't for her, I'd probably be hugging the carpet right now.”

“
I'd tell you it's going to get better, but…” Vol shrugs. “Shouldn't Suryan be helping you? They usually have two God Mods on duty for events as big as these.”

“
That would be amazing, but I'm signed up to work alone.” Ariel glances at her virtusketch. “Wait. No, apparently another Master of Games — God Mod — is supposed to arrive in about fifteen minutes. I didn't see that before.” She squints at the screen. “Oh, I see.” She looks at Vol. “They've been doing things like this to me all day, modifying the schedule constantly. I figured it was a hazing ritual, but it appears to be disorganization. Anyway, it's a man. The Mod, I mean. I'm not sure what they've done with your Suryan but she's not here and from what I can tell, she's not going to be.”

“
Thanks anyway.”

“
Good luck.”

Ariel returns to the reception area, leaving Vol alone, so she knows she's been dismissed. She walks to the cubicle Ariel pointed out and hesitates at the doorway. She thinks she hears a hushed sound. A footstep, maybe, muted by the carpet. Vol glances over her shoulder and then slams the doors hut behind her, walking over to the chair to submit herself once more to the machine-induced thrall.

She is in the forest again. Green, still, and calm.

Vol is crouched on her knees, the leather encasing her legs stretched so tautly across the knees that it creaks when she moves. A tattered bandeau is secured around her waist with three heavy buckled belts, and a cloak with a cowl completes the outfit.

Was she dressed like this in the previous round? She didn't notice how revealing it is.

She stands, drawing the hood over her face and the cloak over her body, and accesses the archives through the data-link.

Program: Bounty_Strike_4.exe

Class: Bandit

The Empire's high taxes and oppressive reign have forced its inhabitants to take to the streets to survive. Bandits have overrun the countryside, holding up travelers and obstructing trade relations with neighboring kingdoms. Bounty hunters have been employed to detain and capture any highway men- and women- they find. Alive … or dead.

Mission objectives: River

River?

Vol probes deeper into the archives, seeking more information. The archives flicker and abruptly disappear as her access to the data-
link is cut. Well, crap. Does that mean she doesn't have a hunter this time around? No, she isn't that lucky. She probably has two.

She bets that Kira heard gossip that Vol finished the game early, and made a few subsequent additions, because gods forbid anything around here ever be simple. That's okay, though, because Vol doesn't mind a good challenge. Provided she can win it, that is.

The rules may have changed, but the gamescape hasn't. Vol still sort of resembles the route she took before. Since she isn't being chased, she has a chance to study her surroundings on a level less superficial than what kind of camouflage they are capable of providing. The scenery has definite aesthetic appeal. Kira's boyfriend Jade, a Weaver, outdid himself. Vol is sure that it can't be easy, keeping up with Kira's erratic and fanciful ideas.

Jade is from Meridan, and she can see the influence of his native Helix Forest in everything from beech trees standing sentry like soldiers, to the rowans and the oaks, to the graceful ferns spreading their fronds like grasping hands, to the bluebells that seemed to reflect the sky — and the river. She is here.

Vol steps over the slippery rocks with caution, grateful for her heavy boots and the traction they provide. Downstream the water flows faster, culminating in frothy whitecaps that churn up foam and debris. The rocks form a natural dam that keeps this upstream section somewhat tranquil. Vol doesn't like to think about what will
happen if she slips and gets caught in the current.

Keeping close to the river's edge, Vol walks against the flow of the water, following it to its source. Except for the burble of water, the forest is silent, and soon she finds herself growing relaxed. She wonders where the other Players and Marks are. The game arena isn't so big that sound couldn't carry. She heard that boy and girl fighting, after all.

That makes her think of Tash and she smiles against her will. She pities the poor soul stuck with the fiery Arbatian as his or her partner this round.

Once or twice an animal darts through the underbrush — something soft-pawed and curious, ducking out of sight just as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing more substantial than a glimpse of brown fur or lashing tail. Vol starts each time, thinking it's the danger awaiting her.

Her game objective.

That man.

When Vol's purported assailant turns out to be a rabbit, she lets out a laugh that sounds too high and thin to really be hers. What has happened to that fearless girl running laughingly through the trees? Fake. Just like everything else around here. A paragon. An ideal.

The rocks are larger now, more like boulders. The river is more violent now, too, resembling rapids more than a gentle stream. Long
platforms of shale jut out over the riverbank, partially eroded where weathering has caused the brittle stone to break off and be carried downstream.

Her side of the riverbank grows too steep and unstable to traverse. She's forced to retreat a little way back down the river and cross over to the other side via a fallen log. The log is partially rotted. Panic seizes her when her boot splinters through wood. Luckily, the log was being held in place between two large rocks, and she manages to grab onto one of them as she goes down. She scrapes both knees but manages to avoid being swept away.

She tears her nails in an attempt to right herself. The stones are sharp and slick with algae, cutting and repelling at the same time.

When she finally manages to get to dry land, her cloak is plastered to her body like a slimy second skin. She peels it off distastefully, slinging it over her arm to better assess the damage. She is cold, and bitterly so. Her entire body is tingling with the pins-and-needles sensation of simulated pain. Her knees have been injured worse than she thought; in keeping with the reality matrix of the game, she probably won't be able to run.

Let's hope I won't need to
.

But what she sees an instant later changes her mind.

Sprawled on one of the rock plateaus is a man. His eyes are closed, hands folded behind his head, one knee up as he basks in the
sunshine. His long coat fans out behind him like the wings of a hawk. Beneath it is a pale green shirt, and fitted pants tucked into a pair of boots not unlike her own. A bow and arrow are propped against the bank of rocks beside him, and knives are strapped to his legs. Vol swallows hard.

It's him.

“
Hmm. I was right. The bandit look suits you.”

He hasn't opened his eyes, but the smile on his face wasn't there before.

He has a bit of five-o'-clock shadow she didn't notice in the darkened ballroom. It gives him a half-tamed appearance that makes his harsh face look that much fiercer. Vol remembers the dagger at her hip and grips it. “Why are you following me?”

He cracks open an eye and props himself up on his elbows. His eyes drop to the knife — she hopes it's the knife he's looking at — and he shakes his head. “Come here. Then we'll talk.”

That sounds like a bad idea to her. “I can hear you fine right here.”

“
Is it the arrows?” He kicks bow and quiver into the stream and grins a grin that puts the devil to shame. “There. Now I'm harmless.”

“
No?” He tilts his head, shifting to his side so he can lean his stubbled chin on his hand. “Well, harmless enough. Don't you
think?”

“
No.”

He lifts his chin and half-sits up, spreading his empty hands. “I can't hurt you here.”

He has a point. She's only making a fool of herself.

Warily, keeping one eye trained on him the entire time, Vol climbs up the small pile of rocks and sits cross-legged near his feet, setting the soiled cloak beside her. “Don't get any ideas. I came here for answers.”

“
You have to ask a question first.” He smiles. “That's usually how it's done.”

“
You kissed me.”

“
Not exactly a question, Vol.”

“
Why did you do it?” she grates.

“
You say that as if it's the first time.”

A chill goes through her. “With me, yes. I'm sure there were others.”

Now he's laughing. “If I wasn't so sure that was an insult, I might feel flattered.”

“
Think what you want.”

“
Oh, believe me. I don't need your permission for that.”

“
You're a bastard.”

He straightens from his lackadaisical sprawl, hanging his arms
off his knees. His eyes are hooded by the shadows cast by the overhanging beeches and gleam with amusement. And something else. Something darker. “You don't know me, Vol. Or you claim not to. It's never a good idea to judge people you don't know.”

“
So you do know me.”

“
Once.” She is falling in those eyes. “Very well.”

She folds her arms. The sunlight does nothing to warm her skin. “When?”

“
A gentleman never tells.”

“
I don't see a conflict of interest there.”

“
With a tongue like that, you have no need for a dagger.”

Vol tightens her grip on it instead. “Why are you following me?”

“
Because you seem to be avoiding me.”

“
There's a reason for that.”

His lips part into a slow and sensuous smile. “I know.”

Vol leans away from him, wishing that all she felt for him was fear. “What do you want?”

The smile turns slightly feral. “Is that an offer?”

“
No.”

“
Then you're baiting me.” He catches her by the waist then, and she tumbles into his lap. “Purposely.” The sensation of his gloved hands on her bare skin feels novel and strange. “And I don't like it.” She reaches for one of his knives and he shifts his legs away,
tightening his hold on her little. “Don't.”

“
Why?”

“
Because it isn't very nice.”

“
You know what I mean.”

“
You didn't like the answer I gave you before. The truth may get me stabbed.”

“
Try me,” Vol says.

And, lowering his voice, he does.

Vol slaps him, hard.

“
Don't act so shocked. Half the men in that room were thinking the exact same thing.”

“
Stop it.”

“
You're right. That estimate is a bit high. Perhaps a fourth of them at most — and that queer little friend of yours.”

The mention of Tash makes her feel ill. “I don't see how this concerns you. You don't own me.”

“
Not yet, little bandit. But I could. Then I could have your heart, if I wanted. Steal it clean away.”

Lying here on this rock, surrounded by bluebells and sparkling water and dazzling sunlight, she feels as if she is playing keep-away on the edge of an abyss. On one side, safety. On the other side, danger. She knows which side she should choose but it's hard to escape from the rush of being perpetually on the edge, always ready
to fall. “Don't,” she whispers, when he leans up to kiss her.

When he laughs, she feels the rumble of it through his body. “This isn't even real.”

“
It's real enough.”

A shadow crosses his face, as if a black cloud has blotted out the sun. His mercurial temperament is frightening. One minute he is mocking and making light of her. In the next, she finds herself dreading what he is going to do. “No, that's where you're wrong. It's nowhere even close.”

“
He leans closer.

“
Even so — what's one kiss?”

“
I'll stab you.” She has managed to free her dagger from the sheath at her thigh. She presses the blade against the hollow of his throat. She feels the muscles contract as he swallows and sighs.

“
That's very cold.”

It isn't clear if he is referring to her, or the knife.

“
I feel sorry for that girl. She thinks you're just golden — and you're going to break her heart.”

“
Stay away from Tash.”

“
That will be difficult if she's always by your side.”