The Assassin Game by Kirsty McKay Page B

by not looking at the laptop, at Vaughan, or at anyone. “Even the fact you just shot your mouth off to the Guild. They’ll talk, the staff will hear, and they’ll kill it.”
    â€œThe Guild will talk? Tsk.” Vaughan shakes his head. “I thought this was a secret society? No matter. If anyone outside does get wind of it, they still won’t find it.” He stands up and flourishes a hand at the screen. “Say bye-bye!” He hits a couple keys and the screen flickers back to the Umfraville intranet home page. He turns his back and begins to walk away. As he reaches the way out, he turns and looks at us, dramatically.
    â€œYou take the next twenty-four hours and look for the network. Get your best minds on it. If you find any trace, any trace whatsoever—if you even find the portal, the William Blake page—fine, I won’t join. But if you don’t—and you won’t—then I’m in. Do we have a deal?”
    Alex’s jaw clenches, his chest puffs out ever so slightly. He’s still faking the laid-back ’tude, but if you know where to look, you can read his indecision. “It’s sad, Vaughan, because I almost like your swagger. You’ve got stones, I’ll give you that. But that’s all I’ll give you, because we will find the site. You think you’re some computer hotshot? You’re at Umfraville now. You’re not special; you’re just the norm. So better get used to it.”
    Vaughan blinks. “Er. OK.” He laughs. “So nice to find a place where I fit in.” He looks at me. “Especially among old friends.” He chucks the dagger in the sand at my feet. “Have fun looking, Alex.” He winks at him. “Because I know you will.”
    And he’s gone.

Chapter 7
    I spend Sunday hiding. Hiding from the Killer, hiding from Daniel, hiding from Vaughan and questions about Vaughan that inevitably will come my way from Marcia and Alex. I camp out in the art studio and get a lot done. Mr. Flynn will be delighted with me.
    On Sunday night I dream of being stuck up a tree in the garden where I used to live, before we moved away. I’m shouting for Vaughan to come and help me, which is stupid because, in reality, it never worked that way. He was always the one who was stuck. That’s not the case anymore. And in my dream, he doesn’t come. Daniel appears at the foot of the tree, but he doesn’t see me. He just sits at the bottom and weeps and weeps. I feel awful. Bad about being stuck and bad that I don’t want Daniel to see me there.
    Yeah. The alarm screeches, and I wake up in a super mood.
    But not as bad as Marcia. Marcia and I share a dorm, and she is not a morning person. There are days when I literally have to drag her out of bed before our housemistress comes in and gives her a detention for lateness. For a progressive school, we still have some pretty archaic ideas about scheduling. Genius does not keep ordinary hours, but for the most part, Umfraville does. I don’t like getting up any more than the next healthy teenager, but mostly I’m grateful for the normality of routine.
    This week though, Marcia and I are on wake-up duty. Each dormitory rotates, and lucky us, it’s our turn. Our dorm is on the corner of the east corridor and the south corridor of the girls’ wing, and we divide and conquer by 7:15 a.m., then shed our jammies and head for the shower room.
    â€œI hate Mondays. And it’s so cold.” Marcia shivers as we walk down the hall; she’s naked under her tightly wrapped camel-colored towel, and is wearing fluffy pink bunny slippers on her feet. “And it’s only September! I will never get used to it.”
    It’s a little chilly, she’s right; I pull my dressing gown collar in a little. The school’s radiators are probably originals. They are scorching to the touch but do little to heat the rooms. The plumbing is