The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  “Leave her alone,” Rick heard himself saying.

  Slowly, Wells rounded on him. “That sounded like an order, Mr. Forrester. Are you developing a spine?”

  “You’re bullying her.”

  “Feeling mutinous, eh?” Wells’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Would you like to share your theory about the police chief, Mr. Forrester? Or the hallucination you suffered your first night here? Why don’t you tell the others what I truly look like? The monster beneath this flesh?”

  And for the briefest instant, the demonic Wells flickered before his eyes. The coal-black gaze, the joker’s leer. The teeth sharpened to razor-fine points.

  Rick blinked, his vision swimming. He closed his eyes against it, his hands knotting into fists.

  “Tell them, Mr. Forrester,” Wells urged.

  Rick opened his eyes, and Wells’s face was normal again. Yet the afterimage of what he’d seen still hovered in his mind’s eye.

  Rick licked his lips, which had gone dry. “You’re abusing your power,” he murmured.

  Wells tilted his head. “I can’t hear you, Mr. Forrester.”

  “I said you’re abusing your power,” Rick said in a stronger voice.

  Wells showed his teeth. “What do you know of power?”

  “I know that a truly strong person doesn’t use it to intimidate.”

  Sherilyn nodded at Rick. “Finally.”

  Rick said nothing but didn’t look away.

  Sherilyn faced Wells. “Truth is, both sets of papers are the same. I just wanted to see how you’d react to this situation.” A nod. “I’m happy to say you behaved exactly as I thought you would.”

  Wells’s face might as well have turned to stone.

  Sherilyn rustled the pages, smiled pleasantly. “I know some of you turn your noses up at children’s books, but this is something I plan to illustrate and, if I can find an agent for it, sell one of these days.”

  Bryan muttered something sarcastic, Rick couldn’t hear what, but Sherilyn ignored him. “‘The Magic King. A Dark Fairy Tale by Sherilyn Jackson. Illustrated by Sherilyn Jackson and Alicia Templeton.’”

  Seeing their quizzical looks, she explained, “My partner. She draws faces better than I do.”

  Rick felt himself relax a little. Not completely, not with Wells fuming. But Sherilyn’s voice was clear and confident, and he wanted to hear her story.

  “‘Once upon a time there lived a mighty king. Folks believed he was a caring leader. He regaled his subjects with tales of love and adventure such as they had never heard. They traveled from the far reaches of the country to hear him weave his spells, and none would miss the solstice marking each new season, for on these nights, the king would lead a procession to the village square, where he would weave a new tale of enchantment.’”

  Anna raised her hand.

  Sherilyn raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Is the entire book like this?”

  “There a problem?”

  “It’s all telling,” Anna explained. She faced Wells. “You just ripped my manuscript apart. I want to make sure Sherilyn is held to the same standards.”

  Lucy glared at Anna. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “Her race,” Bryan said.

  Sherilyn lowered her chin. “Come again?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the only minority writer here. Wells might go easier on you.”

  Wells’s voice was dangerously soft. “Miss Jackson’s skin color has nothing to do with my opinion of her work.”

  Elaine chuckled. “Exactly. It’s not like we’re a diverse group anyway.”

  Sherilyn smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m the token black. Marek was an immigrant. As far as my sexuality—”

  “Enough of that crap,” Bryan interrupted.

  Sherilyn glanced at him. “I suppose you like things the way they’ve always been.”

  Bryan raised his chin. “You’re damned right.”

  “Where guys like you have every advantage.”

  Bryan flicked a hand at her. “What a crock.”

  “He’s scared,” Lucy said. “He knows he can’t win on a level playing field.”

  “Let me tell you something,” Bryan began, but Wells cut him off.

  “Continue with your reading,” Wells said through his teeth.

  Sherilyn nodded, unruffled. “As you command.”

  Wells’s expression went tighter.

  “‘Decades passed, and generations lived and worked under the king’s watchful leadership.’”

  “Will this have pictures?” Bryan blurted.

  Will glowered at him. “She already explained that.”

  “It’s okay,” Sherilyn said. She turned to Bryan. “Alicia and I like to include one for every chapter. Mind if I continue?”

  Bryan shrugged. “Do what you want.”

  Rick resisted an urge to knock the dickhead off his chair.

  “Thank you,” Sherilyn said with freezing politeness. “‘The king’s servants were loyal to a fault. Rumors began that they were spying on the commoners, and some began to gaze upon the castle with a mistrustful eye. One of those was a peasant girl named Anna.’”

  At Anna’s smile, Sherilyn said, “I’m changing the name.”

  Anna’s smile disappeared.

  “‘Anna was capricious, taken to long rambles in the forest. But she had a loving heart. She recognized the king’s talent, but she never trusted their ruler. In quiet moments, mostly while the preliminary skits took place during the solstice feasts, she noticed the king speaking curtly to his underlings when he thought no one was watching. Anna was convinced that the king’s smiling face was a mask that concealed something darker, something cruel.’”

  Rick glanced at Wells, took in the man’s avid gaze. Then he turned back to Sherilyn, a chill coursing down his back.

  “‘Whenever she spoke of her misgivings, those few who agreed were too frightened of the king’s wrath to voice their objections publicly. They were too meek to see the king for what he truly was: a bullying monster.’”

  As Sherilyn continued, the muscles in Wells’s jaw and throat went taut.

  “‘Meanwhile, the king grew colder. No longer content with being the ruler of his realm, he believed he could increase his renown by selecting a protégé. Not only would this protégé become the king’s heir – he and the queen were childless – but by choosing a humble commoner, the king would restore his reputation as a just ruler.’”

  The ballroom was so noiseless Rick hardly dared breathe. Wells wore a look Rick had never seen before: nostrils flared, big hands grasping the arms of his chair, mouth drawn in a fierce line. If Rick didn’t know better, he’d guess Wells had entered some sort of trance.

  “‘Fleetingly, Anna wondered if the king might choose her. After all, she was smart. She was fair minded. She was strong enough to lead a kingdom.’” Sherilyn paused, drew in a shuddering breath. “‘Yet she knew she was too temperamental, too rash to lead effectively.

  “‘So Anna set about combing the countryside for a suitable protégé.’” Sherilyn glanced at Rick, who returned her gaze despite the urge to look away. “‘Anna knew if she could find a suitable heir before the king did, she might yet save the kingdom, which she feared was heading toward dark days, bloody days such as no one had seen.

  “‘So it was that she ventured into the forest one bright summer morning. When she first spied the young man, his back was to her, and he was approaching some animal with gentleness and caution. A foal, Anna saw, its hide a light brown with ivory patches. The little horse’s foreleg was bleeding, and the young man was whispering soothing words as he inched nearer.…’”

  The scene continued for several minutes, during which time Anna and the young man, whose name was Richard, began to speak, first about the injured foal, then about the ki
ng, for whom Richard had no use either. And through it all, Wells’s expression grew increasingly murderous.

  When Sherilyn finished, they applauded. At least, most of them did. Anna and Bryan remained conspicuously stoic.

  Wells waited until the applause died down and said, “Amusing piece, Miss Jackson. Your peers enjoyed it. I’d like to hear what you think.”

  “That’s an odd question,” Sherilyn said.

  “You wrote it, did you not?”

  “’Course I wrote it. I’ve done little else since arriving.”

  Wells nodded curtly, his teeth showing. “Since you’re clearly fond of allegory, perhaps you’ll enlighten us as to the piece’s meaning.”

  Sherilyn’s good humor faded.

  Bryan sat forward. “Allegory implies a one-to-one relationship—”

  “I know what allegory is,” Sherilyn interrupted, her eyes never leaving Wells’s. “You told Anna our work should speak for itself. Don’t you think mine does?”

  Wells smiled, but there was frost in it. “No need to be evasive, Miss Jackson.”

  “That’s the last thing I’d be, Mr. Wells.”

  “Then explain,” Wells commanded. “Unless you’re unable to speak intelligently about your own work.”

  Sherilyn glanced at her papers, for the first time appearing uncertain.

  Wells’s gaze was predatory. “We’re waiting, Miss Jackson.”

  Sherilyn shook her head.

  Lucy asked, “Do you know where the story is going?”

  “I know how I want it to end,” Sherilyn answered, “but I don’t know if it’s going to happen that way.”

  Bryan made a scoffing sound. “I hate that crap.” He put his hands in the air, spoke in a childish voice. “‘The story is the boss.’ ‘The characters drive the story.’ ‘I’m just along for the ride.’”

  “It’s true,” Evan said.

  “Bull. Shit.” Bryan jabbed a finger in Evan’s direction. “You’re the one putting the words down on paper. You’re the one in control.”

  Elaine gave Bryan a baleful look. “You’re articulating why your stories have no soul.”

  “Fuck soul,” Bryan said. “How about plot? How about logic, for Christ’s sakes? All you guys with your hidden meanings.… Why not just tell a coherent story?”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive,” Lucy said.

  “Enough,” Wells said, with enough heat they all turned and regarded him uneasily. He stood. “Miss Jackson, since you’re unable to discuss your narrative, I think it would be prudent to end the session.”

  Wells strode away. Sherilyn stood, head down, in the center of the circle.

  Just as Wells was about to exit the ballroom, Sherilyn called, “Mr. Wells.”

  Wells paused at the door. “Something to say, Miss Jackson?”

  She nodded. “You’re the king.”

  Wells’s face spread into a cunning smile. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said tonight.”

  Chapter Ten

  From The Magic King: A Dark Fairy Tale, by Sherilyn Jackson:

  The king’s coach drew nearer.

  Anna told herself to get moving. The day was growing long, and though her folks expected her home within the hour, she hadn’t even visited the three shops from which she was supposed to purchase supplies for the week. At best, she’d return home by nightfall, and even that seemed optimistic.

  But the king’s coach, its burnished black surface giving it the aspect of a rolling coffin, held her gaze.

  Go! she thought.

  Too late. The coach rumbled to a stop a few feet from where she stood. The driver climbed down, opened the coach door, where the king and queen sat, the queen peering straight ahead, a study in regality.

  The king was peering at Anna.

  She forced herself to stand up straighter.

  Make him speak first.

  But she heard herself blurting, “I was going to the grocer’s.”

  The king regarded her with good humor. “Your family doesn’t grow its own? The valley is fertile enough.”

  So he knew where they lived. Which meant he knew who she was. She suspected it, but to hear it confirmed set her hands to tremble. She shoved them in her pockets, lifted her chin. “We grow everything but spinach. For some reason it doesn’t take.”

  The king nodded. “Yes, there’s a blight on. You’re lucky your other crops yet grow.”

  She frowned. “You said the valley was fertile.”

  He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “The cycle is reaching an end. The kingdom must endure these times in order to rejuvenate.”

  “Rejuvenate,” she repeated, mesmerized by the king’s rich voice. Passersby had stopped to listen to the exchange, but Anna was scarcely aware of them. The queen, too, had taken notice, though the only alteration in her bearing was a slight tilting of the head.

  The king’s expression darkened. He fixed her with a grim look. “That boy you’ve been speaking to.”

  Her throat closed. She contrived to appear guiltless, though she knew she made a poor job of it. Deception never came easily to her. “What boy?”

  “The hostler’s son has wicked ideas, young one. Best steer clear of him.”

  Anna yearned to shout at the king, to remind him that Richard was the same age as she and that no one had the ability to lead her astray. She refused to be led by anyone, least of all this deceitful egomaniac garbed in king’s robes.

  But all that came out was, “I only met him last week.”

  “Aye,” said the king, his grin widening. “Met him last week and been stealing into the woods with him ever since. Bet your father would like to know why you’re just now making it to the grocer.”

  The driver, about whom she’d completely forgotten, chuckled haughtily and said, “A mite young for meetings in the glade, aren’t you, dear?”

  She gaped at the man, who despite his pressed white suit was grinning like the lowest alley scum. “He’s never laid a finger on me!”

  “It’s not your body he’s alluding to,” the king said. “It’s your mind the boy is sullying.”

  She turned to the king, but before she could answer, he nodded significantly and said, “Meddling with the cycle is an affront to the kingdom, young lady. You two keep plotting, and you’ll come to ruin. Both of you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Evan paced his room, fists clenched, molars grinding like unoiledgears.

  He had to do something about Bryan. But what?

  The son of a bitch was everything Evan wasn’t. Muscular. Tall. Skilled with weaponry. That Evan was a far superior writer didn’t matter. What good would that do him? He couldn’t very well bludgeon Bryan with figurative language.

  Evan glanced about him, the bedroom like a tomb. Impulsively, he snapped shut his computer and lugged it toward the door.

  Outside the bedroom, he already felt better.

  Down the corridor, the stairs, through the back hallway, into the night. Evan inhaled deeply of the summer air, caught hints of lilac, jasmine, cedar, dogwood, aspen, and birch. My God, a riot of fragrances he could include in his play.

  Would he get a chance to share it with Wells?

  He’d have to do so on the sly, he realized. Otherwise, Bryan would stop him.

  Thank God Evan didn’t tell Bryan everything.

  He frowned, shoved the thought away.

  He’d never explored this part of the yard. Behind the mansion, the trees encroached nearer than they did in the front, the area wilder.

  It emboldened him. Evan puffed out his chest. He imagined himself in a film. The budding writer striding into the forest with his laptop clutched to his side. He ached to share The Death of the Prince. It was far superior to anything the others had done so far.

  Evan paused at the fores
t’s edge, realizing he had no flashlight. Damn. He bit his lip, considering. He could return to the mansion, hunt for one, or…

  …or just use the illumination from the laptop screen.

  Evan opened the computer, delighted at his ingenuity. The pale glow didn’t reach far, but it was enough to illumine the immediate area.

  He plunged into the forest, holding the open laptop before him like a talisman.

  What, he wondered, had he to fear? Bryan was back in the house, either tapping away at his inane story or stewing in the anguish of his defeat.

  God, it had been amazing. To see the filthy cretin belittled had been the highlight of the retreat. The evening would have been the best of Evan’s life had he only been able to—

  Oh, how he wished he could read his work to the others!

  He imagined the women reacting to his prose. Sherilyn. Elaine. Lucy.

  Anna.

  The laptop dimmed, so Evan swiped a finger over the mouse pad. The screen once again tossed its lucent glow over the trail.

  He wished Anna could see him now. Bold. Intrepid. Yes, he was still out of shape, but now that he’d learned to conquer his fear of the outdoors, might he perhaps take control of his physical fitness as well?

  Yes, he thought. He believed he could. Over the next month, he’d work out when he wasn’t writing, and by that time, Bryan would be eliminated, would no longer be here to prevent Evan from sharing his brilliance.

  And rounding a bend in the trail, Evan realized something else. Connecting with nature was cleansing him, dispelling the rank atmosphere of his room.

  His expression darkening, he thought of his apartment back in New York. It was unhealthy, being alone. Too much time for the skulking, infernal demons in his head to take over, too much opportunity to act on his basest urges…

  …to click on ruinous websites.

  With an icy shiver, Evan brushed away the thought. No need for that now. He’d made mistakes. Who hadn’t? As long as he was able to erase the history of sites visited, no one would know how low he’d sunk, how deeply into those depraved places he’d wriggled.

  But the images flashed through his head:

  People urinating into each other’s mouths. Defecating on each other.