Hidden Game, Book 1 of the Ancient Court Trilogy

by Amy Patrick

  HIDDEN GAME

  Book One of the Ancient Court Trilogy

  Amy Patrick

  Oxford South Press

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Macy

  2. Macy

  3. Nic

  4. Macy

  5. Nic

  6. Macy

  7. Nic

  8. Macy

  9. Macy

  10. Nic

  11. Nic

  12. Nic

  13. Macy

  14. Macy

  15. Nic

  16. Macy

  17. Nic

  18. Macy

  19. Nic

  20. Macy

  21. Nic

  22. Macy

  23. Nic

  24. Macy

  25. Nic

  26. Nic

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  The Hidden Saga

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Amy Patrick

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  All rights are reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. All trademarks are the property of their respective companies.

  * * *

  HIDDEN GAME is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

  Oxford South Press/April 2017

  Cover design by Cover Your Dreams

  1

  Macy

  Independence is a lot like triple chocolate buttermilk pound cake. You crave it. And the first few bites are delicious. You think you could never get enough.

  But after a while, it can be too much. And like a mouthwatering picture on a menu, it doesn’t always live up to your expectations. Rather than making you feel free, independence can actually weigh you down, trapping you in a different way—in the kind of solitary confinement no parole hearing can relieve.

  * * *

  The little girl was staring at me again. Unlike all the others, who were completely fixated on the huge video screen, the small, round-eyed girl across the room was peeking at me from behind the straight curtain of her bobbed, dark-blonde hair.

  I trained my eyes back on the soccer match—I mean, football match—as they called it over here.

  What was she doing here? I’d first noticed her yesterday, three days after I’d arrived at the castle. She stood out in more ways than one. Glancing around at the other girls bunched on the red velvet chairs and sofas in the opulent media room, it was obvious they were in high school or college-aged, like me. And no matter which country they were from, they all seemed to fit a certain profile—pretty, curvy, mature.

  This girl couldn’t be any older than thirteen. My best guess was twelve, like my sister Lily. She reminded me of her actually—small with a slight, straight, childish figure. Just like me at that age.

  In fact, I still wasn’t all that curvy, with my typical gymnast’s build—short, small-framed but strong. That had been my first clue I didn’t fit in here. Over the past few days, it had been followed by too many to count.

  More than her appearance, it was how the girl looked at me that set her apart. While the other girls were friendly, there was a strange disconnect when I talked to them. Any of them.

  And it wasn’t just the language barrier. Plenty of them spoke English. Quite a few were Americans, too. It was something more than that. We had conversations, but they were all… empty. Their eyes were, too. Sort of dazed, like they were looking at me but not really. It was hard to explain.

  But the young girl—she was different. Whenever our eyes met, which was happening disconcertingly often, there was something there in hers. An awareness. A spark. A message?

  I darted a glance back in her direction, and sure enough, she was still staring. She lifted one hand in a tentative half-wave, her lips curving up shyly at the corners.

  I was about to get up and go talk to her when Dominique walked through the tall, stone-arched doorway, her sharp black eyes scanning the assembly of young women in the lavishly appointed room. My pulse jolted as it always did whenever the intimidating woman appeared.

  The girl’s hand and smile dropped simultaneously. She riveted her eyes back to the screen. I did the same, knowing instinctively it was the smart thing to do.

  A steady, excited stream of French words blared from the speakers as the broadcast announcer narrated the action on the screen. Some of it I understood—not all. My high school French classes had been all but useless here, but I’d picked up a lot through total immersion, backpacking around the country and visiting adjoining ones over the past couple of months.

  By this point, I had the words for “goal” and “World Cup” down, as well as the name Nicolo Buonaccorsi—of course. I’d certainly heard it enough, both on TV and in person. The French national team’s star player was all any of the girls here at the castle could talk about, sunup to sundown. And that was my final clue it was time to move on.

  When a girl staying at the same youth hostel in Paris had asked if I’d like to meet Nicolo, I had thought, Why not? It’ll be fun. That was my policy these days—go where the wind blew me. The prospect of meeting a famous athlete and visiting an ancient castle on the French island of Corsica for a day had seemed exciting.

  But one day had turned into three, I still hadn’t met Nicolo, and frankly, the whole situation here kind of creeped me out.

  The man in question came on screen as a sideline camera lovingly catalogued his long, tan, powerful legs, his dark, unruly hair, and when he lifted a corner of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, a breathtaking set of abdominal muscles. Wow.

  A pheremonal meteor shower went off inside me. I clearly wasn’t the only one. Squeals and loud exclamations filled the large room and echoed off its stone walls.

  “Dio mio. Sonno innamorato,” a girl gushed in Italian, declaring herself in love.

  “He is mine! I would die for him,” another one said.

  “I’m going to have his babies. Six of them!” a thick German accent proclaimed.

  I chuckled to myself and fought to keep my eyes from rolling. I mean, yes, I got it. The guy was beautiful. And rich. He owned a castle, for God’s sake. And he was really, really good at soccer—football.

  At nineteen, he was the youngest player ever selected as the FIFA world player of the year and was France’s all-time top goal scorer. But come on. When it came down to it, he was just another human being. He went potty and had morning breath and bad hair days just like the rest of us. Probably.

  I felt foolish now for even coming along on this spur of the moment excursion. It would have been nice to meet him, just to say I did it, but this was getting ridiculous. I didn’t go in for hero worship or celebrity stalking or whatever.

  And none of us had met him yet, though our hosts had promised, “He’ll be here tomorrow,” each day since my arrival.

  They’d been more than generous, providing
luxurious accommodations and decadent food—and all the Nicolo Buonaccorsi interviews and game footage we could watch—but I was growing more and more eager to move on.

  I’d be going alone. I knew that. My friend from the hostel, Ella, loved it here. She sat beside me now, mesmerized by the action on the screen, her face enrapt and tense. She grabbed my hand and squeezed.

  “This is it. The last two minutes.” Her Aussie accent was thick even when she whispered.

  The score was tied at 3-3, and the championship match had gone into overtime, which meant at this point, it had been going for two hours. Nicolo had played the entire time—I didn’t know how he could still walk, much less run. But there he was, driving the ball down the field toward the goal, deftly avoiding defenders and using his feet like two magic wands.

  I wasn’t even a huge soccer fan, but as a former athlete myself, I recognized the incredible skill it took to move like he did, to make the other players around him look like junior rec league kiddies instead of the world-class professionals they were.

  In spite of a heroic dive by Brazil’s goalie, Nicolo volleyed a high left-footed shot into the net, propelling his team to victory.

  The room erupted around me, the girls screaming and crying and hugging each other. Ella grabbed me and pulled me into her own ecstatic celebration dance, and I couldn’t help but smile. It was a little contagious.

  “He did it!” she squeaked. “The World Cup! Do you know what this means? He’ll come home. We’ll get to meet him now.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” I said.

  “Ladies, ladies please.” Dominique stepped to the front of the room, clapping loudly over her head.

  She’d introduced herself a couple of days ago as the house manager—I guessed that was something like a butler or housekeeper. She was tall and very striking and spoke in English with a heavy Italian lilt, which made sense.

  Corsica was tucked in between the coasts of France and Italy. And though it had become a French territory in 1769, I’d learned the Italian influence and culture was still very strong here, going back all the way to the days of the Roman Empire. Many of the residents still spoke the old language. Nicolo’s family was Italian, in fact.

  “Attention please,” Dominique said. “I know you’re excited. And so you should be. You will be meeting Nicolo tomorrow.”

  More screams from the girls. Dominique shushed them and continued. “Some of you have already seen the physician. We’re trying to get as many as possible of you in to see him for an examination tonight or tomorrow before Nicolo arrives from Paris. So please listen for your name.”

  Alarm lanced my chest. I turned to Ella, speaking in a low tone. “Physician? Why? What is that for? Why should we see a physician?”

  She smiled at me, her eyes strangely vacant. “It’s no big deal. I talked to some of the other girls who’ve seen him. It’s just a checkup. They don’t want Nicolo exposed to anything contagious, I guess. He’s an athlete. He has to stay healthy.”

  I smirked. “Well, he can wash his hands and get a flu shot like the rest of us then. I’m not going to see a doctor just so I can meet the guy for five minutes. It’s not like we’re going to swap saliva.”

  She did a silly eyebrow waggle. “I wouldn’t mind a little mouth-to-mouth contact with him. All he has to do is ask.”

  Looking around the large room, it was obvious she was not alone in that sentiment. Based on their behavior and the conversations I’d overheard, every girl here was more than willing to do anything he might ask of them. Several of them raised their hands and stepped forward as Dominique announced their names. She pulled out a clipboard, writing down whatever it was they were telling her. Medical histories? Life stories? Social security numbers?

  That did it. I was leaving. Tonight. This was all too weird. No way was I going to submit to a physical exam in a foreign country in order to meet some arrogant, germaphobic, pretty boy athlete. I didn’t care how hot Nicolo Buonaccorsi was.

  “Listen.” I leaned in to speak close to Ella’s ear. “I think I’m gonna go ahead and take off.”

  Her head whipped around. “From the TV room?”

  “From the castle. From Corsica. I’m going back to Paris or maybe head on to Italy.”

  “Tonight? But, you heard her—he’s coming home tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’ve already stayed longer than I meant to, and I’m not that big of a soccer—football—fan anyway. It was great meeting you. I hope we can keep in touch. I’m on Facebook and Instagram, so look me up, okay?”

  Her expression of surprise morphed into confusion. “But… I don’t think… the other girls said it’s not allowed.”

  My eyes narrowed, and my breaths quickened. “What’s not allowed?”

  “They said… you know… you can’t leave.”

  The lance of concern was back, but it had grown into something bigger—like a sword. “Oh really? Watch me.”

  While Dominique was distracted with the all-too-willing medical exam candidates, I got up and made my way to the heavy wooden door. Stepping through it, I shot a final glance over my shoulder to make sure I hadn’t been spotted and was shocked to see the little blonde girl standing behind me. Had she followed me?

  For a few seconds we just stared at each other, clear, lucid gazes locked. It seemed as though she wanted to tell me something but was afraid to.

  “Be careful,” she finally whispered. “And tell my parents I’m here—if you can. My name is—”

  “Olivia!” Dominique’s voice bellowed through the high-ceilinged room. “Step away from the door. You know no one leaves without my permission.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide and she stepped back, slamming the door between us, keeping me hidden from the house manager’s view.

  2

  Macy

  The hallway was empty.

  Long, cavernous, old, and kind of creepy, but empty. That was good. I hoped it would stay that way until I could get back to the guest room Ella and I had been sharing. Her words kept ringing in my ears to the rhythm of my footsteps echoing off the stone floor and walls.

  We’re not allowed to leave.

  Not allowed.

  Not. Allowed.

  I picked up my pace, making an effort to step more quietly. The small girl’s cautionary words only increased my desire to get out of here as soon as possible. Thinking of her frightened tone, the anxiety in her wide eyes, a sharp twinge of guilt poked me under the ribs. Clearly she wasn’t thrilled about staying here any longer either.

  Should I have invited her to come with me?

  No. I tamped the guilt reflex back down. She’s fine. Even if she wasn’t, it wasn’t like there was anything I could do about it. I was the last person she should have been turning to for help.

  Reaching the entrance to the guest quarters, I pushed open the door and slipped down the hallway to our room. Small, comfortable, and neat, the rooms on this hall were much more modern than the other parts of the castle I’d seen. They reminded me of the dorm rooms I’d visited last year, back when I thought I’d be going to college—back when everything was normal.

  Instead of rooming with my best friend Brandy at the University of Georgia, I’d taken my savings and bought a one-way plane ticket to Europe and a Eurail pass, packed my backpack with the essentials, and left my friends—and family—far behind.

  Gathering my clothes and extra pair of shoes, I stuffed them into my pack and performed a quick inventory to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.

  Jacket. Pj’s. Sunglasses. Sunblock. Toiletries bag. Passport. Wait—where was it? I pushed aside the articles of clothing at the bottom of my bag. Nothing there.

  Where the heck is it? It had to be there. I hadn’t even taken it out of my pack since arriving at the castle. I couldn’t leave without it. My passport holder also served as my wallet. All my money was in there. Stupid, maybe, but it was convenient.

  Heart racing, I dropped to my knees and searche
d under the twin bed where I’d slept the past two nights. Nothing. In fact, not even dust. This place was remarkably clean for a centuries-old castle. Which meant there had to be maids.

  Crap. Of course the rich and famous Buonaccorsi family would have servants. Loads of them. And at least one of them was a thief.

  Unless Ella had taken my money and I.D.. No. She wouldn’t. Would she?

  It wasn’t like I knew her well. We’d met only a few days earlier when she’d bunked next to me at the youth hostel. She seemed nice. But then, so did I.

  No one here really knew me either. No one knew about the past I’d left behind. The mistake that haunted my dreams even now, six months later.

  No. I can’t think about that right now.

  The last thing I needed was crippling anxiety slowing me down. I needed to think clearly. I needed to hurry.

  I couldn’t go back to the TV lounge and confront Ella. Something inside me warned that would be a very bad idea. I glanced over at her side of the room, at her belongings strewn across the unmade bed, at her backpack peeping out from beneath it. I had no choice.

  I dragged the pack out by one strap and sat in the middle of the floor, sifting through its contents. No passport. No wallet—mine or hers. No phone, either. Oh crap. Where was my phone?

  I scrambled to my feet and went back to my own backpack, furiously unzipping each compartment and feeling inside. No phone. Crap crap crap. What was going on here? Either housekeeping was extra-shady or there was something more sinister happening at Chez Buonaccorsi.