hey guys! sorry it's been a while!
I've started crossposting this to AO3! it's only got chapters 1 and 2 up rn (it heightens the drama) but if you want to read it over there that's fine with me!
lmk how I'm doing you guys! would love to hear your theories about the mystery!
thank you!
peace out!
—GRAYSON—
Rain beat against the windows of the study, and Grayson stared at the carpet, trying not to breathe in the smoke of the old man's cigar. He'd always hated the smell, the taste when he got too close.
He felt small, young, and Grayson wondered if he had somehow progressed backward in time. His suit jacket was too big, draping over his small frame like a blanket.
This time, the blow came much faster than it normally did. Grayson lurched backward, his back slamming against the bookshelf, and he looked up at his grandfather, afraid that he might use the belt again if Grayson did anything to make him more angry.
But it wasn't Tobias Hawthorne.
Well, it was, but it wasn't.
The old man had taken on a spectral, misty appearance, his eyes empty sockets of white light. His emaciated hands seized the lapels of Grayson's jacket, lifting him off the ground, and pinned him against the bookshelf, snarling, "What did I say about failing?"
"I didn't—"
"If you can't follow a simple instruction, boy, you will never be enough! Do you want that?"
Grayson stared into the white light, eyes wide. "No, Grandfather, I promise I'll try—"
"You've proven over and over again that trying is not enough, Grayson! When did trying ever get you anywhere?"
"Never! Because nothing I do will ever satisfy you!"
The old man pulled Grayson forward, holding him to his chest, and whispered. "You're right."
He drew back, and Grayson felt a flash of fear before his grandfather threw him toward the desk. Grayson slammed sideways into it, his body jerking as the desk tilted, sending a heavy, leather-bound tome crashing down onto his shoulder.
But the specter didn't stop there. He planted a foot on Grayson's side, digging in with the heel of his boot. "You will not fail again."
"I promise I won't," Grayson gasped.
"You've made that promise countless times, boy! You have never kept it!"
"You're the one with impossible expectations!"
The old man's ghostly face twisted, and he raised his boot, then brought it down on the soft part of Grayson's side. Grayson clenched his jaw, biting down so hard he thought he might break it.
"And you—" said the old man, digging his boot in deeper. "Are the one—"
Grayson closed his eyes as another blow landed on his abdomen.
"That fails—"
Another kick, this time to his chest.
"—to meet them."
Suddenly, a blow struck his shoulder, and Grayson's eyes flew open. The old man's foot was planted on his side—what had just hit him?
Suddenly, it became clear—he was dreaming, and the unexplained blow had been to Grayson's physical body.
He was sleepwalking, and possibly in danger.
"Wake up!" Grayson shouted, trying to force himself back into consciousness. He pinched the skin of his upper arm, but the tiny twinge did nothing.
The old man's boot lifted off his side, and the specter swirled into a vortex of dust and mist and blinding white light and then, in unison, they both screamed it—
"WAKE UP!"
Grayson woke up.
He became aware of a swooping sensation in his stomach, the feeling of weightlessness. The cool, blunt edge of something scraped past his hip, and then he landed with a thud, skidding a few feet onto something rough but soft.
Grayson didn't move for a moment, trying to process what had happened. His cheek was pressed into what felt like carpet, which rubbed roughly against his skin. There was a chill in the air, and he shivered, slowly opening his eyes.
The entrance hall took shape around him, dimly lit and completely silent. The moon was full, shining through the windows, illuminating the rug that Grayson had landed on.
His shoulder ached, and Grayson gently probed the joint, the skin of which was tender and bruised. What had happened?
Grayson took into account his surroundings, finding that the rug had bunched up beneath him. The carpet dug into his side, and Grayson sat up, one hand still on his shoulder as he realized what must have transpired—he'd come back to the grand staircase, as he had the first time he left his room while sleepwalking.
This time, though, he'd actually fallen—although he doubted it had been from the top, or he would have more than just a bruised shoulder. Clearly, Grayson's sleeping self was becoming more dexterous, as he'd been able to remove the armchair and unlock the door in his sleep.
A shudder ran down his spine as he thought of it—it was as though Grayson wasn't in control of anything while he was asleep. And if there was one thing he was afraid of, it was losing control over himself.
He stood, smoothing the rug back into place and looking out over the dark grounds. Police lights flashed scarlet and cobalt against the night, and the sirens pierced the still air with the force of a sword. Grayson suspected the police were trying to get the Hawthornes to leave the House, but security had kept them out for the time being, since the police technically had no conclusive evidence that the Hawthornes had stolen the letter and couldn't arrest them. They were reportedly trying to secure a warrant, though, so Grayson knew it couldn't be too long until law enforcement got in.
The clock in the entrance hall indicated that it was three-thirty in the morning, and Grayson debated whether to try and go back to sleep. It wasn't like he didn't want to, but now…
Now he was afraid to do it.
What might he do while unconscious? Grayson could hurt himself—more than he already had—or, worse, someone else. He had to find a better way to keep himself in his room at night.
He climbed the stairs, wondering which one he'd fallen from, and went back to his room.
When Grayson stepped inside, he found that the armchair had been knocked over, and the door was open a crack, barely wide enough for Grayson to slide through with the chair still on the other side.
He slipped into the room and closed the door, wondering if there was anything else he could place in front of it to keep it closed. Perhaps the desk? It would at least be more difficult to remove than the armchair.
Grayson crossed the room to his desk and dragged it over to the door, shoving it against the wood. For good measure, he pushed the armchair against the desk, hoping that it would be enough to keep himself inside.
His bed was calling, but Grayson decided to take preemptive ibuprofen—it would help keep the inevitable migraine at bay. Retrieving his glass of water from his nightstand, Grayson took two of the small red capsules and then lay down, curling into the fetal position as he always did.
He fell asleep slowly, slipping back into troubled dreams and wondering if he might find himself somewhere else in the morning.
Thankfully, Grayson woke up in bed, miraculously without a headache. It was raining, as it had been in his dream, and soft gray light illuminated the room.
Someone was also pounding on his door.
Again.
"Gray, get up!" Xander yelled.
"I refuse."
"But it's the police! They got a warrant!"
Grayson sat bolt upright, then scrambled out of bed, dragging the armchair and then his desk away from the door. Once it was clear, he flung open the door and asked, "What's the plan?"
"I don't know!" Xander exclaimed. "Nash said something about a boat!"
"We'll need to use the secret passageway out of the House," Grayson decided. "Xan, I need you to pack as fast as you can and put on your life jacket and drysuit. Are the police coming imminently?"
"Security's trying to keep them out," Xander said breathlessly, "but they probably won't last very long."
"Call Nash and have him get Jamie ready to go," Grayson instructed.
"But Jamie's hurt!"
"I know it's not ideal, but we have to go, Xan."
Grayson put his hands on his brother's shoulders, staring into his dark, fearful eyes. "You have to be fast, Xan. Bring everyone to the garden passageway as fast as humanly possible. Got it?"
Xander nodded. "What are you gonna do?"
"I have to get the evidence," Grayson told him. "I'll be back soon."
Withdrawing into his room, he threw on a set of athletic clothes and then his drysuit—he almost never used it, since he wasn't fond of sailing, but it was useful now—then zipped up his life jacket over both layers. Grayson flung a few sets of clothes, basic hygiene supplies, and his computer into a bag, adding his fountain pen at the last second.
He retrieved a second bag for the clues, then shoved open his window and squinted out into the rain. The police were in front of the house, facing off with the security guards, and Grayson could see a few cars driving around to the back. Clearly, the police were surrounding the House—they had even less time than he'd thought.
Grayson lowered the bags out the window, dropping them into the hedge, then squeezed through the opening. It was a tight fit with the life jacket on, but he made it work. He plunged into the hedge after the bags, protected from scratches by the drysuit, then burst out onto the wet grass.
Hoisting the bags onto his shoulder, Grayson sprinted to the trees and started climbing, trying desperately not to slip. The mossy bark was wet and slick, and Grayson nearly fell several times.
He pulled himself up onto the bridge, then bolted across, climbing onto the roof of the alcove where the clues were hidden. Grayson yanked the secret compartment open and started piling the evidence into the spare bag, taking care with the black pyramid and the chessboard.
Once he'd removed all the clues, Grayson replaced the shingles on top of the compartment, then scrambled down onto the bridge. The police sirens were getting louder, and Grayson watched as the front gates burst open, several cruisers skidding into the driveway.
He half climbed, half fell down from the tree, hitting the ground running. Grayson took off toward the garden, the only passage he knew of that led to a location outside of Hawthorne House and its grounds. He hoped Xander had managed to get everyone there.
When Grayson arrived, Avery, Max, and Xander were standing beside the fountain in the center of the garden, with the latter on the phone, presumably talking to Nash.
"Okay! See you in a minute!"
Xander placed his phone back in his pocket, gasping, "They're coming! We've gotta open the passageway!"
Grayson climbed into the fountain, thankful for the drysuit, and depressed the tip of the stone structure. The sound of stone on stone ground through the air, and Grayson jumped out of the fountain as it turned, revealing a six-foot-wide hole in the ground.
Nash, Libby, and Jameson burst out of the back door, carrying several bags, and Nash shouted, "Everyone in! The cops are through the gate!"
Xander darted down the steep spiral staircase, with Max and Avery following. Nash shoved Grayson inside, then Jameson, and then he and Libby climbed down, pressing the button to close the fountain.
They all broke into a run at the bottom of the staircase, sprinting through the narrow stone tunnel. Grayson knew, from the only time he'd been through it, that the passage would come out in an abandoned lot near the marina, where the Hawthornes' speedboat was docked.
Ahead of Grayson, Xander shoved the web of grass and weeds covering the exit aside, and he led them all out into the overgrown lot. Several hundred feet away were the docks, and the speedboat sat in the water, just waiting for them to climb in.
All seven of them piled into the boat, with Nash leaping into the driver's seat. As soon as Jameson had climbed in, Nash slammed on the gas, and the boat sped off through the waves, throwing up spray as it shot away from the dock.
"So where exactly are we going?" Max shouted over the roar of the boat's engine.
"Vantage!" Nash yelled back. "We've gotta get outta the country!"
"I don't think Ian will be hospitable!" Jameson pointed out.
"I brought a crap ton of money!" Nash reassured him.
Grayson turned, watching the docks recede until they disappeared into the mist. He wondered how long it would be until they returned to Texas—if they returned at all.
Avery, sitting next to him, asked, "Did you get the clues?"
"Yes," Grayson told her, realizing that he was clutching the bag of evidence to his chest. He stowed it under his seat, placing his own bag in front of it in case it were to be jostled.
"I'm sorry we had to leave so quickly," Grayson continued. "And that you don't have a drysuit. Would you like to use mine?"
"I appreciate it," Avery said, "but it would be too big on me. Don't worry, Gray—just the life jacket is okay."
Grayson silently thanked Nash for buying spare life jackets, which Avery, Max, and Libby were now wearing. If they fell into the ocean, they wouldn't stay dry, but they would at least remain afloat.
The rain and wind picked up at the boat sailed farther out into the Gulf of Mexico, and Grayson's mind filled with horrible visions of their boat capsizing in a storm. The danger was very real now, and he began to question the infallibility of the plan, hastily concocted by himself and Nash should the police secure a warrant.
Several hours passed in silence, and then Nash announced, "We've gotta stop in Florida for more gas. We ain't gonna get all the way to Scotland on one tank—we're gonna have to grab a few refills."
The stop was brief, but it gave Grayson the opportunity to stretch after being cramped in the boat. The rain had died down somewhat, and the ocean was much more peaceful when they set back out.
"How long until we get to Scotland?" Xander asked.
Nash checked his watch. "'Bout thirty-six hours, Xan, so better get comfy."
Xander sighed dramatically, draping an arm over his face. "I'll never survive so long at sea."
Grayson wasn't sure he would, either—the motion of the boat was making his stomach churn, and the headache he'd tried to stave off this morning was finally coming back to haunt him.
Night fell, and with it came the storm—the waves grew higher and higher, spray cascading into the boat. Avery shivered as the water hit her, and Grayson cautiously edged closer, remembering that it was nearly December—the ocean was freezing.
To his great surprise, Avery let Grayson put an arm around her, giving her a partial shield against the water. The rain beat down harder around them, and the boat lurched over a wave. Grayson's stomach seemed to flip over, and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying he wouldn't become motion sick.
What happened next made him wish he had just gotten motion sick.
There was a loud crunching sound, and the boat jerked, tilted until it was nearly at a ninety-degree angle—
A scream, a flash of panic, and Grayson plunged into the freezing, dark water.
He heard Nash yell his name, and then a wave crashed down over his head. Grayson, startled, gasped, and water rushed into his lungs, sending him into an underwater coughing fit.
Grayson tried to kick back to the surface, but another wave pushed him down, and he felt what might have been rocks scrape against his life jacket. Deciding to allow the flotation device to do its job, Grayson closed his eyes and went limp, willing the life jacket to carry him to the surface.
Cold air hit his face, and Grayson gasped it in as Xander's voice yelled, "There's Gray!"
"Where's Libby?" Nash shouted over the wind, and Grayson looked around, shaking water out of his eyes.
The boat was floating about twenty feet away, and Grayson counted five other silhouettes on it. Presumably, Libby was the one missing.
Something brushed against Grayson's ankle, and then a head bobbed to the surface a few feet away from him. Libby's eyes were closed, her head tilted back, and Grayson realized that she was unconscious.
He reached out and grasped the back of Libby's life jacket, gasping, "I've got her!"
Another wave crashed down over Grayson's head, and he coughed and sputtered as he inhaled more water. How much more could his lungs take?
Apparently, a lot, because on the next wave, Grayson went under, and he sucked in more water than he'd originally thought possible. Dark spots began to bloom in the corners of his vision, and Grayson's head spun, clouded by the lack of oxygen.
Then a hand latched onto the back of his life jacket, yanking him upwards and dropping him onto a hard surface. Grayson sucked in a huge gulp of air, then doubled over, coughing, as his lungs rejected the saltwater.
The hand—which was apparently Xander's, based on the screams of "Don't die, Gray!"—slammed repeatedly down on Grayson's back, helping to expel the water until his chest burned from the harsh coughs.
"Get off, Xan!" Grayson choked, shoving his little brother aside. "I'm fine!"
"You're not fine!" Xander protested. "You almost drowned!"
"And I'm not drowning anymore," Grayson pointed out. "I appreciate the concern, Xan, but really, I'm alright."
"But our boat is sinking," Xander said plaintively.
Grayson looked down to see a large hole in the hull of the speedboat, through which water was gushing.
"Oh," he said. "That's going to be a problem."
"Xan!" Nash yelled. "I need you to check the GPS! See if there's an island or somethin' nearby so we can fix the boat!"
"Shouldn't we try to fix the boat before we go anywhere?" Grayson shouted over the wind. "We'll sink before we get to an island!"
"I've got duct tape!" Xander announced, and with that, he jumped off the boat.
After he bobbed back up, Xander gasped, "I'm gonna patch the hull! Can someone shove something into the hole after I've taped it?"
"Xan," Grayson rasped, his voice still hoarse from the saltwater. "Duct tape isn't going to fix the boat!"
"Never underestimate the power of duct tape!" Xander insisted, ripping a length off the roll with his teeth. "Gray, I need you to grab an unimportant bag or something and jam it into the hole!"
"All of the bags are important! Why else would we have brought them?"
"Dump out the stuff and stick the bag in!"
"I can't just dump someone's things!" Grayson insisted.
"Dump your stuff, then!"
Grayson threw up his hands. "Fine! But don't blame me when we sink!"
He scrambled back to his seat and emptied the contents of his bag, placing them carefully into the bag of clues. Perhaps the clothes would help cushion the evidence—it couldn't hurt.
Grayson returned to where Xander was patching up the hull, having taped a layer of silver over the outside of the hole. Shoving the bag into it, Grayson arranged the fabric so that no corner was missed, then hauled his little brother back into the boat. Xander gave him a nod of thanks, then sealed more duct tape over the top of the hole, encasing the bag between the two layers.
No more water came through the hole, but Grayson wasn't entirely convinced of the patchwork's stability.
"That'd better hold," he sighed. "I can't believe we didn't think to bring any repair supplies."
Xander shrugged. "We'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on it, Gray. No water will get in on my watch!"
Grayson cracked a half-smile. "I guarantee you'll fall asleep, Xan."
"Nay! I shall brave the perils of consciousness to ensure that we do not meet our inevitable demise!"
"'Inevitable' rather implies our demise."
Grayson moved back to his seat, trying not to shift his weight too much to either side of the boat lest it capsize. He sank into the leather, tilting his head back and allowing the rain to wash the salt off his face.
"Are you okay?" came Avery's soft voice.
He turned his head, taking in her rain-washed face, the lightning reflecting off her eyes. Avery looked so small, so fragile in that moment, her hair clinging to her forehead in soaked wisps, and yet she did not look afraid, only concerned.
"I'm alright," Grayson assured her. "Is Libby…will she be okay?"
"Nash woke her up after a few minutes," Avery told him. "But we thought…I thought…"
She shook her head. "Please, Gray, don't scare me like that. Ever again."
"Avery," he whispered, grateful that the crashing of the waves consumed the sounds of their conversation. "I can't promise you that, not with the way everything is right now. But I swear I will never do it willingly."
Avery sighed. "You're right. That was beyond your control."
She turned away, staring out into the churning seafoam, and Grayson wanted to take Avery's hand, place his own on her cheek, turn her back to him. But he dared not touch her—it would startle her, and besides, Grayson wasn't one to lay his hands on someone without permission.
No matter how much he wanted to.
"Do you think we'll make it to Vantage?" Avery murmured, her voice so soft it was barely audible over the thunderous roar of the sea.
"Yes," Grayson replied. "I think we will. I'm much more concerned about how we'll convince Jamie's father to allow us inside."
Avery let out a short laugh—the light, breezy laugh that Grayson realized he'd been waiting on for several days now. "If only that were the tricky part."
"If only," Grayson said softly, and to his surprise, Avery's hand worked its way into his, soft and probing and impossibly warm.
If only.
—AVERY—
The sky above was vast and dark when Avery woke up on Grayson's shoulder, which she had absolutely not intended to do.
She lifted her head, her cheek peeling away from Grayson's wet life jacket, and looked over his sleeping face. It was more relaxed than it ever was in his waking hours, but his cheekbones were sharper than normal, and pale strands clung to his porcelain skin.
Grayson looked fragile, drawn, but peaceful. Avery felt certain that he had fallen asleep before her—she remembered the soft, steady sound of his breathing as she drifted off. Now, however, Grayson's breath was rasping, hollow. She wondered if he was catching a cold from the frigid ocean air.
Avery looked up to see Nash at the steering wheel, squinting through the fine mist of rain at the slowly stilling water. He turned at the sound of her movement, tipping his cowboy hat. "Mornin', kid."
"How close are we?"
"Still a while. Fourteen hours or so." Nash smiled ruefully. "Breakfast's in the cooler. Get Gray up, would you? I wanna check on him—his breathin's soundin' a little weird."
Avery nodded and turned to Grayson, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Gray, time for breakfast."
He sighed, a long, rasping breath, his eyes closed. "What do we have?"
"See for yourself. Come on, get up."
Grayson opened his eyes, reaching up to wipe the rainwater off his face. A shadow of pale stubble had appeared on his jaw, and Avery felt the sudden urge to run her fingers over it.
"Is the tape holding?" Grayson asked. Even his voice was raspy, which Avery found worrisome.
"Yeah," Nash affirmed. "You okay, kiddo? You don't sound too good."
Grayson waved a hand dismissively, staring out into the mist. "I'm fine, Nash. What do we have for breakfast?"
"Donuts, muffins, fruit, that kinda thing. Gray, I'm kinda worried—you and Libby both sound like you're breathin' through Darth Vader's mask."
"I told you, I'm fine," Grayson insisted, going to the cooler and sifting through its contents. "How is everyone else still asleep? It's—" he checked his watch— "almost ten."
"Long night," Nash said. "I ain't surprised you conked out so fast, though, after the whole near-drowning debacle."
Grayson shrugged. "I've had worse. What do you want for breakfast, Avery?"
"Thank you, Gray, but I'm not hungry," Avery sighed. "It's too wet for breakfast—I'd soak the food as soon as look at it."
Grayson took a donut, but all he did was nibble at the edge as everyone else came awake. Avery watched him, concerned, and resolved to get him to eat more when they got to Vantage. Grayson was probably feeling motion sick—Avery knew he didn't like boats from the one time they'd all been out sailing.
The rest of the voyage was mostly spent in silence. Grayson had leaned back against his seat, his face turned to the overcast sky, and barely spoke all day. Avery didn't attempt to make conversation—she wasn't in the mood for it, either. Only Xander was jovial enough to speak, and even he seemed a little subdued.
"GPS says we've got about fifty miles to go," Nash announced after night had fallen, cloaking the still water in a sparkling mantle. "We'll be there in half an hour, guys. Get ready."
Avery turned to Grayson. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was raspier than ever—labored and rough, as if thorns scraped against his throat.
"Gray," Avery whispered, taking his hand and tracing circles on it with her thumb. "Wake up, we're almost there."
He woke with a wet cough, his grip tightening on Avery's hand. "We're close?"
"Yes. Gray, your breathing doesn't sound right."
"I'm alright, Avery."
She raised an eyebrow, and he sighed, a hollow, grating sound. "Really. It's just—I need to get somewhere warm. The sea spray isn't good for my lungs, that's all."
"I thought you said you would never lie to me," Avery whispered.
She'd struck a nerve. Grayson's face fell, a shadow passing over his moonlit features.
"I don't want you to worry about me," he said quietly, and his hand moved upward as if to touch her cheek, then lowered. "And that's not what I promised you, Avery."
"What did you promise, then?"
Grayson's smile was nearly imperceptible. "I said I would never hurt you."
"And what if you hurt me?" Avery asked, keeping her voice steady, guarded.
"Then it won't have been by lying."
"And if it is?"
He kissed her forehead, softly, so softly it seemed little more than a feathery breath upon her skin. "Then I will be as guilty as I would have been if I had told the truth."
Looking back on it, that conversation should have been her first clue, her first indication that Grayson was hiding something. The way he said guilty, the careful reminder of his words on the staircase—they should have triggered her radar immediately.
But Avery wanted to trust him. She couldn't bear it if the one good thing left in this world, the one swathe of gray in the chaos of brighter tones, was deceiving her, keeping her in the dark.
And yet—
Riddles upon riddles.
Secrets upon secrets.
No one was uncorrupted.
As Vantage loomed out of the darkness, it seemed the realization of Avery's fears. It was an enigma, an edifice of darkness, a shadow of deceit against the night.