gosh you guys I'm sorry I took so long to post!

I'm gonna try updating more frequently, I've just been wayyyy too deep into my LOTR fic XD

thanks so much to everyone who kept reading even though I didn't post for a month!

lmk what you think my friends :)

peace out!

—GRAYSON—

Vantage had entirely too many stairs.

They stretched up from the beach to the front doors, winding through the bare, rocky slopes of the tiny isle. Clumps of dead grass adorned the rocks, and Grayson was sure that this place probably looked beautiful in the spring and summer. For now, though, it was just a barren, stony island, void of life save for the moss growing between the cracks of the steps.

Grayson's chest burned as he climbed the stairs, and his breath was still raspy and slightly wet. His accidental immersion hadn't done his lungs any good—hopefully sleeping in a warm bed would help. If Ian actually let them in, that is.

Libby didn't seem to be doing well, either—she leaned on Nash as they climbed, clutching her fiancé's arm tightly. Her breathing sounded much worse than Grayson's, and it was clear that medical treatment of some sort would go a long way.

Grayson stared at the steps as he trudged upward, noting the moss and lichen growing on them, the cracks in the weathered stone. How old was Vantage? The stairs looked like they had been there for centuries.

His calves were burning by the time they all reached the top, and Grayson wanted to sit down, but he settled for staring at the immense front doors. They were nearly ten feet high, intricately carved out of what looked like mahogany, with shining crystal knobs that gleamed in the moonlight.

"Here goes nothing," Jameson sighed, and he raised a hand and knocked three times on the door.

They waited for a full minute before footsteps sounded in the house, echoing through what sounded like a massive entrance hall. A tired voice called out, "This better be good, Cilian!"

The door opened, and Ian Johnstone-Jameson stood in front of them, an unimpressed look on his face. "You're not my mailman."

He glanced around, his gaze sliding over all seven of them, and Grayson became aware of how much this man looked like his brother. Ian was within an inch of Jameson's height, and his dark hair was swept back in a way that recalled his son's perfectly. Both father and son were of a similar build, and Grayson was sure that none of the rest of the four of them looked this much like their fathers.

"Ian," Jameson started. "We've come to ask for your help."

Ian looked even more unimpressed. "I wasn't under the impression that Hawthornes ever needed help. Can't you buy your way out of this one?"

"That's what we're trying to do," Jameson told him. "We're on the run from the law—"

"Fugitives?" Ian sighed. "No deal, Jamie. I get in enough trouble as it is—hiding seven of you in my house isn't going to go over well with the police."

He stepped back, moving as if to close the door, but Xander stuck his foot into the gap. "Would you listen for a second? Jamie didn't finish!"

Ian looked the youngest Hawthorne up and down, looking slightly intimidated at Xander's height, which surpassed Ian's by two or three inches. "You think you can give me a better pitch, kid?"

"Think, Ian," Grayson cut in, stepping forward. Physically, he wasn't as intimidating as Xander, but privately he thought his glare was much more fearsome. "We're offering you five hundred thousand dollars. All it will cost you is a few tenants. We'll pay you upfront, as well as take full responsibility for anything that goes wrong. You have a chance to acquire a small fortune, Ian. I urge you to be reasonable."

Ian cocked an eyebrow. "That is a better pitch. All right, kid, I'll bite. How long would you be staying?"

"As long as we need to," Grayson said firmly. "You will agree not to summon the authorities during our stay. We will provide sustenance for ourselves, so you need not worry in that aspect. We'll stay out of your way, we'll handle the police if they show up, and you'll come out a much richer man."

A broad grin spread across Ian's face, and he held out his hand. "Deal, kid."

Grayson took his hand and shook. Ian's grip was firm, his skin warm and rough. His hand felt like one that had made deals before—perhaps one that had broken them, too, but Grayson knew from experience that men like Ian Johnstone-Jameson would do anything for money. This was one deal that would not break.

Ian was still smiling as they stepped inside. "Venmo okay?"

"We have cash," Nash informed him. "Can't have the police checkin' our bank account."

Nash handled the transfer, which consisted of handing Ian a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills (cliché, yes, but rather aesthetically pleasing). Grayson barely noticed, as his mind had drifted away into the vastness of Vantage's entrance hall.

The floor was white stone, much like the marble floors of Hawthorne House, but there was not a vein of gray to be seen—it was simply pure, perfect white. The windows were forty feet high and gracefully arched, depicting scenes of the tranquil Scottish sea and rolling highlands. A waterfall—a waterfall, really?—trickled down a cascade of stones on the wall opposite the doors, splashing into a pool inlaid in the floor. Most magnificent of all was the intricate, prodigious crystal chandelier suspended by what looked from here like nothing. White light was cast across the floor, split into fractals by the glassy shards.

Somehow, inexplicably, Vantage felt like home. It simply felt so much warmer, full of so much more light than Hawthorne House, which was all too often dark and cold. After the old man had passed, the chill had lifted significantly; however, no amount of natural light seemed to be able to achieve the sense of belonging that Vantage did.

"Wow," Xander breathed. "Who's up for putting crystals in our entrance hall?"

Grayson stifled a cough and winced at the twinge in his chest. Clearly, the seawater had irritated his lungs. "Crystals would be a lovely addition, Xan. Assuming we can ever return."

"Aw, don't say that, kiddo," Nash said, ruffling Grayson's hair. "We'll figure this out."

Grayson ducked away from Nash's hand, but the damage was done—soft pale strands fell into his eyes, and he swept them back up with a sigh. "Ian, would you mind showing us to our rooms? It's been a long voyage."

Their host bowed, an annoyingly cocky grin curving his lips. "Of course, Mr. Hawthorne. Follow me."

Ian led them up the grand staircase, and they stepped into a warmly lit hall with doors spaced at regular intervals. Miraculously, they were numbered, or Grayson would never have remembered which door was his. He was directed to the second door, since Ian insisted on the room numbers corresponding to the Hawthornes' birth order. Avery took the fifth room, while Max and Libby had six and seven, respectively. There were a total of ten guest rooms, five on each side of the hall, and it rather irked Grayson's overly ordered mind that the guests were not more evenly distributed, but there was nothing to be done about that.

He bid the others good night and stepped into his room. It was spacious, with a canopied bed similar to his own and a desk made from sleek dark wood—not mahogany, clearly, but it was nice enough. The floor was a shade lighter than the desk, with a tasseled navy rug next to the bed. Grayson deemed the room acceptable, and, shutting the door, he changed into pajamas and collapsed into the bed, exhausted.

Four hours later, it was one in the morning and Grayson still was not asleep. He had never been good at falling asleep in places other than his bedroom, but this was ridiculous.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand, and Grayson tried to ignore it. Looking at a screen would not help him fall asleep faster; rather, it would slow down the process. Besides, it probably wasn't a message—a permissions notification or a reminder from an app would have made more sense at this hour. But when the phone buzzed a second time, Grayson gave in and picked it up, squinting in the sudden brightness.

There was the time: 1:22 a.m. And the number: 542-295-6697. That was the first strange thing about the texts—not the fact that the number wasn't in Grayson's phone. Unknown numbers were nothing out of the ordinary. But the area code was not for Texas, which Grayson found odd.

The other strange detail was, of course, the content of the messages.

i know who broke the lock on the cage and i know who gave him the key

That was the first message. The second one read:

stop destroying my game gray i want you to play it

As he stared at the text, a third message took its place at the bottom of the screen.

find the ivory cardinals

—AVERY—

Footsteps. Again.

Slow, meticulous, yet quiet and padding, as if whoever made the sound was trying not to be heard. And then the breath, a faint, gasping death rattle, seeming like an earthquake even though she could barely hear it.

Avery sat bolt upright in bed, snatching the Winchester pistol from the nightstand and aiming it at the door. Her hands trembled as she tried to remember whether she'd locked the door—she had, right? If she were this side of sanity she'd have done it. But Avery wasn't sure that she was still sane, so she slid silently out of bed and crept over to the door, placing her hand on the knob and turning it a fraction of an inch to the right.

She tried to turn it, anyway. It didn't move, and Avery breathed the quietest sigh of relief she could. She backed away from the door, still holding the pistol just in case whatever was out there could pick locks.

What was out there? It could be the killer, looking to silence her with a knife in the dark, having decided that Avery was getting too close. Whoever it was had certainly followed her from Hawthorne House, since she'd heard the footsteps there too. But the death rattling was something new, something she hadn't heard before…

The answer came to her and she silently cursed herself for being such an idiot.

It was Grayson. Hadn't he told her that he sleepwalked? And his breathing—it had sounded awful on the boat. That was all—Grayson sleepwalking through the halls, perfectly harmless. The pistol was unnecessary—for that particular threat, at least. Avery still could not let her guard down, but she was safe from the midnight menace.

Was Grayson safe, though? From what she'd heard, he seemed to gravitate to the most dangerous places when sleepwalking. What if he ended up at the grand staircase, or worse, the cliffs outside the house? He could be hurt or even killed.

Avery slid the pistol into her pocket—going unarmed, even if it was Grayson out there, would be stupid—and unlocked the door, edging out into the hallway. She scanned the darkened corridor and caught a flash of pale gray just as it whipped out of sight.

She followed Grayson out onto the landing, and sure enough, he turned toward the stairs. His eyes were closed, his steps slightly slower than they were when he was awake. He still breathed like a Sith Lord, which was worrisome.

"Gray," Avery whispered, and she gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Gray, wake up."

He stopped, his steps faltering, and then his eyes snapped open and his knees gave out. Avery barely managed to catch Grayson around the chest before he collapsed. Thankfully, he found his footing and stood, blinking confusedly in the dimly lit space.

"Avery?" he asked hoarsely, glancing down at her arm against his pectorals. "What…where…oh, no—"

"You were sleepwalking," Avery said, releasing Grayson and stepping back. "Why do you do it? Is it some sort of medical condition?"

Grayson shook his head, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "It's stress-induced. There doesn't seem to be a way to stop it unless the stressor is taken away, which it hasn't been. I usually barricade my door at Hawthorne House, but I…I guess I forgot."

His voice was less formal than usual and slightly slurred with tiredness. Avery found it endearing, particularly with the hint of Southern accent that he didn't usually let slip. The note of raspiness in his tone, though, worried her—clearly the seawater had done more than irritate his lungs.

"You're sick, Gray; you should go back to bed," Avery advised, placing a hand on Grayson's arm. A tingle of warmth ran through her body as he looked at her, his eyes filled with silvery exhaustion and something that might have been fear.

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Since—since we're up, I needed to talk to you about something."

"Of course." Avery sat down on the top of the staircase and patted the marble next to her. "Does it have to do with the case?"

"Yes. I received a concerning text about three hours ago, before I went to sleep. It was from an unknown number, and it told me that someone knows who the killer is and how he carried out the murder. It also said that we should 'find the ivory cardinals.'"

Grayson's head was tilted slightly, and he gazed up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. "I have no idea what it means. But I think you should check your phone, Avery. Whoever it was may have contacted you as well."

"I'll check," she reassured him. "But I want you to go to bed, Gray, okay? You're not going to be any help to the case if you're so tired you can't see straight. Let's get you back to your room."

She stood and held out a hand. Grayson took it and pulled himself up, but he kept hold of Avery's hand, bringing it to his lips, where he kissed her knuckles gently. "Thank you, Avery. For keeping me safe."

Avery fought to keep from blushing and miraculously succeeded. "Of course, Gray. Come on."

They walked back to their rooms, and Grayson bestowed the faintest of smiles upon Avery before he stepped inside. Avery returned it, then shut and locked her own door, going to her bed and picking up her phone from the nightstand.

Sure enough, there was a text from an unknown number. A text that read:

storms on the horizon a light in the hall

he saw the dark blades that were going to fall

from tyranny incarnate freedom he'll bring

the child of shadows west of the white king

—?—

No one in Vantage was asleep.

Avery and Grayson talked on the stairs, then lay awake in their respective beds, pondering their clues and attempting to nail down meanings.

Neither of them got anywhere.

Grayson tried to sleep, he really did, but his mind raced in circles and refused to land on the meaning of the cryptic texts.

i know who broke the lock on the cage and i know who gave him the key

That one was clear enough—someone besides Grayson knew who the murderer was. But the text implied that there was someone else involved in the case, someone who enabled the killer to carry out the murder. Who could it have possibly been? Grayson had thought that, besides the killer, he was the only one who knew what had happened that night. Now there was whoever had written the text, and if they weren't the giver of the key, someone else knew. Potentially four people knew the details of the murder.

Why had no one gone to the police?

Grayson took out his phone again.

find the ivory cardinals

He researched the bird, scrolling through pages of information. There were many species of cardinals, none of them white.

Wait. No. Here was something.

Cardinals could be leucistic, possessing a genetic condition that turned many of their feathers white. They lived in Texas for much of the year and were intelligent birds, recognizing faces and voices.

Grayson studied the picture of the cardinal at the top of the search results. The bird was pure white for the most part, but some places—the crown of the head, the tips of the wings—were bright red, as if the cardinal's feathers had been dipped in blood.

One of the birds broke the lock on the cage…

So who was the cardinal?

The texting style sounded exactly like Xander's.

That was probably an attempt by the texter to disguise their voice, so to speak, but it was done so flawlessly that Avery could see the youngest Hawthorne writing the texts. Besides, it sounded like the kind of thing Xander would like to do—try and write a riddle that no one could solve.

Avery scanned the riddle, dissecting it line by line.

storms on the horizon: Probably a reference to the impending murder. What else could it be?

a light in the hall: Definitely the murder weapon. This clearly alluded to the lantern.

The first line was clear, but from there on out it became murky. The second line purposefully avoided revealing anything about the murderer's identity—Avery already knew it was a he. That was deliberately unhelpful.

tyranny incarnate was the old man—whichever Hawthorne had killed him had freed his brothers. That line was, she supposed, understandable.

But the last line was what really confused her: the child of shadows west of the white king.

It was a metaphorical thing, to be certain. But how much of it was literal?

Xander and Jameson had both legally been children—or minors, at least—at the time of their grandfather's death, not having turned eighteen yet. Was that a factor? It didn't rule out Grayson and Nash, though, since all four brothers were children of the Hawthorne line.

The usage of the word west made no sense, but then Avery thought of something: did any of the brothers have rooms to the west of the old man's? Or had any of them been west of his room on the night of the murder? She would have to check the security footage again—but how to get it when they were gone from Hawthorne House?

Suddenly more words stood out to her: child of shadows and white king. It was a stretch, to be certain, and could possibly be considered racist, but, well…Xander wasn't all white. Tobias Hawthorne and all his brothers were. Avery felt bad for even thinking of the possibility, but what if it was how the texter had chosen to reveal a crucial aspect of the murderer's identity? She could rule out nothing.

Between all the subtle hints, Xander was looking guiltier than Avery had thought possible. But he wasn't the only suspect—had Grayson known she would find a text? And who was sending them? Someone had to have a burner phone on them.

No one could be trusted. They were all in the deep end of this case, and if Avery wasn't careful, she could drown. Regardless of who had sent the text, regardless of who the riddle might point to, there was clearly only one course of action.

She took a screenshot of the riddle and then deleted the conversation, checking to make sure it didn't show up in her recent texts.

This one stays with me.

On the other side of Avery's wall, there was a bulletin board.

Presently, several pushpins were being stabbed into the board, anchoring printed photos, still shots of security footage, and newspaper clippings. Pictures of the four Hawthorne brothers, along with ones of Avery, Libby, and Max, were pinned in the center of the board.

A lock of dark hair fell into Xander's eyes, and he brushed it aside, winding a strand of scarlet yarn around the pushpin stabbed through Grayson's photo. He connected it to the pushpin holding up the sticky note he'd copied the Davenport cipher onto, then scribbled ? onto another sticky note and pinned it nearby. Jameson had told Xander that Grayson wasn't the murderer, according to Avery, but Jameson wasn't so sure.

Nash's photo was connected to an examination glove and a clipping about his forfeiture of the position of heir apparent, while Jameson's was connected to a note about the hair follicle found in the old man's room, as well as one about the bottle of wine. Xander connected his own picture to the latter, a pang of guilt shooting through him.

How to explain the bottle? It had been an egregious oversight on Xander's part, one that he couldn't tell the police about, or he could get in huge trouble. But if he didn't come clean, they might think he was the murderer.

He scrawled what do I say? onto a third sticky note and reached into the box of pushpins for another pin. Xander winced as several pins assaulted his fingertips, adding to the many small punctures already there. He fished a blue pushpin out of the box and stuck it through the newest sticky note, winding the yarn around the pin.

Xander's phone vibrated, and he picked it up, squinting in the sudden brightness. The message was from a number he had never seen before: 542-295-6697.

one guardian in the grip of night

one man to bring the day

one game to play in black and white

one played in shades of gray

He pulled out his burner phone and called Max.

Nash stroked Libby's damp hair gently, listening to his fiancée's raspy breathing. She was half in and half out of sleep, her forehead burning with fever.

He suspected pneumonia. Aspiration pneumonia, actually, based on the water inhalation. There must have been harmful bacteria in the saltwater, which had irritated Libby's lungs until they were full of fluid, even after she'd coughed up the water. Nash would have to check Grayson in the morning—his breathing hadn't sounded good, either.

He wished he hadn't had to give up his examination gloves. Just because they could be used to conceal fingerprints didn't mean they would, right? Nash always felt better when he had all his medical supplies on him, just in case. What if Libby or Grayson needed some sort of examination and Nash transferred germs to them? Aspiration pneumonia was dangerous, so much so that any more pathogens could lessen their chances of recovery.

"Nash, honey," Libby murmured. "Your phone is lighting up."

"I know, darlin'," he said, laying a hand over hers. His fingers brushed Libby's silver engagement ring; the metal was slick with sweat. "I'll get it. Sorry, I know it's pretty bright."

He leaned over to the nightstand and picked up his phone. The text was from a number he had seen many times: 542-295-6697.

they've all been sent

your time is spent

when all is said and done

through light of day

and shades of gray

the night is overcome

He wasn't completely sure who this was. But he thought he knew.

What Nash knew for sure, though, was that he wouldn't tell anyone that.

Max picked up her burner phone and answered the call. "Xan?"

"I got a weird text, Max," he said, his voice a hushed whisper. "I think you should check your phone. Not this phone—your normal one."

"I'll check," she replied, holding the burner phone between her ear and her shoulder as she took her regular phone off the desk. Sure enough, there was a text there, from a number she didn't recognize. It was only two words, but it sent a very clear message.

Don't scream.

Max dropped the burner phone; it bounced off the desk, cracking the screen, and then fell to the carpet. She left it there and bolted for Xander's room without hanging up, her entire body shaking. A scream was, even now, clawing its way up her throat, but Max kept it in until Xander opened the door, dressed in a tank top and shorts.

He took one look at her face and pulled her inside, shutting and locking the door behind her. Max looked wildly up at Xander, opening her mouth to explain, though she wasn't sure if she would do that or vomit. But neither of those things happened—Xander wrapped his arms around Max, holding her tightly but gently, and she buried her face in his chest as tears came.

"You're okay," Xander whispered. "You're okay, Max, I promise, I won't let anything happen to you. What did it say? Can I see?"

She was still holding her phone, she realized, her grip having slackened so much that it nearly fell from her limp fingers. Max pressed the phone into Xander's hand as he switched to a one-armed hug, quickly scanning the text, and whispered, "Max, the text I got…it's not from the same number."

There are two people stalking us.

"We're not safe," she choked out, her breath hitching. "We're not safe anywhere."

"You're safe here," Xander insisted, but Max could feel him shaking, possibly more violently than she was. "I'm going to figure this out. No one's going to hurt you."

"It's not just me I'm worried about," Max told him. "It's you, too, and Avery, and Libby, and all your brothers—someone's watching us, Xan."

"I know," he whispered, and he tossed her phone onto his bed, then rested his now-free hand on the back of Max's head, winding his fingers through her hair. "I'm scared, too. But…"

Xander trailed off. There was no but. He was just scared.

Max returned his embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around Xander's chest. They stood there in the dark for a long time, he in a tank top and she in a nightgown, and Max felt Xander's heartbeat thudding against her temple.

Unbidden dark thoughts came to her, and she wondered how many beats both their hearts had left.

Jameson couldn't sleep. He rarely could in a new place, so he left his room, shutting the door quietly behind him, and walked down the hall to the moonlit balcony.

He pushed open the stained glass French doors and stepped out into the silver darkness, reaching out and clutching the ice-cold railing in his hands. The chill wind stung Jameson's face, whipping against his cheeks with a startling ferocity.

The stars glimmered above him, a glowing tapestry against the dark sky, and the moon, round and full, hung over the ocean. The water itself was perfectly still, and all was silent except for the wind, which rustled the long, dry grass forty feet below.

Jameson breathed in the night air, inhaling as deeply as he could. The cold shocked his lungs, but he welcomed it. It took his mind off the case, if only for a few seconds.

If it wasn't Grayson, who could it possibly be? Jameson still couldn't imagine Nash or Xander killing anyone, much less their own grandfather, and neither Avery, Libby, or Max could have done it—they hadn't even known the Hawthornes existed until after the old man's death.

Betting on a murder mystery was wrong in so many ways, but if Jameson could've done it, his money would've been not on the Hawthorne brothers of any of the girls, but on someone else entirely. Someone was playing them all, and they could still be shooting. Jameson wasn't sure the killer was finished.

He nearly jumped over the railing when the doors to the balcony opened behind him. Jameson composed himself and glared as Ian stepped onto the balcony, holding a glass of sparkling wine and dressed in silk pajamas.

"Jamie." Ian greeted his son with a nod. "Can't sleep?"

Jameson shook his head. "Your beds are subpar."

Ian widened his eyes in mock offense. "Now, now, can't have you insulting my hospitality, can we? I'd hate to kick you all out on the first day."

"You wouldn't," Jameson growled. "We'll take back the money."

"If you can find it."

"We can."

"Your comebacks are subpar."

Jameson's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, thankful for an excuse to end the conversation. His father was, at best, annoying, At worst, he made Jameson want to stab Ian and then himself.

The text was from an unknown number. Jameson narrowed his eyes as he read, his mind racing to try and make sense of the words.

someone is lying to you

what color is a herring on the outside

"Something wrong, kid?" Ian asked, taking a sip of his wine.

"It doesn't concern you," Jameson said bluntly, and he shouldered past Ian, going back into the warmth of Vantage.

What color was a herring? Silver? Was this a reference to the classic red herring, a staple of every murder mystery? Jameson's life was basically a novel of that kind now, so it was fairly plausible.

Someone was leaving red herrings. Someone was trying to throw everyone off the scent.

Herrings were silver…

No. Not silver.

Gray.

When the moon dipped into the ocean, it was five-thirty a.m., and everyone was still awake, except for Ian, who had passed out two hours before. Some had slept a few hours at the beginning, but when the texts came through, there was no escape from the waking world.

Furtive glances raked up and down the guest hall, and doors opened and shut with soft clicks. Any footsteps were soft and padding, and on the one occasion that Avery passed Nash in the hall, they glided past each other like ghosts, unseeing and silent.

In the space of one night, the entire case had changed. There were now more clues than anyone knew what to do with. If they had put them together, they might have been able to solve the case.

But no one could do it. Everyone was afraid. They couldn't trust each other; they could only rely on themselves. One of the seven was guilty…but not all of them were innocent. There were too many riddles, too many secrets. Too many scars.

A pistol was slipped into a pocket.

A knife went up a sleeve.

A key was turned in a lock.

Clouds came, and the sun did not rise. Vantage remained dimly lit, its slopes dark and barren, and a vicious wind blew from the east, howling through the eaves as a silver dawn broke on the first real day of fear.

It was every man for himself.