so this is going to be fun...

enjoy!

please read and review!

here's the little promise ring scene for everyone who felt cheated XD sorry about that! but I've got it here and it's ready to go!

also send me your murderer predictions! I'd love to hear your suspicions!

(it may be revealed in the next chapter, so...!)

peace out!

—XANDER—

He couldn't believe it had gone perfectly.

Xander and Max had spent Christmas Eve in Xander's room, staying up talking as long as they could, until they both crashed from the excess of alcohol and soda—Xander maintained that it was mostly the Dr. Pepper that had pulled him under. After all, he'd only had one tiny shot glass of champagne; since when was that enough to get someone drunk?

Had he even drunk champagne? Or was that the sparkling cider that Nash insisted anyone underage drink? Xander would feel bad if it was really alcohol—he'd told himself he'd never drink again, not after the night his grandfather had died. Maybe his blacking out had been the result of a caffeine plateau.

When he'd awakened on Christmas morning, he hadn't felt hungover—except for the twisted knot in the pit of his stomach. Xander told himself it was just nerves—the knot did seem to twist tighter when he'd slid out of bed and removed the ring, still in its little black box, from his desk drawer.

He'd sat on the cushioned window seat for a full hour, watching snow drift lightly down onto the sweeping grounds and fiddling with the ring. When Max finally woke up, sleepily mumbling his name, Xander had snapped the box shut so quickly he pinched the tip of his finger.

Biting back a squeak of pain, he'd gone back to his bed, sliding under the covers and stowing the box under his pillow. He'd waited for Max to wake up fully. They'd talked about how it felt to spend Christmas somewhere other than Hawthorne House.

Then, finally, Max had suggested they go downstairs to join the inevitably-waiting others, and Xander had made his move.

"Actually," he'd whispered, "I don't want anyone to see this present."

And he'd placed the box into her hands, and Xander watched Max's face, the sparkle in her beautiful dark eyes as they scanned the note he'd placed in the box—the text of O Love.

O Love that will not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee.

I give thee back the life I owe

That in thy ocean depths its flow

Shall richer, fuller be.

O Joy that seeks me through the pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee.

I trace the rainbow through the rain

And feel the promise is not vain

That morn shall tearless be.

Beneath that, he'd written only two words.

I promise.

And without saying anything, Max had taken out of her pocket a white box—Xander had no idea when she'd put it there—and handed it to him, and inside was a band made of twining lines of silver, and inscribed on the metal were the words you are worth the fight.

Of course, neither of them could hold back tears at that point, and so they'd sat there on the bed, holding each other tightly, crying, whispering everything and nothing, and finally they kissed in the silvery light.

Xander had never kissed anyone before—not like that, anyway. But Max tasted sweet like strawberries and cream and light all rolled into one, and so he'd clung to her as she grabbed him by the tank top and pulled him in and breathed "I love you" into his lungs.

"I love you more," he'd whispered.

"I love you most."

"Well, I love you infinity, so good luck beating that."

And now, two days after Christmas, they were adding to the conspiracy wall, and every time Xander looked at Max, at her radiant smile, and ran his finger obsessively over the ring on his left hand, he relived every single one of those shining moments.

"You'll have to edit the security footage," Max said as she wound a string of red yarn around a dark blue pushpin. "To look like you're on your way to the old man's room. But it'll have to be subtle, so the police will think they've missed it."

"The editing should be easy," Xander reassured her. "We could even send it in anonymously. But it'll be tricky to make it subtle enough. We might just have to fly back to Hawthorne House and film a couple of videos."

"How's the mustache thing going?" Max asked. "Has anyone found them yet?"

Xander shook his head. The fake, stick-on mustaches he and Ian had hidden around Vantage—near anything that could possibly emit carbon monoxide—had remained untouched for several days.

"I'm starting to think I should make them a bit more obvious," he said. "That, or I could start hinting to people that they're there."

Max snorted as she stuck another pushpin into the bulletin board. "That won't be suspicious at all. 'Hey, everyone, look at that artificial facial hair by the fireplace. Clearly it means I did it.'"

Xander shrugged. "Flashing lights might work."

"Hey, it's either go big at Vantage or go home and get arrested." Max's smile dropped off her face. "Do you hear that?"

Xander could indeed hear raised voices from downstairs. Two of them—someone was embroiled in an argument. He strained to make out the timbre of each voice—Grayson and Avery, maybe? Why would they be fighting?

Abruptly, everything fell silent, and then an earsplitting beeeeeeeep echoed through the house. A second one followed, and then a third as Grayson's voice screamed, "Don't touch it!"

Xander and Max barely had time to share a look of horror before the entire room shook. The bulletin boards fell off the wall, crashing to the floor, and both Xander and Max shrieked. The desk lamp fell over and went out, and one end of the curtain rod came free of the wall, sending dark green fabric into a pool on the floor.

Max was clutching Xander's shoulders—he didn't know when she'd grabbed him. Nor did he know when he'd dropped into a crouch, head ducked so that his chin was against his chest.

"Um," said Xander, his voice much higher than usual. "So. That happened."

"I think something just exploded," Max squeaked, her eyes wide. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He'd been far enough away from the wall to avoid the falling bulletin boards. "What about you? Are you good?"

"Of course. But I don't know if anyone out there is."

Xander stood up, surveying the damage to the room. Nothing looked irreparable. "Should we go out there?"

Max slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently. "Yeah. It's way too quiet. Something's wrong."

Panic raced through Xander's veins. Something had exploded. It wasn't like he was unused to little fireworks and such going off, but that had sounded big. Enough to shake the room. Maybe enough to bring some structures down.

"Hey." Max's voice was soft. "Don't be scared. It's probably fine."

"I don't think so," Xander said numbly. "Something's wrong."

"Then we're going to fix it," said Max. "Really, Xan. I promise it'll be fine."

Xander swallowed hard and looked her in the eyes. "I hope so. I really, really hope so."

—AVERY—

Avery and Grayson sat on the floor of the entrance hall, sorting through the clues that had previously been in Grayson's bag. All of them were laid out on the floor—the chessboard with its masking-taped pieces, the stolen letter, the envelope they'd found at Tobias Hawthorne's grave. The black marble tip of the obelisk was there, as well as the circle cipher, the black light, and the Davenport cipher. Both Avery's phone, with pictures of the book titles they'd found in the library, and Grayson's phone, with the texts from the unknown number, were propped up against the bag the clues had been in.

"Alright," said Avery. "Can you start making a—I don't know, a clue map? List out all the clues and who found or made them? I'm going to start looking for stuff we've missed."

"Of course," said Grayson, taking his silver fountain pen from the pocket of his sweatpants. Avery slid a sheaf of lined paper—which she'd stolen from Ian's stationery cabinet—across the chilly floor to him. As Grayson began to make notes, Avery turned her attention to the clues.

She picked up the Davenport cipher first, turning on the black light and scanning the sticky note front and back. The light revealed no invisible ink, so Avery set the sticky note down—but then a little inkblot in the curve of the S in the last line caught her eye.

An inkblot. The Davenport cipher was written in ink.

The letter had been written in pencil. Every clue that came directly from the murderer had been in pencil. This was written in stark black ink—it had come from a pen. And the shape of the inkblot, a splatter rather than a simple smear, suggested that the ink had dripped from the end of the writing instrument.

The Davenport cipher had been written by a fountain pen.

A silver fountain pen.

"Gray." Avery was afraid of how cold her voice sounded. "You lied to me."

Grayson froze, and his gaze dropped to his pen, following Avery's eyes. "Did I?"

"You wrote the Davenport cipher," said Avery. "Was this your way of exposing yourself? Making it a game so you'd feel less guilty? So you'd have more of a—a chance?"

"A chance?" Grayson asked, bewilderment—guilt, too—sparking in his gaze. "With you? Avery, no. I—"

"Why did you lie?" Avery snapped, her voice rising. "I was going to shoot you! I believed you! And you didn't even care enough about yourself—or about me—to tell me you did it!"

"I didn't do it!" Grayson was on the verge of yelling. "Avery, please, listen to me. I did not kill my grandfather. I did not set this game up—it was only the cipher. I have no idea who is behind this. Maybe I've withheld the truth from you, maybe I have lied to you about so many other things, but not that. Never that. I couldn't do that to you, Ave."

The nickname tugged at something in her heart, but she stamped the twinge of sympathy down, forcing ice to form around it. "Then why did you write this? Why incriminate yourself? I would've thought you'd take every possible step to—"

The answer struck Avery like a freight train, and she stumbled to her feet, gathering whatever was closest—the envelope, the black pyramid, the cipher—into her arms, her vision blurring slightly.

"You know who the killer is," she said, her mouth cotton-dry. "You knew this whole time."

Grayson was standing now too, a look of utter loss she'd never seen before crossing his face, his eyes fixed directly on hers as he said, his voice cracking as he said, "Yes. I did."

"You knew and you tried to blame yourself and you said nothing." Fury was building in Avery's chest now. "Because you didn't trust me to do what was best for the Hawthornes."

"I don't trust anyone to do what's best for us!" Grayson shouted. "I don't trust you, I don't trust myself, I don't trust my brothers, because this family is a twisted broken mess and it will stay that way whether you and I do anything or not!"

"That's only because you won't let it happen!" Avery spit. "Things aren't getting fixed because you won't let me fix them! Even now, you're not going to tell me who the killer is—and don't try to pretend like you want to," she added as Grayson opened his mouth. "I know you well enough to tell that you wouldn't give up that name if I shot you through the heart."

She stormed toward the stairs, something hot burning behind her eyes. "It's over, Grayson. I'm going to solve this case on my own. And when you try to stop me, I will tell everyone what you did."

"Ave." Grayson's voice was breaking. "Avery, please, you have to understand. I could not betray his trust—"

"You would value a killer's trust above mine?" Avery climbed the staircase to the mezzanine, forcing herself not to look back even as Grayson followed. "I thought you cared, Gray! I thought you wanted to help!"

She had to turn around now, let these be her last words to him. "I thought you loved me."

"I do." Grayson's hand was on the railing, as though holding himself back. "I love you more than anything."

"Clearly not enough."

"I didn't want you to get hurt!" Grayson snapped. "I didn't want him to get hurt, I didn't want anyone to suffer because of some stupid thing I did two years ago! It's my fault, Avery, and I wanted it to stay that way! I wanted to go down alone! That's why I planted that cipher, told Xan to destroy the evidence, lied to you when you pointed a gun at me—it had to be me!"

Avery pinned him to the railing with her gaze, trying not to let him see how much she was shaking, and hissed, "Why?"

"Because I love you, Ave, and because I love my family, and because I don't love myself enough to care if I got blamed for it!" Grayson's eyes were shinier than she'd ever seen, bright with unshed tears. "I couldn't lose them all, Avery. And I especially couldn't lose you."

Now she forced her heart to be made of steel. "You just did."

She turned and started across the mezzanine. Behind her came a pattering of footsteps, and a little broken whisper of "Avery, please—"

"Go!" Avery screeched, and she whipped back around and threw the first thing she felt at Grayson—the little black pyramid. It skidded across the marble, came to a halt halfway between them.

And then it started to beep. One long, loud, piercing note. Avery stepped toward it, trying to warn Grayson away with her eyes. She didn't want him near her. She didn't need him anymore.

Another beep as she knelt to pick it up and realized it was shaking.

The third beep was earsplitting, almost a siren, and it mingled with Grayson's scream of "Don't touch it!"—but it was too late.

A tremendous explosion of sound, a wave of heat, and then Avery was weightless, flying, gone, and the last thing she saw was a pair of horrified, broken gray eyes.

—GRAYSON—

Grayson flew back. He landed hard. Pain surging, he tried to sit up. He couldn't breathe, and Avery—

He'd destroyed her, hadn't he, he'd destroyed anything they ever had, and the worst part was that he could never tell her why—

Fire. Heat. Searing his skin, raking at his lungs with ash-forged claws. Grayson squinted through the smoke, tried to raise his head, could not for the life of him figure out how to make his body work properly. It was made suddenly of lead, of stone, and something like blazing iron pooled beneath his cheek.

Someone was shouting—no, more than one person. The voices sounded male, but all Grayson could hear was Avery, saying that it was over. And it was. The finality of it all was punishing, destructive.

He had to get to her. Grayson saw no blurred figure, no broken body slumped on the marble, but he knew Avery must be here somewhere. And if he was to find her, he must get up.

Grayson's left side twinged horribly when he—futilely—tried to breathe, but he clenched his jaw, fighting through the lack of air and through the pain. He reached out blindly, touched now-warmed metal, knew it was the railing—but he hadn't been standing beside it; how far had the blast thrown him?

He pulled himself up, nearly fell as the earth seemed to tilt, falling from its axis. Grayson pressed a hand to his screaming ribs and let go of the railing, but his knees gave out and he collapsed, finally able to breathe but only taking smoke in. His lungs seemed to burst with the worst coughing fit he'd ever had, even counting the pneumonia, and pain ripped through his side and up through his chest.

Grayson swiped at the blood on his cheek, saw his fingers come away scarlet, but he didn't care—and if he didn't care, it didn't matter. He could tell himself not to feel it.

There was still no strength left in him, but Grayson mustered every ounce of willpower he possessed, and he stood and limped toward the place where the pyramid had been, and he still did not care how much it hurt. He didn't care if he had to limp, he didn't care if he had to drag his bleeding broken body across the marble or if his spasming lungs seemed full of glass or if it killed him—this time, Grayson was going to help Avery, and he would not mess it up again.

Cold air and vicious heat mingled—the explosion must have knocked a window out—and Grayson steered himself blindly into the center of the flame. A horrible decision, really, but Avery…she had to be close…

Breath was a thing of the past. Grayson choked on ash, collided with the wall he hadn't know was there, curled in on himself as his thoughts sped out of control.

And then he heard Nash's voice, and one strong arm slipped under his knees and the other beneath his shoulder blades, and Grayson couldn't even fight. He felt a wildly thumping heartbeat against his side and couldn't tell if it was his own or Nash's.

"Ave," Grayson coughed. "Nash, you—you have to—"

"Ian's got her," said Nash, his voice shaking, raspy. "I've gotta get you outta here, kiddo. Are you hurt bad?"

Truthfully, Grayson didn't know, but he choked out a negative response and lay his head against Nash's damp, sweaty shirt. For once, he didn't mind.

They went down the stairs, across the marble floor of the entrance hall, past the chessboard and the letter and the black light that lay abandoned. Ian was shouting, telling Jameson to get the fire extinguisher, and Grayson heard a voice that sounded like Xander's scream his name.

Nash set Grayson gently on the couch in the living room and knelt beside him, rummaging through something Grayson couldn't see. "Gray, I'm sorry, I know it probably doesn't feel good, but you've gotta tell me where it hurts so I can figure out if you've gotta go to the hospital or not."

"I'm fine," Grayson ground out, his side twinging every time he breathed. "Fine—Nash, you must—Avery—"

"I'll get to her faster if you'll tell me," Nash said, then coughed into his elbow. Grayson could see his brother's eyes watering, though he didn't know if it was from the smoke or from the terror Nash must be feeling.

"My ribs," Grayson choked. "That's it—that's everything."

"I'm gonna have to look at them," Nash said. "Okay if I lift up your sweatshirt for a sec?"

Grayson nodded, his eyes shut tight against the pain and the terrified voices he could still hear upstairs. Nash lifted Grayson's sweatshirt and blew out a relieved breath. "You've got hardly any bruisin'. I know it sounds a little backwards, but more bruisin' on the skin usually means broken ribs. Less means we might've gotten away with bruised ribs."

He glanced up at Grayson. "You good if I touch it?"

"I suppose it's alright."

Grayson winced as Nash pressed gently on the tender skin, but the little jolt of pain was short-lived, even if his whole side still throbbed. He wasn't sure what that meant, though, so he made no assumptions.

"No crackin' noises," Nash breathed. "'S lookin' good. Now, I ain't no doctor, but they don't look broken."

He coughed into his elbow again, this time remaining hunched over for longer before he looked back up at Grayson, eyes watering. "Lemme check that cut on your face. Doesn't look like it needs stitches, but you can't be too—too careful—"

Another coughing fit took over Nash, and Grayson's lungs weren't feeling much better.

"We can't stay here," he rasped. "You can't stay here, Nash. We must leave."

"You okay if I move you?" Nash asked, and when Grayson nodded, he scooped Grayson into his arms and made for the front door.

Cold air whipped against Grayson's cheeks as Nash stumbled out onto the steps, staggering toward the cliff, where Libby, Max, and Ian waited. Grayson's heart clenched in horror as he realized that Avery was limp in Ian's arms—and horribly dark, glistening blood shone scarlet all the way down her face.

"Is she alright?" Grayson asked, searching the others' faces for any sign of hope.

"She's breathing." Ian's voice was the most serious Grayson had ever heard it. "But the shrapnel wounds are…extensive. I was waiting for confirmation from Nash."

"I'll check her over," said Nash. "Where's Jamie and Xan?"

"They're getting the fire extinguishers," said Max. Her hands were twisting around each other; Grayson could see her knuckles turning white. "They have to put it out in case anyone notices."

"Is Gray alright?" Libby addressed her fiancé, which Grayson supposed was natural, but it irritated him that she didn't speak directly to him. He was conscious; he could answer questions himself.

"He ain't got nothin' serious," Nash reassured Libby. "Maybe a couple bruised ribs, but nothin' like Avery. Trouble, that one, always told you."

He glanced down at Grayson. "I'm gonna put you down while I check on Avery, 'kay? Sit there and don't move. Put your head between your knees."

Grayson absolutely did not wish to do so, but he complied as Nash eased him down onto the grass. He had to admit that the position helped with the pain, as well as the lingering dizziness.

He managed to lift his head as Nash inspected Avery, wishing he could take clues from his brother's face, but Nash's back was to Grayson, and he couldn't see. However, Libby's face was bordering on white, and Grayson's heart seemed to drop into his stomach.

Finally, Nash raised his head. "You said you found her by the wall? Y'all know if she hit it?"

"She might have," said Ian. "Given the head wound, I'd say she got clocked pretty hard."

Nash blew out a long, slow breath. "Gotcha. Okay, Ian, I'm gonna need you to get the kid into your boat and to the hospital. Lib, would you mind goin' with them? I don't want her to wake up without someone else there."

Libby nodded steadfastly, and Nash turned to Max. "You wanna go too?"

"Of course," Max said. "Tell Xan where I am, though."

"Got it. Make sure y'all clean up before you go in public—don't want anybody knowin' what we're doin' down here. Make somethin' up for the mechanism of injury. Police can't come out here to scope it out."

"I'll handle it," said Ian. "Ring me if you can't put the fire out."

He turned toward the stairs, and Grayson coughed, "Wait."

Ian looked back. Grayson was startled by the emotions in their host's eyes—concern, terror, somehow duty. He looked nothing like the man who had turned them away.

"Promise you will say nothing about us," Grayson begged. He hated begging—it was undignified and humiliating and not at all befitting of a Hawthorne. But it was of the utmost importance that no word of their location made its way back to America.

"You think I'm going to risk losing my tenants?" Ian cracked a faint smile. "I'm no snitch, Gray. And don't worry, I'll make sure your girl's alright. Just get my house put out, okay?"

Grayson nodded. "Thank you, Ian."

Ian hoisted Avery higher in his arms. "The pleasure is mine."

He turned and hurried down the stairs, feet sure, and Grayson, somehow, wasn't afraid for a moment that Ian would drop Avery. Max and Libby followed Ian down, disappearing into the lightly falling snow.

Grayson dragged himself to his feet, clutching his rib cage with one arm and wiping the blood from his cheek with the other hand, and prayed with all the faith he possessed that—even if she hated him now, even if everything they had was over—Avery would be okay.

He should never have bet on love.

Some things are too precious to gamble.