The Inheritances Game (Jameson Hawthorne)

Meeting Rohan.. Again

The drive back to the Hawthorne flat seemed to take an eternity, and the foyer was dark and quiet when they arrived. Jameson flipped on a light and was greeted by four sticky notes affixed in a straight line to the closest wall. There was a single word written on each one in Xander's haphazard scrawl. 

"Neck," Cal read out loud. "Gotcha. Ringy. Goo." This was either Xander's way of warning them that there was a prank involving bells and slime in their future... or a code. Fueled by the lingering buzz of adrenaline from the night's endeavors, Jameson's mind sorted rapidly through the letters, switching up their order. ING was a common combination, so he started there. 

"Going," he guessed. "Probably followed by to..." 

"Sub in the c-h from gotcha for the n in neck?" she murmured beside him. 

Jameson's pulse ticked upward. This was practically their version of dirty talk. "Going to check... he murmured back, his body listing toward hers. "On..." 

Four letters left. A, G, R, Y. Jameson's phone rang just as the meaning of Xander's message clicked into place. "Leaving London so soon?" he answered. 

Nash spoke on the other end of the line. "We're trusting you, Jamie." 

"To take care of myself?" 

"To remember that you don't have to." The muscles in Jameson's throat unexpectedly tightened. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about," he said. I have Cal. I have the Devil's Mercy. I'm going to be just fine. 

"Make good choices!" Xander yelled in the background. 

Jameson ended the call, and the next moment, the same guard from last night spoke. He really needed to learn his name "We have company on the terrace." Company. Jameson was suddenly keenly aware of his surroundings. Every sound. Every shadow. Every element of security that was put in place. "I can take care of it," he said, but Catalina shook her head. 

"No," she said. Jameson took that as his cue to move toward the terrace, his steps silent, his stride long, Catalina right behind him. The door was open. Jameson stepped out onto the terrace before anyone could stop him. The messenger lazed in one chair; his feet propped up on another. 

"Your neighbor has excellent taste in wine," he declared, swirling a bit of it in a wineglass and nodding toward the bottle on the table. "Horrible taste in cats, though," he added. "Hairless, two of them." He gave Catalia a little wink. "I've always been more of a dog person myself."

The waiter persona. The fighter cloaked in darkness. And now this. Jameson felt like he'd met three different people. But the dark brown eyes, the artful mess of barely curling black hair, the sharp features-they were all the same. 

"You broke into the neighboring flat." Cal stated the obvious. 

"I break nothing." Holding his wineglass between his thumb and his middle finger, the messenger tapped his other three fingers lightly along the stem. "Except hearts." 

Breaking into the flat next door was child's play for you. Jameson was suddenly sure of that. You're a chameleon. A conman. A thief. With that thought came a disturbing possibility. "How do we even know that you work for the Mercy?" 

What if they were being conned? 

"Because"- —the chameleon swung his feet off the chair, turning slightly and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees-"your message was received." He let those words hang in the air, then leaned back again. "Or at least," he told Cal, "yours was." He set down his glass of wine and reached into his trench coat. 

He quickly stepped in front of her putting a barrier between the two. Their visitor slowly withdrew his hand, brandishing a black-and-silver envelope and dropping it onto the table, the motion graceful and smooth. Jameson was at the table in an instant. The envelope was square and large. The paper was black matte, embossed with an elaborate design: a silver triangle embedded in a silver circle in a silver square. Within the triangle, there was another square, inside it, another circle. The pattern repeated over and over.