The Assassin Game Read Online Free Page A

certainly no clever clogs, and my talents are few and modest. This is no humblebrag; it’s just the truth. I’m OK at art, and luckily I like my art teacher, Mr. Flynn. He was the first person here I felt I could talk to. Yeah, well done, Cate; befriend a teacher. But after a while, I managed to chisel out precisely two friendships with people my own age: Marcia, who is the school newspaper editor and one of the cloaked Elders from last night. She has an IQ of 156 and no idea what to do with it. She’ll probably end up running a tabloid.
    And then there’s Daniel, again Guild, the “Dumper.” Poor, lovely Daniel. Alex gets off on tormenting him, but Daniel rarely complains about much. That’s one of the reasons I love him. He plays the violin, wonderfully, but is terminally shy. He finds it almost impossible to hold a conversation with anyone apart from me or Marcia. He was at the Lausanne Conservatory, but he’s killing a couple years here because his parents want him to get straight As and a sense of proportion.
    I get along with most of the people here now, you know? Many of them are loners anyway. Hothouse kids who never got to learn how not to chuck sand in the playground. Apart from the athletes, of course. They band together. Go team! It’s like elves and orcs around here, the geeks and the jocks. And me in the middle. Invisible.
    But not today, finally. Today, I am Guild. Today, I am in the Game. Today, I am part of Killer.
    As I turn the corner, a lively hubbub emanates from the dining room. It’s louder than usual, because it’s a Saturday, and the kind of Saturday that only happens around here a handful of times a term. People are excited about escaping to the mainland. There’s a causeway to this island, and today the tide is right.
    Twice a day a window opens up when it is safe to cross the causeway. On Saturdays we have lessons until midday, and all pupils have to be back on the island by 9 p.m. at the latest. So if the tide is out for a decent chunk of time, a bus is scheduled to take us to the mainland at lunchtime and back again in the evening. This timing only works out about once a month, and sometimes not even that, as there are fairly ridiculous safety margins in place to account for wind and foul weather and the inevitable naughty folks who are late for the return journey. There’s nothing much on the mainland—a few shops, a café, a pub that doesn’t always check IDs—but at least it’s not school.
    So yes, the dining hall is humming, and there’s the smell of toast, which always makes my mouth water—except on the mornings when I’ve spent the night apple bobbing in excrement.
    As I enter the hall, I see the tables at the far end have been commandeered by the Guild. Most of them see me walk in, and those that don’t have soon been elbowed. Alex is center; he flicks sandy hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head and beckons me over, slowly. As I approach the open spot on the end of the last table, I see Martin and Tesha sitting there, both with a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of them. My stomach lurches. Oh, I have so exhausted my tolerance for things that steam. But everyone at my table has the same gruel. I scan down the line of faces. I’m last. I sit, and someone places a bowl in front of me. I grit my teeth.
    â€œDig in!” Alex shouts. Every pair of eyes in the dining hall is on us as I lift the spoon out of the bowl. There’s something other than oatmeal on it. I gingerly pick it out of the oats.
    A wristband of black, plaited leather, with a neat silver clasp at one end.
    I look around me; everyone has the same surprise.
    A cheer goes up from the Guild, which prompts some cheering and clapping from the rest of the school, eventually dissolving into laughter and whooping.
    â€œHave a happy death!” someone cries.
    â€œAaaaargh!” a fake yell sounds out. More laughter.
    â€œAll