Chapter One // Opening
There was something delightfully intimate about the relationship between predator and prey. The careful dance. Neither party quite willing to make the first strike or reveal their true intentions. In fact, it could almost be interpreted as a very strange courtship ritual; a ritual that continued until the whole game was brought to a climactic end and the predator reaped its reward.
And it was rewarding. It was a game with a suitable prize.
He was fascinated with predators of all kinds. Wolves, hawks, lions. Creatures that had been known throughout history for being strong, noble, and feared. Symbols of power. Symbols of conquest. Symbols of an evolutionary superiority enjoyed by those animals graced with keen intelligence and strength. He felt that he, himself, embodied many of these traits, as well. He even had his prey, oh yes, and her name was Valerian Kimble.
It was not a common name. Valerian was the name of a delicate, sweet-smelling flowered herb used in both medicine and perfume. But it had also been the name of a noble Roman emperor who had been captured by the Persians and subjected to extremely harsh treatment until the day of his death, when they flayed him alive.
A valerian by any other name would smell just as sweet, he thought, and laughed.
So strong-willed … and yet, so hopelessly fragile. She was not beautiful in the classical sense but he enjoyed looking at her. At the subtle curves of her slender, almost awkward frame; the bright green of her eyes; and the way her hair flared with color in direct sunlight, like a bank of glowing embers.
And that mouth.
He'd often considered how it would feel to kiss that mouth. Knotting his hands through her wild, unwieldy hair. Closing his hands around her slender wrists and feeling the desperate pounding of her heart against his as he took possession over what he had rightfully won.
Slowly, he lowered his eyes to the desk. Several sheaves of paper lay before him, most crumpled and others tossed aside in rejection. He toyed with the fountain pen in his hand before bringing it to his lips and closing his eyes. For a long time, he did not move from his position; his face was solemn, as if in prayer.
Somewhere inside the house, a clock struck six.
“You're a work of art, my flower,” he whispered at last, against the cool plastic. And while the words were tender, his voice was laced with derision.
His Valerian—The herb, the haughty empress—was, indeed, a work of art. But still, a work in progress nonetheless. Not quite ready for the showcase. There were still a number of flaws that he intended to paint out. Weaknesses of character aside, there was still the rather nettlesome matter of her boyfriend.
The boy was attractive enough in a dull, wholesome way. Hardly a worthy adversary. He was a mere bully who, like many others of his type, had found an outlet for his adolescent aggression in sports. He might have been able to kick a ball around the field, but he couldn't dodge a bullet. And if it ever came right down to it, he wouldn't be able to protect Val from one, either.
“I will have you,” he said, so quietly that his breath barely stirred the air. “And when I do, my dear, I don't intend to let you go.” The hand holding the pen lowered to the table's varnished surface, as if in a gesture of defeat. Then his eyes opened lazily, at half-mast. “Ever.”
Only then did he begin to write.
The campus of Derringer High School (home of the broncos), was buzzing with the incessant chatter of teenagers as they spilled from the doors of their respective classrooms. “I can't wait for this day to end,” Val Kimble muttered to her best friend, Lisa Jerffries, as they left Conceptual Physics. “Just think—after sixth period, we have a whole three-day weekend.”
“Why? Do you have any plans, Val?” Lisa asked, with a slightly suggestive wink.
Val gave her a halfhearted swat, eliciting a whine. “I only asked what you were doing.”
“Yeah. And we both know what you really meant.” She tried to glare, but Lisa had her face screwed in a horrendous pleading expression that caused her to burst out laughing instead.
“Seriously,” Lisa said, still laughing, “What are you going to be up to?”
Val sighed. “We're getting the house remodeled. Everything's going to get ripped up, torn out—you name it. I'm probably going to end up being shut in my room for six-plus hours glued to the computer screen.”
“Sounds fun.” Lisa rolled her eyes. “So no hot date with James, huh?”
“James isn't like that.” Honestly, despite the fact that they were both seniors, sometimes her friend had the mentality of a freshman boy. “Get your mind out of the gutter,” she added, for good measure.
“My mind out of the gutter?” Lisa's eyebrows shot up. “This is James Lewis we're talking about here, right? The same James Lewis who was drawing boobs in art class during our freshman year?”
Val's cheeks took on a rosy tint. She looked away. “He's changed.”
Lisa snorted. “I hate to burst your bubble, Val, but they're all secretly like that. You know, sex-obsessed. Whether they show it or not is just a test of character and any guy who says otherwise is a liar or a cheater. You just wait until the honeymoon period is over. Then you'll see.”
“James isn't like that,” Val snapped.
“Shows how much you know,” Lisa said gleefully. “It's built into them biologically to spread their genes, or something like that. Even they can't help it.”
“Can't help what?” asked a very male, very familiar voice.
Val looked away from Lisa to a pair of sea foam green eyes, and the annoyed expression vanished instantly as she found herself returning his smile.
Everyone was telling her it wasn't good to lose her head over a boy—everyone being primarily Lisa and her parents—but she was obsessed. He was perfect, and she considered herself extremely lucky that he had chosen her over the other girls that were practically queuing up for a date with him.
It had something to do with the way he held himself; the way he moved, spoke, and looked at people. James simply had a kind of … latent sexuality that drew girls—and sometimes boys—to him like a moth to a light. He was sexy, even if he didn't dress the part. And Val knew he enjoyed the attention he received.
She was jerked from this train of thought when Lisa said, “We were just talking about—”
“Nothing. Just how great it is to have a break, right Lisa?”
“Oh, that's right, all right,” Lisa said, with a devious smile Val didn't trust for one minute.
“Your parents still doing the construction thing this weekend?” James asked curiously.
“Unfortunately.” Val grimaced. “We're having the bathroom ripped out tomorrow. And since said bathroom happens to be right next door to my bedroom, I'm practically going to be under house arrest.”
His face fell. “So we can't hang out this weekend.”
“No, probably not. I'm sorry.”
James shrugged. “That's too bad.”
Val tried not to flinch. His voice was pleasant enough, but she still felt a tug of anxiety. She'd had to blow him off a lot recently. First because of football season (she was in band, and had to travel to various other towns for competitions, as well as play at all of the major home games), and then again because of midterms. James was a senior, like her and Lisa, so he should have understood her problems. Especially since his classes were much, much more difficult than hers.
Val would much rather go out with him than do stupid homework for a stupid teacher that only assigned such work because it was easy to grade with the answer key. It was only the threat of failure and post-apocalyptic parents that kept her on track and out of her boyfriend's house on weekends.
Still, she couldn't help but feel that all this pressure was finally taking its toll. Was he mad at her?
She smiled timidly at him and he returned the smile, although with less enthusiasm than he had initially. Great, Val thought, as he and Lisa fell into a discussion about the football game this weekend, He's annoyed.
“Maybe we can all go to the game,” Lisa suggested, “It's close enough that you'll be able to help out if your parents need you, right? I mean, you have a cell phone.”
“Val's parents are kind of overprotective,” James said, before she could open her mouth.
Now she was annoyed. “They are not!” She paused and added, in a sour voice, “And considering what happened before, I wouldn't really blame them, even if they were.”
“Sorry, Val,” James muttered, pulling her into an awkward hug. He smelled like Old Spice, and his sweatshirt was so soft and cuddly that she had to resist the impulse to nuzzle her face against his chest.
“What?” Lisa sniffed, “No apology for me? I feel left out.”
Val glanced at her over James's shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Why should I apologize to you?”
“For snipping at me earlier.”
“I'm sorry, Lisa.”
“Great. Next time don't sound so sarcastic and it'll be perfect.”
James glanced at his watch. “Better get moving ladies,” he said, releasing Val. “Bell will ring any minute.”
The three of them walked to the 600 hall, where their respective lockers were. From the way the halls were filling up, Val guessed that it was more like a matter of seconds. Only forty-five minutes of class and then I can go home, she thought, grabbing her math book. Hopefully, she'd be able to pay attention.
At that moment, the bell rang, shattering her thoughts.
“Oh, great. Time to go to Geometry.”
“It's better than French,” Lisa pointed out. “Madame Gerhard hates me — and she never calls on me when I raise my hand. I swear, it's like she waits for me to zone out. And then the moment I do, it's Quand est-ce que les cours finissent? She gets me every time! I don't know how she does it.”
“I think you're being paranoid.”
“Whatever,” said Lisa. “Or as the French would say, quoi que.”
James shook his head, a smile on his face. “Come on. I'll walk you.”
They made their way to the math area; a series of portable box-like buildings in the boondocks of the school. “I still don't understand how you can take calculus,” Val said dolefully as their shoes scraped against the blacktop. “I've seen the text. It doesn't even look like math. It looks like a foreign language.”
James laughed. “That's probably close enough to the truth.”
“Why do you take it?” she asked. “Isn't it hard?”
“That's why I like it. Because it's a challenge. I like being able to do things other people can't do.”
“My god, you're full of yourself.”
“You know it,” James said, leaning in and kissing her. On the mouth. In school.
Val was thrilled.
For the longest time, she hadn't been sure whether the attraction was mutual. James had flirted with her—and about half a dozen other girls on a regular basis, driving her crazy with his cryptic flirtations.
In fact, he hadn't actually asked her out until the summer before their senior year. The four of them—her, Lisa, James, and Blake—had all been at a party when he finally confessed his feelings for her. She'd gone home glowing inside. Even now, three months later, she still couldn't believe that he was hers. It seemed too good to be true. Sometimes, she wondered if it was.
“Later,” he said, pulling away.
“Bye,” she said. “Have fun in your smart-kid class.”
He only grinned in response before opening the door and disappearing inside his classroom. Val watched the door for a moment and then climbed up the ramp to hers. Seeing him smile just for her brought an indescribable feeling of happiness which swelled. Lisa didn't know what she was talking about, as usual. She didn't need passion to know she loved James.
But does he love you?
That was unpleasant to think about, though, and so Val pushed the thought away.
Geometry was in a dim, stifling classroom. The blinds were old and temperamental, and nearly impossible to get open. Mr. Giles had made a show of going to the thermostat and fiddling with the various knobs and switches, but everyone knew that was just for show.
Hot and sniffy, Val glared down at her math problems for a long time, as if expecting them to solve themselves, and then thrust her arm into the air. “I need some help.”
“What do you need help with?” Mr. Giles said, gliding over like some bird of prey. A vulture, maybe. The toupee on his head certainly looked like something one could find in the middle of the road.
“The proofs,” Val said, pointing at the textbook. “I don't get them.”
“What don't you get?” Mr. Giles asked.
“The proofs!” Val stabbed an accusatory finger at a picture of a triangle. “I know I'm supposed to explain them using theorems and postulates — ”
“—And the definitions,” Mr. Giles cut in.
“Yes, and those,” Val agreed, somewhat impatiently. “But I don't know when to use them. I mean, I can barely solve the problems themselves, and now I have to label what I'm doing, too?”
“You're supposed to have them memorized,” Mr. Giles said. “Which you obviously haven't done, judging from some of your quizzes, Valerian.”
“It's hard,” she said, feeling hopeless. The teacher obviously didn't care about her predicament. She was just another slacker to him, trying to get out of work. “I can't think logistically.”
“Logically,” the teacher corrected, with a sigh. “You can't think logically.”
Val scowled. “What good is logic?”
“Well, in chess, for example, logic is very important.”
Oh, for God's sake. “I don't play chess.”
“It might improve your scores.”
“Valerian Kimble to the administration office, please. Valerian Kimble to the administration office.”
Val stared at the black speaker in the wall. She'd been in high school for three years now, and they'd never called her on the intercom. She turned towards her teacher, a question in her gaze.
“You'd better go,” the teacher said, waving her off. “We'll discuss this when you return.”
He didn't need to tell her twice.
Despite being a welcome distraction from proofs, the office was a dark and gloomy place with wallpaper that hadn't been changed since '62 and a vague smell of disinfectant that hung loosely in the air. It probably came from the nurse's office, but seemed prominent everywhere else, too.
Most of the people who worked in administration seemed to blend right into the ugly wallpaper. The office was supposed to provide help, but vast majority of its staff weren't interested in helping—unless said help happened to be out the door.
Mrs. Fields was on duty that afternoon, and she gave Val an unimpressed look as the girl walked in. She was in her mid-thirties and wore heavy make-up that made her look years older—and tough. Val supposed she had to be pretty tough, since her name was an invite to open attack to jokes, usually of the sort pertaining to cookies and her unfortunate girth.
“Can I help you?”
“You called for me on the, uh, intercom,” she said lamely.
“You're Valerian?”
“Val.”
Ignoring her, the secretary reached behind her desk and pulled out an olive green planter box. “This came for you.” A leafy green plant was growing out of it, speckled with little, bright pink flowers. “And this,” Mrs. Fields added, dropping an envelope on top of the plant. “Is it your birthday or something?”
“No.” Val stared at the little flowers. She had never seen that particular plant before.
“Better get back to class,” Mrs. Fields said. “Do you need me to write you a pass?”
Val shook her head. “Wait, who's it from?”
“I don't know. He didn't say. Now, get back to class.”
He?
Why would a boy be sending her things? Val left the office, puzzled and a little too warm, and stopped outside to set the flowers on a bench so she could read the card. She wished she'd thought to ask the secretary what he looked like, but it was too late now.
Oh, well.
She turned her attention to the card. The paper was grainy, and left her hands feeling slightly dry. She licked her finger before sliding it under the flap and slicing it open. The paper inside was a neat piece of stationary, plain and off-white, like a bit of parchment folded into a rectangle.
She unfolded it, revealing inky black calligraphy that looked vaguely archaic.
A few pink flower petals, like the ones growing on the plant, fluttered to her feet.
I've been watching you for some time, Valerian. I know you're passionate about the things and people you love — and disinclined to do things that don't suit your interests. In that aspect, you remind me of a powerful predator, a hunter. But sadly, in many other ways you are a lower-scale being. The hunted.
The prey.
I have singled you out because you have potential. I want to play with you, Valerian. I want to play suicide chess with you. You with your pawns, and me with mine. Together we'll level the playing field. And you know what else? I know you'll do it. Because the same passion that fuels your affection drives your curiosity. You're a gamer, and you like a good challenge. I think you'll find me quite a challenge.
Even now, I know you're looking for me, wondering who I am. Where I am. How I know what I do. These questions will be answered during the course of the game, Valerian, although by then you might not want the answers. Are you frightened? Do I frighten you? I should. Because first, you must play the game for more than you can afford to lose. Sacrifice everything. Learn true fear. Only then will you win the game.
I am the Grandmaster. I look forward to playing against you, my dear.
x
P.S. The flowers are valerians. Your namesake — quite appropriate, although not as beautiful as you.
Her heart was throbbing when she finished the letter. Slowly, Val sank down on the bench, beside the flowers. The letter was full of masked emotion and yet bore a harsh, almost clinical quality. One of indifference. Games, flowers, prey, and predators? It was more than her mind could comprehend.
Distantly, she remembered hearing somewhere that a 'grandmaster' was a high-ranking chess title, but the thought faded quickly. All she could grasp at the moment was that somewhere, someone at the school was watching her.
Stalking her.
Hunting her.
Like a cat batting at a mouse before consuming it. And this creepy individual wanted to play a game with her. She shivered slightly, despite her sweatshirt, which she pulled more tightly around her.
Are you frightened? He'd asked. Do I frighten you?
Yes, he did. Yes, she was.
(You should be)