James Frey - Rules of the Game

“Where exactly?”

“A sunken temple near the Gujarati town of Dwarka.”

An jams the brakes and holds the wheel tightly and Nori Ko braces herself on the dashboard and the tires squeal and they come to a lurching halt.

The car that is driving fast so fast overtakes them. A small late-model sedan, one driver, bald and in a hurry. No passengers. The driver looks nothing like Maccabee and there is no one else in the car so An doesn’t pay it any mind. Everyone drives like a speed demon in India anyway.

“Why is Adlai going there?” he asks urgently. “Is it because of Sun Key?”

“Yes.”

“Is it there?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“But you think it’s at one of these monuments? The ones that are being destroyed?”

“Yes. It is. Although I don’t know which one.”

He pauses. Squints. The car disappears around the next turn. He says, “Then Sun Key could also be at the Mu monument? Or the Cahokian? Or the Olmec? Or—the Shang ?”

“Yes. It could.”

An puts the car back in gear, whips the wheel around, pulls a tight U-turn, and heads back in the direction from which they came, going fast fast fast.

“What are you doing?” Nori Ko demands.

BlinkSHIVERSHIVERblinkBLINKBLINKSHIVERshiverBLINK.

She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. He yanks it away.

China, Chiyoko says.

Yes, he answers.

“The Nabataean could already be halfway to Dwarka!” Nori Ko protests.

“I know. And if he’s lucky enough to find Sun Key there, then he’s already won, and we are already too late,” An says through clenched teeth. “Nothing we do will matter. We need to get the keys to see the kepler face-to-face. If he wins, then we will have lost our chance to meet and then kill the Maker. But …”

And then Nori Ko understands. “The pyramid of Emperor Zhao.”

“Yes. We start at the Shang monument. If Dwarka doesn’t have Sun Key—and the odds are decent that it won’t—then Adlai will go to the next closest monument. Mine .”

“China,” Nori Ko says. Accepting. Approving.

“Yes. We’re going home,” he says, thinking of all the things he hated about it, of all the pain he endured during his training, of all the suffering. “My hellish home.”

Shari Chopra is not in her home, although that is where she would rather be more than anything. In her home, smelling cooking food, watching her child run through the garden, holding her husband’s hand.

But her husband is dead.

She is not home, but she is awake, and none of the others know it yet.

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