Their Vicious Games(67)
CHAPTER 23
THE SECOND REPARTEE SHOULD FEEL like child’s play compared to the Ride, but it doesn’t. Expectations loom larger now. This is all mind games, but it’s just as daunting.
It won’t be card games this time, I know, as we’re led downstairs in that single-file kindergarten line. The Remingtons don’t seem the type for repetition. Maybe it’s Chutes and Ladders, or Sorry!, or a hilariously ironic game of Life.
I’m disappointed to find that it’s nothing of the sort.
“Chess,” Hawthorne says, voicing my distaste.
“Blitz chess,” Pierce corrects cheerfully. He’s more casual for this Repartee, if one could call Vineyard Vines “casual.” He’s wearing boat shoes, unironically. It’s as if he’s stepped off a Cape Cod pier right into the parlor.
Leighton stares down her nose at us. “The Repartees are—as I have said—opportunities to demonstrate the less physical skills necessary to navigate the upcoming challenge within the Finish, and outside of it, in life.”
Pierce steps forward, almost in front of Leighton. She stops short and breathes slowly, as if she meant to pause, but I know she’s been interrupted. Pierce doesn’t seem to notice the subtle shift in her mood as he says, “Chess is a game of strategy above all other things. But blitz chess requires one to make these strategic decisions on a dime, as you will be encouraged to do during the Raid. Come closer, so I can explain the rules.”
Reagan, Jacqueline, and Hannah G scurry forward with abandon, eager to be in Pierce’s line of sight, and Penthesilea looks vaguely curious. Saint and I take our time, casing the room. This is the third parlor I’ve been in, and it looks just as grand and majestic as the last, but it’s getting old. Slowly but surely, the way the light flickers against the gilded walls makes it feel more and more ghoulish.
“We should stay out of this, if we can,” Saint murmurs. “No need to draw attention to us or do anything to betray our strategy.”
Our plan for the Raid is a simple one. Stick to the walls. Stay out of sight. Don’t go for the prize at the center of the chaos. Being ranked first or second would only make the target on our backs larger, and it’s obvious by now that the rankings don’t really matter in the end. Hopefully, with how bloodthirsty the girls remaining are, they’ll pick one another off and make it easier for when we get to the final challenge—the mysterious Royale.
“They’ll notice if we don’t engage,” I warn.
Pierce is already noticing. Even as he tries to focus on his task of explaining, he looks over his shoulder at me. I manage a half-hearted smile and Hannah G sneers at me.
Saint shrugs. “Let them notice. They notice us anyway.”
Saint is right in that aspect, but I can’t help but think that it’s the wrong move here. I’ve always followed her lead, tried never to set myself apart in any meaningful way, but her parents aren’t being threatened, and doesn’t this set us apart more? I hear Leighton in my ear, warning me. Don’t go soft. Pressure turns carbon into diamond. She will be watching after our talk just as she’s watched me in training these past three days.
Hawthorne and Jacqueline sit at the first chess table, Pierce smiling warm and encouraging as Leighton looks on with cold approval. Then there’s Penthesilea and Reagan, and there’s something pitiful about this, the girl at the top playing with the girl at the bottom. There is no competition here. This is sympathy, and Penthesilea shows dominance in her compassion.
But I am the favorite now. Tomorrow we’ll play it safe, but tonight I’ll act the part as Leighton and Pierce expect. Holding back is soft. I can’t hold back.
Maybe that’s what makes me move forward, into the thick of things. My eyes catch on Esme, standing over Hawthorne and Jacqueline as they play together, wearing a halter dress that dips low, and now that she’s not wearing her choker, I can see three raised scars, waxy with new skin.
Scars take years to fade, and it’s only been three months since I gave her these.
They are long, the width of three fingers. I knotted my fingers in her hair first, trying to pull her face away from me. But I pulled too hard and tore a chunk free, my fingers catching on the pale skin at the nape of her neck, and suddenly there was blood caked under my fingernails, blood staining her collar.
She turns like she can sense me looking at them.
“What are you doing?” Esme asks.
“Admiring my handiwork.”
Esme pulls back like she’s been slapped, but I look down at the game. There’s a timer for both girls. After every move, a girl slaps the buzzer and it ticks down toward her opponent’s doom—ten seconds per move.
Jacqueline is at a disadvantage. She’s a poker player. They take their time. They’re careful. Hawthorne is reckless, sacrificing knights and executing bishops, but soon it becomes clear it’s all so that she may cross a pawn into position as queen. And then she is without mercy.
“Three queens all against Jacqueline’s little army of pawns,” I say, looking at Hawthorne’s ivory army. “What did you bet?”
“Nothing,” Hawthorne says simply. “Jacqueline has nothing to offer me.”
“Taking a lot of Ls there, aren’t you, Jacqueline?” I dig at her.