Their Vicious Games(72)

“Calm down. Pierce is no prince. I promise,” Esme drawls.

“You sure seem to think he’s worth killing for, though. You gonna kill me next, Esme?” Hannah G challenges.

Saint takes a step back, grabbing me by my wrist, as chaos begins to brew and unfold, deflecting the attention off of us.

“Don’t listen to her. I told you. You can have anything you want after I win,” Esme warns. “Stay focused, Hannah G.”

“Don’t!” Hannah G shrieks, and then her voice softens dangerously. “Call. Me. Hannah G. I’m the only Hannah now.”

She shifts into a more combative stance now, holding her staff at Esme.

“Don’t you dare—” Esme warns.

“I’m the only Hannah. I made sure of it!” Hannah G screams, animalistic, and just when she’s about to lunge, there’s a click and whistle.

Hannah G stumbles back, blinking her surprise, and I gasp when I see the bolt buried in her chest, black and solid. I turn to look at Hawthorne, who slowly loads another bolt, shoving past me, turning her gaze onto Jacqueline. But Jacqueline doesn’t back down; she bares her open maw and then she lunges, lifting the heavy battle-ax over her head.

I jerk the gun out of my holster and shatter the silence with three gunshots that force everyone to clap their hands to their ears, eradicating all remnants of my exhaustion that haven’t been cleared away by adrenaline. My ears ring and my vision doubles for a moment, but everything stops as intended. They all look at me, and for a split second I doubt my instincts as they turn their fury to me, but I have to commit. “Esme. Catch.”

I lift the ring box and launch it at Esme. She fumbles for it as the alarm sounds incredibly loud.

I can hear Jacqueline lisp, “Wait, stop,” her eyes darting between me and Esme, who is now holding the black box, and Hawthorne turns her attention back to Jacqueline while Esme bares her teeth at me.

“Run,” Saint hisses in my ear.

We take off up through the middle, deeper into the maze again. Esme shouts behind us, and I don’t need to look back to know she’s chasing us. Even with the prize in hand, she would always chase me. There’s an excuse here. Here, her bloodlust is more than allowed. It’s encouraged. I pump my arms harder, running as fast as I can, taking another turn without even thinking which way it’s headed.

“Left!” Saint barks at the next, and I can hear Esme, screaming my name as Saint and I run down the next long corridor.

When we reach the next wall, I feel Saint twist, but I register the direction too late. She goes left and for some reason—maybe because I’m scared of being stabbed or maybe because I slept on the floor the night before—I run right.





CHAPTER 25





MY ONLY SAVING GRACE IS that Esme doesn’t see which way either of us has gone.

“WALKER! Walker, where are you?” she roars from the fork in the hedge, and just beneath the sound, I can hear Hawthorne pleading, probably reaching for her and trying to talk sense into her friend. But we’re long past sense. Sense doesn’t belong here; that’s a thing of Suburbia.

My heart rate skyrockets as I creep forward, looking back and forth. I whisper, “Saint,” hoping she’s found a path that will double back this way, but there’s no answer.

I scurry along, keeping tight against the walls, hoping maybe Esme will just storm past me, blinded by her rage. And yet, inevitably, her voice and steps grow louder. I can even start to make out Hawthorne’s words.

“…mean anything. Margaret was the only… no more.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, where I think they’re gone, and then I hear Esme’s voice as if she’s right next to me, booming in my ear with its rage: “I have to get this right, Hawthorne. This needs to go right or it’ll all go to shit. I’ll be a failure just like my father—”

“You’re not a failure, Esme. I won’t fail,” Hawthorne promises. “You just need to trust that I know what I’m doing. We can do this.”

That “we” says everything. I almost fell for it again, but they’ve always been a “we.”

Esme’s derision rings out in the form of a snort, and then Hawthorne whispers more placating words. But it won’t be enough. Esme’s patience has definitely run out.

I fumble with my gun, tugging it out of the holster again, my fingers shaking as I prepare myself for what’s next.

If I shoot Esme, there’s no doubt that I’ll find an arrow in my chest a second later. If I don’t, I’ll find a knife in my chest.

“Don’t get soft,” I whisper to myself through gritted teeth.

Just as I am about to click off the safety, two freckled arms stretch from the maze walls and tug me deep into the green flesh. I open my mouth to scream, but that same hand, deceptively strong for its size, slaps over my mouth, muffling me. I hear her voice, gentle and insistent in my ear.

“Be quiet. Shhh.”

I fall silent as I become one with the hedge wall, and I shut my eyes tight, feeling the length of her pressed against my back. The branches and leaves scratch at my cheeks and eyelids as Esme and Hawthorne stalk past, presumably bickering over the value of my life.

I forgot Graham’s warning about the walls after being angry with him, and I feel even more stupid and even irrationally angrier at him for distracting me—or allowing myself to be distracted.