Their Vicious Games(84)

But Esme. There Esme stands, still with blood on her lips, and now a fork hanging by the tines from her fucking palm, the points tearing open her skin, leaving blood dripping down her wrist.

“I win?” she asks, her voice tiny.

Leighton shakes herself out of her reverie, eyes focusing on Esme again. “You win, Miss Alderidge. You continue to be first.”

There is something lost about Esme amongst the arms of her parents, as they swarm in, kissing their pride to her temple. The room applauds, but Esme is staring at something no one else can see, her brow furrowed. It’s like something has left her that she can’t find again, and she misses it, desperately, more than anything.

In that moment she looks like the girl who was my friend, once, and more than ever, I know that tomorrow, in the Royale, I won’t be able to kill anyone, not even her, because she’ll always look like the girl who might have been my friend.





CHAPTER 28





CHARLES USES THE COMMOTION TO break away, and because I have nowhere else to go, I stay. I stay through the dancing and laughing, pressed up against the wall, with Saint at my side. We watch as Pierce makes his turns about the room, speaking to each important person like he’s known them for years, confident in his ability to communicate on their level. Once or twice, I catch wind of his ambitions when he’s close enough.

“Political science. Then an internship, hopefully with you, Senator. That’ll certainly lead me on my way to governor one day,” he explains when the senator asks him what he’s going to major in, what his plans are, what his future is. He is so sure.

When someone thanks him for the invitation—not Third, not Leighton, but him—Pierce smiles and says, “There’ll be plenty more social events here. My mother is not one for a full social calendar, but I certainly am.”

Penthesilea works the room just as well, but with her, now that I know what she’s really like, I can see how each movement is calculated. She is following Pierce. At a distance, but still. She speaks to every single person that he speaks to, cementing her place.

Esme and Hawthorne are huddled together, sitting with Esme’s parents and another set of parents that I have to assume are Hawthorne’s. Hawthorne has wrapped a table napkin around Esme’s palm and their heads are bent together, ignoring everything around them.

No one makes an effort to speak to us and we don’t make an effort to speak to anyone else, even when Leighton swoops by us on her second turn around the room. She glowers, jerking her chin at the old money of Massachusetts, making it very clear what she expects from me. I stare back at her, stony faced.

“I think…,” Leighton declares, and she lets it linger, waiting for her words to carry enough that attention is turned toward her. “It is high time for the girls to get to bed. They have a very big morning ahead of them.”

“A big day tomorrow, Pierce,” someone calls, and there’s a crackle of laughter that no one finds inappropriate.

“Come along, ladies,” Leighton prompts.

I push off the wall and take one more sweeping look around the room. Graham is no longer here—shocker. Charles skulks in the back now and I try to meet his eye, but he won’t even look at me. Saint tugs me along, and we’re just nearly out of the room before fingers slip into my free hand, stopping me where I am.

When I turn, I snatch back my hand immediately. I want to say something terrible to Pierce, but I can’t think where to start.

“Good night, Adina,” Pierce says, and he sounds kind again. He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek and I flinch so hard, I crash into Saint. Pierce pulls back and smiles, satisfied that I have learned my lesson. Determined to resume our story.

Saint tugs me away, looping her arm through mine, sneering at Pierce as we walk out of the room. Leighton stops just in front of the doors, looking at us as we cluster closer together. I can feel Esme right behind me, and I don’t even mind. At least she’s between me and the jackals still inside.

“Tomorrow morning it will only be us. It is important that the Royale remain one of our closest held secrets. So at eleven, you will present yourself in the hunting parlor in your finest,” Leighton says. She takes a deep breath. “You have all played an admirable game. But tomorrow, it will all come to an end. Thank you. Good night.”

Leighton doesn’t tell us what the Royale is, but she doesn’t need to. I know the definition—an event in which a number of combatants fight it out until there’s one left standing.

She steps around us and walks back into the ballroom, shutting the doors behind us, leaving us in darkness. There is nothing to say between the five of us. Hawthorne nods once, gingerly holding Esme’s injured hand in hers. They walk down the corridor toward the left. Penthesilea takes off to the right.

Saint and I take the long way, walking down toward the main staircase and ascending.

No matter how far we walk, I can still hear the echoes of music and laughter and, if I try hard enough, imagine the sound of clinking crystal. A toast to the Remingtons. To the rich. To the continued impoverishment of everyone who’s not them. Meanwhile, our way is lit only by the stray candelabra on the walls, like this is some manor in some shitty budget eighties Gothic film.

My life is a horror movie.

Go figure.

But it’s almost peaceful, knowing that tomorrow is the day that I’ll die. I laugh to myself, my own voice echoing eerily through the halls.