Their Vicious Games(86)

“Why?” I ask, but I think I already know the answer.

“Because we’ve gone through hell together in two weeks, and you got me through it. You have pushed me and taken care of me and made me feel like I wasn’t going crazy. You saw exactly what I saw. A family of psycho, power-hungry assholes,” Saint says plainly. “We both know that the Royale tomorrow is going to be winner takes all. And I don’t think we’ll survive it. At least, I won’t. These white people won’t pay for what they’ve done to us. America will protect them. So we need to go.”

“Do you have a plan?” I ask.

Saint nods once. “Yes. Not a good one. But it’s better odds than staying.”

She grabs my hand and squeezes. “If I can just get to a phone outside of this place, I can end all of them. I can. I just need a phone and the closest bank. I can’t get out alone, though. Are you coming with me, Adina?”

I can’t go through another night like this. The humiliation. The complete loss of control. They made me compliant. I will not be again.

I squeeze her hand. It’s not even a question anymore. There’s no other answer.

“Let’s get out of this shithole.”





CHAPTER 29





WE MOVE UNDER THE COVER of night. We’ve both abandoned everything, deciding that it can all be replaced. Dressing in our Raid fatigues makes it easier to slip from shadow to shadow. We don’t speak, either. Both of us know the plan. It’s the same as it’s always been—stick together and survive.

Once, we have to press flat against the wall to avoid a maid slipping through the dark.

When we’re on the move again, I don’t take the time to catalog the spaces that I aim to leave behind. They’ll be burned on my retinas anyway, the dark wood and the oil paintings and the gleaming gold of the candelabras.

We treat this like it’s the Ride. Each security guard stationed is another obstacle to be avoided, and we slip from shadow to shadow, twisting around a sharp corner or ducking behind a door. Then it’s like the Raid, searching for a way, hunting hallways that are unoccupied, moving through this maze of a house until we find one that leads out the back door and lets us slip into the gardens, by the stables. Out in the fresh air, we breathe a little easier. The security guards are stationed near the front tonight, by the gate and the garage, escorting the last lingering guests of the third Repartee off the grounds. I look at Saint from the corner of my eye. Her mouth is curved into a half-moon, giddiness tugging at the corner of her lips.

“We’re out. We’re getting out,” she says, holding her hand out to me.

I take it and squeeze, letting out a tiny sigh. “Yeah, we’re getting out.”

We slip quickly into the stables. We’ve agreed to go through the two arenas and run the way back down the path of the Ride, hopefully breaking out into someone else’s land, or at least losing security until the morning.

I want to suggest taking the horses for speed, but I know that they’ll be loud and make us an easier target to see.

“We’ll go—” I start.

“Go where?”

Both of us turn toward the entrance as one.

Esme leans against the doorway of the stable, arms folded over her chest. She hasn’t bothered to change out of her silk pajamas, like she wanted to look as expensive as possible when she confronted us. Her left hand has been lovingly wrapped with gauze, medical tape painstakingly placed.

“Mind your business,” Saint says coldly.

Esme has the audacity to look amused, fighting a smirk.

“You should go back to your room, before security finds you,” I say carefully.

Esme nods slowly, eyes disdainfully wide. “You’re right. We can all walk back together,” Esme agrees. “Isn’t that where you were going? Back to your room?”

Neither Saint nor I say anything as Esme taps her chin. Easing back, I grab Saint’s arm, tugging her along with me as Esme stalks forward, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Because if you weren’t, I’d have to say that it’ll only be minutes before security decides to check the stables. They already know you’re missing,” Esme says dryly.

“And… and how would they know that?” I ask.

Esme smiles. “I’m not stupid. I saw your faces at the Repartee. You’re done, aren’t you?”

Looking at Esme, I wonder how she’s not.

“I mean, isn’t that what you want? Just… just let us leave,” I insist. I take another step back, tripping over a beam of wood laying haphazardly in the hay. “If we leave, you’ll win even more easily. It’ll just be you against Penthesilea, and Hawthorne will help you—”

“No,” Esme barks. And then she stops, like she’s confused about what she’s saying. She looks up at us, trembling, darkness tearing across her face. “If I can’t leave… you can’t either. If I’m gonna die here, I’m not gonna be the only one. Not after all I’ve sacrificed.”

Her voice is deep and guttural. Esme has never acknowledged her own mortality in all the years that I’ve known her. She’s caustic and cocky and cruel. She’s still all those things, but now she’s scared, too. She’s human.

“This isn’t worth it,” I whisper gently. “If you don’t wanna die, come with—”