Their Vicious Games(95)

Penthesilea doesn’t say a word, she simply steps to the side and darts back the way she came, clearly deciding to let Hawthorne deal with us. Coming down from the fourth floor, Hawthorne has us cornered, her crossbow aimed at us. We’ll be dead before we even think of diving down the long flight of stairs.

“Hawthorne, come on. Third…,” Graham swallows heavily. He shakes his head like a wet dog clearing its ears. “Third is dead. Leighton is dead. We could all just leave—”

“No,” Hawthorne warns. “Esme didn’t get to leave. So neither does she.”

“Hawthorne, please. Please,” I whisper. I try to take a step forward, but my ankle pops again. Graham holds me up, as we slowly back away against the wall, out of the corner of the third-floor landing, as Hawthorne walks down the stairs, never lowering her crossbow.

“You killed Esme. You murdered her,” Hawthorne says, her voice cracking. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right here. Right now.”

“She was going to kill Saint. She… she killed Margaret—”

“Adina, smell me,” Hawthorne commands.

For a moment my fear freezes in the pit of my belly, and confusion is the far more overwhelming, more complicated emotion.

“Did she… just ask you to smell her?” Graham asks. He is about to make a move to look behind his shoulder at me, before he recognizes that it’s probably a bad idea to turn his back on the girl with a crossbow.

“I wasn’t asking,” Hawthorne spits. “Smell me, Adina Walker.”

I duck under Graham’s outstretched arm, limping closer until there’s only a foot of space between Hawthorne and me.

And then I smell her.

Dior. Not the sandalwood and lavender Chanel perfume Esme took to wearing here. But the floral one that was her signature.

It’s the perfume that killed Margaret.

“You’re wearing Esme’s perfume,” I whisper quietly, confused.

“No,” says Hawthorne. “I’m wearing my perfume. Esme has always borrowed my perfume, not the other way around.”

The world stops turning on its axis, just for a moment. My mouth goes dry.

“No, it was Esme,” I say simply. “Esme…”

“What aren’t you getting?” Hawthorne drops her crossbow to her side, nearly cracking it in half against the landing. There’s a horrible plea in her voice as she tries to force me to understand, to see what she’s been hiding all this time. Look at the monster I can be. “I killed Margaret!”

I try to speak but choke on it.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Graham murmurs.

“No, you didn’t kill her,” I say, shaking my head at her. “You couldn’t’ve—”

“Why?” Hawthorne spits. “Because I’m quiet? I killed Margaret and Hannah G and Jacqueline, too. Esme’s my best friend and she needs me. She has to win and can’t do what has to be done.”

My heart cracks; Hawthorne is talking about her like she’s still here.

Hawthorne’s voice grows higher again. “I’m not afraid of her. I’m not a coward. I protected her. I helped her. I got the rest out of the way to make it easier for Esme. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t hate them like she hated you. You, she could kill. So I cleared the rest out. I cleared them out and kept you alive so she could do what she needed to. You were never her friend. She realized it. I realized it. You just used her. And then you humiliated her. You don’t do that to friends. So now I’m gonna kill you for her,” Hawthorne screeches, and then she’s aiming the crossbow again.

I drag Graham down and the bolt buries itself in the wall. I yank the bolt out as Hawthorne rushes to load another. But she is shaking with rage and she fumbles. Graham seizes the opportunity and tackles her, trying to wrench the crossbow away from her.

But Hawthorne swings the crossbow up hard. With a thump, it collides with Graham’s head and he tumbles into the wall.

As Hawthorne tries to right herself, I lunge, thrusting the bolt up, and I feel it find its mark, sliding between her ribs.

Hawthorne gasps, her fingers loosening, and the crossbow falls. I hear something snap.

She staggers back, her blond hair loose around her face, making her look ragged and small and above all, so damn young. She stares at me as she stumbles past, looking around in a daze as her breathing grows labored, and then she slides to the floor.

“Don’t pull it out,” I whisper. “Or you’ll bleed out and die. It’s not your time to join her yet. She’d want more for you. And despite everything, so do I.”

Hawthorne blinks at me owlishly and doesn’t say anything.

I grab Graham by the arm, hoisting him up. “I think I’ve made up for all the times you’ve saved me. So get up and stop throwing yourself in front of projectile objects for me,” I say sharply.

Graham gives me a side-eye, rubbing his temple. “I’m pretty sure if we survive this that I’m going to have a goddamn concussion,” he mutters, and he looks back at Hawthorne. “She’ll be okay, right?”

“I don’t know. Come on,” I say. I rush down the stairs, ignoring my throbbing ankle. But then I stop, Hawthorne’s words still ringing in my ears, and Graham nearly crashes into me. Slowly, I look back at her, as she watches from one story up, unable to pursue. She looks tired. “No, wait. Enough of your ‘woe is me’ monologue. I’m not the villain of your story, Hawthorne. I feel bad for killing Esme. I do. She didn’t deserve to die, but she was an ass. She was classist and kinda racist sometimes and she was coming to kill me. So, no, I’m not going to nobly accept the part you’re trying to cast me in for your revenge fantasy. It’s not that kind of movie.”