“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.
Jacqueline looks up at me and says nothing, sniffing. She’s still too mellow to rile up.
Esme’s mouth twitches. “Careful, Walker. In here it’s all fun and games, playing in front of those who would protect you. But, tomorrow, out there in the maze—”
Her amusement digs at me, but I turn my gaze back to the endgame.
“Check,” Hawthorne says. She has Jacqueline’s king surrounded by two queens, leading to a loss no matter the direction it moves in, except forward, which ensures a knight will check her.
Jacqueline tips her king in submission to the knight.
“Checkmate,” Hawthorne says, and she giggles as Jacqueline huffs and slams her fist down. Leighton’s head snaps around like a bird of prey, and Jacqueline inhales sharply before she exhales slowly and calms again. Hawthorne looks up at me. “Fancy a friendly game, Adina?”
She actually is beginning to look friendly, amongst all the other sharks. I prepare to take her challenge. I have nothing to offer her. She’s ranked above me. It’s the right move—but then Esme slips around the table and sinks onto the edge next to Hawthorne. Hawthorne moves over but makes no move to stand.
“Play me, Walker,” Esme says.
I can only imagine what Esme would ask for. “No thanks.”
“Bawk, bawk,” Esme clucks.
“Are you three years old?” I demand. “Are you really calling me a chicken?”
“I am,” Esme says loftily. “Are you, Walker?”
I look over my shoulder. Saint is glaring at me, jerking her head back toward the bar.
“Are you going to play her?” Pierce asks eagerly, too close for comfort. He looks over at Esme, words dry as he says, “Don’t think about asking for her gun. I’ll just give it back.”
Esme doesn’t pretend to look surprised. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, Pierce. This isn’t actually about you, though.”
“It’s not what?” Pierce sniffs, offended.
“I’m asking you, Walker. Do you want to play a game?” Esme asks.
“Not with you,” I decide, taking a step around her to look over Penthesilea’s shoulder. She’s losing to Reagan, but I can’t tell if she’s doing it because she feels bad for her or if it’s an honest loss. Looking at Penthesilea’s face discerns nothing.
“You don’t get to walk away from me,” Esme says, dogging my steps. “I’m not letting this go. I’m not letting you go.”
“Why do I take up so much space in your head, Esme? I’m practically living there rent-free.”
“That’s good, then, seeing as that’s all you and your parents can afford.”
The mention of my parents stops me short. It doesn’t sting, but it reminds me again of Leighton. Leighton, who is looking at me. Leighton would play her. Leighton would win. I’m sure she did just that in her Finish, challenging girls, being as aggressive as possible. Now she expects that of me.
Still, there’s a difference between being soft and being stupid.
But there’s something about Esme that makes me stupid. That makes me angry.
And Pierce is watching, he is close, and him being close applies pressure. I can hear the unanswered question of Why her? from the other girls, mirroring my own question of Why me?
“Budge,” I command Jacqueline, practically ensuring that she’ll try to smother me in my sleep. I slide into the seat across from Hawthorne and Esme.
“Since I challenged you, what do you win, if you win?” Esme asks.
“We avoid each other in the maze,” I say. “If you see me or Saint… well, no, you didn’t.”
Esme smiles. “Are you that afraid of me?”
“No, you’re basically a cult leader. I’m afraid of your sycophants. No offense,” I say with full offense, looking up at Hannah G.