“Until the end,” I whisper.
Saint lets out a tiny huff, her gaze averting from my sincerity even as she fights a tiny smile. “Don’t get dramatic on me,” she mutters. She jerks into motion when we hear another gunshot.
Hannah G is in the maze now.
“We have to get moving,” I say, shuffling with Saint down the path. “Esme definitely is having her little group meet up somewhere, and it’s going to turn into a hunt for us just as much as for the prize.”
I hear a shrill cry of girls, bloodcurdling like a skulk of foxes, accompanying the next gunshot because Jacqueline finally joins the maze, and their pack is complete.
“We have to move fast. All four of them are in now,” Saint murmurs, and then we run.
* * *
The sun is steady on, not budging out of the cloudless sky to grant us even the littlest bit of relief. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and look over at Saint as we take another turn toward the outside and meet another dead end.
“Damn,” Saint mumbles. We turn back and go past two openings, then turn right this time instead of left. We’re forced to go up farther into the maze, and when we try to make another right to correct, it’s a dead end again.
And that would be fine—the dead ends—considering we’re biding our time until the prize is found and the others get out or, worse, ahead of us, but with each turn into the middle, the sounds of Esme’s pack screech louder, cutting through the obscene silences.
The third dead end is when I have to stop pretending it’s fine. Frustrated, I groan as we once again double back. Every false turn feels like a chance to run into the others, for my nerve to be tested.
“How far into the maze do you think we are?” I murmur.
Saint squints around. “I can’t really tell. I think we’re still on the outer edges, but we keep getting stuck, which makes me think… we’re being forced to surge forward, to the middle. To the prize.”
“To a confrontation, I suspect,” and Saint nods, agreeing with my suspicions. “I’d even guess the exit is near the entrance, not on the opposite side, so the first to the prize has to make their way back through everyone. I don’t think we’re meant to get out until we’ve gone through the middle.”
Our tense silence is shattered again by an uproar—one that sounds far away but not far enough. This time the shrill screams that stutter out don’t sound like joy, and there’s a barking of orders, then silence. I exchange another glance with Saint.
“Whatever that was, I want no part in it,” Saints says firmly. “Not until we’re sure they have the prize and are focused on that.”
“Agreed,” I mutter. We force our way forward, pacing slowly as exhaustion begins to weigh on us.
When we turn the next corner, I nearly collide with someone.
On instinct, I tear the gun from its holster and train it on the girl.
Hawthorne raises her hands, crossbow tilted toward the air. Her face is tinged pink and she’s looking behind her like terror is gripping her by the throat. “It’s me! It’s me!” she wheezes, before she doubles over, breathing hard.
“And that’s supposed to reassure us, why?” Saint growls, unsheathing her rapier. She looks behind Hawthorne, searching. “Where’s Esme?”
“I’m not with her,” Hawthorne insists. She huffs and I stare her down, refusing to tear my gaze away from her.
“You’re always with her,” I say coldly. Hawthorne knows that while I don’t understand her, I know who motivates her.
“We got… we got separated,” Hawthorne gasps, holding up her hands frantically. She is wide-eyed bliss and sweetness. She lets her crossbow drop to her feet, making herself as vulnerable as she can under our wary eyes.
“How?” I demand, keeping the pistol trained on her, holding myself in the exact stance that Graham taught me.
“Pierce was right. Reagan Mikaelson really does know how to use a bat,” Hawthorne says with a wry smile. “She busted Jacqueline’s two front teeth and definitely broke Hannah G’s nose.”
“Good,” I say, and I can see the look Saint gives me from the corner of my eye, like she’s surprised by my venom. It feels at home in my chest, like that’s where it belongs now, like that’s what this game has turned me into. “So you all split. But why should I trust that you’re not scouting for Esme?”
“Because Esme has her eyes on the prize.”
“And you don’t?” I demand.
“You know why I’m here, Adina. Why she’s here. I’m only trying to get Esme through without her getting hurt. It’s Jacqueline who has a bone to pick with you,” Hawthorne says firmly.
I scoff. It doesn’t matter who wants what. They’re still together. That’s an alliance, and everyone has an axe to grind with me, for one reason or another.
“We can’t stand around too long. They aren’t the only ones in here,” Saint warns me. “What do you want to do?”
I look along both ends of the green corridor. No sign of Penthesilea yet.
“Let me stick with you. Three on three. We’ll run the opposite way of them,” Hawthorne insists. She slowly bends forward, reaching for her crossbow. I tense more, but I don’t pull back the safety. Not yet. “No one else has to get hurt during this. I haven’t hurt you yet, have I? I’ve had the chance.”
This is a lie. I know the truth. People have to die.
But I let the pistol drop, just the tiniest bit. I square my shoulders. “Fine, you run with us. But don’t think we trust you.”
Hawthorne nods her agreement, and then we’re marching through the green maze. With every step, the hedges rustle around us. Saint takes the lead, scoping out the next turn, and Hawthorne covers her while I keep an eye on our tail and Hawthorne, making sure she doesn’t aim a bolt at the nape of Saint’s neck.
The longer we wander, with the heat beating over us, the more I realize that the elements are part of this test. The constant terror that makes every rustle of a breeze a gunshot is the threat. Confirming our theory, each right we make toward the edges forces us to turn back inward at some point, until eventually we’re nearing the beating heart of the maze. My pulse thunders in my ears, a dull roar outpaced only by my breathing.
Our path converges with three others in the center of the maze, and my eyes are drawn to the pedestal right in the middle. It’s unassuming, made of smooth white stone, with a steel plate on its center. There is a small black box atop it. As promised.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I whisper, looking closer. It’s a jewelry box.
“How did we get here first?” Saint asks.
Hawthorne frowns, eyes darting around. “Who says we have?” She looks over at me. “Are you going to take it?”
“Why me? Are you?” I say with more than enough snark.
Hawthorne’s lips pull into that weird thin smile again, the unhinged one. “Maybe.”
Rolling my eyes, I walk up to it, never breaking my stride. The opportunity is in front of me; it’d be stupid not to at least peek into it. I open it, careful to keep it on the platform, and look down at the mysterious prize. A startled yelp of a laugh escapes my throat, and Saint cranes her neck to look while still watching my back.