That “we” says everything. I almost fell for it again, but they’ve always been a “we.”
Esme’s derision rings out in the form of a snort, and then Hawthorne whispers more placating words. But it won’t be enough. Esme’s patience has definitely run out.
I fumble with my gun, tugging it out of the holster again, my fingers shaking as I prepare myself for what’s next.
If I shoot Esme, there’s no doubt that I’ll find an arrow in my chest a second later. If I don’t, I’ll find a knife in my chest.
“Don’t get soft,” I whisper to myself through gritted teeth.
Just as I am about to click off the safety, two freckled arms stretch from the maze walls and tug me deep into the green flesh. I open my mouth to scream, but that same hand, deceptively strong for its size, slaps over my mouth, muffling me. I hear her voice, gentle and insistent in my ear.
“Be quiet. Shhh.”
I fall silent as I become one with the hedge wall, and I shut my eyes tight, feeling the length of her pressed against my back. The branches and leaves scratch at my cheeks and eyelids as Esme and Hawthorne stalk past, presumably bickering over the value of my life.
I forgot Graham’s warning about the walls after being angry with him, and I feel even more stupid and even irrationally angrier at him for distracting me—or allowing myself to be distracted.
I don’t dare to breathe any louder than shallow hisses until minutes pass. And then, finally, those strong arms release me and I fall from the hedges, collapsing to my knees and wheezing.
Penthesilea slips out after me, pink scratches across her cheeks and neck and the back of her hands. She shakes it off and stares down at me, her expression impassive until she finally offers a hand. I take it and she tugs me up.
“Are you all right?” Penthesilea asks.
“Ye—” I vomit my breakfast onto the dirt path. Oatmeal and strawberries. How sexy.
“Guess that’s a ‘no,’？” Penthesilea says dryly. And with a care I didn’t expect from her, she reaches forward and, with her sleeve, wipes away my spittle. “You’ll be okay. We’ve got to keep moving.”
“I… I can’t. Saint—”
“Did you and Saint have a plan if you got separated?” Penthesilea challenges.
I nod. I proposed it. “Yes. Keep moving.” All that mattered was getting out.
“Then that’s what we’re going to do. Keep moving. And next time, don’t hesitate.”
Penthesilea doesn’t say another word as she neatly steps over my vomit and starts down the maze after Esme and Hawthorne. I chase after her, not daring to shout.
“How did you find me?” I demand when I catch up.
“I wasn’t looking for you. I was going through the walls. I have this,” Penthesilea says, offering the machete up for inspection.
I stare down at it unblinkingly. Pierce gave her that. For all his complaints about his supposed ex-girlfriend, he’s given her the perfect tool. The machete is an excellent choice to cut through lines and walls, to get yourself into places that you’d ordinarily be shut out of. Like privilege.
“Maybe it is a metaphor,” I whisper to myself.
“You have a gun in your hand; of course it’s not,” Penthesilea says cheerfully. “Come on. We’ve got to keep moving. Esme is probably moving toward the exit, but she’s not going to pass up killing you here if she can swing it.”
“She should get out, she already has the stupid prize,” I mutter. “It’s a ring, by the way. Looked about your size.”
Penthesilea sighs. “I’m sure Esme’s convinced it belongs to you, actually. Pierce is making a show of you since the Ride.” She lets out a private chuckle. Somewhere in there is a joke that only she understands the punch line of.
“No, you’re the biggest threat,” I counter, even though I’m not sure that’s so true anymore. “Look at you. You were hiding in the fucking hedges like some weird, sexy Lara Croft. I knew that some of the hedges were hollow, but I was too stupid or tired to remember.”
Penthesilea hesitates for just a moment and she looks over her shoulder. “？‘Sexy’？”
I sputter. “？‘Weird’ was the operative word. And that’s all you got out of that?”
Penthesilea snorts and turns back around, marching forward. “It doesn’t matter what I can do with a machete. To Pierce, I’m a… nonfactor now.”
“Then… why are you still here? You’re a Bonavich. You don’t need anything from the Remingtons,” I point out. And then I stop, looking at her. “Wait. He said he broke up with you. Why did you even join the Finish if he broke up with you?”
It’s the first time that I really think about it. The Remingtons are royalty in New England, but… so are the Bonaviches. Penthesilea is descended from people who came off the fucking Mayflower. Her father trades stock as a hobby. Her mother raises horses as a side hustle. There’s no reason for Penthesilea to be here other than a stupid place at Harvard, and she could get that herself. Is she really that desperate to get him back?
Penthesilea’s face does a complicated thing. It crumples, almost peeling away, and then she takes a deep breath and smooths it back out.
“Ask me again when we get out of here,” she says quietly.
“I will,” I insist. We jog for what feels like a long time and I squint over at her. “Do you know where we’re going?”
“Yes. We all used to play hide-and-seek in this maze. It’s why Esme and Hawthorne know it so well too. It’s why I know that you can cut through the hedges. Now we make this left and—”
She’s interrupted by the shrill piercing cry of, “Where’s the box? Saint didn’t have it! You have to have it!”
Reagan Mikaelson launches her entire body at us, a bat in her hands. The corner of her mouth is torn up toward her cheek, blood smeared down her neck, but it’s a clean slice. Like it was made with a knife.
Or a rapier.
She swings with all her might, and I clumsily crash halfway through the hedges in an effort to avoid her.
Penthesilea, in contrast, ducks under the expert swing, sheathing her machete and drawing her butterfly knife in the same move. She springs forward and I catch a glimpse of the shiny glint of metal in her grip before she sinks it deep into the softness of Reagan’s belly, cutting through the thick cotton to flesh and muscle. Reagan jerks, coughing wetly.
Penthesilea’s expression never shifts as she rips the knife out and then stabs Reagan again straight in the heart. There’s an unexpected tenderness to the way Penthesilea bumps her forehead with Reagan’s before she rips the knife out. Penthesilea finally lets her face soften, and then she catches Reagan as she falls, letting out a tired whimper.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” she whispers. “Close your eyes. Sleep.”
Reagan dies much quicker than Margaret. And when she does, Penthesilea looks up to meet my eyes.
“We have to keep moving,” she says, like nothing happened and nothing could touch her, and it makes me realize—Penthesilea Bonavich has never been bland or unaffected. She is lethal and always has been.