“I thought you didn’t like tradition, Pierce,” I say, voice flat.
“Tradition states,” he says, his voice rising higher and louder, “that the Royale will take place amongst the remaining girls. I—we are not competing.”
“Aren’t we?” And finally, Graham speaks. For once, he doesn’t just let Four have his way. He has an enigmatic smile stretching across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “This is our doing. Our family’s doing. We’ve been making them fight over us and our fucking money for… Dad calls it tradition? I call it entertainment.”
Pierce shakes his head stubbornly. “It’s not for entertainment. It’s to prove themselves worthy of marrying—”
“Why do they have to prove themselves? Did we ever have to prove ourselves?” Graham barks back, and Pierce looks at his brother like he’s never seen him before. “Four, what did we do to prove that we deserve the money and power we have?”
“Our ancestors—”
“Exactly. We didn’t do shit,” Graham says, gesturing between the two of them. Then he jerks a thumb back at Third. “He didn’t either.”
“You watch your tone,” Third roars. But then he takes a deep breath and he is startlingly calm. He leans forward, legs spread wide, powerful. Even sitting, he seems larger than anyone else I’ve ever met before. “Miss Walker, who are you doing this for? You can’t think that you will win this. There is only one of you against all of us.”
I’m doing it for Margaret. For Esme.
I’m doing it for Saint.
I’m doing it for me.
For all the other girls, even Penthesilea and Hawthorne. So I have to ask… “Penthesilea, Hawthorne. Are you part of their ‘us’？”
They weren’t expecting me to ask their opinion. We haven’t been asked what we want to do in all this time.
“You were there when Esme… I know you were,” Hawthorne says, her voice bristling and careful. She’s staring at me with increasingly narrowed eyes, until all I can see is the blown black of her pupils. “She’s dead now. Because of you.”
“Hawthorne,” I start. “Every minute we’ve been here, they’ve been pitting us against one another. Trying to get us to hurt each other—” But Hawthorne isn’t done.
“She’s dead now, because of all of you,” she says, and her voice trembles on that last word. An accusation. A death sentence. She’s looking directly at Third. “I won’t let any of you out of here. I’ll rip you all limb from limb.”
“This is madness,” Third says. His mouth is pinched and he slides farther back in his chair, pinned by Hawthorne’s gaze.
“Penthesilea?” I ask again.
Penthesilea is humming to herself, barely paying any attention. That’s answer enough. And finally, I turn back to Leighton.
“The Remingtons initiated a challenge. We accepted. You participate in the game. The game is Assassin,” I say, never looking away from those cold, cold eyes. “Make it out the front door. Or die. Those are the rules. Shall we begin?” I extend a hand.
Do you want to make Third bleed? I asked her.
I very much doubt the answer has changed. I’m counting on that.
Leighton strides forward and grabs my hand in her iron fist. “Done.”
“No, this isn’t done. The Finish is for young women of standing,” Third insists, standing up harshly. “I object to this heinous bastardization of Remington tradition. You’re not even a blood Remington, Leighton. You’re only—”
“Leighton, count down,” I command.
Every second that Third figures he’s still in control, he gets easier to ignore.
“Wait, wait, we haven’t all even agreed to your terms! Just Leighton, and she’s not even really a Remington; she doesn’t count!” Pierce protests. He’s cringing as he looks at me, like he doesn’t recognize me, like I’m not worth the shit his racehorse Widow Maker steps in every day, and neither is his aunt.
My nose wrinkles. “That really is such a fucked-up thing to say.”
“Count down,” Penthesilea murmurs.
She slowly tilts her chin down, taking a step to the right and then another. I can see her eyes now. They’re focused. There’s opportunity, she smells. And after opportunity, the promise of cutting out the poison in her life, every obligation and compulsion to be perfection.
Almost immediately, Hawthorne sweeps over for the crossbow and bolts mounted on the wall. I rush toward the closest long-range weapon, the broadsword. Getting the handgun and bullets together out of the safe would take too long.
I expect Penthesilea to grab the machete or a knife again, but she takes up Reagan’s bat, tucked haphazardly against the mantel, like it was forgotten there after a game of softball. She leans up against the wall.
“Seriously, Penthesilea?” I ask.
Penthesilea stares at me. “Time to play,” she says firmly.
Leighton starts the countdown. I heft the broadsword up in two hands, my eyes darting around the room. The Remingtons haven’t moved to arm themselves. Third is frozen in place, shocked at what Leighton has just agreed to. Pierce doesn’t look like he believes it. Graham… Graham is watching me. When I raise an eyebrow, he smiles. And Leighton is still counting, steady as always.
“Five… four… three… two… one.”
None of us moves for a moment.
“No! I refuse. I’m the Remington patriarch. I have conducted the Finish, year after year. This is Pierce’s time. His rising. I will not allow you to ruin—” Third shouts.
Leighton sheds all manner of civility. She lunges forward, wrapping her long fingers around Third’s throat. The chair falls over with a steady thump and the man thrashes underneath her. The muscles in Leighton’s neck strain as she gets a hold on his chin and his neck and twists.
There’s a deafening crack.
And just like that, Pierce Maxwell Remington III is dead.
Leighton sits atop him, a lioness above her prey, as she stares down the Remington boys.
She sneers at them as her glacial exterior shatters. Ruffled and undone, a run in her pantyhose, her silk shirt untucked, she stalks toward them. “I promised… there would be blood.”
CHAPTER 33
“DAD! YOU KILLED MY DAD, you crazy bitch!” Pierce shouts, ducking behind the sofa as Leighton runs across the room, snatching the hunting rifle from the wall, loading it with an expertise that speaks to memory. Memories resurfaced for her last night during Simon Says, and I’ve used the chaos it unleashed in her to my advantage.
From the corner of my eye, I see a swish of sea green and blond and I just swing out of the way of Hawthorne bringing her crossbow up. The arrow hits the floor with a thud, right where I was, and then Hawthorne brings the bow back again, aiming at me. Fuck.
I throw my shoulder forward, hitting hers. Graham snags me by the wrist and then he tugs me straight out of the parlor.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Graham insists. His bottom lip trembles and he aborts a move to look back at his father. Instead, he flinches when there’s the sound of a gunshot. Leighton.