Page 24 of House of Hearts
“But you didn’t deny it, either, did you? So, tell me, did your brother plan it from the start? Was it some sick, twisted game of the Cards’? Or did she piss him off one day and he decided enough was enough, so he lured her up to the tower and—”
His hand snakes across my wrist, and his fingertips press divots into my skin. “Percy loved her!” he yells. His voice splinters apart like cut glass in his throat, all broken syllables and sharp points, and his eyes brim with unspent tears. “No one would ever dream of hurting her, least of all Percy. He loved her more than you could ever fucking imagine, so don’t act like you know my brother or the relationship they had. Last I checked, only one of us was here last year, and it wasn’tyou.”
His words deeply puncture my chest, and I stagger back on impact. “I knew Emoree better than anyone.”
“Clearly you didn’t know everything,” he counters, his voice wet and sniffly. “Not at the end.”
I ball my hands into fists at my sides, and for the second time this week, I feel like crying, but I can’t and I won’t, not in front of this arrogant prick. “And I suppose you do, huh?”
He’s silent, but the answer is obvious from his devastated expression.
“So, if your dear old brother didn’t kill her,” I say, unsure what to make of his random burst of emotion but unable to fully trust him, “who did?”
“This isn’t a good place to talk,” he says, thrusting out his hand to offer me the burlap mask back. “Make it through the maze first and then find me Monday. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“And why should I believe you?”
“You’re here for a reason,” he jabs. “And that reason is to find out all our deep, dark secrets. Does that sound about right? I think you need me, or at least the information I can give you.”
I hate that he’s right. I despise the fact that I have no pull or autonomy in the situation. “Monday.”
“Monday,” he repeats, covering my face and carrying me deeper to the center of this labyrinth. My world is reduced to the shuffle of earth beneath my shoes and the scratch of burlap tickling the bridge of my nose as I breathe in.
I’m only gifted my sight again once we’ve reached the dead center of the maze and the largest clearing thus far. Calvin lifts the mask in time to show me the most gruesome orientation gift ever.
A knife. We’re alone in the heart of the maze, and he’s got a goddamn knife in his hands.
“I knew it!” I screech. “Iknewit. You’re going to kill me, too!”
He winces and with his free hand—the one not holding theknife, of all things—does his best to hush me. “Shhh.”
“Don’t you fucking shush me! I’m allowed to scream if you’re about to stab me!”
“I’m not going to stab you!” he snaps, twisting the hilt of the knife around so that the blade is pointing away from me. “I want you to take it.”
“You want me to take it?” I echo, and he nods, again lowering the volume with his hand like I’m the one being hysterical here. “And do what? Stabyouwith it?”
“P-preferably not.”
I swallow hard. Sure, it’s got all the makings of a bad horror movie. A group of entitled rich kids, an unexplained murder a year prior, a convenient scapeghost. But I guess, hey, at least I’m the one holding the knife.
The blade glints in the moonlight. I idly twist it side to side to examine the hilt. It’s simple black leather.
“It’s part of the game,” he says slowly, carefully, because,hey, maybe being on the receiving end of a knife isn’t that fun after all. “They want you to prick your finger and recite a dumb oath. That’s it. Here, see, I’m not making this up.” He hands me a scroll.
I stare down at what is most definitely an incantation of sorts. Someone really had the job of tea staining this paper and scorching the ends like a Pinterest DIY.
“A couple drops of blood and then you read this three times and you’re done. You’ll be free to find the heart and figure a way out of here.”
“Okay,” I say, because I can totally do that.
It’s the knife that makes me waver, but luckily, I think I’m up to date on tetanus shots. One drop can’t hurt, right? I lower the top of the blade to the pad of my ring finger. It kisses the skin for only a second, the point slicing into the flesh. Blood wells on my fingertip before staining the page.
Em’s pendant chafes against my clammy skin, hanging like a second heart above my own. I’m not superstitious in the slightest, but some baser part of me shoots warning signals up to my brain. I smother it down and force out the words on the page.
“Blood for blood, I do impart.
I invite you, Ana,
