Miss Mayhem (Rebel Belle #2)(64)

Throwing my weight behind it, I pivoted the branch in a wide circle, trying to disarm Bee, but she was prepared for that. She’d planted her feet, and while she grimaced, she kept her hold on the branch, and then, with a sharp stabbing motion, managed to drive me back.

“The only way for what?” I asked. “For him to run away and get caught by Alexander and the rest of the Ephors, who will kidnap him and turn him into their personal fortune-teller?”

I gritted my teeth, hands nearly numb with how tightly I was holding on to my weapon, and let myself be led backward. That had been one of Saylor’s lessons: Let them think they have the upper hand. Bet on their overconfidence giving you a window of opportunity.

“No,” she replied. “It’s the only way for any of us to have a normal life again.”

Bee pushed forward with her branch and I stepped back, my high heel catching on the velvet curtain a little.

And then suddenly I was blinded by bright lights and I heard a big intake of breath, like a bunch of people had gasped all at once. What the—

In front of me, Bee hesitated for a second, her head swinging to the left.

Oh. Crap.

We were onstage.

As I looked out into the audience, I saw my parents tilt their heads to the side, faces wrinkled in confusion. Next to them, Aunt Jewel raised one hand to cover her mouth.

Aunts May and Martha were still eating lemon drops, seemingly unconcerned that their niece had just torn down the curtain and appeared onstage with her best friend, both of us swinging giant fake branches.

The music was still playing, something from Swan Lake, and I remembered Rebecca in a tutu.

She was frozen at the corner of the stage now, staring at me and Bee, one arm still raised over her head, her feet in second position.

Then, with a grunt, Bee swung at me again, the branch connecting with my thigh. The pain helped me focus, and I turned back to her, parrying with a vengeance. My blow caught her on the ribs, and as she staggered back, she cried, “Just let it happen, Harper. I promise, it’s for the best.”

I gave one quick glance to the audience, my eyes searching for David. But his seat and the ones around it were empty, and my stomach was jumping, my chest still so tight I could hardly breathe.

With a snarl, I launched myself at Bee. “That’s what Blythe said, too. That the ritual was for the best, and look what it did to you. Can you honestly”—I sucked in a breath as Bee’s branch grazed my knuckles—“say it was for the best?”

I wished now I’d picked a looser dress. The tight sheath skirt made it hard to maneuver quickly, and Bee’s dress was a lot more voluminous, giving her a freedom of movement I just did not have.

We stumbled across the stage, the music from Swan Lake still blasting through the auditorium, our arms a blur of thrusts and swings and blows. Bee’s hair had completely fallen by now, and her long blond curls swung around her face as we fought. Her face was blotchy with tears and sweat, and I knew mine was, too.

“Let him go!” Bee yelled again, and this time, when her branch hit me square in the chest, I fell to my knees. Even over the music, I could hear a gasp from the audience.

Pressing one hand against the stage, I tried to catch my breath. My body ached from David being in danger, and I could feel every one of Bee’s hits. I’d only ever fought another Paladin like this—seriously—once, the night I’d killed Dr. DuPont. I realized then that every cell inside me was crying out to kill Bee. That she was the thing standing between me and David. But for once, my mind was overriding my instincts.

No matter what my duty, no matter that she had lied to me and led us to this, this was Bee, and I couldn’t kill her. Not for David, not for Pine Grove. Not for anything.

She swung the branch down in an arc toward my head, probably hoping to knock me out.

I reached up with one hand and caught the wood in my palm. The shock of it jarred all the way down to my shoulder, but I used the branch to leverage myself back into a standing position. Gripping Bee’s branch as hard as I could, I looked into her tear-streaked face.

“I’m sorry,” I gritted out, and then I swung.

I pulled back at just the right moment, the branch glancing off her temple instead of crashing into her skull. But it was still enough to make her eyes roll back, and Bee slumped to a sequined heap on the floor.

At that exact moment, the music cut off, and for a long moment, all I could hear were my own ragged breaths and the thundering of my heart in my ears.

And then, from the auditorium, Aunt May said, “Ooh, performance art!” and started to clap.

Hers was the only applause, though, and as I looked out at the audience, I saw my parents sitting like they were frozen in their seats, their mouths open in identical Os of horror. It was a sea of pale, shocked faces as far as I could see.

Another pair of hands began clapping loudly. As I watched, Aunt Jewel rose from her seat, her tall form sparkling slightly from the sequins on her dress. “It’s part of the show!” she said loudly, still clapping and giving me a nod. “Performance art!”

Her words slowly started to penetrate the rest of the crowd, and there was the slightest smattering of applause, but for the most part, everyone was still gaping at me, and I felt sick to my stomach.

The sick feeling increased when I looked down and saw Bee, slumped there on the stage, her temple already swelling, black and blue.