I laugh into the empty, silent space between me and it, and let my body relax. I lean against the trunk, letting the bow slide from my fingers. And then my arrow hits the dirt right with it.
My arrow, which I didn’t launch. Then what—?
The world comes into focus again, and I can hear that Hippomenes and the others are far closer. My blood runs cold, and I quickly fumble with the arrow and bow, shooting the boar again. It releases one last, small whine. It makes a remarkably easy target when it’s lying still on the ground.
“Atalanta!”
I can’t tell who yells my name. Panic shoots through my veins, and I stumble to the fallen boar frantically. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d wanted—needed—to kill it myself. They would like me then. They wouldn’t give Meleager those poorly concealed looks, obvious wonder written across their ugly faces, probably believing I was only invited along to be the prince’s whore, or . . .
“No, no, no,” I mumble, following the steady stream of red leaking from the boar. Too much blood for an arrow. I look desperately at the boar’s hide, and it’s not hard to find. A beautiful gold handle sticks out from its side, complete with intricate flowers and letters I was never taught to understand.
I wheel around. Someone threw that knife, and it belongs to no one from our hunt. The woods are dark under the trees, but empty as far as I can tell.
“Atalanta?”
But not for long. I glance one last time behind me, then lean forward and grasp the hilt of the knife. I yank it out, and more blood pours from the wound. The blade is bright gold, polished and obviously cared for. Even dripping with blood, it’s gorgeous. And now, as far as anyone will know, it has always been mine. I whirl around, and this time, Meleager’s hunt stares back at me.
Meleager blinks hard, and Laertes takes a small step backward. My eyes must look feral, and the blood falling from the blade—my blade—must be alarming.
“The boar,” Peleus manages. None of their eyes leave me. “It’s . . .”“Dead,” I supply. Silence drops down, heavy and thick. I start to feel the aching of my muscles, the sweat sliding down my back.
Finally, Meleager manages to ask, somewhat redundantly, “Dead?”
“Dead.” I don’t trust myself to say more. I’m met with wide eyes and slackened jaws, and it might have felt good if I deserved their surprise. It takes all my willpower not to turn around and scour the woods for whoever threw that knife. Only Hippomenes, standing just behind Meleager, has his arms crossed. His sea-green eyes are slits, and his lips press together in an almost invisible line.
“You slew the Calydonian boar?” he asks. His voice vibrates with contempt. Meleager glances back at him, eyebrows raised. I swallow hard.
“Is that so hard to believe?” Meleager asks him. Hippomenes tilts his head at him, menacingly, and I curse under my breath. Everyone else decides to examine their sandals in great detail.
“Stop it,” I snap.
“That’s not your knife,” Hippomenes shoots back, taking a step forward. As if he knows whose it is. I grit my teeth and force my shoulders back.
“Yes,” I say. Maybe if I keep my voice firm, I might believe what it’s saying. “It is. Unlike you, I don’t flaunt every blade I own and every muscle I have. Surprises are how monsters get killed.”
Hippomenes answers with a thin smile, and he shakes his head. Meleager and the others glance uneasily back at me.
“Atalanta,” Meleager starts. His voice always sounds so different when his lips shape my name. I long to hear him say it again. “Is that your knife?”I stare at his dark, kind eyes. Then at my hands, dripping scarlet and shaking too much. The golden glint of the knife glows painfully with the sun’s light, but I grip the hilt tightly, comfortably, and resolve to pretend it has always been a part of me.
“Yes,” I reply, glancing up to Meleager. I must pretend it until it becomes the truth. “This is my knife, given to me by the hunters who raised me.”
His eyebrows shoot up at that, and I bite my lip hard. I’d thought an origin would make me sound more believable, but not that one. Meleager is the only one who knows precisely why I ran from them.
I clear my throat and thrust a hand behind me, back at the slain monster. “Let’s deal with this, then, shall we?”
The men stare back at me, in an almost perfect line of broad shoulders and skeptical expressions. Meleager wears a slight frown across his brow, but he concedes a shrug and walks forward. Laertes and Peleus begin to follow him, and with a painful blow to my gut, I remember that Tydeus is not among them. If only I had killed the boar sooner.
If only I had killed the boar at all.
But nobody else needs to know. Nobody else does know, except for whoever threw the knife. I turn the blade over in my hand. Where the blood doesn’t reach, I see my own reflection. My gray eyes are startling, gaunt, and so savage that I can’t quite reconcile the image I see with the idea I have of myself.
Someone slams into my shoulder as they pass. I jerk my head back, meeting Hippomenes’s eyes with as much hatred as I can summon. He has never wanted me here. But now I’ve given him a reason to believe I belong.
He will know I belong here, among them, even if it takes a lie. I hold his stare until he turns his gaze to the thin trail of crimson blood that leads to the corpse of the Calydonian boar.
That I slew, I tell myself with every step behind Hippomenes. That I slew.
By the time we reach the rest of the hunt, I believe it.
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