Page 38 of A Dance Macabre

“What exactly are you doing?” I finally ask.

“I said not to speak,” she answers dryly, not bothering to look at me, too busy forcing the corpse to sit upright atop the metal chair.

I fall silent.

She combs the hair back. Ties it into a bun. Adds a bit of rouge on the cheeks. Places the hands gently on their lap. Blue eyes open and glassy.

I disturb the silence again.

“You can’t expect me to keep my mouth shut when you’re doing …” I wave my hand toward her. “Whateverthisis.”

Her emerald gaze slices through me, her eyebrows dipped into a severe frown, but she says nothing while continuing to fuss over her kill.

“Looks more like something Tinny would do,” I add while crossing my arms.

Mercy lets out a long, loud sigh. “Better than pruning in a bath while plebeians pay you compliments like a vain little wolf,” she snaps as she steps back to survey the results. My lips twitch into a side grin, amused with how easy it is to annoy her.

“Tinny isn’t the only one who likes to keep mementos,” she finally explains, walking to a small armoire. Other than the bench I’m sitting on and the chair where the corpse is placed, it’s the only furniture in here. She opens one of the doors and pulls out a camera that looks like it was made before I was even born.

I study her while she focuses on putting in a fresh roll of film. Her long black hair is swept back over her bare shoulders, a diamond necklace resting delicately across her neck. The tattoo of her family sigil—an open palm holding a flame—takes up most of her back and disappears underneath her corset. We were all made to get our family sigils tattooed on our backs when we turned eighteen, the same year that we were officially eligible for the Lottery.

When the camera is wound and ready, she adjusts the lighting so it’s mostly aimed at the corpse. I hold my breath, trying to add respect to the moment while she takes a picture.

Then a few more.

“Do you do this every time you kill?” I ask softly once she’s done.

She turns to face me, and I’m struck by the absence of her usual stern expression. As if something about this ritual has softened her edges.

“Only the ones I’ve been specifically called to,” she says.

I give her a questioning look, unsure of what she means.

She fiddles with the camera, avoiding eye contact while she answers, “There are layers to my relationship with death. I can sense when someone is about to die.” I nod, aware of that side of her powers. She puts the camera back into the armoire and shuts the door. “But some souls, my god asks me to deliver personally, like this one.” She finds my gaze, her face still soft and open. “Those are the ones I burn myself. The ones I keep pictures of. It’s also why I collect tithe all year round.”

I realize then what she means. Aside from Mercy, the rest of us collect tithe for our gods on specific occasions called Tithe Season. It occurs four times a year. The last one was during the autumn equinox, the next will be during the winter solstice. Mercy, on the other hand, is free to collect anytime, anywhere. Makes me wonder if this is partly why she carries herself withsuch superiority. Nonetheless, I can’t deny the warmth blooming in my chest hearing her share this private part of her with me.

I study her for a beat before asking, “What do you do with the pictures?”

“I keep them in a box.”

“That’s it?” I say, a little surprised.

She shrugs but says nothing. Walking to the exit, she opens the door. “Come,” she declares, “Time to watch the flames dance.”

We stareat the fire in dead silence as the corpse burns. Mercy’s nearness crackles against my skin while I keep my hands in tight fists inside my trouser pockets. The smoke burns my eyes, and I suppress a cough. I wonder if the smell will stick to my clothes but keep my mouth shut, knowing the importance of ritual.

When Mercy deems her worship completed, she changes from stilettos to lace-up heeled boots and leads us out into the Crèvecoeur cemetery, her three Dobermans bounding up the path with us.

The sun is setting behind the heavy gray clouds. The rain has finally let up, but the soil beneath our feet is muddy and wet.

“I didn’t wear the right shoes for this,” I say with a haughty sniff.

Mercy pulls her fur coat closer to her face, her expression looking pensive. “Do you even own shoes for this?”

I purse my lips at her small dig but stew in silence because she’s right. I am not one for nature—or panting, slobbering dogs for that matter.

I watch as two of them chase each other, while the third doesn’t leave Mercy’s side. My gaze sweeps around the cemetery, taking in the decaying tombstones and crooked trees bending halfway into the uncovered path.

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