Page 55 of A Dance Macabre

He ignores my question, his gaze hard. “You need to leave, Wolfgang. And take Mercy with you,” he says urgently.

“But Tinny,” I mutter, slightly stunned which then morphs into irrational panic. “And my parents,” I add, “I can’t find?—”

Aleksandr cuts me off. “They’re fine, they’re with …” Grief quickly flashes through his eyes and he clears his throat. “My mother is dead.”

I curse through clenched teeth while I drag my palm over my face. “Who is responsible for this?” I seethe.

“We don’t know,” he answers quickly. “Even more reason for you to seek shelter.”

“But—” I begin to say.

“Now,” he orders, his expression unusually stern.

I stare at him for a moment, but eventually relent and move to kneel close to Constantine. I mutter a few comforting words into her hair, pressing a kiss on her cheek before telling Mercy we need to go while dragging her up to her feet.

“I’m not leaving Tinny like this,” she says, pulling herself away from me.

“We’re still in danger,” I grit out, “This isn’t the time for recalcitrant behavior.”

“Wolfgang is right,” Belladonna says softly, touching Mercy on the shoulder. “You need to find safety. This was clearly a deliberate attack.”

“What about …” Mercy starts, vulnerability rippling over her face.

She never finishes her sentence. Instead, she falls silent, sharing a wordless exchange with Belladonna before her shoulders drop as if accepting her impending fate.

She turns to face me directly, her gaze deep with a slew of warring emotions—concern, anger, sadness, grief. I’m struck by her beauty even here amidst the madness, blood staining one side of her face, soot and dirt smeared on her skin and dress.

“We did this,” she says, her voice cracking around the rise and fall of the accusation. My heart squeezes, barely managing a hard swallow. Her words sting but ring true and I struggle to fight through the weight of the guilt. “We did this,” she repeats in defeat.

I huff out a haggard breath and try to tune out the pained cries still polluting the air around us. Family members crouched over bodies trying to staunch the flow of blood. Citizens carrying the injured away from the blast site. Dead bodies being lined up near the Mount Pravitia steps.

I keep my gaze locked on Mercy as I take her hand in mine and lift it to my lips. “This wasn’t our gods,” I utter low before pressing a gentle kiss to her skin. But even I don’t quite believe my statement.

Mercy chews on her bottom lip, panic marring her face but says nothing.

“And besides,” I add with a resolute sigh while navigating us out of the ruins. My limp grows worse as we walk up the stairs of Mount Pravitia, the blood still gushing out of my thigh nowsquelching in my shoe. “It would appear that what is done, is done.”

32

MERCY

Wolfgang drags me by the wrist all the way down to the secret quarters which are specially designed for these types of dire eventualities, located deep under Mount Pravitia.

The attack has left me feeling awry. The dull throb on my forehead reminds me I survived with every heartbeat, but I haven’t been able to form a single rational thought since the stage crumbled under my feet. I should have acted quicker—should have deciphered death’s plan much earlier than mere seconds before the blast. I was distracted. Unable to distinguish what was important from what was just inane and frivolous emotions toward the man now opening the door to the underground quarters.

As I step inside, my mind lingers on Gemini and how he appears to have vanished after the blast. I can’t console myself knowing he’s alive since my power doesn’t work on him. Even if itwerehis time to die, my god would have kept it from me. I would have never known it was coming.

What if Gemini is dead?

And I am the cause.

“We’re damned,” I mutter out loud.

I’m not necessarily addressing Wolfgang, I just need the words to live outside of me before they slowly asphyxiate me. But since he’s the only one here, he turns to study me, concern darkening his face, the silence just as dire as the words I’ve spoken.

I quickly glance around the receiving room. I take in my surroundings for the first time, having only taken a few steps inside. Aside from the air being musty, it appears clean and well-kept, the servants keeping it spotless for times like these—no matter the improbability. The room is a dark shade of purple, with two large divans facing each other atop a sprawling rectangular rug.

The quarters are smaller than what we’re accustomed to but designed to be self-sufficient. Aside from the cramped receiving room, the shelter includes a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen which is fully stocked with food to last us at least a year.

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