Page 102 of Penance

None of them could, the fucking cowards.

“I’m so sorry you lost him, Draco.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He extends a hand, an offer of civility, a truce. I look at it, then reach out, taking his hand in a firm grip. As I do, I turn my wrist, revealing the pentagram tattooed on the back of my hand. His eyes widen, his breath catching in his throat.

“What is that?” he demands.

I hold his hand a moment longer, relishing the horror in his eyes.

“Just the act of a rebellious teenager, Mr. Clarke,” I say, my voice smooth as silk. “Nothing to be afraid of. I was going through a lot at the time. Just lost my dad, shunned from the church.”

“Oh, of course,” he says, clearing his throat. He’s uncomfortable. Good.

We stand in tense silence for a moment, and sensing its safe to do so, Mercy and her mother make their way over.

Mercy is trembling.

I narrow my eyes on her mother, staring her down. I see her stumble as she moves closer to me.

I wonder if I scare her.

I hope so.

What did she say to my girl while I was away?

I clear my throat and pull my eyes away as she steps up to us, and I hear her sigh in relief.

“Well,” I say finally. “Why don’t we continue this discussion over lunch?”

Mercy’s mother blinks, her white-gloved hands fluttering to her throat.

“Lunch?” she echoes, as if the word is foreign to her.

“Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” I say, turning to her. “A meal that people enjoy typically in the middle of the day. I believe it’s quite common among civilized people.”

Her husband grunts, and it makes Mercy flinch.

“I suppose we could,” he agrees.

I watch as Mercy’s shoulders relax slightly, though her hands are still clamped tightly together.

“Wonderful,” I say, smiling at Mercy. “Shall we?”

She doesn’t look happy.

She looks like she swallowed a bee.

The restaurant is an old diner on the opposite side of town, with dusty lace curtains and faded photographs from the 1950s adorning the checkered walls. From what little I remember of my mother, she took me here a lot when I was very young. Shemight have been a waitress here. She died of a drug overdose when I was 6.

I remember walking into the bedroom to remind her that I needed to get on the bus, and she had rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. Green bile had pooled around her mouth and nose. I shook her, but she didn’t wake up.

I met my father for the very first time the next day.

He didn’t want anything to do with me.

I force the memory away and look over at Mercy.

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