Page 8 of Begging for Mercy
Not like I do.
Drawing a breath, I tear my gaze away and focus on the changing landscape. Trees give way to swaths of open earth, and ancient, unmarked headstones begin to appear. This land is some of the oldest in the city—and the most hallowed. The only people who come here are the Morningstars themselves or their clients, the winding stretch of road keeping curious eyes away.
Unless they’re on a mission to skin a cat.
The funeral home sits at the front of the cemetery, recently remodeled to appear approachable and comforting. Landscapers have installed a small pond, complete with croaking frogs and a pair of ducks idling in the water. Kane hovers at the waterside for only a moment before continuingdown the path towards the back house—the real centerpiece of the property—Morningstar Mansion.
It’s not actually a mansion, hardly more than two thousand square feet and sagging into the dirt on the back end, but it overlooks the oldest graves from before Harlin Heights was a city. An old church is nestled up the slope of the hill leading up the mountainside, its white-washed walls having long since faded to a grievous off yellow. Kane would have a better name for it—something stupid likebutter yellow—but to me, it’s just fucking ugly.
Kane bounces in his step as we approach the house from the back porch. Its front faces the main lot of graves, but its back faces the road. We skip the steps in favor of climbing over the dilapidated railing, its chipped paint sticking to my palms. Kane leaves flecks of body paint in his wake, just as I predicted. The skeleton covering his body has cracked, and pieces slough off carelessly, leaving a trail of salt and pepper everywhere he goes.
Grabbing his arm, I keep him from trying the back door. I point up to the second floor window, the candle flickering in its eave no match for the sunlight breaking across the yard. We only have a few minutes until it covers the entire area, and we’re sitting ducks if Mercy’s father has a gun on site… and every man worth his salt has a goddamn gun in this town.
But as Kane boosts me up to the window overhead, it isn’t Mercy’s father we see in through the screen door. An ancient woman with hair white as the purest winter snow peers unflinchingly at us, an antique lantern in her hand. I kick off Kane’s shoulder and scramble through the open window, leaving him to deal with the old woman, because my target is in sight.
Mercy’s asleep.
My heart pounds as I knock over the candle on the windowsill and tumble onto a desk. Papers and pens scatter to the floor as I catch myself, banging my elbow in the process.With a hiss, I clutch my ringing funny bone and glare at her limp form beneath a mound of blankets. It’s notthatcold, but she’s bundled like she’s fighting a fever. I roll my eyes and move to her bedside, ready to right the rules of this stupid game.
If I’m playing, I have a say in how this shit show ends.
She looks peaceful in her sleep. Waves of midnight hair spill across her white pillowcase, accentuating just how pale she actually is. Skin smooth as porcelain covers her cheeks, down the hollow of her throat, across the length of her collarbone. Icy blue veins streak across her chest and over the curve of her breasts, dipping beneath the blanket before I can glimpse any further. In the dark of the cemetery, I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking at other than a fucking problem.
But here, with the morning glow of dawn illuminating her beauty, she’s a goddamn angel.
Too bad I have to clip her wings.
In the two seconds it takes to pin her body to the bed and cover her mouth, she wakes. Her eyelashes flutter like a firefly’s wings, and the moment her eyes open, I lose my breath. We stare at each other as the songbirds outside mock me. This isn’t some fairytale—it’s not love at first sight.
I don’t know what it is.
A problem, I remind myself, clenching my jaw. “You,” I hiss, pressing her deeper into the mattress. She’s limp beneath me, not even trying to fight. What’swrongwith her? It would be easy to snap her neck. Smother her with a pillow. Shove a bottle of pills down her throat and force her to swallow. Her fight-or-flight response must be broken—it’s why she didn’t run last night when she had the chance. Why she didn’t stab Kane or slit my throat. Why she didn’t call the cops.
I draw a deep breath and say what I came here to say. “You’re a stupid fucking girl.” Anger rises in me like a tide, boiling and unstoppable. Sweat breaks out across my skin despite the chill inthe room. I can hardly breathe, and she just sits there. Watching. Waiting. Is she even awake?
She blinks, and only then does she take a deep breath through her nose. A myriad of emotions cross her face before they settle ontired.She looks so small and fragile beneath me. Like I could break her without trying.
“You should have let me kill you.” My voice scratches in my throat, and I swallow dryly. “Now you have an entire year to wonder. Will it hurt?” I dig my fingernails into the soft flesh of her cheek. “Will you suffer?” Shaking my head, I can’t help but laugh bitterly. Our victims don’t normally see their deaths coming. We wine and dine them up until their final moments, because it makes the sudden switch around that much more painful for them.
And delicious to watch.
“How will it happen, I wonder?” I sit up and straddle her waist, removing my hand from her mouth to pin her wrists over her head. Even her bed frame is an old, rickety metal thing, creaking at the slightest shift of weight. “Slow and cold as your life seeps from your body like water from a tap…” I tap her inner wrist with my fingertip, admiring the flutter of her heartbeat. A flush creeps across her cheeks, but who’s to say what from? “Or a quick flash of pain before it all goes dark? I wonder.” I hum to myself, trying to picture Mercy’s final moments. But all I get is a blank void of static in my brain.
Her voice is a tender caress on my senses. “I don’t think I’ll convince you not to kill me.”
I lift an eyebrow. “So you’re not as dumb as you look.”
“I could kill you,” she murmurs, whisper sweet and gentle despite her declaration. “Is that what you want?”
My blood runs cold. “The hell did you just say?”
She repeats herself. “I could kill you.” Her eyes, a warm auburn, suddenly brighten. “Is that what you need? A way out?”She clenches her fists over her head. “I may not know much, but I know grief when I see it. Your eyes?—”
I tear my gaze away from her face to stare at the wall over her head. Its paint is peeling like the rest of this fucking place.
“—You’re hurting.”
“Shutup,” I snarl, baring my teeth. “You’re insufferable. I can’t wait to fucking kill you.” Closing my eyes, I take as deep of a breath as I can and refocus on the purpose of my visit. “The rules of the fucking game. You can try to make my brother fall in love with you, but I want something else.”
