Page 18

18

MERCER

Mercer could barely see the text through the sheen that had flooded his eyes the moment he opened it.

Rahil

She’s safe. I’m with her at the cemetery. Don’t come.

She’s safe.

At the cemetery —

Leah . Fuck. He hadn’t even thought—she’d seemed so disinterested the last few years he’d taken her for their bi-annual visits, one on Leah’s birthday and the other on her death anniversary. Lydia had spent twenty seconds muttering under her breath at the grave and then trudged off with her hands in her pockets. Had that been a show? A mask? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t read his daughter at all?

But Rahil—bless that ridiculous, wonderful vampire—was with her now. Of course he’d somehow found her, as Mercer had been tearing his car down the nearby streets, his hands shaking and his foot clumsy on the accelerator. He wanted to drive straight there, despite Rahil’s warning, but he stopped himself, both hands fisted so tightly around the steering wheel that he could barely feel his fingers anymore. His back hurt, he realized. His back and his heart and his throat.

Thank God Rahil had found her.

He was amazed—and a little guilty—at how relieved that made him. Well, not relieved, exactly, with his heart still pounding and his mind still racing toward the next worst thing that could happen to her, but comfortable, at least. If Lydia was going to run away from him, he wouldn’t have wanted her to run into anyone else.

Despite Rahil’s terrible flirting and his lack of self-preservation, Mercer had seen how calm and confident Rahil could be in a stressful situation, and suspected that when he cared about someone, he cared a great deal indeed. And he did seem to care for Lydia. Or, in the least, he’d gotten Lydia to care for him , which Mercer knew meant far more than an obvious sign of the reverse.

Mercer

Thanks

I have to meet William 830 Van Gogh Park

Don’t let her leave until I can pick her up

As much as he wanted to race straight to Lydia’s side, Rahil was right—it wouldn’t be good for either of them to invade her safe space. And it was 8:23. Mercer had somewhere to get to, now that he knew he wouldn’t be showing up to his meeting with William to find a freckled body part in a—

Mercer had to swallow down the bile that shot up the back of his throat and force himself to imagine Lydia sitting beside Rahil, laughing and crying together. No vengeful hunters came blowing through the cemetery’s front gate. No rogue vampires leaped from the shadows. No freak fires. No earthquakes. They were just happy.

Mercer checked his phone. 8:25. Dammit, he had to go.

With his body still feeling like it had been run over by a boat and strung out to dry, he turned the car around.

Why did Lydia have to do this to him now of all times? Not that he’d told her where he was planning to go tonight, or why. She knew that there was someone targeting them in the hopes of getting holy silver—he’d decided it wasn’t safe to conceal that from her—but nothing more, no matter how much she’d begged and shouted. When she’d started screaming that she was fae too, and that meant she was also a part of this, even if she was broken, he’d wanted to strangle her and wrap her in the longest bear hug of the century all at the same time. Instead, he was pretty sure he’d snapped something about her age—that memory was an empty hole of terror and grief—and told her the conversation was over.

And it had been, for which he was almost grateful, until he’d found her bedroom screen popped open and her bike gone.

But she was safe, with Rahil, and that was enough for now.

Enough to let him pull into the empty lot of the local park, still shaking somewhere beneath the skin yet contained from the outside, his stoic exterior perfected after so many years of this subtle, forever fear. He would get them through this, like he’d gotten them through every single hurdle life had thrown them so far. If he kept pushing, kept moving, they would be okay.

Until they weren’t.

But that was a later thought, a deep-breaths and paper-bag panic with the babble of reality TV turned up enough that no exterior sound would make him think of the police banging at his door with their pitying announcement.

Now, he pushed out of the car.

William Douglas was already sitting on the cement table in the exact middle of the patio area. In the day, the space was a collage of soft colors dappled through tree branches, a grassy hill separating it from an old, well-kept set of swings and a castle slide, but the darkness turned the playground into a hulking menace of creases and hideaways, the harsh lines of the sitting area casting black shade beneath them. The area’s single light was yellowing, and William had managed to sit in a way that turned his silver hair translucent, deepened his eye sockets into a skeletal feature, and made his smile a long, lean thing of darkness and teeth.

Mercer slid in across from him. “I don’t see why this couldn’t have been an email.”

“Where would the fun in that be?” William leaned forward, locking his fingers together atop the table. “How long will the silver take?”

The small, reactionary part of Mercer wanted to snap back however long it needs to , but he was afraid of William’s response to that, and afraid too that the more he pushed, the more suspicious the bastard would grow. Instead, he gave a tiny huff, frantically attempting to calculate just what kind of deadline he could get away with. “The process is finicky, especially for larger pieces. It will depend on what you’re asking for and a little on luck.”

“For this batch—”

“One batch,” Mercer objected. Even if it was all a ruse, he also didn’t want to appear like he was giving in too easily. “One batch, and you leave my family the fuck alone. Go have your fun and forget I exist. That’s the deal.” He didn’t actually believe that William would stay gone, whatever he promised. But he had to act as though he did.

William leaned back a hair, his gaze narrowing. His upper lip curled. “One good batch. And I test them before paying.”

“As long as it’s not on my property.”

William’s shoulders bobbed. “I’ll need a pair of blades, ten feet of chain, and a manacle set, thick enough they won’t break during… use.”

Mercer’s stomach churned at the mere thought. He had to ask, even if it was irrelevant. “What kind of use?”

“Fun, as you say.” He tipped his head with a grin, the light spilling into one of his eye sockets as he winked. “There’s good money in contract hunting too now, with Vitalis-Barron’s own people under the spotlight. One batch like this is just the start of what I could use—what I could pay you for. We could come out of this rich, if you wanted.”

“You tried to murder my dog.” Mercer scowled over his internal shiver. He could feel every terror and grief inside him roiling, threatening to break through the walled exterior he’d spent so much of his life forging. “As a rule, I don’t form business partnerships with people who do that.”

“Aren’t rules made to be broken?” William laughed, the sound grating across Mercer’s sensitized eardrums.

“One batch,” Mercer replied, slow and steady.

“If you insist.” William smiled in a way that reminded Mercer how the baring of teeth in other primate species was considered a sign of aggression. It made more sense now.

“I do.” Mercer stood, almost breaking down as his large thighs brushed the underside of the cement table and his brain screamed that he was trapped. Then he was free and up and fine. He was fine. “I’ll have that batch of silver ready for you in… a week?” Was that enough time for Rahil to finish one of Leah’s old projects? Any longer, and if William had knowledge of the holy silver creation process, he’d know instantly that something was wrong. It would have to do.

“Five days.” William joined him beside the table, one thumb looped in the pocket of his jeans. “And you never see me again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mercer grunted. He shook William’s hand on a dazed instinct, feeling the coat of grime on the man’s greasy palms for minutes after William had already vanished around the corner of the lot, toward the street parking.

Mercer couldn’t remember his walk back to the car, only the bone-deep fatigue of sitting down and the nausea that boiled up so fast he had to lean his head against the steering wheel to keep from retching. His head throbbed. But it was over, at least. He just had to get home.

And Lydia. God, Lydia.

Mercer

I hate to ask this of you, but can Lydia stay with you tonight

Rahil responded immediately.

Rahil

Of course. I’m happy to watch her for as long as you need. We can get a cab to you in the morning. Please stay safe. (Your hands are too dextrous for the world to lose access to them.)

He followed the line with a gif of someone inappropriately wiggling their fingers, and Mercer had to set the phone down entirely and close his eyes to keep everything inside him in check. With the world blocked out, though, confined to the cooling summer night air and the sweat on his brow and the thought of Rahil beneath his touch, he didn’t want to open them again.