Page 34

34

MERCER

Mercer wasn’t sure what had happened, afterward.

He stood in the shed, holding Leah’s old notebook and staring at the space Rahil had been, as slowly his fear hollowed out. The shed had been this empty before. It had been this empty for most of his time here. But never had it felt like this: this shell of a place, haunted and shadowy. It made Mercer want to look over his shoulder. To reach for someone.

For Leah?

But Leah was…

Mercer made himself walk, out the front of the shed and across the yard. He instinctively pet Kat as she bounded up to him at the back door. His hand didn’t visibly shake, so perhaps only he could feel the trembling beneath his skin. There still seemed to be too little oxygen in the air, but he was breathing. Though everything echoed back out of his head as soon as it came, he could still hear Anthony and Lydia chatting in the kitchen.

Anthony had just finished wrapping Lydia’s arm, two fresh vials of blood in a tiny rack on the table beside her. She snorted at whatever he’d said last.

“And I thought scientists were smart or something.”

“Even the most genius mind requires sleep.” Anthony smiled as he tucked the samples into his bag, and it reminded Mercer uncomfortably of the way Natalie had looked at his unholy gold—not joyless, but darker than simple happiness, thoughtful in a way that made Mercer question himself.

Rahil had said—

And he couldn’t think about Rahil right now, about any of the nonsense or truth he’d spouted, but Mercer could think about that metal, and very quickly his mind began churning through all the reasons this might truly be a mistake. He recalled what Anthony had asked when Mercer questioned him on his involvement with Vitalis-Barron: “Would it make a difference?”

Mercer had agreed to this knowing full well that as good as Anthony was to some people, there were surely others whom he’d hurt in the process of reaching his goals. He had been a saint to Lydia, but Rahil was right—that didn’t make him trustworthy. Not for this.

And Mercer feared that Anthony’s actions outside of his home hadn’t concerned him nearly enough—not until one of the people those actions could harm had held Mercer’s hand and told him that he wasn’t alone anymore. What was the least he could do for someone he loved?

Someone he loved. Someone who’d killed someone he’d loved.

Mercer breathed in and out and told himself it didn’t matter yet. He put one foot in front of the other, and made sure to only shake in his soul, where Anthony couldn’t see. As the scientist finished gathering his things and said farewell to Lydia, Mercer settled a hand on his arm, guiding him toward the door.

He lowered his voice in the hopes of keeping eavesdropping preteens at bay. “How do I know I can trust you with this metal?”

Anthony lifted a single brow, his mouth a grim line. “I thought we were in agreement about this.”

“I’m in agreement that it should be used to help the vampires,” Mercer said. “You haven’t given me any proof of that.”

He leaned closer to Mercer, uncomfortably close. “Here is all the proof you will receive, Mr. Bloncourt. I give you my word that the revolutionary science I am attempting will return vampires to their normal livelihoods.”

Their normal livelihoods. That sounded a little less like the sunscreen and blood supplements that Mercer had originally understood his research to be, and a little more like… But no. It couldn’t be. That wasn’t possible…

Anthony must have seen a flash of his horror, because though his words were soft, the way his gaze shifted to Lydia was anything but. “ And you can be assured that I will not see that work torn down by your cowardice. You can trust me, or you can trust that.”

A chill ran through Mercer. He let go of Anthony’s arm. He stepped back. He wasn’t sure he made the decision, but his body chose for him: chose Lydia’s medication, her life, her future. The selfish choice—the wrong one, possibly—and yet the only one that had ever been an option.

So he watched Anthony walk out the front door with his unholy gold. Mercer swore he could feel every step the man took, and he thought of Rahil.

Rahil, oh God.

Mercer pressed his palms to his face and forced himself not to scream into them or melt to the floor. His body was truly shaking now, his legs weak and his lungs catching in a brand-new way, one that felt less like suffocating and more like his body wished that were the case, as though if only he wracked his chest enough then he could convince himself to pass out and leave the pain behind. And it was pain. This hurt .

He took one small step backwards. Then another.

The notebook—he’d had it—yes, there it was, on the floor by the back door. He must have set it down when he’d pet Kat, and just hadn’t realized it.

Mercer wanted to rip it in two or hurl it across the room, but somehow, despite the rage and pain and fear coursing through him, he merely picked it up. Something slid out of the back—an envelope. He couldn’t remember opening it, but suddenly there they were in his fingers: a dozen pages of brain scans and doctor’s notes. They couldn’t be Leah’s—he wanted to believe that—but somehow he knew they were, knew it like he knew, logically, so far back behind his coursing emotions, that Rahil wouldn’t have brought this to him if it wasn’t absolutely true. Which meant Leah had…

Cancer , his brain supplied, but his heart fixated elsewhere. Leah had lied to him.

The idea caught so soundly in Mercer’s throat that he couldn’t breathe again. He closed his eyes, feeling the air rattle inside him, large and painful.

Lydia’s small hand circled around his arm, fingers squeezing. “Hey, Dad…?”

He had to pull it together; had to, for her. “Yes, Puck?”

She looked concerned—conflicted, even—her brow tight and her question soft. “What were you and Ray fighting over?”

Mercer’s instinct told him to bury it. She didn’t need to know this. He wasn’t ready to tell her. He hadn’t been ready to know himself, and he’d barely accepted it, much less processed the information. But he did have to tell her, didn’t he? Someday, somehow.

Before he could spiral into all the potential future dilemmas of it, Lydia added, “That mold—that was from Mom’s vampire, right?”

A shock of cold ran across Mercer’s skin. “How do you know that?”

“You wouldn’t have, like, looked so distressed, otherwise.” She fiddled with the edge of her beanie, blinking and staring toward the silhouette of her fingers like she was trying not to let the sheen develop over her eyes. “You have a sad about Mom face.”

“Oh.” For all that he’d tried to hide it, she’d still noticed.

“Does that mean Ray…?” She looked so very confused, and hurt, and lost, and it made Mercer’s broken heart fly back together, if only to provide her a softer landing.

There was so much of him still in pieces, so much he didn’t understand—didn’t want to—but he had to be whole for her. He wrapped his arms around Lydia, sinking to his knees. Kat immediately snuggled between them. And as he held Lydia, felt the life he and Leah had made together beating within her, Mercer realized he was not so shattered as he’d thought. He was like Lydia, confused, and hurt, and lost, but this wasn’t another police officer knocking on his door. They were all safe: him and Lydia and Kat and… Rahil.

Rahil . God, Mercer had been awful to him, hadn’t he?

That was a problem for after, though.

Lydia was still watching him, her brow tight and her lips bunched.

Mercer sighed. “It’s… complicated. But what I know is that your mom’s death was not Ray’s fault, and it’s not your mom’s fault either. They both made decisions that were probably a little selfish and ended up causing more than a little pain for other people, but we also make selfish decisions, you and me, and everyone else. Sometimes those decisions turn out fine, and sometimes they turn out… like this.”

Lydia wiped her nose. “What did they do? I’m not a kid. I want to know.”

She was a kid, Mercer’s heart protested. But she was a kid who deserved to know. So, Mercer drove back into his memories of that time, and tried to be honest, for both of them. “I was selfish too,” he admitted. “There was a period where I knew something was wrong. Your mother had fainting spells, then fatigue and brain fog. I was terrified for her, but she went to the doctors, and she told me her results were fine.” Mercer could feel the weight of the envelope of brain scans, and decided that was more than Lydia needed for this. “She wasn’t fine, though.”

He still didn’t want to believe it, even as he said it. She’d told him she was fine. She really had lied, and lied about something so huge —about seeking out a potentially deadly cure for it.

Had Leah always been like that? She’d rarely seemed to get sick, hardly complained during her pregnancy, laughed off bruises and cuts when Mercer tried to worry over them. Had she always been protecting him, quietly hiding the little things until it felt reasonable to hide the big ones too?

“She told Rahil she had cancer.” Mercer could see it play out: Rahil agonizing over Shefali’s death after she’d refused to use his venom to try to save herself, and along came a purposeful young woman with a similar diagnosis, asking for that very thing he’d failed his ex-wife in.

And then she’d died, too.

“The coin only flips to heads so many times,” Rahil had said. “I got lucky, so someone else…”

Mercer had assumed he was speaking in generalizations, but the someone else had been Leah.

He felt the burn of his eyes before the tears sprang, and quickly wiped them back, sucking in his sob as best he could—there could be time for that later, when he wouldn’t risk drowning Lydia in his tears. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry, Puck.”

She hugged him. She wrapped her arms around him, tighter than she had in years—maybe tighter than she ever had, and whispered back, “I’m sorry, too.”

He squeezed her, holding on for dear life. “She should have told us.” The words bubbled out of him, not in anger but fear. All that anxiety she’d tried to keep him from, churning up in one fell swoop. “If she’d told us, we would have been there for her.” He didn’t know who that we entailed when Lydia had been a toddler, but together, as a family, they could have at least held her hands. Could have given her hope. Could have said goodbye.

He noticed too late that Lydia had gone stiff in his arms. She sniffled. “Then would you have helped Ray turn her?”

The question felt like a punch to the chest, and he didn’t know why, except that it had come from her —had occurred to her. Had Leah come to him first, Mercer wouldn’t have even considered vampirism as a solution, much less supported her in attempting something with such a high risk and low reward. But then, he supported Rahil’s choice to turn, didn’t he? Because it had worked. Rahil was here, because he’d made that hard choice.

And for the same reason, Leah was not.

Mercer closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was the best possible version of himself, and knowing how sorely he’d fallen short of that over and over. “If she truly was dying—if we had tried everything else—then yes. I’d have done whatever she asked.”

Lydia shifted, pulling back her arms to wrap around her stomach. She didn’t look at him as she muttered, “What if Mom wasn’t dying yet, but she just didn’t want to be sick anymore?”

Mercer started, “No one wants to risk that just to stop being sick…” But the more he looked at her, the farther his heart sank, his stomach knotting. He forced himself to draw in breath. “Lydia?”

She continued to avoid his gaze, her expression growing stonier by the moment.

She had gone to a vampire—had gone over and over—to a vampire she didn’t know, whose moral compass might have been anything from impeccable to outright decimated. And Mercer had thought she was just being a child. Just ignoring the risks or failing to see them.

But Lydia was smart. Confounding, rebellious, stubborn, and, it seemed, as willing a liar as her mother in the right situation, but she was smart .

“ Lydia ,” Mercer snapped when she still refused to look at him. “ Why were you friends with Rahil?”

“Because he’s cool. Duh.”

She was lying. He knew her well enough—had seen her tics since she was a toddler. And normally, he could let it go. But not this. The thought of what could have happened to her with anyone other than Rahil—even with Rahil himself, ten years ago, before he’d watched his venom kill the last person he’d given it to and held it against himself. Mercer could hear the knock already. He could see the blood seeping out of Lydia’s eyes. Could feel her growing cold.

Darkness clogged the edges of his vision, his world narrowing to the space where his daughter sat, somehow alive. Still alive. For how much longer? How long until she tried again—

“Lydia.” Mercer tried to grab her, but she was out of his reach. “What were you doing at his house ?” He leaned toward her, was moving toward her, like pulling her into his arms could pull her into safety as he had with the dangers of the busy street and the hot stove and the monsters under the bed. “Lydia!”

“Why does it matter?” Lydia shot back, scowling at him. “I’m not a child. I know what I want!”

“And you want to be a vampire ?” Mercer could barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears. Lydia was going to die. Lydia was going to die. Lydia was going to— “Do you want to die, Lydia? Because that’s what happens!”

“It’s not just what happens!” She stood, her arms swinging at her sides and her face red with the cherry flush of anger she’d inherited from her mother. “There’s statistics—”

“I don’t care what smaller percentage you think doesn’t matter. It mattered to your mom.” Mercer was on his feet now too, the world spinning around him. “You are not going to endanger yourself, God help me—”

“This is why Mom didn’t tell you shit!” Lydia cut him off, finishing with one final glower before wheeling around and storming toward the back door.

Mercer wanted to run after her, but his legs wobbled, his arm going to the wall for support, so instead he just shouted, “Lydia!”

“I’m going to find Ray ,” she screamed back. “At least he fucking listens.”

Mercer couldn’t see her by the time the door slammed.

Somehow he was on the floor again, his breath coming in gasps and sobs. He leaned his head back and stared into the darkness that kept trying to spin down, feeling as sick as with any migraine. God damn. “God help me,” he muttered.

Maybe God listened, or maybe they didn’t, but as he sat there breathing some of the panic resided—enough at least, to register Lydia’s last reply. She was going to Rahil. She’d be safe there. He seemed to know what to do with her in a way that Mercer wasn’t managing.

God damn . How had he fucked everything up again, this soon?

What had he done? What had he said?

He was supposed to be better than this—he was trying to be better than this—and yet every time, this still happened. Maybe there was no God real enough or powerful enough to fix whatever the hell was wrong in his head that he kept letting his panic transform into something that scared off the people he wanted to keep closest.

Kat pressed her head into his lap, whimpering softly, and Mercer flinched from the sudden touch. She scooted back, looking concerned.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered, and it came out more of a blubber. Carefully, he pulled the stubby dog into his lap and rubbed her head.

His phone chimed.

Despite everything he’d done and said, he half-hoped for a message from Lydia or Rahil, but what he got instead made everything else feel small in comparison.

Bloncourt,

I know what you’re doing.

Meet me in the park in five minutes, or we can settle this the hard way.

William