Page 45 of Into the Mist (Into the Mist 1)

“I was raised to believe in education—especially self-education,” Mercury continued. “So, I started educating myself about religion. I read the Bible—more than once. I studied the Gnostic Gospels. And the more I learned, especially about Christianity, the more it just didn’t fit with me, but when I began exploring different Pagan traditions, I felt like I’d come home.” She smiled at Karen. “That’s why I know the Bible. It would’ve been disingenuous of me to reject something without researching it thoroughly.”

“That’s interesting, and I’m glad you shared it with me,” said Karen as she nodded. “Why did you ask which God we were talking about—the Old or New Testament God?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Mercury said. “The Old Testament God tested his prophets by telling them to do horrible things—like commanding a father kill his son. Murdering all the firstborn, even the innocent ones who weren’t actually keeping his people as slaves. He’d slaughter a man’s whole fam and then give him a new one to prove his fidelity. That God sucks.”

Karen met her gaze. “I can’t say that I disagree with you, but the God I was referring to is Jesus Christ.”

“He’s a much different God,” said Imani.

Mercury snorted. “Yeah, and they killed him.”

“Oh. My. God!” said Jenny.

“Which God?” asked Stella.

“No, not literally. Look!” Jenny pointed at the nightstand, where two of the four potatoes had green sprouts shooting through smudges of rust.

“Whose are those?” Imani got to her knees so she could look around Jenny.

Mercury pointed at the first sprouting potato—the one on the left. “That’s you, Stella.”

“Holy shit,” said Stella. “My blood’s magic!”

“The next one is yours, Jenny,” said Mercury.

“Crap. No sprouts.”

“So the next one is mine?” Imani stared at the sprouted spud.

Mercury nodded. “Yep. You can grow stuff. Well, potatoes for sure.”

“Huh,” she said. “I guess it is a handy ability to have during an apocalypse.” Then she drained her glass and looked at Stella. “Sis, I think you’d better open that other bottle.”

“On it!” Stella reached for the second expensive bottle of Bordeaux and the corkscrew.

“Mine didn’t sprout,” said Karen. “I didn’t think I wanted it to, but now that it didn’t, I’m a little disappointed.”

There were two quick knocks on the door.

“Just a sec!” Mercury called. Then she whispered, “Where’s the trash can?”

“Here!” Imani reached down to the side of her bed and lifted a small wooden bin that was obviously more decorative than functional. She handed it to Jenny, who passed it to Mercury—who scooped the potatoes into it and then put it quickly on the floor between the beds.

“Come in!” Mercury called.

Gemma’s head poked around the door and into the room. “Do you guys mind if I hang with you for a while?”

“No! Not at all,” Karen made an expansive gesture. “Got plenty of room here.” She patted the mattress beside her.

“Thanks.” The teenager came in and then stopped as her lips curled up. “The five of you look like you’re slumber partying.”

“There’s a bathrobe in the closet over there if you want to get out of those clothes,” said Imani.

“Sounds good to me.” The teenager peeled off her blood- and gore-spattered clothes as she ducked into the bathroom. The sink went on, and they heard her splashing water.

“Hey, where’s your mom? Does she want to join us?” Mercury called to the girl.

Gemma emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a big, white robe and drying her face and arms with a washcloth. She kicked her discarded clothes into the bathroom before sitting beside Karen on the trundle. “She wants me to think that she’s sleeping, but she’s really curled up in a corner, crying.” She sighed and picked at the tie to her robe, not meeting anyone’s gaze while she spoke. “Mom and Dad are close—like super ridiculously, embarrassingly close. I don’t mean that’s a bad thing, but it kinda makes me feel like a third wheel, especially now that I’m older. Since I’ve been a teenager, it’s like they don’t even try to hide how wrapped up in each other they are.” She shrugged. “My friends tell me they’re jelly—that they wish their parents trusted them more and didn’t watch their every move. But there’s a big difference between being trusted and being forgotten. Not that my friends get that, though.” Gemma wiped her face with the washcloth again before she looked up at Mercury. “But to answer you, Mom acted like she was okay earlier when you met her, but it was just because she didn’t really believe Dad was, um, dead.” Gemma wiped her face with the washcloth again before she said, “So, she’s really not okay. And no, she wouldn’t want to join us.”