The Merciful
“I was thinking about Christmas,” I say, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while I pet Dr. Jekyll, who has deigned to sit in my lap today and is grudgingly allowing my show of affection.
Aunt Lucy doesn’t say anything.
“Have you gotten out the tree yet?” I ask, a sinking feeling in my stomach, though I’m not sure why yet. “I could come down this weekend and we could put it up.”
We always put up the tree together while Christmas music blares from the speakers and a fireplace crackles on the TV. We put up every single one of Aunt Lucy’s million mismatched ornaments—the ones inherited from parents and grandparents; the ones she got great deals on from garage sales and thrift stores and drug store clearance aisles; the handmade ones Saint and I glued together in class or Sunday school when we were kids, which our mother sent to her instead of hanging them on one of the perfect, themed, and color-coordinated Soules family trees.
Once, I joked, “This is where Christmas ornaments come to die,” as I hung a crinkled, construction paper snowflake that was crusty with glue, having lost most of its glitter and sequins in its ten years on her tree.
“Or it’s where they come to live, ” she said with a wink and a smile that made dimples sink into her soft cheeks.
“Oh—yes,” Aunt Lucy says after a long pause. “I just got it out last week. I didn’t think you’d want to come down for that, now that you’re all grown up and away at college with all your new friends.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, but I can’t bring myself to tell her I don’t have many friends, that I don’t want to be grown up. I want to be back in her cozy, cluttered house with her awkward attempts at conversation, her comfortable silences while we watched TV together and did needlework.
Except at Christmas.
Tree trimming was the only night we didn’t put on a show and get lost in it, so we didn’t have to think of things to say to each other. After the tree was assembled and trimmed, we’d sit on the sofa under our blankets, with mugs of hot cocoa warming our hands, the little marshmallows floating on top and a candy cane tucked into the side for stirring, and we’d just watch the tree twinkling. I’d think about my parents and my brother at home, and I’d tell myself this was better.
“Oh,” I say at last. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll just see you at Christmas.”
“Oh…”
That sinking feeling comes again, but this time, it feels more like nausea. “Aunt Lucy?”
“The thing is,” she says, then doesn’t continue.
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s just, I thought now that you were eighteen, and you moved out on your own…”
“That your duty was done,” I say, slumping back against my bed. “It is. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought—”
“No, honey, it’s not that at all,” she says, but I know she’s lying. I was a burden dumped on her doorstep, a stray cat like Dr. Jekyll that no one wanted. She must have always hoped my parents would come back for me, the same way I did. When they didn’t, she told herself it was only a few years until I was eighteen, only a year, only a few months. And then she was free of her responsibility.
I don’t blame her. She once told me she never got married because she didn’t want the expectations and responsibilities that came with it. She didn’t say kids, but it was implied. She liked her quiet life, her own company, her independence. She was settled in her ways, and even when I came along, I was old enough that she didn’t have to rearrange her life for me the way a mother does. She didn’t deviate from her routine, so I fit my life in around the edges of hers and tried not to disrupt her comfortable existence any more than my mere presence did.
I never wanted more. She’d already given me far more than I had any right to ask for—a place to live, to rest, to heal, and to hide.
And she never signed up for any of it. All she signed up for was a weekend visit with my mom, maybe a few days of hanging out with her niece beyond that. She never wanted to adopt a kid. She didn’t agree to a lifetime of Christmases with me. She didn’t even agree to one.
I wasn’t in foster care, but I’ve aged out of the system anyway. I’m on my own now.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It was presumptuous and rude of me to even ask. I’ll just—have a merry Christmas, Aunt Lucy. Thank you for… Everything.”
“Wait,” she says before I can hang up.
My throat aches, and I can’t find any more words.
“It’s just… I’m spending it with your parents,” she says in a rush. “They thought I’d be alone, so I’m going there for Christmas dinner. I thought you’d reconcile when you went off to school, especially when you told me your brother was there. I can cancel if you want. We can have dinner like we always did.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say quickly. I realize she doesn’t know how colleges work, that we have more time off than a job that closes for a day or two during the holidays. She thinks I was only coming home for Christmas day, and she didn’t even make space in her life for that. She certainly doesn’t want me there for weeks.
“Don’t cancel your dinner,” I add. “You should be with your family. I’ll be fine. I have a lot of work to catch up on anyway, and I have tons of friends here who already asked me to come to dinner and meet their families. I might even stay with them for a few days.”
I say my goodbyes as quickly as I can, racing to hang up before the tears come.
The following weeks crawl by. Everyone else seems excited, a spring in their step at the prospect of a long winter break ahead, the fun they’ll have and the presents they’ll receive. I dread the empty campus, the loneliness, the feeling of abandonment that will surely crawl inside me and take hold, even when I tell myself it’s silly, that no one owes me a Christmas experience.
At last, the last day of classes arrives, and someone asks me the dreaded question.
“Where are you going for Christmas?”
I look up after a long beat of silence to find Manson and Ronique staring at me, waiting. I had assumed he was talking to her, since they’ve been chatting about his upcoming holiday in Switzerland while I sit in Annabel Lee’s chair, wondering why I’m here. She invited me over, but she went out into the hall at least minutes ago, leaving me alone with her friends. She must’ve gotten caught up with other girls in the dorm. I have to remind myself that most people have friends, and more than two or three. She probably knows lots of people on her floor, and they obviously like her enough not to report her for her collection of strange pets.
An opossum is currently sniffing around on the floor at my feet.
“Um, nothing,” I say, avoiding their gazes. “I don’t—I’m just staying on campus.”
“Really?” Manson asks, his eyes widening. “Are the dorms even open?”
“I mean, the nuns and priests live on campus,” I say, thinking about Father Salvatore out there, knowing I’m alone here, waiting. A rush of trepidation and want rolls over my skin like fever. “They said I could stay. I just have to get my own food when the dining hall is closed.”
“Aren’t you related to Saint Soules?” Ronique asks.
“Yum-my,” Manson says, exaggerating each syllable. “I’d go home for that dish.”
“Amen to that,” Ronique says, crossing herself. “The things I would let that man to do me.”
“He’s my brother,” I blurt out.
“Oh right,” Manson says. “Sorry.”
“I’ll trade you,” Ronique says. “You can have my family for Christmas, and Saint can take me home. I’ll crawl into his bed every night after his parents are asleep and let him absolutely ruin my life.”
“It would be worth it,” Manson says, then sneaks a look at me. “Sorry again.”
“What is she doing out there?” I say, glancing at the door.
“She’s just saging the hallway,” Manson says. “She’ll be back in a minute.”
“She’s what?”
“Saging?” Ronique asks, looking at me like I’m a dumb, clueless kid, which I guess I am. I’m certainly not climbing into beds at night, and if Saint is ruining my life, it’s not entirely by choice.
Okay, maybe that’s exactly what it is, but not in the uncouth way she says it.
The door swings open, and the opossum keels over.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, jumping back.
“Jack Skellington, you little monster,” Annabel Lee says, breezing in surrounded by a cloud of woodsy, acrid smoke. She scoops up her pet, who lays in her arms on his back with his legs straight up in the air. “Don’t worry, he’s just being dramatic. He likes to scare my visitors by playing dead.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling silly all over again.
She deposits a charred bundle of pale green sticks onto her altar.
“He’s still a wittie bittie joey, so you have to forgive his pranks,” she coos, scratching his belly. “He was bald as a baby and half-starved when I found him. His mama possum probably got hit by a car or hunted by another animal. But now he’s all clean and parasite free and fattened up like a pig. Aren’t you, Skelly-welly?”
“Can you not?” Ronique asks. “That voice nauseates me.”
Annabel Lee laughs and slides the opossum into one of her crates. “So, what’d I miss when I was out there hexing anyone who messes with my room while I’m gone for break?”
“Hexing?” I squeak. “Do you really do that?”
“Sure, why not? If some cunty-bee messes with my room while I’m gone, they deserve it.”
“Isn’t that… witchcraft?”
She wiggles her black-nailed fingers at me. “Catholic by birth, heathen by choice.”
“You missed Ronique admitting she wants to get boned by a beefcake,” Manson says, draping himself lazily over Annabel Lee’s pillows like a fashion model. “Our little Ronnie’s growing up.”
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Annabel Lee says, covering her heart theatrically. “Tell me everything.”
“She’s scheming how to pull a Freaky Friday with Mercy here so she can slide up on Saint Soules,” Manson announces. “Sans clothes.”
He sits up and catches his reflection in her mirror, then starts fussing with his bleached hair to perfect the artfully tousled look he’s sporting today.
“Too bad you’re going home,” Annabel Lee says to their friend.
“I know,” Ronique says, flopping back on the bed. “So lame. I’ll be in Ohio while y’all are skiing in the French Alps together.”
“You ski?” I ask, remembering a trip to Aspen with my family. A blindingly white, sunny slope filled with smiling, neon-clad skiers is the last place I can picture the gloomy, black-clad goth girl in front of me.
Annabel shrugs and melts onto the foot of the bed in the same way Manson does, an effortless pose that looks like she’s simultaneously sitting for a Victorian portrait and dreadfully bored. “My parents drag us to France every year, and eventually, we branched out from Paris to explore other options.”
“How tragic for you,” Ronique mutters, rolling her eyes.
“I wasn’t complaining,” Annabel Lee says. “We didn’t get a choice growing up, but I still loved it. No one does elegant indifference quite like the French.”
I glance from her to Manson. Maybe that’s what truly sets them apart—not the clothes they wear or who they want to kiss or the hexes they do, but the worldly air about them that only the truly wealthy possess, one they’ve picked up, intentionally or not, from traveling far and frequently enough to experience other cultures.
“Now that I’m on my own, I could stay home if I wanted,” Annabel Lee says, petting the black ball of fur next to her. “But where’s the fun in that? Plus, it’s a free trip to France. It would take me months working at the store to earn enough for that. And you know how my parents like us to all be together for the holidays.”
I try to imagine it, the side of Angel’s family that our parents wouldn’t let us associate with, the ones who threw bricks through our windows, the rough gangsters who inspire lore about the wrong side of the tracks, sipping lattes in Paris cafés, prancing through the Alps like the Von Trapps. I stifle the urge to laugh.
“I think it’s sweet,” Manson says, patting Annabel Lee’s calf. “That you still go, and that they still go.”
“Oh yeah, it’s great—until you hear them trying to recreate their honeymoon, or whatever they went to that hotel for before they had us. From the sounds of it, it was to conceive. It’s a little less sweet when it’s your parents traumatizing you with their sex noises.”
“I don’t know, your mom’s kinda a MILF,” Manson says. “I don’t blame your dad for still being horny for her after five kids.”
“And… Yep, it’s official. My brain just imploded.”
I glance at Ronique this time, wondering if she feels a little awkward, a little left out, when the other two go on about things with the comfortable familiarity of friends who have known each other for far longer than their college years. But she scowls and looks away when our eyes meet, then changes the subject to some explosion that just blew up part of the abandoned mall, killing one person.
Predictably, Annabel Lee wants to go see the scene of the crime.
When they’ve all packed up and gone—I stayed as long as the invite lasted, even though I felt like an outsider, just to have some company—I take Dr. Jekyll out, and we wander the quiet campus together. My footsteps squelch in the wet, dead grass, and the damp, cold air makes me huddle deeper into my coat. The buildings are locked, so there’s nowhere to go, and eventually I head back to my room. My dorm is empty except for me, the lobby quiet and dark. I even miss the grumpy nun who usually mans the desk.
At least I don’t have to look over my shoulder every other step, prepared to dart around a corner or into a nook if I see Heath or the Sinners.
In my room, I stare out the window at the quiet campus. Everything is closed except for the church, which will have several services over the break.
Before I can consider the implications, I find my feet carrying me in that direction. My heart beats erratically, and I clutch the cross on my necklace. Will Father Salvatore be there? Will he be alone? Do all the priests stay here during the break?
I step inside the church, out of the wind, and take a breath before heading through the atrium and the ancient wooden doors the sanctuary. It’s dark within, only lit by a few wall sconces and the light filtering through the stained-glass windows. I move down the center aisle, my wooden clogs making my footsteps echo hollowly in the cavernous room. When I reach the front, I slide into the second pew and lower the kneeler.
I don’t know how long I kneel there, praying, before I hear the soft scuff of footsteps and know I’m not alone. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help peeking from the corner of my eye to see what other unfortunate soul is here on the last day of classes. I’m surprised to see one of the Sincero boys sliding into a pew across the aisle, a few rows back. My spine stiffens, and my mind races through possible scenarios. I might be able to fight off all seven of them, but without Angel’s help this time, it’ll be a challenge.
My heart starts hammering harder as adrenaline slowly courses through me, uncoiling inside me from where it was nestled, waiting like a snake to strike. Luckily I was already angry, thinking about Aunt Lucy making other plans, as if she eagerly washed her hands of me the moment I moved out. She probably didn’t even keep my room for me, instead using it to display the porcelain dolls she collects at flea markets. My fingers tighten into fists, but I don’t address the Sinner.
“A master of your skill doesn’t start fights,” our sensei told us before adding a good-natured wink. “We only end them.”
I pray I get the chance. Violence churns inside me, restless as a storm-tossed sea, seeking a way out. It’s too soon to return to the Slaughterpen, but this could be an even better outlet. Dynamo never books me a steep enough challenge. I always know I can win. Tonight, I’m uncertain, charged with fear as well as anticipation.
Paying me no mind, the Sinner clasps his hands, resting his forearms on the back of the seating in front of him, and bows his head. The acoustics in the nave make it impossible for anyone to sneak up on me, but I remain alert. I watch him pray, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, his throat working to swallow. I wonder if he’s really missing a tongue, and that’s why it looks so difficult for him. I wonder if it’s my fault.
His head snaps up, his gaze piercing into mine, and in the blazing hatred I find the answer.
He pulls one of the tiny pencils and a prayer request slip from the holder in the back of the bench seat and scribbles on it. Then he slides along the pew, hesitates, and stands. When he does, the slip of paper flutters to the floor in the center aisle.
He gives me one more long, loathing look before he dusts off his shoulder, turns on his heel, and walks out with long, rapid strides, as if he can’t put distance between us quickly enough. I slump back against the pew, dropping my forehead to my folded hands. Maybe feeling slightly sick at the thought of what my brother did to that boy, and for so little reason, makes me a hypocrite. After all, I beat girls to a bloody pulp for nothing more than my need for validation.
But those girls sign up for it. That violence is controlled, scheduled, chosen. That violence is warranted, wanted even. The pain is temporary. I’ve seen people do permanent damage at those fights, but I know how to avoid it, how to maximize blood loss and minimize severe injury. So, while I’ve caused a few visits to the dentist and trips to the hospital to get a broken nose set, it’s rare and unintentional.
I’ve certainly never disfigured someone in such a brutal way. I shudder at the thought of them holding him down, slicing through the organ while he choked on his own blood, drowning in it, and the agony he must have felt.
And for what?
I don’t even know him, don’t know if he deserved such a cruel fate as to not even be able to utter a cutting word to the girl who caused his dismemberment. Without talking to the Sinners, I have no way of knowing if they’re as bad as the Hellhounds make them out to be, or if they’re simply the enemy and therefore abhorred. Even Annabel Lee, whose family is in the opposing gang, didn’t seem to think they’re particularly dangerous or loathsome. What if they’re not the bad guys? What if the Hellhounds are?
I slide down the pew and pick up the prayer request, my stomach queasy with certainty that he’ll have asked God for his voice back.
Instead, scrawled in boyish handwriting, are five words that freeze me in place.
I know who you are.
I struggle to understand what it could mean. That they know I’m the Hellhound’s sacrifice? Or does he know I fight in disguise? I can’t see why he’d care about either of those things. But there are other options, ones that make me weak with dread. Heath could have shared the confession or uploaded it somewhere that Nate Swift hacked into in exchange for a favor from the Sinners. Do they know I’m the girl who said those things?
Or do they know that I’m the girl who ratted out her friends in juvenile court, three boys who are in their rival gang? Saint warned me that if I started digging, the Disciples would find out. And now, it looks like they have. I can’t tell yet if that’s a bad thing. Maybe this is some kind of peace offering, a reward for the same crime the Hellhounds are punishing me for. I got their enemies locked up, after all. This could be a notice of respect, a ceasefire, if they think that I’m on their side.
Saint said the Disciples were responsible for Eternity’s disappearance. But what if he was only saying that so I wouldn’t talk to his enemies? What if they know the truth, and they’re willing to tell me, and that’s why the Hellhounds have been trying to keep me from them all along.
There’s only one way to find out.