18. Mercy
18
MERCY
I rouse to angry rain pattering against the windows, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distant Pravitia cityscape. Sundae lets out a low whine and tries to bury her wet nose under my arm. With my eyes still closed, I gently shush her, blindly finding her warm body and patting her reassuringly on the stomach.
“It’s just thunder, silly beast,” I mumble.
It’s been raining all week. It began the night I moved into Mount Pravitia and hasn’t let up since. It’s as if the gods are as disappointed in us as I am with myself. I’m usually not bothered by anything as insignificant as the weather, but it has left me … on edge. The dogs have been restless ever since we relocated. Being forced into new surroundings, paired with the unrelenting thunderous rain, means they’ve kept me up most nights. Especially when I haven’t had the time to take them back to the Grounds for our nightly walks in the family cemetery.
They don’t like change.
And neither do I.
But here I am, the purveyor of my own life-altering circumstances.
Sundae continues to nudge me, and I audibly groan into my silk pillows. Pushing myself up, I sit and throw my legs over the side, squinting toward the windows to find the sun barely risen and blanketed by heavy clouds. The sound of claws against wood makes me turn my head to find éclair and Truffles near the door, pawing to be let out.
With a sleepy sigh, I put on my open-toe feathered slippers and don my chiffon robe over my nightgown before letting them out. The door is hardly opened before they bound through the enfilade and disappear, Sundae not bothering to move from her spot in bed.
Taking the time to freshen up in the ensuite, I inspect the wound on my arm. It’s still sore but healing, and no longer needs a bandage. Surely, it will leave a scar and I press my lips together at the thought that Wolfgang has managed to leave a permanent mark on my skin.
I don’t bother to change before I give my thigh a quick pat, followed by a short whistle commanding Sundae to follow me out of the ruler’s chambers. Her head pops up from where it’s been resting on her large front paws, ears perked up before she jumps down and trots up to my side.
Walking through and out of the enfilade, I head into the East Wing. It’s still quiet this early in the morning, the drum of the rain dulling the bustling sounds of the servants only now beginning to set up for their morning duties.
Entering the atrium where breakfast is served, I stutter to a stop when I notice a lone figure sitting at the head of the large oak table, the dark clouds outside the floor-to-ceiling windows casting a long shadow over his body.
“What are you doing with my dogs?”
Wolfgang lets the corner of his newspaper fall, his blue-gray eyes slowly lifting to where I’m standing. Even at this hour, his brown hair is perfectly coiffed, beard trimmed and manicured. The scratch marks I left on his cheek are fading, but it pleases me to see his face still scarred just the same. He’s wearing another one of his smoking jackets, his chest bare underneath.
His assessment of me is quick, but I do notice the dip of his gaze to my open robe. I cross my arms, but his eyes still linger a second too long on my short nightgown before he tilts his head to the side of his chair where both éclair and Truffles are sitting, tails wagging.
Traitors .
Straightening back up, his attention returns to whatever article he’s reading—most likely about himself—before he rasps, “I have nothing to do with those things.” He takes a slow sip of tea. “Fiendish creatures, just like their mother.”
My irritation spikes but I let his comment fade into the sound of the rain, now echoing louder against the countless windows of the atrium. I had the fortune of avoiding him at breakfast all week, but I see my luck has finally run out. Crossing paths outside of mandatory meetings was bound to happen. Still, the familiar aggravation when around him buzzes under my skin.
I walk to the opposite end of the table and sit, black tea poured and served before I even have time to call the dogs to my side, except for Sundae who is already settling at my feet under the table.
“The usual,” I say to whoever is serving me while reaching for a copy of the Pravitian Digest. I typically don’t bother with the news, especially when I know that the Vainglorys are behind every single word circulating in the city’s news cycle.
Their family’s power isn’t as straightforward as people care to think. It’s not simply the power of persuasion and glamor—like how he hypnotized those six Pravitians during the Feast of Fools.
No.
It runs much deeper. Their power seeps through any kind of media they create. Especially useful to keep the masses compliant and submissive. Their persuasion through media is an advantage that all six ruling families indulge in daily.
Each family wields a power connected to the god they worship. Passed down from firstborn to firstborn, they are the only viable heirs to continue the family lineage.
Like me and Wolfgang.
Luckily, our powers do not work on each other. And considering that we are the first generation not to have any siblings, the powers—and subsequent immunity—have been passed down to us.
This means the Vainglorys' power over the media does not affect me.
I avoid consuming any of their media simply because it’s an unappealing pigswill full of praise for the man sitting across from me. Nonetheless, I would rather pretend to read his precious Pravitian Digest than stare at Wolfgang for another damnable second.
The silence between us is as loud as the storm brewing outside, punctuated by the intermittent crinkle of a page being turned or a cup being placed back on its saucer.
Eventually, the servant returns with my breakfast; two pieces of brown toast, fried eggs, and caviar. Taking a bite of toast, my gaze inadvertently falls on Wolfgang who seems to have stopped reading and is now studying me eat.
“Problem?” I say tersely after swallowing.
His head turns back to the newspaper and he simply shrugs as if dismissing me. I furrow my brows but continue to eat until my attention pauses on his half-eaten plate discarded beside him.
Caviar, eggs, and toast.
My bite turns to wet cement as I swallow it down my throat realizing we share the same taste in breakfast.
“We have a meeting with Claire from the Pravitian Digest at ten a.m.,” Wolfgang declares.
I startle out of my thoughts, my gaze lifting to his closed-off face, eyes still on his newspaper.
“What for now?” I mutter, a heavy dose of impatience spiking my tone as I sip my now tepid tea.
The week has been full of dull people and mandatory meetings, and I long for some time alone back at the Grounds. Or even a night out with Gemini or Belladonna.
From the corner of his eye, he sends me a subtle but exasperated look, and my gaze flicks to his mouth, his tongue dragging over his bottom lip.
“Puff piece to officially announce our—” he pauses, mouth curling upward, his attention back on the silly article he’s reading. “Co-rulership.”
Carefully, he folds the newspaper and lets it fall on the table with a slap. Smoothing his hand over his short beard, he takes a long sip of tea, and my eyes can’t help but dip— again —to his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Standing up, his silk pajamas hang low on his hips as he presses his curled fists onto the table. He leans his weight forward and pins me with his stare.
“You might be plotting my demise behind closed doors.” His mouth transforms into a snarl. “I certainly am plotting yours. But you’d be advised to act like we are nothing but a harmonious team when in public. Understood?”
I slam my cup on the table, tea spilling over. “Don’t you dare give me orders, Vainglory. You are not, and never will be, above me.”
His stare is glacial as he lets the thrumming silence settle around us until his snarl turns into a hostile smile. “I cannot wait for your downfall, Crèvecoeur. The day your god finally comes to retrieve you, to humble you through the one thing you love more than yourself—death, oh ,” Wolfgang says with a cold laugh, gold canine appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I will spend my days dancing on your despicable grave.”
With a turn of his heels, he storms out, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to yell back a similar threat, but I swallow it back down, trying to tamper my erratic heartbeat, already so sick of our childish squabbles.
I would rather watch him slowly bleed out from a knife to the gut.
Yes. That would be much more satisfying.
I let the image calm me down and finish my breakfast in peace, as I dread the upcoming morning interview.