23. Wolfgang
23
WOLFGANG
I am not sure how I got here.And I don’t believe Mercy knows either.
One moment we’re at each other’s throats and the next I’m sitting on a bench in a dark barren room watching Mercy fiddle around with a corpse, who she’s donned in all white.
There’s a small twinge of pain on the underside of my chin that pulls me out of my thoughts and without taking my eyes off her, I bring my hand up to rub where she nicked me. Forbidden heat travels up my spine at the memory of her licking my blood off her blade.
The throaty groan she thinks I didn’t hear. I don’t know how I resisted the urge to slam her against the wall and taste myself on her tongue. Bite her lips and taste her blood in turn.
My responses to her actions are becoming steadily more confounding. And asking to witness the private worship of her god might be the most bewildering to date. But the fact that she accepted perplexes me the most.
I wonder if she could still taste my blood when she breathed out a small defeated Yes . I don’t think she would have ever allowed it if we weren’t both so rattled by what had just transpired.
I’m still waiting for the trap.
Maybe she’ll burn my body next.
But for now, I sit and watch.
She’s propped the corpse on a chair and is now carefully brushing their long blonde hair.
“What exactly are you doing?” I finally ask.
“I said not to speak,” she answers dryly, not bothering to look at me, too busy forcing the corpse to sit upright atop the metal chair.
I fall silent.
She combs the hair back. Ties it into a bun. Adds a bit of rouge on the cheeks. Places the hands gently on their lap. Blue eyes open and glassy.
I disturb the silence again.
“You can’t expect me to keep my mouth shut when you’re doing …” I wave my hand toward her. “Whatever this is.”
Her emerald gaze slices through me, her eyebrows dipped into a severe frown, but she says nothing while continuing to fuss over her kill.
“Looks more like something Tinny would do,” I add while crossing my arms.
Mercy lets out a long, loud sigh. “Better than pruning in a bath while plebeians pay you compliments like a vain little wolf,” she snaps as she steps back to survey the results. My lips twitch into a side grin, amused with how easy it is to annoy her.
“Tinny isn’t the only one who likes to keep mementos,” she finally explains, walking to a small armoire. Other than the bench I’m sitting on and the chair where the corpse is placed, it’s the only furniture in here. She opens one of the doors and pulls out a camera that looks like it was made before I was even born.
I study her while she focuses on putting in a fresh roll of film. Her long black hair is swept back over her bare shoulders, a diamond necklace resting delicately across her neck. The tattoo of her family sigil—an open palm holding a flame—takes up most of her back and disappears underneath her corset. We were all made to get our family sigils tattooed on our backs when we turned eighteen, the same year that we were officially eligible for the Lottery.
When the camera is wound and ready, she adjusts the lighting so it’s mostly aimed at the corpse. I hold my breath, trying to add respect to the moment while she takes a picture.
Then a few more.
“Do you do this every time you kill?” I ask softly once she’s done.
She turns to face me, and I’m struck by the absence of her usual stern expression. As if something about this ritual has softened her edges.
“Only the ones I’ve been specifically called to,” she says.
I give her a questioning look, unsure of what she means.
She fiddles with the camera, avoiding eye contact while she answers, “There are layers to my relationship with death. I can sense when someone is about to die.” I nod, aware of that side of her powers. She puts the camera back into the armoire and shuts the door. “But some souls, my god asks me to deliver personally, like this one.” She finds my gaze, her face still soft and open. “Those are the ones I burn myself. The ones I keep pictures of. It’s also why I collect tithe all year round.”
I realize then what she means. Aside from Mercy, the rest of us collect tithe for our gods on specific occasions called Tithe Season. It occurs four times a year. The last one was during the autumn equinox, the next will be during the winter solstice. Mercy, on the other hand, is free to collect anytime, anywhere. Makes me wonder if this is partly why she carries herself with such superiority. Nonetheless, I can’t deny the warmth blooming in my chest hearing her share this private part of her with me.
I study her for a beat before asking, “What do you do with the pictures?”
“I keep them in a box.”
“That’s it?” I say, a little surprised.
She shrugs but says nothing. Walking to the exit, she opens the door. “Come,” she declares, “Time to watch the flames dance.”
We stare at the fire in dead silence as the corpse burns. Mercy’s nearness crackles against my skin while I keep my hands in tight fists inside my trouser pockets. The smoke burns my eyes, and I suppress a cough. I wonder if the smell will stick to my clothes but keep my mouth shut, knowing the importance of ritual.
When Mercy deems her worship completed, she changes from stilettos to lace-up heeled boots and leads us out into the Crèvecoeur cemetery, her three Dobermans bounding up the path with us.
The sun is setting behind the heavy gray clouds. The rain has finally let up, but the soil beneath our feet is muddy and wet.
“I didn’t wear the right shoes for this,” I say with a haughty sniff.
Mercy pulls her fur coat closer to her face, her expression looking pensive. “Do you even own shoes for this?”
I purse my lips at her small dig but stew in silence because she’s right. I am not one for nature—or panting, slobbering dogs for that matter.
I watch as two of them chase each other, while the third doesn’t leave Mercy’s side. My gaze sweeps around the cemetery, taking in the decaying tombstones and crooked trees bending halfway into the uncovered path.
“This is it?” I ask, scrunching my nose. “We simply walk aimlessly?”
A small puff of air leaves her lips. “Yes.”
“Interesting,” I mutter, the crunch of our shoes over dead leaves accompanying the heavy silence.
One of the two dogs chasing each other suddenly runs up to me and drops a bone at my feet. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a humerus. I stop in my tracks and give the dog a side-eye. It sits at my feet, peering up at me expectantly while its tongue lolls out of its mouth.
“What does it want?”
Mercy’s giggle is so soft that I almost miss it. My eyes snap to her, convinced I must have heard wrong. There’s an ephemeral smile on her lips as she stares down at the dog, gone as soon as she looks up and finds me staring.
“She wants to play fetch. Throw the bone,” she says, her tone still carrying an amused lilt to it.
I eye Mercy warily. Taking out my ostrich-skin gloves from my pockets, I carefully slide them on. Picking up the bone with two fingers, I ask, “Is this from a grave?”
She shrugs, giving one of the dogs a scratch behind the ears. “Perhaps.”
“How tasteful,” I mumble before reluctantly wrapping my hand around the humerus and letting it whistle through the air. The dogs bark excitedly, racing after the bone as if it still has some meat on it.
“I’m sure you’ve done far lewder things than touch an old bone in a cemetery, Vainglory. Quit the act.”
My first urge when I hear her provoking words is to shove her into whatever half-dug pit I can find and fill it with dirt. I stop in my tracks when I find her piercing gaze fixed on me. Studying me amidst old graves, half of her face cloaked in shadows. The fire burning behind her irises propels me back to when I found her spying on me in the bathhouse. And I suddenly realize the intent behind her three last words.
Quit the act.
Because I know what she saw that night when I played the violin.
She’s seeking the man behind the mask.