4. Mercy
Mercy
There isn’t enough coffee in the world to scrub my mind of the last twelve hours.
Not even. I don’t know how long I lay in bed after making it home from the cemetery, but it wasn’t enough.
Washing Reaper’s blood off my face went about as well as it could have, and I left my clothes in the mud sink to soak out the blood and dirt.
My thoughts inevitably drift back to the man who climbed through my bedroom window. Skinny Jeans. What did Reaper call him?
Zane?
I chew on his name as I hover in front of the coffee pot and sip my third cup.
Reaper’s infamous on campus, but I’ve never heard of him having a sidekick.
Or a brother. I guess no one cares about Reaper’s backstory so long as he fucks like a god.
But if I’m going to make him fall in love with me, I’ll need to learn more about who he is and what he likes.
Sighing, I set down my mug and stare out the kitchen window at the gravestones crisscrossing through the property.
Not only do they know where I live, but they trespassed to deliver a message.
They could kill me in my sleep if they really wanted to.
A headache brews in the back of my skull, and I quickly swallow the last of my coffee.
Standing here isn’t going to solve anything.
I need to think. Come up with a plan. Research.
If the rumors are true, Reaper has been a part-time student at the college for the past five years.
There has to be a record of him somewhere. A name. A picture. Something.
Maybe I can dig up some dirt on Zane, too.
My best bet is to get someone in Greek life to talk.
I don’t know any of the sorority girls, so that’s an automatic bust. But the thing about Reaper is that he’s not just into chicks—he’s made rounds in the frat houses, too.
If he’s lettered, he comes from money or pedigree.
If he’s not, they let him in on account of something he can offer them.
Drugs. Booze. Sex. Connections. I wrack my brain for any defining features from last night, but other than how muscled he is, I come up empty.
I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Sam—the only frat boy I know—and invite him out for coffee. My treat.
While I wait for his reply, I retreat to my bathroom to put on my makeup for the day.
Heavy eyeliner. Dark lip stain. A white lace bow in my hair.
I draw a wing on my left eye and stare at the curved line.
Without thinking, I draw a straight line down the side of my cheek and stare at the black streak, the gears slowly turning in my head.
Someone had to paint Reaper’s body last night.
Someone talented.
Like an art student.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, conjuring the faces of every student in my studio classes.
As senior-level classes, there aren’t too many students enrolled.
I pick through the faces and weed them out one by one, starting with people who I know are in relationships.
After that, I go through what little I’ve gleaned from their artwork and narrow the focus even further.
By the end of this ten-minute exercise, I’m ready to tear my hair out.
I don’t have a clue who would help him.
Thankfully, my phone chimes just as I’m about to wipe my entire face clean and restart my makeup.
SAM
Sure. Meet me after practice? 8:00?
I quickly send confirmation and erase the random line of eyeliner running down the side of my face. I should tell Sam that I don’t want to see him to see him , but I’d rather catch up first and then delve into the dirty details about Reaper and Zane.
If anything, Sam will be a welcome distraction for my impending demise.
By the time I walk the few blocks from campus to Sam’s frat house later that evening, he’s already waiting outside for me.
Freshly showered after football practice, he grins at me and bounds down the front steps to meet me on the sidewalk.
Once he’s within range, he throws his arm over my shoulders and pulls me in for a half-hug.
“Where have you been hiding?” he teases, giving me a once-over. His gaze lingers on my fishnet tights before he shakes his head. “Enjoy your favorite night of the year?”
I roll my eyes, but my heart isn’t into it. “It was a scream.”
“Well, tell me all about it. You hungry? We could go to Papa Joe’s.” He looks at me expectantly.
“I thought we were going for coffee.”
“Coffee doesn’t count as food, Mercy.” He pokes my stomach. “Have you eaten today?”
My stomach growls at the prospect of food. He’s right, I haven’t eaten all day. I’ve been too nervous about the prospect of running into Reaper and Zane again. “Fine,” I concede, the two of us changing course for the local pizza joint. “But you’re paying.”
Sam keeps smiling as he shoves his hands in his front pockets.
“I’d never dream of anything else.” The evening air is cooler than yesterday, making jeans the staple of the season.
His letterman jacket sports a proud double H patch for Harlin Heights College , but the fact that we even have letterman jackets is the biggest joke of the century.
We barely qualify for competitive sports as a Division Three school, and that’s only because the local alumni funnel money into the college’s coffers like their lives depend on it.
It’s not like many of us are earning our Bachelor’s degrees here.
Most local kids move away to bigger schools with more promising graduation rates, but those who stick around don’t graduate.
It’s as if the student body disappears once senior year arrives.
Sam and I fall into comfortable small talk, our ease of companionship a testament to how long we’ve known each other.
After Sam’s mom died when he was a teenager, our dads ended up joining the same grief counseling group and dragged us both to the teen meetings for sons and daughters suffering similar losses.
Out of everyone in the group, Sam was the most magnanimous, leading discussions and encouraging others to participate.
He even got an outcast like me talking. No one’s a stranger when it comes to Sam.
He has a way of bringing out the brightest versions of people.
As soon as we’ve settled into a booth in the back of Papa Joe’s Pizzeria, he doesn’t waste any time getting to the point.
“Tell me what’s on your mind. You don’t randomly ask me out on dates without a reason.
” He throws an arm over the back of his seat and stretches his legs, bumping my knee with his.
“This isn’t a date.” I fiddle with the paper strip from my silverware.
“Oh, so it’s business? What could Mercy Morningstar possibly need me for?” After a moment, he snaps his fingers. “You need a male model again, don’t you? You don’t even have to ask. I happily accept.”
I kick his foot under the table. “I don’t need a model.
” Our server brings us complimentary water and garlic knots.
I take large gulps of ice water to keep from blushing at Sam’s playful grin.
The last time he modeled for my sketches, things got heated between us.
We didn’t take it further than kissing—despite his flirting, Sam is a gentleman—and we agreed to keep our relationship platonic by the end of the series.
But still. I don’t need to open that door again unless I’m ready for whatever waits on the other side.
Right now, I need to focus on staying alive rather than hooking up with my closest friend.
“I need to tell you something.” I fold the napkin band into uneven triangles before flattening it out and redoing it more evenly. “I met someone last night.”
Sam’s eyebrows hitch. “Yeah? How’d that go?”
Umm.
“He wants to kill me.”
Sam’s smile tightens. “Seriously, Mercy, no offense, but we need to work on your punch lines.”
“ Seriously , Sam, I’m not joking.” I flick the triangle at him, hitting him square in the chest. Lowering my voice, I lean across the table so that no one but Sam can hear me.
“I caught Reaper and his brother burying a body in the cemetery.” The memory resurfaces like a bad dream, the taste and grit of grave dirt on my tongue churning my stomach.
“Reaper? Like, t he Reaper?”
Our server interrupts to take our order, and we both say the same thing: a large vegetarian with extra parmesan packs. Once they’re gone, Sam sets his forearms on the table and leans across to whisper back. “I don’t believe you.”
I considered this outcome while Sam was at practice.
I don’t need him to believe me so long as he tells me everything he knows or gets me in touch with someone within Reaper’s inner circle.
Still, Sam’s disbelief hurts more than I anticipated.
“Why not?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Am I not pretty enough to be his type?”
“You’re not stupid enough to be his type.” Narrowing his eyes, Sam scoffs. “Besides, isn’t it a little too ‘on the nose’ for a guy named Reaper to be a killer?”
“I know what I saw.” I clench my jaw and quickly decide to give Sam the full details.
“He and his brother tried to kill me after I caught them burying a grave. Well, Zane tried, but Reaper stopped him. I’m not sure why.
Trust me, I’ve spent all day thinking about it.
” I take a sip of my water. “But it gets even weirder. They want to play some kind of fucked-up game. The loser dies by the winner’s hand.
” A shiver rolls down my spine. “They gave me until Halloween next year to win the game.”
Sam sits completely still, his eyes searching mine. “You’re serious.”
“As the grave,” I say dryly.
“Not funny.”
“Kind of funny.”
“How do you win the game?”
This is where I lie. “I have to figure out who they are and why they kill people. Like a detective.” The ice in my glass rattles as it melts. “What do you know about Reaper’s brother Zane?”