eleven
The Merciful
“I can’t help but feel like you’ve been avoiding us,” Annabel Lee drawls in her monotone, arranging her long, black lace skirt around her ankles as she crosses her legs and sits sideways across her chair. “I’m hurt.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, since I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not. I glance at Manson and Ronique, but they offer no help. Manson is taking a mirror selfie in front of Annabel’s closet door, but somehow I can tell he’s more focused on us. Ronique watches us, but her expression gives nothing away.
In truth, I’ve been taking it easy for a few weeks, letting my body recover from the wound in my side, and enjoying my time with the guys.
It’s such a small injury, I feel a little guilty for letting them dote on me, but in truth, I’ve enjoyed it.
Even Heath has softened, bringing me pain pills and only breaking into my room to kidnap me once.
When he did, instead of dragging me to the basement to threaten me, he took me to his room, where he and Angel pushed their beds together and made a nest for us.
The worst thing they did was make me stay for a John Wick movie marathon, which I didn’t really mind, although I playfully protested by the fourth installment.
Annabel Lee examines her short, almond shaped black nails, several studded with tiny red gemstone crosses, with her usual air of bored indifference. “Did you think it would be awkward to hang out with me now that you’re banging my cousin?”
“I’m not—no,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”
“The alternative is that you’re too busy with your boyfriend to spend time with your friends, which is a dick move, in case you didn’t know.” She waves an elegant hand lazily through the air.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to.”
“She’s just giving you shit,” Manson says. “We’ve all been there. Including her.”
“Liar,” Annabel Lee deadpans. “I would never put dick above you.”
“I would,” he says. “Above, below, beside… Dicks all around.”
“Bring on the dicks,” Ronique says. “One in particular.”
I try not to hurl.
“Anyway,” Annabel Lee says, picking up Edward Gorey.
“I will not be bringing a dick to the party. In fact, I’ll be bringing a pussy.
And not this little guy, either.” She leans down and bumps her nose against her black cat’s nose.
He squirms away, jumps down, and stalks over to me, flopping down at my feet.
“Aww, he likes you,” she says. “I guess you’re forgiven for being a dick-whipped traitor.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then I see the corner of her smoky grey lips lifting in a grin, and I relax. She’s only joking with me, the same way she does the others.
“As long as you come to the party,” Manson says.
“What party?”
“The Sinners Bash,” he says, widening his eyes at me like I’m missing the obvious. “It’s the biggest party of the semester, besides maybe the graduation parties, and those are really only fun if you’re a senior.”
“Yes, because parties are only fun when you’re the star of the show,” Ronique says, rolling her eyes.
“Exactly,” he says. “Which is why the hockey party is the best party. Do you think I should get my eyebrows threaded for it?” He sweeps his hair back from his forehead and turns to us.
“I prefer the feral, wild look,” Annabel Lee says, nudging Brandon Lee Jr. with the toe of her black boot. “But then, I’m not sure I’m your target audience.”
“You’re always my target audience, babe,” Manson says, blowing her a kiss before turning back to the mirror and heaving a dramatic sigh. “I really am the fairest of them all.”
“Hottest guy on campus, hands down,” Annabel Lee says. “Maybe in all of Faulkner.”
“Oh my god, we should make a list,” he says, pulling out his phone and sitting cross-legged on her throw rug. “Top ten most beautiful men in town. Hit me.”
“Saint Soules,” Ronique says.
“Shouldn’t count if you’re horny for them, but he’s pretty dreamy, so I’ll allow it,” Manson says, tapping on his screen. “Next?”
“Colt Darling?” Ronique says.
I startle, remembering the way the guys acted like Dynamo was famous or something. I wonder how many times I’ve heard his name mentioned before and never noticed because I had no face to put with it.
“So you like the broody, long-hair thing,” Manson says, nodding. “Makes sense for a metalhead.”
“You,” Annabel Lee says. “That’s obvious. Royal Dolce. Greyson Sincero. Walker Delacroix. Colin Finnegan.”
“You definitely have a type,” Manson says, grinning. “Mercy?”
I open my mouth and then close it, glancing at Annabel Lee. “I don’t know,” I mumble, squeezing a fist around my cross.
“Oh, spit it out,” Annabel Lee says, lounging over her wingback chair. “I know, I know. My family is full of beautiful men.”
“In that case, add Maverick,” Ronique says.
“Yes, please,” Manson says. “Such a loss that he doesn’t do relationships. Want me to add Angel?”
He looks up at me, and all three of them wait for me to confirm.
“Objectively speaking, his dad is the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen in real life.”
The others all hoot and howl with laughter, teasing that they’re going to tell Angel. But I only said the truth. Angel is hot, but his dad is next-level gorgeous.
“And Father Salvatore,” I say, my face warming.
“Come to Daddy,” Manson says, wiggling his brows as he adds the name to his list. “Apparently you have a type too. Okay, we’ve got our top ten list. I’m sending it in the group chat. Your assignment is to ask one of them to the Sinners Bash.”
“I already have a date,” Annabel Lee says. “I asked that blonde from history.”
“Aww, so cute,” Manson says. “She’s the perfect Enid to your Wednesday.”
“Uh, yeah, and there’s no way Saint is going to that,” Ronique says.
“Or Angel,” I agree.
“He’s not on the list,” Manson reminds me. “Because you’d rather nail his dad.”
They all bust up laughing again while I protest.
“Fine, fine,” he says. “Our assignment is to each fuck at least one of them this semester.”
“Gross,” Annabel Lee says. “Take my uncle off that list.”
“Too late,” he says, waving the phone. “Already sent it.”
This time, I get to join in their laughter.
I marvel at how easy things are with them, how good it feels to be part of things when Manson adds me to a group chat.
I’ve been lonely for so long, but I hadn’t realized I wasn’t just lonely for a partner and romantic love.
I’ve been lonely for my friends, for the Quint, for Eternity.
But maybe it’s okay to have other friends, to make friends even though she’s gone.
I don’t have to isolate myself to prove I won’t forget her.
I just have to figure out who wants us to.
So, a week later, I find myself walking toward Sinners Tower again, this time with my friends around me.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to show up at their party?” I ask Annabel Lee, adjusting the dress she insisted I wear. “I don’t think the Sinceros like me too much.”
“It’s a party,” she says. “They’ll get over it.”
“My guys will kill me if they find out.”
“I’ve got your back if they try,” she says, waving off my concern. “Just because you’re dating someone, that doesn’t mean he gets to tell you what to do.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t be hiding things from him,” I point out. “I mean, I wouldn’t want him going to a party without telling me.”
“You’re making too big a deal of it,” she says. “It’s not like you’re going with another guy. You’re allowed to hang out with your friends and not have your boyfriend breathing down your neck.”
“I don’t know,” I say, still feeling guilty about this.
I know the guys wouldn’t want me anywhere near the Sinners’ house.
But I also know if I want to find out who took Eternity, and the Disciples are behind it, then this is a good place to look.
That’s the real reason I let my friends convince me to come tonight. I don’t care about partying.
“Just think,” Manson says, falling back to walk with us. “If we’d known about this party last semester, you could have just waited to get into the tower, and you wouldn’t have had to suck Asher’s dick.”
“It wasn’t Asher,” Annabel Lee says.
“You’re never going to tell me which one, are you?”
“Nope,” she says, tugging up the top of her black corset, her blood-red lips turning up at the corners. “Who I suck off is none of your business, unless it’s you.”
We pass the stone gargoyles, climb the steps, and stop at the door that ended my search last time.
This time, it swings open when Manson tries the handle.
Inside, I expect something dark and creepy like Annabel Lee’s room, but the high-ceilinged foyer speaks more of old elegance than garish Halloween décor.
An elaborate, wrought iron candelabra hangs above us, gently lighting the room and gleaming over the polished, original hardwood floors.
A thick, red carpet extends in front of us, and a photographer stands waiting to snap guests’ pictures as they pose in front of old, gilt-framed portraits on the wall.
“I heard they still have the old wood-fire oven from when the priests lived here and made the communion loaves,” Annabel Lee says. “There’s a rumor that once, someone was baked alive in them. Let’s go look.”
“Jesus,” Manson says, linking his arm through mine. “Wait until we’ve had a drink before you start scaring us to death. Come on, Mercy. Let’s find something that will give us the serenity to accept Annabel Lee.”
She grins wickedly, seeming unbothered, so I let him pull me along the red carpet and into the other room, with a stop along the way for him to strike several poses for the photographer.
In the next room, people are milling and socializing.
As soon as I see how many people are there, how many are fluidly moving around the room talking to different people, I freeze.
Manson plucks various hors d’oeuvres from passing waiters until someone comes by with trays of drinks.
He takes two, handing me a long-stemmed crystal goblet filled with golden liquid.