Chapter 3
Mercy
I’ve watched my parents attend to the dead hundreds of times.
I’m familiar with the ritual of it—lighting candles, choosing which record to play, honoring the life that’s no longer with us.
Under normal circumstances, I’m eager to help.
Running around the morgue as a child was a favorite pastime of mine, and these weathered brick walls feel like home.
Preparing the body of a man who assaulted me feels wrong.
Still, I light the ancient candles decorating the corners of the room, choose a modern record with angry electric guitar and pounding bass beats, and for extra measure, I grab a chilled sangria from the wine cooler in the next room.
Popping the top, I drink straight from the bottle as I stare at the cold, metal table awaiting his arrival.
We usually wash the body and, depending on their religious affiliation, say a few words of prayer or at the very least, send well-wishes for his travels into whatever lies beyond a mortal death.
My heart wars with itself. Does someone like him deserve well-wishes after what he attempted to do? After what he’s likely already done to others? Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath and try to approach this situation logically.
I don’t know the man. He could have been a kind brother, loyal son or a considerate friend. Maybe he was on the fast track to success in his field, or the top of his class, or—
His body appears in the blink of an eye, dropped onto the table without ceremony.
There’s so much blood.
The scent hits me first, strong enough that I swallow a gag rising to my throat.
What little body paint remains on his skin is marred by dried blood and scratch marks, and when I press my thumbnails beneath the tips of my fingernails, I feel it—the paint.
The skin. Even though he didn’t touch me down there, he got close enough that parts of his body are stuck to mine.
I inhale quickly, a shallow little breath that hardly does anything, and feel stomach acid rising to the back of my throat.
“Mercy—”
I don’t know who says my name, Kane or Sam, but it doesn’t matter.
I spin around so fast that I move by memory rather than sight, rushing to the sink to wash my hands and scrape as much of him out from my nails as I can.
The water is scalding hot, but I don’t care about that, either.
I douse my hands in soap and scrub with a sponge, determined to remove every trace of him from my body.
This part—the furious scrubbing—isn’t supposed to happen. It’s not part of the Morningstar rituals. We prepare every body with the utmost respect. We’re careful. Gentle, even, as we wash the body and remove any jewelry or metal. I scoff, a guilty burst of laughter catching inside my chest.
My first time prepping a body for burial or cremation on my own, and I’m fucking everything up.
Someone steps up behind me and wraps their arms around my waist, their breath warm on my neck as they nuzzle close. My mind blanks, unsure who to picture at my back, when bloodied hands join mine at the sink.
Kane.
He pumps a few dollops of soap into his palm before taking my hands in his and rubbing them down, much gentler than I had been as he caresses each knuckle and massages the mounts of my fingers.
If my grandmother were here, she’d take this moment to remind me to study Kane’s hands, to watch how they move, and compare our life lines and love lines to see if they match up.
But I’m not a romantic like her—all I see are the pink suds in the sink.
“You lit candles,” Kane muses, breaking the silence. He turns off the faucet and grabs a hand towel from the stack beside the sink. Patting my hands dry, he holds onto them as he waits for my response.
I don’t know what he wants me to say. It’s not like I’m wishing that guy a happy trip to the afterlife. “It’s tradition.” My words ring hollow despite their truth.
“Fuck tradition,” Kane rumbles in my ear, his voice sending a warm tingle down my spine.
“Let’s burn the bastard.” He leads me back to the table when my legs refuse to work on their own.
This is normally the part where we would wash the body and prepare it for cremation, but my stomach churns at the thought of touching him.
In my hesitancy, Kane takes the lead, ordering Sam around as he checks the corpse for piercings or other identifiable markings.
He takes pictures with his phone, like he’s cataloguing another one of his kills, and scowls like he’s unhappy with the results.
“I thought you liked killing,” I murmur, unable to take my eyes off the body as he and Sam cart it towards the crematorium. It’s been preheating for ages, it feels like, but it’s finally up to temp to work its magic.
Kane side-eyes me as he pushes the body into the oven and locks the door.
Pausing, he admires the mechanism before returning my gaze.
“Depends on the person. The circumstances.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighs.
“Killing bastards is satisfying, sure, but…” He trails off, frowning again.
“I should have made this one bleed more.”
For the first time since they brought the body in, Sam speaks.
“You can make the asshole responsible bleed.” Arms crossed, gaze narrowed, Sam’s body radiates tension, filling the air with it.
His movements are controlled, as solid and sure as the tight muscles wrapping around his body, and the same thought from when he was on the phone with his father runs through my mind.
I hardly recognize the man standing in front of me.
He senses my stare and softens his posture, loosening his grip on his arms and relaxing his face. Taking a breath, he finally meets my eyes, and that’s where I see the version of Sam that I know: in the emerald depths of his eyes, overflowing with concern. “Are you okay, Mercy?”
I’d forgotten about the wine, so I grab the bottle by its neck and barely contain a bitter laugh.
No, I’m not okay. What a stupid question.
I take a swig of wine, then another, and another, chugging as much as I can without spitting it back up.
I’m not much of a drinker no matter the type of alcohol, so with enough wine, I’ll pass out.
Maybe that’s better than living through shit like this.
It wasn’t even that bad, considering the outcome, and I’m still miserable.
Sam frowns and tries to take the bottle from me. I hold fast, matching his frown with one of my own. “I deserve a drink after what I went through tonight.”
“I’m not arguing against that,” he murmurs, “but take it easy.”
“Pahh.” I tip back another swallow. Taking it easy is what got me into this mess.
All of it. Kane’s wicked game, the mess at the party, my situationship with Sam.
My whole life has been spent alone, sheltered, safe.
When I go out into the world, I’m not prepared for its twists and turns, and that’s what spells disaster.
I’m learning as I go and suffering the consequences.
What a fucking mess I’ve made of my life.
Kane stares at the bottle for a split second before glancing around the room. “Where’d you get that from?”
I gesture towards the door that opens into the back hallway. “First room on the right. We’ve got a wine cooler next to the fridge.”
Muttering the word sweet, Kane disappears to ransack what little food and drink we have stashed for long nights like these.
The cremation will take a few hours, and I don’t like the idea of leaving the machine to cook on its own, so I grab a folding chair and drag it across the room.
I can’t watch the flames through the door, but I can pretend that I’m watching the fucker inside burn to ashes.
Lifting my bottle, I murmur a sarcastic cheers and take another sip.
After I sit my ass down and stretch out my legs, Kane reappears with two bottles in his hands and one tucked into the crook of his arm.
He sets all three on the floor beside me, then recruits Sam to bring in the couch from the other room.
I watch from afar as they work together to angle the couch just right to avoid knocking the legs on the doorframe, Sam cursing aloud as he smashes his knuckles, while Kane laughs at his pain.
I can’t help but crack a smile.
They both notice, the two of them zoning in on it immediately.
Kane slides the couch the rest of the way across the floor and quickly steps up behind me.
“I see that smile, Siren.” He flashes a grin and grabs me from behind, reaching beneath my arms to drag me backwards out of the chair.
It clatters to the floor as he hauls me against his chest, blindly plopping down on the couch and settling me into his lap.
Snapping his fingers, he points at the bottles of wine. “Grab those for me, will ya, Sam?”
Frozen in place, Sam stares at the two of us.
His gaze roves my face before dipping to my body, taking in the possessive way Kane’s arms wrap around my middle as he leans back comfortably, pulling me with him.
I’ve never sat in a man’s lap before—unless straddling Kane in the cemetery that one time counts—and I can’t say it’s particularly comfortable.
I shift in place, trying to get situated, when something hard suddenly digs into my ass.
“Kane!” I smack his hip while he grins against my neck, the scrape of his teeth matching the chuckle rumbling past his lips.
“Can’t help it when you squirm like that, beautiful.”