Chapter 4
Four
Mercy
The instant I’m upstairs, I hunt Raven down. This team is out of control, and I’m done with the lies, moods, and secrets. She’s hiding something.
I raise my fist to knock on her door, but I don’t get a chance. She opens with a bundle of fresh clothes and a towel in hand and pushes past me.
“I’ve got first dibs on the shower,” she says.
“Oh no, you don’t.” I grab her arm and stop her.
There aren’t many people in this world I’m afraid of.
Even the thought of my inevitable meeting with the devil fails to impress me.
But Raven … she’s another entity altogether, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I love her like a sister, would die for her, but even blood relatives can give you the spooks.
The smudged eyeliner glare she slides me should strip my soul. “If this is about your mysteriously empty body wash bottle, it wasn’t me.”
I blink. “I’m out of Santal 33?” Wait. “You’re distracting me. That’s not what this is about.”
“What do you want?”
“What was that about you and the Saint?” I demand.
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“But it concerns you and him?”
She shrugs me off. “You don’t want to know the answer to that.”
“Why not?”
Voices behind us. Footsteps grow louder on the stairs.
“You’d better be quick.” She holds my gaze, walking backward down the hall. “You’re almost out of alone time.”
With that, she spins and heads to the bathroom, almost bowling over a freshly washed, pink-skinned, towel-wrapped Tawny on her way out.
“I’ve got dibs after Raven.” Leila powers past us, aiming for her room.
“I’m after Leila,” Thea announces.
Tawny arrives at her door, the one I’m still blocking.
“You okay, Mercy?” She tugs at her dripping blond ponytail. “If it’s about your body wash—”
“I’m fine, babe.” My voice is far too high-pitched as I back up toward my door. “No naps. Team meeting in the archives in fifteen.”
I don’t hear a reply. The blood roaring in my ears drowns out all sound, including the slam of my door closing. The thud of my spine hitting the wooden surface. My lungs heave as I will my body to calm the fuck down, but it feels like ants crawl beneath my skin. Everything is tight. Jittery.
You’re almost out of alone time.
I stare at my only sanctuary—the tiny, miserable monastic cell made smaller by two cots and my belongings strewn about.
The chaos adds to the noise, and I hate it.
I need the silence of a body that’s been properly bled, fucked, or punished.
I need a desperate climax to silence the never-ending noise inside my body, always simmering beneath the skin.
The one that likes to whisper, I’m the reason for it existing in the first place.
Shoving off the door, I drop to my knees and reach beneath my cot.
“Come on.” I fumble around for my box of tricks. “Where the fuck are you?”
My fingers land on a broad velvet surface.
Bingo. I locate the ribbon handle and yank, dragging the box out.
Holy rays of moonlight bleed through the window and land on the box lid.
God’s soul, I swear it’s true. The instant I lay eyes on my toys, a flood of anticipatory relief washes through me. Soon I’ll feel even better.
It’s been days since I’ve had a chance for a little self-care.
“I’m so sorry, babies,” I coo to them. “Momma’s been super busy.”
I grab the long, veined, sparkly purple dildo, but then realize it’s not going to give me what I need in the time I have.
I toss it over my shoulder. Next is the clitoral suction vibrator.
I hit the button. Nothing. Batteries are dead.
Fuck. I check the wand. Nothing. The baby vibrating bullet is also dead. Dead. Dead.
My breath hitches. The frenetic need is back, sharper than before.
Nothing will do. I squeeze my eyes shut against the rising sense of helplessness as arousal builds in my body.
My skin feels like it’s about to strangle me as I fumble through the last of the toys, adding as many as I can to the power cable.
I look out the window. The sun has completely set now, and the church’s belfry looms like a black shadow against the moonlit sky.
Even though there are no bells in the tower, I hear them, nonetheless.
Bong. Bong. Bong. Between tolls, the creak of a swinging rope.
My father’s open study door. A chair knocked sideways. My wailing mother.
This is all your fault, Joan.
I grab a clean set of clothes and storm off to the bathroom. Better to wait in line than in silence.
Already showered, hair wrapped in a white towel, Raven heads toward me down the hallway. Just before we’re about to clash, she stops dead, one hand braced on the wall, the other clutching her empty laundry basket like a shield.
What is this, a challenge?
“Move,” I snap.
She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes grow wide. Too wide. They look through me, fixed on something I can’t see.
“He’s coming,” she whispers, voice unnaturally deep. It’s a sound ripped from the gut.
“Who?” I demand. “Dom? He’s on patrol.”
“The Lord of the Flies.” Her voice is deep and wrong. Prophetic. A single drop of blood oozes from her left nostril. “His mark heralds the white horse who carves the path.” She groans. “The enemy is within.”
The sight of her blood is my tripwire.
I drop my laundry bundle and grab her face, forcing her eyes to meet mine. The black of her pupils swallows the color. I drag her into the monastic cell she shares with Tawny. The air is stale and thick with the scent of too much candle wax and something burnt, like bitter herbs.
“Stay on the bed,” I order.
She collapses onto her mattress, spine straight, eyes locked on the ceiling. I check her pulse, then press my hand to her forehead. Everything seems within range, given what’s happening. Just another intense vision. I hope.
A few moments’ rest, and she’ll recover. Exhaling my relief, I straighten and glance around the room. Tawny must already be at the archives or finding snacks for the meeting.
That’s when I notice Raven’s occult objects strewn about the room.
I stalk across the wooden floor, intending to inspect a bundle of burnt herbs, but my bare toes disturb a salt circle and nearly crush a black taper stub.
I sidestep and find a scattering of tiny, dried bones—bird, maybe—on a nightstand beside an ancient-looking tome bound in faded leather.
“Is that Wesley’s summoning book?” Horror tightens my voice.
I whirl to face Raven as she swipes her nose with the back of her hand, accidentally smearing the blood across her lips. She looks like a beautiful, terrifying monster.
“What. Is. That. Shit?” I hiss, pointing at the open salt circle.
Her eyes finally, truly, see me. They’re no longer black, just exhausted and calculating.
“Tawny doesn’t care.” She shrugs, nodding at the empty packets of food beneath the other bed. “Her habits are worse.”
“You know very well what I’m talking about, Raven.”
“Leila put your chain cilices on the shelf over her bed in her room.” Effectively dismissing me, she pulls out a cigarette from a crushed packet beneath her cot.
I stare at her. Grind my teeth. Watch as she puts the blunt between her lips and lights it up with a lighter gathered from a pile on her nightstand. Fire sparks from the flint as she breathes in deep. Finally, on her exhale, she meets my gaze and exhales smoke through her nose.
“You’d better hurry,” she intones. “She’s almost done with her shower.”
“Babe! Ugh. This isn’t over,” I grit out, but the rage is already leaking out, replaced by a desperate, electric need. “I’m worried about you.”
At her averted gaze, I snatch my clothes bundle and sprint toward Leila’s room. She’s still in the shower, thank God.
I yank open her bedroom door and hit the lights.
The single bulb is a harsh, yellow glare on the furniture.
Unlike my room, Hannah and Leila’s is organized like a military museum.
The shelf over Leila’s cot is a grid of precision: neatly stacked field manuals, a gun-cleaning kit, bullets, a tennis ball, and her weird little toy, Snuggles—the enchanted protection bear missing an eye.
That looks like a good hiding spot. I head straight for it, pick it up, and plump the stuffed belly, testing for hidden objects. It doesn’t feel heavier than it should. But then again, my chain cilices aren’t that big.
Pressing my lips together, I move to the thick field manual and pull it off the shelf.
The cover opens, revealing my prize within a carved-out interior.
The chain cilices are made of two rows of interlocking metal loops with small dull tines that press into my skin like barbs.
The satin ribbons almost make them look like pretty garter belts.
The tighter you fasten the ribbon, the more pain the cilices cause.
My fingers close around the cold, familiar chains.
The relief is an instant wave of calmness that unclenches my muscles.
I shove the cilices deep into the waistband of my yoga pants and turn, already planning my escape, when I see something strange on Hannah’s side of the room.
Her bag.
A shadow fills the doorway. My pulse spikes, but it’s only the Reverend Mother.
Ancient and small, the nun’s face is a road map of wrinkles and a life well lived. Her dark habit is a shroud in the yellow light. For someone who needs a cane to walk, she is somehow always just there or not far away.
“Mercy,” she greets.
Blocking my exit, leaning heavily on her cane. Her gaze darts to where I hide the cilices against my abdomen, then up to the messy shelf.
“How is the cataloging coming along, dear?”
I push the guilt down with a swallow.
“It’s going fine, thank you, Reverend Mother.” I pull the lie tighter. “It is a lot of work, but I should be done by morning. Or the next.”
“Do you need help?” she asks.
“No.” My lips flatten. “It’s better if the others don’t know we’re hiding the relics. I can manage this myself.” I look at the rumpled bed. “Wait, is that where Hannah went?”
“Hannah?” She frowns, and her eyes glaze for a long moment. “Oh, no, she’s not here.”
“But her things are?” I give a pointed nod to the bed. “When did she get back from D.C.?”
Again, the Rev looks confused, and a grimy sense of unease unfurls in my gut. Age can do many things to the mind.
The Rev sees the bag, and something clicks. “Oh, that was a few days ago. She left already. I…” She pats her forehead. “Goodness, child. I’m feeling rather famished. Must be my blood sugar.”
“Do you want me to find something from the kitchen?”
“Not to worry. I’m sure Tawny’s doing that right now for the meeting.”
“Where did Hannah go?” I ask. “And why didn’t you tell me?”
“Spain. To collect Jasmine. There were some … conflicts. When Hannah arrived, I thought it best just to send her out at once. Especially considering the relics they must save.” She startles oddly. “The manifest!”
“What?”
“Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to give this to you. Silly me.” She pats down her habit and digs into a deep pocket to retrieve a folded piece of paper. “This arrived from Spain, but it’s alright, Hannah’s on the case. I’m sure between her and Jasmine, everything will be fine.”
I take it and cast my eyes over the typed list. Reference numbers, item descriptions, and headers are all written in Spanish. I’m not as fluent in this language as I am with others, but I know I’m better than the Reverend Mother, who only speaks English.
“Rev, these items are already in the reliquary. The crate from Spain arrived weeks ago. How long have you had this letter?”
“It just arrived.”
There’s no date on the letter. Sending the manifest in a different shipment is a safety measure.
“It probably got lost in the mail.” I fold the paper and tuck it in my waistband beside the cilices, a little miffed the Rev didn’t come to ask me to translate. “I didn’t realize Hannah spoke Spanish.”
She nods, a slow, deliberate movement. “She originated from that chapter.”
My brows raise. “I didn’t know that.”
“I only just learned too. She was always away on deep cover missions; it’s hard to get to know her.”
“That’s true.” I wasn’t the team leader when she arrived in the States either.
“Why did you choose the name Mercy when you became a Sinner?”
The change in topic throws me.
I have to take a moment to think. One of the first things a girl does when being inducted into Sinner training is to choose a new identity. The Rev has only been at the abbey for a few years, whereas I’ve been here for almost two decades. I guess she wouldn’t know.
“Because it makes me powerful.” I lift my chin despite the furrowing of her brow. But it’s not disapproval, just confusion. So I elaborate. “Only those with the power to punish can give mercy.”
I detect a note of pity when she sighs and says, “Be careful what you punish, Mercy, lest you punish the wrong thing.”
She steps aside, and the shame is now a deafening, throbbing thing in the air.
I want to tell her about Raven’s occult bullshit to deflect the attention from me, but that would be obvious.
And I’m not catty. Not in the least. So I walk past her, pressing the cilices hidden at my stomach.
I have what I came for. The ritual is all that matters.
Just the pain. Just the silence.