Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Mercy
Crack!
Hannah’s palm meets the side of my face, and my head whips to the side with jaw-popping force. Ringing in my ears. Fire on my skin. But a sliver of triumph builds within my soul.
No one likes being called a pervert. My mother taught me that.
Whether Hannah watched Cisco and me is irrelevant. The time for playing games is over. I need this bitch gone to improve my chances of escape. For that, I need her riled up or fed up, so I ignore her by keeping my face to the side, hair over my face.
Two seconds later, a weight lands on my head. Sharp pain spikes as Hannah’s fingers clench and my hair rips. She forces me to face her.
Something dark and insidious peers out from behind her eyes and crawls over my skin like phantom bugs. Her hair lifts on a wind that’s not there.
This is the true face of her darkness, and it’s exactly like Cisco’s without the spiked shadow ribbons.
The thugs behind her are a blur right now, but I hear their intake of breath being held. They’re afraid.
Hannah opens her mouth to speak, but I get there first.
“You faked your death,” I say, “tortured your brother for years with guilt, and now you think getting him to fuck me will, what? Make him give up being a priest? That’s the best you got?”
Another slap turns my head. My hair rips as the force pulls me from her fist.
Good.
I spit out blood, then grin at her. “I think you’re just a sick pervert. I think—”
“He stole it from me!” she shrieks in my face. “The mark is mine. My birthright.” She jams her thumb into her waistband and yanks it down enough for me to see a birthmark on her hip. “See? They passed on him when he was born, and then gave it to me!”
I make a show of inspecting her mark. “You should get that looked at. Could be cancerous.”
Her jaw drops for a full ten seconds before she straightens and visibly gathers her composure. “Why do I even bother?”
“I don’t know. Why do you?” I ask, completely serious. “I mean, whatever dregs of demonic power you received from the curse mustn’t be that powerful; otherwise you’d have taken back what Cisco apparently stole years ago.” I tilt my head, studying her. “You can’t steal it back, can you?”
Her jaw works as her teeth grind, but she says nothing. Her silence is better than words because now I know why all the drama.
Whoever “They” are, they want him to fall in love with me. Then when they kidnap me, they can trade me for his share of the curse.
“He has to return it voluntarily, doesn’t he?” I ask, then laugh. “And you think he’ll fall for this little damsel in distress charade?”
“He already has.” Hannah’s shoulders slump, and she suddenly looks exhausted.
“You know what’s weird? I put you in that dress, messed with your mind, manipulated you, and, yes—made you play the damsel.
Somehow, out of everyone, I thought it would be enough for you to understand.
I thought you of all people would get it. ”
“That you’re psycho?”
“That it’s us women who always have to be better than the men, more pretty, more perfect. We’re the ones who pay the price. We get left behind to suffer while they’re the ones who get all the credit.” A tired laugh huffs out of her. “It’s fucked up.”
Her eyes lift skyward, and she blinks rapidly. Is she . . . crying?
“One tantrum,” she murmurs to the ceiling. “That’s all it was—a child’s tantrum—and half the gift goes to him.” She shakes her head. “Just like everything went to him while I was starving and learning fucking ballet lessons.”
A part of me sinks in solidarity. Being looked over because you’re a woman feels very familiar. It sucks. But what hurts more is when another woman can’t see it, and she needs to get the fuck out of here.
“Sounds like you were just being too emotional,” I suggest, then roll my eyes dramatically. “If I were ‘They,’ I would have probably passed you over too.”
The look of disgust on her face says it all. “Emotion is the entire reason this plan will work.”
“It won’t.”
“Guess we’re about to find out how much he loves you.” She checks her watch, and then says to the men, “Do whatever you want with her. Just don’t take longer than thirty minutes and then kill her afterward.”
“Don’t you need me alive to ransom?” I ask.
She snorts. “He only needs to think you’re alive.”
“You’re not even taking the sword?”
“Why would I?” She shrugs. “It’s dull and useless . . . just like you.”
My disbelief must show on my face because she laughs and goes to pick it up. “What, you don’t believe me?”
As her fingers wrap around it, the metal hisses.
Smoke curls as it did with Jasmine. She turns the sword in her wrist with a flourish, but I catch the wince in her eyes.
Her skin sizzles, burning as it reacts to the item’s holiness.
Doesn’t she see that? Doesn’t she realize it’s not doing that with me?
A quick flip and she grabs the blade, then hands the sword to me, hilt first.
“Go on,” she dares, dead eyes locked onto mine. “Take it.”
My gaze dips to my bound wrists, then I arch my eyebrow at her. “Is that a joke?”
She smirks and drops it. Metal clatters on concrete.
“It is a joke, isn’t it?” She laughs and flicks her hair.
“The idea that someone like you is holy enough to use a divine relic is laughable. You’re so conceited it’s delusional.
No wonder your mother hated you.” She leans in close until I smell her coffee breath.
“No wonder your father preferred death over you.”
Pure, unadulterated fury surges through me. I can’t believe I almost felt sorry for her.
She spins and walks away, taking the swarm of flies with her.
I stare after her for too long, letting her words get to me. Not in the way she intended, but because I think she’s kind of right. I am delusional. I should have seen this coming. Scowling, I turn back to the mural, suddenly feeling as exhausted as Hannah looked.
I sigh and mumble in Italian, “I’m so tired of this shit.”
“We don’t need you awake to have fun with you, slut.” The gangly one’s hands move to his belt.
The other one chuckles, but I ignore them.
I keep staring at the mural, at the words ‘Judgment without Mercy,’ at the angel’s hate-filled expression as he stabs the serpent.
All those candles from people praying for his protection, wishing death on their enemies, praying for justice, for validation over their wars and violence.
How many times would Michael have had to swoop in and save the day for them?
It’s fucking exhausting.
No one, not even an archangel, can spend eternity being the thing people pray to. At some point, he gave up. Must have. Otherwise why do we have his sword?
“You think the pressure got to him?” I ask the gangly guy as he peels off his jacket.
“Who?” He glances at his friend, who returns a shrug.
“Saint Michael.” I nod at the mural, then at the sword.
“Do you ever wonder if the pressure to be the perfect warrior was too much for him? Or that he ever got sick of trying to fix everyone’s mistakes when they don’t even try to fix it themselves?
” The more I talk, the more it feels right.
“I’ll bet that’s it. He just got fed up with the bullshit, so he just .
. . gave his sword away. He thought, I’m fucking done. Fix your shit yourselves, losers.”
The men say something, but I’m not really listening. Goosebumps are breaking out over my body, erupting on every inch of skin because I’ve just realized why that line is familiar—judgment without mercy.
It’s from Mary Magdalene’s Gospel.