Mercy's Destiny: Montgomery's Vampires Trilogy (Book #3) (Montgomery's Vampires Series)

by Sloan Archer

  “So, when are you going to tell her that she’s out?” Man, how I’d love to be there to see that. Bitch stole my man, after all.

  “That’s the problem we’re having, Mercy,” Joseph said. “Nobody knows where she is.”

  I sat up straight. “What do you mean? Like, right now you don’t know where she is? At this moment?”

  “No,” Joseph said slowly. “We haven’t seen Serena in about a week. She vanished, leaving us . . . What? What is it?”

  I had to stop myself from shouting. “Joseph,” I said in a vaguely calm manner. “I think I have some information you need to know.”

  Joseph rushed out after I finished outlining all that had happened. He was markedly pissed, not at me for telling him everything—for that, he was grateful—but because he suspected that Serena was up to no good. He promised that he’d help me find Robert. I wondered if Joseph would have been so keen to do that had our kiss not been so dispassionate.

  Unable to sleep, I paced through the house, feeling guilty. (I would have felt a hell of a lot worse had I slept with Joseph, so at least I had that going for me.) Could Liz’s cockamamie theory about Robert’s kidnapping be right? If so, she owed me the I told you so of the century. Had Serena murdered Mathew for Robert’s fangs and then used them for kidnapping? It just seemed so farfetched. And what would motivate Serena to do that?

  If Serena was guilty of all sorts of bad things, and Robert was being held against his will, where had that million dollars in my bank account come from? (Joseph assured me that it most definitely had not come from the VGO.) I doubted Leopold would have done it, and Liz didn’t have that kind of money.

  So . . . where?

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out the answer.

  The next morning, I woke up sicker than ever. It surprised me, because I hadn’t really had that much to drink at the wedding. I’d been too worried about letting my guard down around lusty Joseph and then doing something I’d end up regretting in the morning. Including the small glass of wine I’d sipped during the trainwreck make-out session with Joseph, I’d only had three glasses of wine total, which I’d spread throughout the entire evening. All the stress must have finally started to take a toll on my body. After a few crackers and some 7Up, I was right as rain.

  I made good on my decision to support Swindled 5. I went online to their website, listened to a few clips of their songs, and then ordered a CD. They sounded exactly as I’d predicted, with an edgy ‘garage band on the verge of making it big’ sort of style. I ordered a scoop neck t-shirt while I was at it because I liked its design: shattered prisms with tiny ribbons of light shining through. If nothing else, I’d wear it jogging. It was nice having enough money that ordering items as simple as a t-shirt and CD wouldn’t destroy my budget for the whole month.

  I tried doing small chores that would keep my mind off Robert’s assumed kidnapping. Now that I’d involved Joseph, who had far more resources and connections than I did, the situation was pretty much out of my hands. And if I kept stressing, I’d have all my organs vomited out by noon.

  Since jogging was already on my mind, I contemplated going for a run. But after I pulled everything from the closet, the idea of jogging made me want to, well, vomit again. Instead I went to get coffee. It was just like jogging, I reasoned, since it elevated the heart rate. (Oh if only that were true.)

  I bit the bullet and went to Lakeside Plaza. I’d have to face going there eventually, as it was on the main road leading out of the neighborhood. Driving miles out of the way for the sake of avoiding the Scene of Decapitation was not a practical long-term option.

  I was horrified to see that they’d reopened Lakeside’s fountain for public use. A mom and her two young children were perched on its ledge, eating ice cream cones in the hazy sunshine. The weather in San Francisco never rivaled that of Los Angeles or San Diego, but Bay Area residents liked to pretend that it did. If the sky hinted at brightness, residents bustled out like it was July in the Hamptons, even if the temperature was barely in the mid-fifties.

  Next to the mom sat a congregation of boisterous teenaged girls. They were sipping on the adolescent version of ice cream, frozen whipped coffee drinks, and snapping duck-faced selfies on their cellphones, which they then insisted on taking ten more times because they didn’t like the way their foreheads shined or their noses looked big. I envied their one-dimensional troubles. The chattiest girl in the group, a pretty blond thing, had her shopping bags resting on the ground between her feet. It was the exact spot where Mathew had been lying rigid in a pool of his own blood. I did not feel obliged to tell her this.

  It was business as usual at the fountain: caution tape removed, stains scrubbed from the concrete, new chlorinated water replaced the old bloody pink stuff—sterile, sterile, sterile. It made me wonder if something similar had ever happened to me or, for that matter, the rest of the world. Just how much was society as a whole oblivious to the crime and violence that had once occurred around them? How many times a day did people sit down and eat their sandwiches on the same park bench some poor sod was stabbed for the last measly twenty dollars he had in his wallet? How many times in my life had I crossed a street where a pedestrian had been struck dead by a hit-and-run, or boarded a train where an old woman had gone into cardiac arrest after being mugged?

  Man, I was in a grim mood.

  I felt better after I had a few sips of iced coffee, which I was loath to admit to myself. I didn’t like knowing that I had to rely upon stimulants to get through the day, but evidently that was the case. And I could live with that. Being addicted to caffeine wasn’t like being addicted to heroin, though I supposed there were more than a few people out there who would argue otherwise.

  A strange car was parked in the driveway when I got home. It was strange in the sense that I’d never seen it before, and because it was sitting in my parking space. My pulse went into overdrive at the sight of it, my thoughts immediately going to the VGO’s search for Robert and Serena. Then it dawned on me that it was daylight, so no vamps would be out during that time.

  Still, I approached with caution, because you never know. With Mathew’s death, and all the other sinister events that had been happening, I needed to keep up my defenses.

  The car was of the luxury variety, which I only knew because Marlena drove a similar model. An old woman sat behind the wheel and an even older man was in the passenger seat. I could tell that they were hoity-toity by looking at them, and not just because they were sitting in a car that cost nearly two hundred grand. Their faces had that pinched old money look, like they’d drop dead of disgust if they were forced to interact with a stinking lower-class commoner.

  They got out of the car as I neared, and I was able to see exactly how old the man in the passenger seat was. His skin was lined like a crumpled paper bag and his hair was whiter than virgin snow. His movements were slow and focused, one misstep away from hip-replacement surgery, although he did not use a cane or a walker. He was pushing a hundred, no doubt about it.

  The woman, hair also virgin-white, was slightly younger. I placed her at maybe seventy, though wealthy women tended to age better than less fortunate spinsters who couldn’t afford bi-weekly facelifts. Her boney frame sparkled with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, most art deco in style. Wrists, fingers, neck, and earlobes twinkling, she was like a walking Christmas tree. I hope she doesn’t go walking around downtown like that, I thought. Talk about a mugging waiting to happen.

  The couple was impeccably dressed. The woman was in an open tan felt coat with fur trim and a thick black wool dress underneath; the man wore a crisp tailored three-piece navy suit, polished opal cufflinks subtly flashing out from his sleeves. I imagined these two were the type to have gratuitous accessories of the old and wealthy: alligator house slippers, silk robes, monogrammed hand towels, leather driving gloves.

  I relaxed some. Unless they pulled a gun on me, they were physically harmless. I could run at my slowest side-cramped, knees-a-hu
rtin’ pace and still get away by miles. Had the sun been down, I wouldn’t have been so trusting. It didn’t matter how old a vampire looked; they were lethal, white hair and all.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. I was ashamed of the way I’d spoken, like I was addressing a child. Before Grams passed away, she’d mentioned how a lot of young people tended to patronize the elderly, treating them as if they were feebleminded instead of older and wiser. And now here I was doing it to these people. Not good.

  The couple exchanged a look, as if deciding who would speak up first. Finally, the woman gave a nod.

  She reached a leather-gloved hand out to touch my arm and then withdrew at the last second. “You are Mercy Montgomery?” Even her speech was fragile, as if the very act of speaking was strenuous for her.

  The iced coffee was cold in my grip, freezing my fingers stiff. I switched hands and the ice shifted in the cup. “What’s this about?” I made a point not to sound rude, but there was no way to make such an inquiry without sounding a little brusque.

  The couple exchanged another look. The man gave the woman a smirk: I told you this wasn’t going to be easy.

  “You are Mercy Montgomery,” the man said with irritation—a confirmation, not a question. He might as well just come out with: “Look, chick, my years left on this planet are limited, so I don’t have time for this horseshit. Got it? So just verify who you are so we can get on with things.”

  Had it been anyone else, I would have been insolent with my response. But I’d been raised by Grams to respect the elderly, and they seemed harmless enough.

  “I am,” I said slowly. “What can I help you with?”

  The woman smiled shyly. “We were wondering if we could come inside and talk to you.”

  “Inside?” I turned around and eyed the house. Why, I don’t know—it wasn’t like I didn’t know it was there. “Talk to me about what?”

  The man stepped forward. “We—my wife and I—have decided that it was time we finally meet.”

  The woman nodded and agreed.

  “Okay,” I said. “But who are you?”

  “You really don’t recognize us?” the woman asked. She turned her face, as if maybe I hadn’t gotten a close enough look at her.

  I apologized, “No, I’m sorry. I don’t recognize either of you. Should I?”

  “We were hoping that you would,” the man said, “since we’re your great-grandparents.”

  “My great . . . Oh my God,” I muttered.

  The woman reached out. This time, she did make physical contact, her hand curling over my forearm in a bony claw. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, dear,” she beamed. “I do hope you’ve been able to enjoy the money we put into your bank account.”

  9

  “I was under the impression you’d passed away,” I said as we settled in the living room.

  My alleged great-grandparents were sitting ramrod straight on the sofa, their cups of tea steaming on the coffee table before them. They hadn’t touched the cookies I’d set out, and I doubted they would. They probably thought crumbs were uncivilized.

  I moved the armchair, so that I wouldn’t have to holler at them from the other side of the room, and took a seat. I felt like a traitor being hospitable towards my two uninvited guests, considering the things they’d done to Grams. Or, rather, all the things they hadn’t done for Grams after she’d fallen pregnant with my mother back in 1970. They’d essentially given her an ultimatum: ditch the kid or be disowned. As a result, she was forced to move away from her home in New York as a teenager and start her life over in Florida.

  The woman’s (I couldn’t consider her family just yet) smile was brittle. “We thought you might be.”

  Feeling defensive on behalf of Grams, I said, “Do you know that your daughter has passed away?”

  They nodded solemnly. “We know,” the man said.

  I powered on. It was difficult to keep my voice steady because of the rage simmering inside me. If Grams’s parents had hoped to show up and buy my forgiveness with their million stinking dollars, they had another thing coming. They could keep their damn money if that was the case. I hadn’t minded bruising my pride back when I’d believed the funds had come from Robert. But knowing now that it had come from these two—that it was their penance for turning their back on Grams in the most heinous way . . .

  Well, I’d rather go bankrupt.

  “Where were you all these years?” I demanded. “Do have any idea how hard life was for your daughter? For your granddaughter? For me? You left Grams high and dry—tossed your own daughter out of the house when she was with child! And why? Because you couldn’t stand to lose face with your friends?”

  “That’s part of the reason why we’ve come here,” the man said. “We’d like to explain.”

  “I don’t think there is a way for you to explain how you could do something like that,” I said, clamping my hands down on the arms of my chair.

  They didn’t flinch at my harshness. They didn’t even blink. It seemed they’d come expecting this reaction.

  Whether or not they expected, I wasn’t done. They would hear me out. “You two clearly have lots and lots of money. Do you know how tough it was for us financially? How much we scraped and scrounged to get by? Did you know that my mother—your granddaughter—died when I was just a kid and it was your daughter who stepped up and raised me?” I paused to catch my breath. “Grams was the most decent and honorable women to have ever lived . . . So how you assumed you could come here and try to justify throwing her out into the cold, pregnant and alone . . . It’s . . . It’s just astounding.”

  The man took a sip of his tea. I was so furious that I wanted to snatch it from his pruned hand—stop drinking my chamomile, asshole! They shot me a patient look. Are you done? Right then I could see a bit of Grams in both of them, as she’d given me that look whenever I’d acted out as teenager.

  “You are well within your right to be angry, Mercy,” said the woman. “We certainly could have handled the situation with Francine better. But perhaps you will consider forgiving us once you hear the entire story.”

  I was confused. “Who is Francine?”

  The woman frowned. “Uh, your grandmother—our daughter.”

  “Oh.” I’d only ever known Grams as Tilly. She’d changed her name after moving away from these two jerks as a gesture of starting over. Come to think of it . . . “And what are your names?”

  “Francine didn’t tell you?” the man asked.

  “I never bothered asking,” I sniped.

  “Fair enough,” said the woman. Her tiny bejeweled hand fluttered up to her breast. “I am Maxine.”

  The man smiled. Sort of. “And I am Richard.”

  “And what are your last names?” I inquired. “I’m assuming not Montgomery?”

  Maxine said, “Your assumption is correct. My maiden name was Bowden. I became Nolan after Richard and I married.”

  “Richard and Maxine Nolan,” I muttered. I should have been Mercy Nolan. What a trip.

  “Richard and I would be so grateful if you’d hear us out, Mercy,” said Maxine. “Can we make an agreement? Let us stay long enough to explain. And if you still want us to go after we are finished, we promise that we will leave without a fuss. And of course the money is yours to keep either way.”

  “It was never about the money,” I said. And it wasn’t. It was doing right by Grams’s memory. But I imagined Grams would have wanted me to hear them out, since I knew absolutely nothing about my roots. I hadn’t cared so much about it when I was a teenager, but now that I was a little older I felt that knowing something about my ancestry was important. And they had come all that way, if they were still New Yorkers.

  I sat back. “Okay,” I complied. “I can agree to that.” But it had better be good.

  “Oh splendid,” Richard and Maxine beamed in harmony, lower jaws jutted out slightly. I didn’t think people actually said it like that—oh splendid—but apparently they did. Mr. and Mrs. Nol
an reminded me a lot of Leopold; he was a bit of a snob, too.

  Maxine nodded at her husband. “I wasn’t born wealthy, Mercy,” Richard began. “My family was quite poor, actually. My father was a humble shop owner in New York City, and I was one of five children. I was born in 1919. To save you from doing the math, I turned ninety-four this year.” He looked every one of those ninety-four years.

  I never knew what people expected me to say when they told me their age. Congratulations on making it this far! Go you, for breathing all those years! Or, as was the case with Richard: You don’t look a day over ninety-four!

  “Wow,” I said lamely. “Almost a hundred.”

  Richard seemed satisfied enough with my response. “In 1932, when I was barely a teenager, Prohibition was still in effect. It would be a full year before it was repealed in New York. But, illegal or not, people liked their drink, they sure did. There were several speakeasies operating out of the city. Of course, the act of rum-running was highly punishable by law, which was why it was highly lucrative.”

  What in the hell did this have to do with price of tea in China? I reminded myself that I’d promised to hear them out.

  “As I said, my family was poor,” Richard continued. “My father had fallen ill, so his business was suffering. My parents were having a difficult time feeding all the mouths they’d created. As the eldest child, it was my job to step in to help the family stay afloat. A friend from the neighborhood was running rum for a small crime syndicate—there were a lot in those days. My friend helped me get a job delivering barrels at night to very exclusive speakeasies.

  “Not surprisingly, my father was not pleased with my illicit activities. But I was bringing in money that we desperately needed, so he turned a blind eye.”

  Well, well, my great-grandfather was a criminal. This I had not expected.

  “I’d been a delivery boy for about two months when I was attacked,” Richard said. “Running rum was dangerous not only because it was illegal, but because rival gangs would often attack one another during deliveries. When I was ambushed, I initially assumed that a rival had targeted me. I was with just one other boy that night—he was my friend from the neighborhood. It was timely that I was working with somebody I had camaraderie with, or else I would have been murdered.”