But lurking under all that, there was a special bit of anger, a small, burning coal she didn’t really understand. That lingering bit of Susan Greyson, the last tiny measure of humanity Mercy the vampire hadn’t yet devoured. The tiny voice in the dark that said, ‘I am not his. I am me.’
I had that little morsel to chew over as we charged en masse toward Hawthorne.
When we reached the corner of the Tool Brigade’s street, I pulled over. Erin tucked the BMW in behind the Monaro and Mercy, ahead of us both, swung the bike around and came up alongside my window.
Marcel, who’d been quiet the entire way, jittered as I unfastened the seatbelt. He jumped up and clung to my neck.
“Yeah, buddy, I know. I wouldn’t want to go back to that place, either.” I patted his back gently. “But Feeble’s going to be happy to see you and you won’t be there for long.”
If a squirrel monkey was capable of rolling it’s eyes, Marcel did and chittered chidingly at me. Mercy, who waited impatiently, tapping fingers against the roof of the car, the scratch of her nails on the polished paint straining the weak tether we both had on our shared sanity, did roll her eyes. With an exacerbated grunt, she just reached in and grabbed the monkey by the scruff of his neck. He went with a little surprised chirp.
Before he could do more than go prey-still in her hold, Mercy rolled a wave of compulsion over the monkey. He immediately went happily limp, all but purring as Mercy tucked him into the front of her jacket. Her disgust at having the stinky creature so close washed into me and I was, abruptly, happy to have him gone. At least he wasn’t stinking up my car anymore.
Trying to shake off Mercy’s influence, I said, “Remember, we have to find out what she knows about Sean Carey and the rogue. Be nice about it.”
Mercy snapped at me, revved the bike and took off with a little wobble of too much power. Smoothing out, she took the corner recklessly, and hooned toward the small, old house.
I settled back and let myself go, filling in all the empty spaces within Mercy.
The house was ablaze with light, every window glowing bright yellow. Shadows moved inside, arms flailing and fingers pointing. As Mercy slowed and came to a stop, the sound of arguing replaced the roar of the bike engine. With a little nudge from me, Mercy put the kickstand down instead of just dropping the bike to the ground. In her jacket, Marcel twitched, his little head popping up to peer around, chirping as he recognised his previous home.
Mercy snarled at the little pest and he ducked back out of sight. As she walked to the front door, she shifted gears, moving from snarky irritation to smooth predator. The threat in her body morphed into fluid sensuality, turning her stalk into a prowl. Her senses reached out, finding all the heartbeats in the house. Most of them were gathered in the front room, fast and tripping with anger, all that blood heated by the argument and singing out to Mercy so her hunger spiked. But she knew her mission and quested further, finding another heartbeat, on its own, at the back of the house.
Snippets of the argument made it out to Mercy’s heightened hearing.
“—can’t stay here!” That sounded like Razor.
“Where the fuck else we gonna go?” One of the boys.
“I’m not going home!”
“No one expects you to go home.” Razor again. “But we have—”
“We don’t have to do anything.” That rumbling growl was Chop, no doubt.
“But Scary—”
“Fuck Scary!” Chop, presumably, slammed a fist or something into a wall. “I’m fuckin’ sick and tired of hearing you dumb shits go on and on about him. He’s gone. Get it through your fuckin’ thick heads.”
There was a moment of silence, then bravely into the breach went Razor.
“He paid the rent. We can’t do that without him.”
Chop’s reply was all but inarticulate with anger. Mercy ignored it in favour of circling the house and finding the room with the sole occupant. Reaching out she tasted strawberries and caramel in sickly sweet chaos, mixed through with a touch of lime and barely any hint of popping champagne. Feeble’s aura was denser than it had been the other night, a stagnating puddle oozing over her skin. She paced restlessly in the room she shared with Chop, rubbing her arms and legs, wobbling as she made her turns. As Mercy watched, Feeble went to the door and tried the knob. It didn’t budge. She was locked in, separated. Isolated.
The surge of anger at Chop was shared between me and Mercy. It had her at the window in a heartbeat, wrenching it open, broken catch pinging off into the room.
Feeble spun, surprise stealing her balance and down she went in a tangle of skinny arms and legs.
The moment there was enough space, Marcel was out of Mercy’s jacket and into the room. He scampered over the bed and dive-bombed Feeble, chittering excitedly.
“Marcel?” Feeble squeaked. She twisted on the floor, trying to catch the bouncing monkey. “How did you get here?”
“I brought him,” Mercy purred, slinking into the room.
Blood drained from the girl’s face, leaving it a Rorschach test of white skin and red blotches. Her dark rimmed eyes went incredibly wide, lips parting as she sucked in a startled breath. Whether she was preparing to scream or not, Mercy hit her with a compulsion, bulldozing through resistance like it was tissue paper. Seemingly forgetting the monkey, Feeble stood on shaky legs and gazed in devoted wonder at my vampire.
A delicious wave went through us. The warm regard of our prey, exactly where we wanted it—weak, pliant, ours.
It was the blood that caught us. The thick, rich aroma of it, drenching the air around Feeble, seeping from her pours, a pheromone drawing us in like metal shavings to a magnet.
Mercy was suddenly there, pressed up against Feeble’s trembling, fragile body. She lifted soft locks of vibrant red hair and burrowed her nose and mouth into the most concentrated pool of scent, right over the girl’s fluttering jugular.
Feeble moaned and pushed into the contact. It was more than the compulsion, more than Mercy’s psychic powers driving her to melt against this stranger. The weight of Feeble’s loneliness, of her desperate need for a soft touch, a kind word, a hint of warmth, dragged her into Mercy’s embrace as forcefully as the compulsion. Here was someone who’d never hurt her, who’d never made her do something she didn’t want, had never abandoned her. But more so, someone who’d helped her without wanting something in return.
“So much blood,” Mercy whispered, dizzy with the intoxicating perfume.
Head tipping back in unconscious invitation, Feeble said, “It’s called Polycythemia—”
“Ruba Vera,” Mercy and I finished together. “Over production of red blood cells. Thickens the blood, causing headaches, dizziness, discolouration of the skin.”
Feeble nodded weakly.
PRV was incredibly rare in someone of Feeble’s age but the evidence of it was in our arms, this skinny girl absolutely bursting with too much blood. So many red cells battling their way through her viscous blood, far too many for it to flow as it should, with the potential to cause damaging clots in the vessels around her heart or brain.
It was too much for Mercy. Too much for me. The sheer volume of all that blood was impossible to ignore.
We bit down.
Fangs sliced through soft skin and trembling vein wall. Blood spurted across our tongue, thick and hot and so rich. It coated our mouth and poured down our throat into our empty, starving belly. Coppery but spiced with Feeble’s flavours. Oozing caramel and sweet strawberry, tart lime and a faint hint of champagne. In our arms, Feeble wiggled and moaned, under the misguided idea this was pleasurable, stopped from feeling the terror of having her blood drained out of her body by Mercy’s compulsion. It felt and sounded too much like a different type of activity but that was something we would be embarrassed about later. Right now, this was too good to ever stop.
The initial pressure from Feeble’s body had faded and we closed our lips over the small wounds and sucked. The girl jerked, gasping, her
hands clutching at our back, fingers digging in and dragging down.
Our belly was filling up and the warmth was spreading through our body. Lovely blood, working its way into our parched vessels. Lovely blood. Alive blood. Blood soaked in all the wonderful flavours of Feeble’s aura, feeding our physical and spiritual needs in one delicious meal. With the infusion came a rolling wave of vitality not felt for a very long time.
“What the fuck?”
Tossing Feeble out of harm’s way, we faced the new threat. In the doorway, Chop gaped in shock, but it quickly switched to rage. Teeth bared, hands curling into fists, he took a step into the room, seeing only the small intruder who, it seemed to him, had been about to fuck his girl. He growled.
This was our enemy. Not just a threat to our food, but the thing that had done so many bad things it made us furious. We’d fought this one before, but this time there was no one here to stop us. We growled back.
A terrorising streak of brown and black launched across the room, screeching bloody murder.
Marcel landed on Chop’s face, a maddened bundle of furry fury, swiping at Chop’s nose and ears. The tiny monkey, his size diminished even more in comparison to Chop’s flailing hands, darted around his head and shoulders, teeth barred, hissing and snapping. Swearing, Chop spun in wonky circles, chasing the fast little fella around his head. One blind grasp caught Marcel’s tail. Yelling in triumph, Chop hauled back on the long tail. Marcel yowled in pain, but he went with the pull, coming off Chop’s face only to swing around and climb up his own tail to sink sharp little teeth into the bastard’s arm.
“Fuck!” Chop snapped his arm out and Marcel went flying.
Feeble, on the bed where we had dropped her, screamed in horror. She scrambled to follow the tumbling little body.
In that instant of distraction, we launched. Came down on Chop’s chest, knocking him to the floor. Sated on Feeble’s viscous blood, we didn’t need to feed, but we bit him all the same. Drove our fangs into the flesh of his shoulder, wanting to hurt, to hear the shout of pain and shock. He punched and kicked, got a handful of hair and jerked our head back so viciously a hunk of muscle tore away from his shoulder. Pain stung our neck, a reminder of the terrible injury of the night before. We were healed, yes, but the memory of it was fresh, of how we couldn’t move, couldn’t feel.
Rolling through his paltry attack, we cleared Chop and sprang away.
Perched on the tallboy, we snarled at the room in general, warning everyone to keep back. Chop growled back, hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder as he struggled to his feet. There were scratches on his face from Marcel’s nails, but they barely broke the surface layers of skin. In the corner, cradling a tiny, still body, Feeble was immobile with shock. The compulsion was off her now and she could clearly see just what we were.
In the hallway, the rest of the Brigade huddled, wide-eyed and reluctant to get mixed up in this mess.
With a wave of our hand, we shut the door with a burst of telekinesis, keeping any more predator/prey from coming in.
“What the hell?” Chop shouted, grim, deadly anger moving from us to Feeble and back again. “Who the fuck are you?”
Those words vibrated through us and with a shiver, Mercy pushed me away.
The link was still open, still flowing back and forth but our thoughts were separated again. I could feel my body in the car, slouched on the leather seat, head lolling at an angle that would start to hurt soon. I jerked upright, but kept most of my senses with Mercy.
In the house down the street, Mercy grinned, fangs on very prominent display. Chop stumbled back until he was against the door. She slowly crawled off the tallboy, slinking toward Chop, her silver-bright eyes making him shake.
“I know your type,” she purred. “Someone who has to control others to make yourself powerful. Someone so rotten in their own soul they have to hurt others just to feel something inside yourself. I know you,” Mercy said again, prowling, the apex predator in her element. “Do you want to know why I know you so well? It’s because I’m that thing you fear. I’m someone who’s not scared of you.”
Chop bristled, but he was scared. The taste of it flooded his aura, a sour tang to his malt and curry and burnt cheese flavour.
“I’m going to walk out of here,” Mercy continued, all the while getting closer and closer to him. “You’re going to get out of my way and not say a thing while you do it.”
And Chop did it. He slid along the wall, away from the door. His mouth twisted as if there were a lot of things piling up behind his closed lips, but he didn’t let out even a hint of sound.
Mercy opened the door with another wave of telekinesis. “Feeble’s coming with me.” Turning, she held a hand out to the cowering girl. “If she wants to.”
Feeble was scared. Petrified. She was curled in the corner, the limp body of her only friend cuddled to her heaving chest. Makeup was streaked down her cheeks, blood still trickling from the puncture wounds on her neck. Her panicked gaze danced from Chop to Mercy, to the unmoving monkey in her arms. The fear sweeping off her was stronger than Chop’s.
Chop knew he was strong, knew he had power, in his body and over this mob of stupid shitheads. Especially over this one, so small and weak, easy to use, easy to keep in line. A slap or a needle, a harsh word about her worthlessness and she would fold. This, what was happening right now, was a shock, but he could fight back. He knew he could.
All Feeble knew was how to be used.
She wasn’t strong. She was sick and needed someone to take care of her. Chop took care of her. He was horrible but he gave her what she needed. Now Scary was gone, Chop was the only one who could look after her. And the girl, the sweet faced, pretty girl with the lovely voice, was just another monster.
Better the devil you know, her mum used to say whenever Feeble would dab away the blood on her mother’s face, after her stepfather was done with her.
Feeble curled into a tighter ball, burying her face in Marcel’s warm body.
Chapter 48
Mercy moved to roll another compulsion over Feeble, to get her to move, to come with her. Not wanting to spark another rebellion, I sent a gentle suggestion to Mercy to wait. She did.
The longer Feeble didn’t move, the more Chop’s mouth curled upward into a cruel smile. He turned to Mercy, secure in his fucking little kingdom of domination and power games, ready to fight again.
“You killed him.”
It came out of the corner, quiet but cutting.
Chop scowled. “So what?”
Feeble scrambled to her feet, still wobbly and so pale I feared she might faint. Braced with one hand against the wall, she tucked poor little Marcel into her chest and took a step.
“He was only protecting me, and you killed him.”
“The fucking thing bit me!”
“You hurt him.”
Top lip curling back, Chop ground out, “It’s just a fucking animal. A dumb monkey. It probably gave me rabies!”
“Good!” Feeble shouted, taking another step toward him. “I hope you die in agony, you fucker!”
Chop raised his hand. “One more word, bitch,” he threatened.
“Try it,” she replied, deadly serious.
And then she walked right past him and out of the room.
The crowd of Tools parted like the Red Sea. Head high, Feeble left Chop behind.
In the room, Chop gaped after her, every molecule of air sucked from his sails and every thread of rug pulled from under him.
Mercy cackled, gave him the finger and followed Feeble out.
Feeble got to the footpath before she crashed. She crumpled into a pitiful pile of shivering limbs and sobs. In a flash, Mercy was there, scooping her up and carrying her away before anyone from the house could catch them.
I got out of my car and ran back to Erin’s. She and Dev immediately hammered me with questions about what was going on, but I merely opened the back door in time for Mercy to lay a quivering teenager on the back seat.
<
br /> Erin moved without prompting. She fetched the first aid kit from the boot and while Feeble shivered from shock, I tidied up the wounds in her neck and wrapped her in a blanket. Climbing into the backseat, Erin wrapped her arms around Feeble and rocked. Gently, I pried the dead monkey from her hold.
It was close but I managed to keep my shit together as I wrapped Marcel in a towel. Such a brave little spark, extinguished.
Dev joined me at the boot as I tucked the little body away.
“We should move,” he said softly. “In case they come looking for her.”
I agreed with a nod. “You drive Erin’s car. Follow us.”
We ended up in a small park a couple of suburbs over. Mercy prowled the darkness around our small group, keeping an eye out for intruders. She was still brimming with a need to fight, a desire to crush Chop into a pulp for what he’d done. I was torn between hoping Chop found us, and that he never crossed our paths ever again.
Feeble sat at a picnic table in the circle of Erin’s arms, no longer crying, but not saying anything, either. Erin kept stroking her hair, murmuring soothing words. Dev and I did what useless men do in these sorts of situations, we hung back and looked awkward. In terse, quiet words I told Dev what had happened and he looked like he might take out a share in Mercy’s Smash Plan.
“Your sister?” I asked.
He flashed me a dark scowl, but managed to smooth the anger from his face before it ignited my own festering need to punch.
“Yeah,” he drawled. “Friedrich tortured her into obeying him. If it was anything like what Elise would do to me, he’d hurt her, then make her feel better. Over and over until it was hard to tell what was pain and what was kindness. I nearly broke. Lana did. She managed to get free of him, though. And he killed her for it.” Dev swallowed hard, troubled gaze on Erin and Feeble. “I’m glad she got out before Chop could do anything worse to her.”
“I’m sorry about your sister.” I squeezed his shoulder and Dev nodded in thanks.
Rock Paper Sorcery Page 35
