“Thanks for the gushy pussy,” Angel says, leaning over to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Keep it wet for me, and we’ll do it again sometime.”
With that, he ambles out ahead of me. I follow, not looking back when I pull the door closed behind us, leaving Mercy alone in her misery.
three
The Merciful
For the next week, I barely leave my bed, and not just because I’m so sore that I have to hobble to the bathroom when I do. Besides a visit on Christmas day from Father Salvatore, I’m so quiet that I doubt anyone even knows there’s a student on campus. Every day, I make a nest of my quilts, binge Hallmark movies, and subsist entirely on cookies, the fresh loaf of yeasted bread that Father Salvatore baked for me, and hot cocoa.
I wish I’d thought to buy the kind with the tiny marshmallows like Heath has. Every time I think about it, though, I remember what we did in his room, and then I think about Saint walking in, the awful things he said to me. That always brings me to the moment I found out Angel did it all for a camera, that he knew they were watching, laughing at what a desperate idiot I was to believe someone wanted me. He talked me into it like he did, but it was all a lie.
The tears come every time I relive that moment of betrayal, so I try not to think about it.
Angel was sweet, the good one. He was supposed to be my friend too.
Instead, I’m alone, with my defiled, torn teddy bear and a cat who hates me. Because my friends have abandoned me for Heath, who apparently needed them, probably to plot their next torment or find some other form of debauchery that has nothing to do with me at all.
Finally, on the sixth day of my seclusion, even I’m sick of myself. It’s time to leave my room and go further than thebathroom. Outside my dorm, the day is cold and dreary, with a low ceiling of grey clouds weighing down the atmosphere with oppressive pressure. The campus is deserted, and I feel exposed as I make my way toward the trash bin behind the dining hall to empty Dr. Jekyll’s litter box. Since we’re not allowed to have pets, I dumped it into a bag to be less suspicious in case anyone saw me, but there’s not a soul in sight.
Last time I came here, I returned to my room to find a tongue nailed to my door—most likely the tongue of one of the Sinners. At the time, I thought it was a warning for me, probably from one of them. But I’ve reconsidered. Not only would they not hurt one of their own, but what reason would they have to leave me messages at all?
Was it really my brother, who said all those horrible things to me? Could he have been so brutal as to hold someone down and slice out his tongue, then carry it to my door and nail it there—not as a warning to me, but to everyone else? He said as much when the Hellhounds fought the Sinners in the courtyard. He said if anyone touched me, he’d cut off their fingers and nail them to their door as a warning. Was this a warning to anyone who might talk to me? Is that why I have no real friends, or did he do it to protect me?
I toss the bag of kitty litter and head back across campus. The strong, damp wind rakes at me like ghostly fingers, and I have to pull my cardigan tight around me. When a shiver climbs my spine, as if I’m being followed again, I glance around. I don’t see anyone, but my gaze snags on the gothic tower at the corner of campus, more visible now that the leaves have fallen from the trees. Through their skeletal branches, I can see the outline of the steep gables and crooked chimney. The stones are worn and stained, with ivy creeping up the side, which gives it an even more foreboding, abandoned air. No wonder Annabel Lee wanted to get inside.
I shouldn’t.
My feet are already moving, though, veering from the path that leads back to my dorm. I’m tired of wallowing, bed-rotting and waiting for the rest of the world to return, as if my life is on pause when no one is around. I don’t exist for other people’s entertainment, though the guys have tried their best to treat me as if I do by recording my greatest shames so they can relive them over and over—and use them against me, of course.
I wonder what they’ll blackmail me for this time. A video of me giving myself to Angel is probably worth far more than a confession of things I wanted to do but hadn’t yet. Now, the lengths I went to in order to hide that confession seem silly. Now that I’m no longer innocent, my obsession with it seems unfounded.
But I don’t want to think about that now. I’ve been pushing it down, refusing to look at or even acknowledge what happened in the chapel before Angel took me back to his room. I’ve eclipsed the memory with the one of Angel, the one I had at least the illusion of control over. If I think about that, relive the hurt and betrayal, I can almost believe the other thing never happened, that it was all a dream.
I keep looking around me as I approach the Sinner’s lair, waiting for someone to stop me, some groundskeeper to yell at me and tell me I shouldn’t be there; a nun to order me back to my room or a priest to tell me that sneaking into someone else’s home is a sin.
But I’m alone. I stop at the end of the path that leads from one of the main walkways through campus to the front steps. Two stone gargoyles sit on pillars on either side of the narrow path, mouths open and tongues distended grotesquely. I shiver and step between them, onto the point of no return. If anyone walks by now, I can’t say I was just out for a stroll. The only thing past the statues standing sentry is a creepy old house in disrepair—stones crumbling, darkened windows beckoning. I can see why it was going to be condemned.
I climb the cracked, uneven stone steps, then stop on the elaborately roofed porch. A window flanks the door on either side, and another is set into the door itself, this one clearly far newer than the building. It’s topped with an ornate, wrought iron series of curly cues and fleur-de-lis surrounding a large hourglass shape made of blown glass formed from the window itself and framed with more intricate, gothic iron swirls. It’s so impressive I’m captivated for a moment, wondering how they managed to meld everything together so seamlessly and beautifully, how they got it here. Then I’m reminded of the hourglass tattoos I’ve seen on at least two of the Sinners, and I shiver and check my surroundings again.
I’m not scared of the Sinners, exactly. I know how to defend myself if I choose to. But seven-to-one odds are not good even for me. Still, I can’t deny the thrill of the challenge, the risk. Last time, Angel came to my aid. If he hadn’t, could I have taken them all down? And if I couldn’t, what would have happened to me?
My heartbeat picks up speed, and I examine the handle of the door, another curving metal whorl, this one worn smooth and shiny with use. I pull my sleeve over my hand, grip it, and push. Of course it’s locked. What did I expect?
Lock picking always fell to Heath when we were kids, though he tried to teach Eternity and me. If I had a lock-picking kit, and it was a modern lock, and I knew that I had all the time I wanted and no one would see me, I’d take a crack at it. But none of those things are the case here, so I turn away, disappointed. I venture to the side window, cup my hands around my eyes, and press them to the glass. Inside, the place is dreary and creepy, with the furniture shrouded by dust-covers as if it’s an old atticwhere no one ever goes instead of a house closed up for the holidays for a month.
I trod to the other side of the porch and peer in that side, but it’s the same room, so nothing new. Disappointed, I head down the steps. I’m about to head back in defeat when I see a man on the path curving around the campus toward this corner. Before he catches sight of me, I duck behind the porch, my heart hammering. If he stays on the path all the way here, he’ll see me, so I edge along the side of the house, keeping my back to the wall, and slip around the corner. I drop into a crouch automatically when I find myself in front of a window, then make myself comfortable against the wall. From my position, I can keep an eye on the path, but he won’t see me unless he comes looking.
Then, I wait. I wonder if it was Father Salvatore. I don’t think it was, but he was too far to know for sure, especially since I only got a glimpse before I hid behind the porch. I’ll see him when he goes by. It could have been any of the priests out for a walk on the gloomy day—anyone who is tall and dark-haired. Suddenly, a shiver rolls through me. What if it was one of the Sinners?
When his footsteps slow, my heart picks up speed, my breath catching. If he goes into the house, I can’t sneak away without risking being seen through the window right above me, and I have no way of knowing if he’s in that room. I’ll have to wait until dark.
I curse myself for snooping, especially when the footsteps turn onto the gravel walkway and then falter. What if he saw me after all?
If I saw him, he was close enough to see me, and he’d know I have no business lurking here, not to mention I made myself suspicious by diving for cover.
When he doesn’t move, I force myself to edge forward enough to peek around the side of the house to see if he’s searching for the shadow he glimpsed. A man I’ve never seen stands at the foot of the steps, searching through his keyring. After a second, he draws a key apart and ascends the steps, his gaze intent on the door. He definitely didn’t see me, or he’d be more suspicious. I melt back in relief, watching him from my hiding place. He’s tall and slender, with glossy chestnut brown hair and darker skin than the Sinners. A few fine lines around his eyes combined with the shadow of stubble on his jaw tell me he’s not a student here. I’d put him around thirty. His sharp, angular nose, chin, and widow’s peak give him a severe look, but also an alertness, like a fox. I shrink back into the shadows when I hear his key in the door.
His footsteps are too distant for me to hear once the door closes. I’m considering my options when I hear a voice that sounds like it’s directly above me.
