Page 40 of Hell Bent

Mercy laughed. “Alex! Yes. Forgiveness is supposed to be healing.”

But Blake hadn’t asked for grace. He hadn’t asked for anything. He’d just moved through the world taking what he wanted until something got in his way.

“I don’t know how to forgive,” Alex admitted. “And I don’t think I want to learn.”

Mercy rubbed the hem of her sweater between her fingers, studying the weave as if it were a text to be translated. “Tell me how he died.”

Alex did. She didn’t talk about the new moon ritual or Darlington. She began with Blake breaking into Il Bastone, the fight, the way he’d controlled her, made her stay still while he beat her, the moment when Dawes had crushed his skull with the marble bust of Hiram Bingham III. She talked about the way Blake had wept, and how she’d discovered the coin of compulsion he’d clutched in his hand. He’d been under Dean Sandow’s control when he tried to kill her.

Mercy kept her eyes on that bit of pumpkin-colored wool, fingers moving back and forth, back and forth. “It’s not just that I’m not sorry…” she said at last. Her voice was low, shaking, almost a growl. “I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad he got to feel what it was like to be out of control, to be frightened. I’m … glad he died scared.” She looked up, her eyes full of tears. “Why am I like this? Why am I still so angry?”

“I don’t know,” said Alex. “But I’m like that too.”

“I’ve gone through every moment that led up to the party so many times. What I wore, what I said. Why did he pick me that night? What did he see?”

Alex had no idea how to answer those questions. Forgive yourself for going to the party. Forgive yourself for assuming the world isn’t full of beasts at the door. But she knew it was never that easy.

“He didn’t see you at all,” Alex said. “People like that … they don’t see us. They just see opportunities. Something to grab.” Michelle was right about that at least.

Mercy wiped the tears from her eyes. “You make it sound like shoplifting.”

“A little.”

“Don’t lie to me again, okay?”

“I’ll try.” It was the best Alex could offer without lying all over again.

12

Mercy had peppered Alex with questions for the rest of the hour, all of them about magic and Lethe. It felt like an oral exam, but Alex figured Mercy was owed, and as she did her best to explain, she had to sit with the unpleasant truth that Mercy would have been a better candidate for Lethe. She was brilliant, she spoke fluent French, and she wasn’t bad on Latin either. But she hadn’t committed homicide, so Alex supposed that put her behind the curve on this assignment.

“Good luck,” Mercy said when Alex left to meet Dawes. “Try not to die or anything.”

“Not today at least.”

“Is Darlington why you don’t date?”

Alex paused with her hand on the doorframe. “What does he have to do with it?”

“I mean, he’s not your cousin and he’s one of the more beautiful humans I’ve seen.”

“He’s a friend. A mentor.”

“So?”

“He’s … expensive.” Darlington was too beautiful, too well-read, too well-traveled. He wasn’t just cut from a different cloth; he was too finely made and tailored.

Mercy grinned. “I like expensive things.”

“He’s not a cashmere scarf, Mercy. He has horns.”

“I have a birthmark shaped like Wisconsin.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Don’t forget you have to pick a book for our HumBrit section!” Mercy called after her.

Humor in the Modern British Novel. Alex had hoped for Monty Python but had gotten Lucky Jim and Novel on Yellow Paper. It wasn’t a bad trade. She left Mercy with a promise to meet up for dinner, glad to flee the inquisition. She’d been too busy trying not to die to think about dating or even hooking up. Darlington had nothing to do with it, no matter how good he looked with his clothes off.