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Mercy as she was.

Young. Human. Alive.

Her dark hair falls over the shoulders of a simple white dress, and candlelight warms skin untouched by dirt, blood, or decay. Her feet are bare beneath the hem.

She looks younger than I expected.

That might be the worst part.

Because for the first time, I’m not looking at a monster the Harvest made.

I’m looking at the woman it took.

She looks at me. “You took your time.”

I stare. “Everybody in 1791 was apparently a smartass.”

She smiles. “Rhett was worse.”

“Still is.”

Her smile changes. Sad. “You love them.”

I almost choke. “Whoa.”

She lifts one eyebrow. “We have known each other for thirty seconds.”

“I have known you much longer.”

“No. You’ve known my bloodline.”

“I’ve been watching you since you arrived.”

I stare at her. “That’s not creepy at all.”

The corner of Mercy’s mouth lifts. “I suppose it does sound that way.”

“Considering you crawled out of the ground earlier, yeah. A little.”

For the first time, something almost human passes across her face.

Amusement.

Then it’s gone.

She turns toward the tables. “Come.”

I don’t move.

“No.”

Mercy stops.

Slowly, she looks back at me.

I fold my arms. “I’ve had a very educational evening regarding blindly following supernatural women into suspicious locations.”

For the first time, Mercy laughs. Actually laughs. The sound is beautiful–human. “I like you.”