Page 19 of Of Heathens & Havoc

“She’s going to Thorncrown,” I say, checking Dad’s reaction. “Did you know?”

He shakes his head. “Never was close with the Soules.”

That’s not entirely true. They were team dads together when we played basketball and football and baseball with Saint over the years, sat together at games, went to the same church. But they weren’t family, the way I am with Angel, or even the way we choose to remain brothers with Saint. Family doesn’t send your son to juvie while you’re already grieving the loss of your daughter.

Mom emerges from the house, her wet hair wrapped up in a silk scarf, her face free of makeup. She leans over to kiss Dadbefore taking her seat beside him at the plate he’s already made up for her. At least they had each other for those two years when I was gone.

“What are we talking about?” she prompts, picking up her burger.

There’s a crackle in the second of brittle silence.

“Nothing,” I say at the same moment that Angel says, “Mercy.”

I kick him under the table, and he offers me the slightest smile of apology. His family puts everything all out in the open, right up front where you can see it, like the scar bisecting his mom’s face. My mother’s scars are hidden by the brave face and tragic tone, the businesslike manner with which she reports on other people’s tragedies with just the right mixture of sympathy and efficiency.

“I see,” Mom says, setting her burger down carefully without taking a bite.

“Seems she’s at Thorncrown this year,” Dad says, taking a drink of his beer.

“I see,” Mom says again.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s got a heathen streak in her too, if that’s where I get it. If somewhere under the surface that has to be good at her job and good at being a mom and good at ignoring people’s judgments of her life choices and character and culpability in her daughter’s death, a part of her seethes and paces like the wolf Fenrir, waiting to be freed from his chain so he can wreak the ultimate havoc, the one that brings about the destruction of the whole world.

“For now,” I say, a grin stretching my lips at the thought of Mercy’s destruction. That’s enough for me. Mom can have the rest of the world.

“Yeah, don’t worry about her,abuelita,” Angel says, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Once we get hold of her, she won’t last long.”

I chuckle under my breath as dark thoughts descend once again. “They never do.”

nine

The Merciful

Every time I see the Hellhounds coming, I scurry away like a coward, though I know I’ll have to confront my brother eventually. I tell myself that if I stay out of their way, maybe Saint will protect me from Heath, tell him to call off the dogs.

I spend a lot of time in the chapel, begging God to take away the fever dreams that have consumed me every night since Heath made me sign that entry form. Every night, I replay the words I agreed to, terrified and thrilled by the prospect of living through the game. But every night, no one comes.

The weekend rolls around, and I accept that they’re not going to. I hate the way my stomach sinks with disappointment at the thought that Saint has surely forbidden them from including me in such debauchery. He always kept me near, but he never let Heath flirt with me the way he flirted with other girls.

Check out her little tits.

Except that once.

I roll onto my side, fold my hands under my cheek to keep them from wandering during my dreams, and fall asleep.

I’m awakened when the door flies open and the light blinks on, blinding me as I start from sleep. This time, there’s no stealth. Heath drops an armload of stuff, lets out a whoop, bounds across the room, grabs me, and drags me from the bed. He shoves something in my mouth when I cry out. I try to spit it out, but he braces his palm on my chin and forces my mouth shut. My tongue takes in the texture and feel of the small beads—he stuffed a rosary in my mouth. I can feel the small cross cutting into the inside of my lip, and the familiar taste of blood leaks over my tongue.

“As much as I’d love to hear you scream, tonight you’re going to play along,” he says. “If you don’t, you remember what happens.”

I’m tempted to spit the beads out and bite his fingers off, but after a second, I slowly nod, rage and humiliation pouring through me. He heard what I said. What I wanted him to do to me.

And the sick thing is, he’s giving me my fantasy.

“Good little lamb,” he croons, stroking my cheek with tenderness that makes my rage boil even hotter. “Spit them out and start talking, and the whole world will hear your confession. I want you to keep them in your mouth all night. Understood?”

Glaring at him above his fingers, which are smashed over my mouth and nose, I give the slightest nod, holding my jaw clenched.

“I could help you out and tie them in with a gag,” he says. “But I’m not here to make things easy for you. Don’t worry. You can still moan when we make your dirty dreams come true. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you little slut?”

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