Page 63 of Patron of Mercy

“What?” He answered on the fourth ring. He’d been acting more and more like their father since he’d taken over the day-to-day running of the Fidelis Filii, as though he thought himself better than her.

She let the line go on, silent. She accepted a lot from their father; Roger was not her father.

“Marty?” Roger asked after a while, less certain and slightly annoyed. He finally huffed a sigh and used actual words. “What’s going on, Marty?”

“Oh good,” she said, voice as terse as she could manage. “For a second I thought you were expecting a telemarketer.”

He sighed again, loud and theatrical. “Of course not, Marty. But my time is—”

“They know about the scythe.”

“What?” His voice was shocked, strained, and she heard him moving around in the background. “Do they know where it is? Have they found it?”

“Yes, and not yet. We have to beat them there, obviously.”

Something banged on the other end of the line, like he’d hit something, angry child that he was. “Tell me where. We’ll stop and get the cockroach, and then—”

“Don’t.” She stopped and waited for him to deny her, to complain, but he was quiet. “Don’t come for Lach. I’ll bring him. You get the brotherhood to Palea Kameni. I’ll meet you there.”

The Paget Family Tree

The site afforded no more clues. He hoped Thanatos fared better, but when he returned to the hotel room, it was empty still. He sighed, sinking onto the bed, and wondered if he should get dinner alone. It was getting late, and Thanatos didn’t need to eat, but Lach liked taking him places, watching the small variations in his expression every time he discovered a new delight.

He’d determined to wait when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open. “Lach here.”

“Hey, it’s Marty. I found something. On Palea Kameni.” There was a reason he and Martina got along so well on expeditions—she didn’t beat around the bush for a second.

“Great! Let’s go look.”

“Now?”

Lach stood up to glance out the window. It was still light enough. The days were getting longer. They could pop over to the island and be back in a couple hours. Then he’d grab a late dinner with Thanatos. Better than sitting around twiddling his thumbs, waiting for someone else to make things happen.

“Now,” he confirmed. “For sure now. We haven’t got time to waste. If things don’t start growing, the season’ll be gone. Too late. Kaput. Starvation station.”

“Sorry, what?”

Right. Martina wasn’t trying to save the world—she was trying to get a paycheck. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Thanatos isn’t back yet, so we might as well check it out. See if we can get some good news. Where can I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

Ten minutes later—after grabbing his gun and leaving a note to let Thanatos know he was with Martina—he was in the back of a taxi with her, headed west. “What’d you find?”

“Well, everything suggests that Cronus’s scythe has something to do with volcanoes, a split in the ground. There are hot springs on Palea Kameni that stain people’s skins red. It’s not dangerous, but active. And worth checking out. It’s a short boat trip.”

It’d be shorter on Misericordia. The aching loss in his chest sharpened when he saw the harbor. Martina paid off a boatman to take them across before Lach shook himself out of it. Well, she could put it on his bill.

The rocking of the boat was familiar and saddening enough that Lach didn’t think too much about it when he saw a flicker of flame on the island. Otherwise, it appeared to be uninhabited. When they disembarked, the sky was already turning a deep purple.

“We’re not going to find much in the dark,” he said. Already, some of his earlier resolve had dissipated. It’d been a while since he’d mourned anyone; he’d forgotten how the devastation came in waves. One second, he’d be fine. The next, he’d realize how ridiculous it was for him to go adventuring at twilight when he could be in bed, staring into the abyss.

“We’ll be fine,” Martina said. She pulled a flashlight out of one of the pockets of her taupe cargo pants and waved it in the air. “And there are lights up ahead.”

They climbed the black rocks, only to find when they got there that they weren’t alone on the island—there were about a dozen men. Lach frowned at them. They were standing around in a wide arc. With stiff chins and narrowed eyes, they had the look of men with purpose—a single purpose, if the implication of their matching robes was to be believed. Lach grimaced. Nothing good ever came from a group of best buds getting together and donning their supersecret club’s favorite creepy costume.

“Friends of yours?” he asked Martina.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she replied. But the way she spoke was reserved. She tipped her chin up and refused to look directly at him. A chill crept through him, even before she said, “I’m sorry, Lach.”

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