Page 2 of Begging for Mercy
“Are you alone?” If she’s got sense, she won’t be alone at night. But if that were the case, there would be no need for her to be silent upon my approach. “I’m alone, too.”
Sort of. Zane is hanging out a few miles down, waiting for me to wrap up my sexcapades.
“You have a beautiful singing voice.” Compliments don’t come easily for me, but this one rolls right off my tongue. “I’d love to match a face with—” A shadow moves inside the nearest mausoleum. A grin pulls at my lips. “—your voice.”
The door is slightly ajar, just wide enough for me to know that whoever is inside doesn’t want to lock themselves in. Cautious. I’d saysmart, but since when would hanging out in a cemetery count for brains? I step closer, careful to avoid patches of gravel or crunchy, dried grass from the most recent heat wave. It’s fucking hot out for October, and if it weren’t for the body paint coating my pores, I’d be drenched in sweat.
I wonder what my siren is wearing. Has she dressed up for the holiday, or is she wearing loose spirit wear emblazoned with the school’s hideous double H logo? I lick my lips as I try to picture her as a zombie bride covered in face paint or a makeup-less, freckled slip of a woman with wide, round glasses and her hair tossed into a messy heap at the top of her head. Either is fine. I don’thaveto play dress-up-fuck-up just because it’s Halloween. I’ve had sex with plenty of people who never bothered with a costume.
But no matter how many fantasies flicker through my mind, Siren’s face remains as blank as a fresh canvas awaiting the first strike of paint.
Ihaveto know.
As I wrap my fingers around the heavy metal door and pull it open, the hinges creak and the sound echoes through the hollow room. Marble floors are covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs hang from the ceiling, clinging to the arches of the candelabras.
Recently lit candelabras.
The scent of smoke hangs in the air. I take a steady, slow step into the room. “Won’t you sing for me, Siren?” The only thing in front of me is a row of caskets inlaid into the wall, each with a tarnished bronze plaque. Moonlight streams through the wavy glass windows, with a breeze tickling the back of my neck. The farthest window in the corner has been picked clean, the glass panes having long been cracked and removed. Once I recognize that the mystery girl is not in front of me, I turn to check the corners nearest the door.
One lies empty, but the other…
Someone set up a little… I crouch to get a closer look. Picnic? A soft cotton blanket lies across the tile floor. I pinch it between my fingers to find that it’s still warm. Two pillows are positioned for someone to sit on, and an open bottle of wine warms by theirside. A single taper candle, recently lit and then put out, sits in a holder near a spread of sliced cheeses, meats, and fruits.
A lover’s meeting place?
I brush my hand across one of the pillows and hum in the back of my throat. The siren isn’t here, but she left her belongings. A quick survey of the room tells me that she scurried to the broken window and hoisted herself through, scratching herself in the process. A deep cut, too. I touch a sliver of glass, its base buried deep within the window pane but its tip jutting out like a thick needle, and spread her cooling blood across my fingertips.
If Zane were here, he’d want to run a blood test to confirm her identity. But it’s more fun to go hunting for a girl with a gash in her arm. Or side. Leg? I sit down on her pillows and pop a grape into my mouth as I imagine every place she could be sliced open. It’s likely her forearm or her calf. Maybe her thigh? I picture a girl in a pleated mini skirt lifting herself off the floor and slipping through the window in the same way that she’s slipping through my fingers. Then I pull a lighter from my boot and light the taper candle, passing my fingers through its flame once it’s lit. Her blood fills the grooves of my fingerprints and sizzles in the heat.
Will she return for her belongings and brave meeting a stranger, or will she flee and return in the morning for them?
My phone vibrates in my pocket—an incessantvrrrrmthat means my brother is getting impatient. We do this every year—it’s not like my antics are new or his precious routine is in jeopardy. I’ll get my fuck on, as is tradition, and he’ll bury our latest victim in a fresh grave so that they won’t rot alone.
Sighing, I send him a pin with my location and wait for his arrival. More importantly, I wait for hers.
I wait and wait and wait.
Picturing the bow of her lips.
The tender flush on her cheeks.
The fearful sparkle in her eyes, like a diamond cast in shadow.
Among her forgotten belongings is a worn duffel bag, and inside that bag is a set of matches with a curvedMon the box, an antique wine opener, a trifold wallet decorated with silver crescent moons, an untouched sketchbook filled with empty pages, and a thick bundle of fabric wrapped carefully around a tiny, polished wooden box.
Just as my brother Zane steps through the doorway with his usual scowl aimed directly at my heart, I attempt to pry open the lock with my bare hands. It’s a tiny, golden box missing its key. If the lock were plastic, I could smash it against the stone wall to crack it open. But the little metal locket gleams in the candlelight, taunting me.
“Planning a date?” Zane snags the second pillow from beneath my knees and plops down across from me on the blanket. “That’s unlike you.”
“I met someone,” I muse, flipping the lock up and down with my fingertip. Knowing that it won’t open, I set the box down atop the fabric it came wrapped in—a scarf, I think, or some kind of shawl. Soft but not made of wool. Something nicer. I bring the open bottle of wine to my lips and down a few swallows. Did he just insult me? My ego swells. “I can wine and dine with the best of them. All the bitches love me.”
“All the bitchesfuckyou,” Zane clarifies, snagging the wine and squinting at the label. “They don’t love you. Which is why a date is a waste of time.”
“Dick,” I hiss, kicking his leg. But he’s right, I don’t date. I fuck.Hard.“I didn’t plan this. A girl left it. Asiren.” Licking my lips, I play back her voice in my head, but without enough time to hear her song, it fades rapidly from memory.
Zane flips open her wallet with feigned interest. “Well, this girl—” He tilts her ID towards the light to read her name. “What the fuck kind of name is—her parents must hate her.” Sighing, he flicks the wallet shut again. “She clearly isn’t interested in having sex with you, so leave her shit where you found it, and let’s go.” He tosses the wallet into my lap and stands. “Forty-three isn’t getting any fresher.”
My jaw clenches at the number. It always bugs the shit out of me when Zane turns people into projects. “He has a name,” I rumble, slipping the girl’s wallet into my pocket as I stand. “Alejandro.” One of our youngest kills and undoubtedly one of the most exciting. He really had a thing for Zane—much to my brother’s horror. I’m pretty sure Alejandro only slept with me as a consolation prize for not getting into my brother’s pants.
