Page 3 of Begging for Mercy
But that’s the thing about Zane—he doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun. I’m not even sure the last time he let anyone touch his dick—maleorfemale. Hell, I don’t even know whenhelast choked his chicken.
He iswayoverdue for some stimulation. I bet his spunk is backed up for days.Weeks.Jesus. When he finally blows, he’ll spew like a goddamn fire hydrant all over the poor, unsuspecting bastard expecting a normal lay.
May God have mercy on their throats if they have to swallowthatmega-load.
Zane ignores me, which is par for the course when he’s irritated. As we walk through rows of headstones towards Alejandro’s awaiting corpse, I squeeze the siren’s wallet in my palm. It should have more than just her name. Her address. Herpicture.
A shiver runs down my spine as I slip it into my front pocket for safekeeping. I won’t look yet—I want to savor every detail once I’m alone in my bedroom and Zane’s prying eyes aren’t throwing judgmental daggers at my back. The prick needs tochill the fuck out and loosen the fuck up. Just because I met—or will meet—a mystery girl doesn’t mean that I have to fuck her or kill her.
I’ll just have a little fun with her. Catch and release.
Easy.
Chapter 2
Mercy
Every collegeacross the country has its traditions. For some, it means passing under an archway only once you’ve graduated. For others, it might be petting the “Good Boy” statue of a golden retriever on your way to class each morning. But Harlin Heights Community College, although steeped in surface-level traditions centered around passing classes or earning your diploma, has a layer of tradition hidden underneath the rest that the locals keep alive. One such tradition involves the Harlots’ up-and-coming hopefuls, pledges trying to earn their letters through promiscuous acts scattered across campus during the entire twenty-four-hour stretch on Halloween.
Professors cancel their classes.
The library remains closed.
RAs turn a blind eye to the comings-and-goings of their dorm residents so long as no one burns down the building or breaks the toilets.
The boldest individuals have sex in common areas, seeking their pleasure in shadowed lecture halls or on the sofas in the Student Union. But the bravest of all wait until nightfall to seek out the one revered as a sex god among men—a man who paints his entire body in sharp blacks and crisp whites to embodya skeletal appearance and fuck those he deems worthy of his massivebone.
It’s a tradition I have zero interest in pursuing.
I have my own to fulfill.
Dragging a duffel bag to the cemetery in the middle of the night isn’t new for me. In fact, when I’m through with my studies for the week, I often find myself sketching beneath a willow’s flowing branches, out of sight from the wandering souls seeking their departed loved ones. It’s quieter in the cemetery than elsewhere on campus, and I use the silence to my advantage.
Tonight, however, laughter spills among the tombstones as students try to spook each other or take gothic selfies to share on their dating profiles. Most people stay towards the gate nearest campus, but there are a half dozen of them scattered around the property. They aren’t locked half the time, so anyone can wander past the wrought-iron hinges to step onto hallowed ground. I make my way down a familiar stone path and avoid confrontation with couples discreetly fucking on someone’s grave. They probably don’t even know a single soul buried here—probably don’t care—and won’t bother to learn their names.
But I know these families. I’ve seen their names in the records of the town’s deceased, dating back centuries to a time when Harlin Heights was an oceanside town whose homes were built from tabby and washed away by summer storms. Although this cemetery is inland, you can still find traces of the ocean etched into the stone or splayed out across the paths as either sand or palm fronds gust by, carried here by the wind. Most prominent families’ graves are housed inside mausoleums two or three bodies deep, their structures expanded with each new generation of the deceased.
The Morningstar mausoleum is a smaller building set off from the center of the cemetery. My great-grandmother petitioned to have it moved onto our family land on account ofhow many dead we house beneath our soil, but the city never granted permission, and the petition was dropped. So while my family keeps the hundred or so graves buried behind theMorningstar Mortuarycompany, I visit the ones resting beside my college campus. On Samhain, the veil between this world and the next is thinnest. I like to think that the dead appreciate drinking wine and eating cakes and crackers as much as they did while alive, so I come here when they have the greatest chance to enjoy having company.
That’s the only time I allow myself to sing—when only the dead can hear me.
I don’t notice a living soul approaching until it’s too late. Preoccupied with slicing cheeses and pouring a glass of wine, I sing a breathy lullaby my mother taught me, unaware that the infamous sex god Reaper is passing by that very moment. It’s only when I hear a voice mutter the wordSiren—a pleading tremor in the shape of a single word—that I peer out the window.
Moonlight illuminates the bones painted on his skin, each one shaded with technical precision. As he spins around, I catch the shifting muscles across his back and gasp at the sheer magnitude of him.
I’ve heard that Reaper is a god, but I never expected him to actually look like one.
Dressed in black cargo pants and matching combat boots, he hovers on the cobbled path and scans his surroundings in search of something. “Are you alone? I’m alone, too.”
Who is he talking to? I look out across the yard to try and find another person, a new victim for his late-night boning, but I don’t see anyone. My heart gives an unsteady beat. There’s no way that he’s talking to?—
“You have a beautiful singing voice.”
Me.
Shit.
I quickly pinch the wick of my taper candle, extinguishing its flame, and hold my breath. But it’s too late—somehow, he’s pinpointed my location, because he’s looking directly at me. The last thing I want is a confrontation with a sexed-up fiend prowling the night. A security guard telling me not to bring food into the cemetery, sure, I can handle that.
