Rahil could feel the sudden force of the man’s tension so strongly it took hold inside him as well, tugging back up the fear he’d felt before Merc’s arrival. Therewereterrible people in the city, people who were louder and more aggressive than ever since the reveal of Vitalis-Barron’s vampire experimentations. Just because Merc hadn’t been that villain didn’t mean one wouldn’t appear.
By the way Merc glowered at the sound of the approaching voice, he certainly believed that could be the case.
As the caller came nearer, his words crystalized, his tone jovial in a way that sent chills up Rahil’s skin.
“Mercer Bloncourt!” the intruder shouted, “Let’s have this holy silver, eh?”
4
MERCER
Mercer wasn’t alone for the morning after all. It had been almost nice to have his quiet day bombarded by the very vampire he’d matched with, hanging from the ceiling in a disastrously risqué position, but that single rush of fear and the feeling of violation that Rahil had caused had been more than enough—he didn’t need this one, too. At the sound of his own name shouted across his yard, the internal tremble returned to his hands. He could almost feel an impaling in his chest as the demand followed.
Holy silver.
Let’s have it, eh?
Mercer should have prepared better for this, but if he were capable of foreseeing the future, he’d never have watched Leah leave the house alone that night, waved and smiled as she pressed her red hair into a ponytail, not thinking for a moment about what veins she might be exposing. He grabbed the butcher’s knife again, the feel of it fitting right back into his fingers as though it and his anxiety had never left.
“Merc—” Rahil started, the fear on his face a direct correlation to what bloomed in Mercer’s chest, but Mercer cut him off.
“I’ll be back.”
Maybe he should have let the poor vampire down, but he was already pushing open the shed door just enough to shove his bulk out and closing it behind him. It locked automatically.
Not a moment too soon either, as the threatening customer—if he was even offering to pay for this metal—stormed toward the shed. He pulled up short at the sight of Mercer’s butcher knife. His hand went to the belt at his waist, where a large pocket knife had been clipped.
“Get off my property,” Mercer hissed. He had no room for games, his panic still coiled in his chest like a snake prepared to strike. Kat bayed from the back door.
The intruder seemed to size him up—they appeared about the same age despite the silver already taking over the other man’s full head of hair, but Mercer had to weigh twice as much, and he was a foot taller, his reach longer. It would take the man two motions to draw his knife, and in that time Mercer could—could what, stab him? He didn’t want to think about that.
Hewantedthe intruder to leave and never come back.
“Is that normally how you introduce yourself to a paying customer?” The man smiled, and he held his hand out. “William Douglas. I’m friends with a few of your former clients. I’d like to talk with you about acquiring a batch of holy silver.”
Mercer did not smile back and neither did he lower his knife. “I’m not in that business anymore.”
“You’re still a smith, clearly,” William replied, his voice smooth and bright as the metal he was asking after. “How much effort would it take to go back to it this once? A single batch is all I’m asking. I can make it worth your time.”
Mercer scowled. “I am not fueling whatever war you’re waging.” He thought of the flashes of Vitalis-Barron splattered across the news: allegations of hunters and torture. Whether William Douglas was one of theirs, a member of the vocal anti-vampire groups who’d risen up in their defense since the first exposé, or simply someone fueled by their rhetoric, he was still part of the problem.
William’s brow tightened. “I just want to protect what’s mine.”
Mercer shuddered as the justification hit a little too close to home—to the pleas that had gotten him into that godforsaken business in the first place.What if your wife had left the house with holy silver on her? Maybe she would still be alive today.
He refused to think of her the way he had then, pale and sweat-lathered, her throat too raw to scream as they handed her into his arms. He refused, and he failed.
“No,” he said, through the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
William propped his hand on his hip. Too near to his knife. He was still smiling, wide as a predator. “You must have some left over? Whatever you have, I’ll pay well for it.”
“I’m not going to repeat myself.” Mercer could feel the way the words slid through his teeth, feel the anxiety that pushed him to step forward, butcher knife in front of him, because it was either that or flee entirely, though he wasn’t sure he’d choose either of those things. This, he did choose: “Get the hell off my property.”
William’s cordial mask fell, leaving only the bitter baring of teeth. He stepped back. “Iwillmake it worth your time.”
It was a threat if ever Mercer had heard one, and it lingered behind even as William retreated, each stride so confident that it felt like he was the one who’d won, somehow, not Mercer. As he vanished around the front of the house, Mercer was certain of it. He felt empty, pathetic, terrified in a brand-new way, like the danger had moved from a tangible source in front of him, something he had the potential to fight, to a lurking thing at his back, demanding his continued vigilance.
He forced himself to check around the front of the house, catching the back of what had to have been William Douglas’s silver truck as it barreled down the street, too big and loud for suburban roads. Mercer tried to exhale a sigh of relief, but it was hard enough just to breathe at all. At least Lydia hadn’t been home, he told himself. At least she was safe, with her friends, living her rebellious early teenage years as best she could with a single dad and a chronic illness.
