It wasn’t.
Mercer couldn’t breathe suddenly, his gaze darting from the mold to Rahil, who’d slowed in the shed’s entrance, his expression unreadable. His fangs were bared. Long, lean, and a little curved. Mercer had thought they’d looked familiar.
He laughed, too loud, too harsh, as he reached for the model in Lydia’s hands. “No, I uh, see the resemblance but they’re—”
“Mine,” Rahil cut in. “They’re mine.”
“They’re not,” Mercer corrected him. “Your mold is in the back cupboard. These are… these…” Mercer spun the model between his hands. One of the fangs nicked his fingers. “Ah.”
Rahil caught his wrist, gently wiping away the blood. He was shaking too. Maybe the whole world was shaking now.
Mercer didn’t know.
“These are also mine,” Rahil whispered.
Mercer didn’tknow.
He remembered, like a memory of a dream, that Rahil had been prepared to tell him something about Leah’s death last night, but notthis—this wasn’t—this couldn’t—this—
His heart beat in his ears, and it sounded like a banging on a distant door.Thud-thud-thud.
He could vaguely hear Anthony speak over the drowning. “Lydia, would you step inside the house with me? I’d like to run our annual panel early, to ensure you’re doing alright with the current dosage—if your father approves?”
Mercer didn’t feel like Lydia’s father. He felt like nothing and everything. Like a black hole, all-consuming, and all-consumed.
A voice rang in his head:“Is Leah Bloncourt your wife?”
Somehow, he forced himself to nod. “Yes. Go on. Be good.”
Amidst the desolation in his body, he was aware of how Rahil tracked their leaving—of the unholy gold vanishing inside Anthony’s jacket—but Rahil held to Mercer’s hand instead of following. Held, until Mercer shook him off.
He sucked in a breath. It didn’t feel like enough air. “You—” He had to dig her name out of the pit of his soul, carving through his heart as he said it: “Leah.”
“Yes,” was all Rahil said. “This was what I wanted to tell you.”
He had tried, hadn’t he? But what was a truth or a lie when compared tothis?Mercer leaned back against the counter. Not enough air. “So, you—you bit her.”
That was how it worked. He’d imagined the scenario playing out ten thousand different ways, each more horrible than the last, her screams suffocated by huge hands, her last conscious moments an assault of pain and terror as someone ruthless and thoughtless tore her away from this world. Now suddenly, he couldn’t see it at all. There was no space in his fears for this.
This hell.
“Leah came tome.” Rahil said it like it was anexplanation. But it made no sense. None of this made any damn sense.
“And you… killed her.”Killeddidn’t seem like a real word.Dead. Leah was dead. Had been dead for ten years, her last heartbeat fading into nothing as she drooped in Mercer’s arms. Because ofRahil.
“She asked to be turned.” His voice was so rough and distant. “I should have said no.”
“No.” Mercer shook his head. He could not fucking breathe. He knew the way her eyes had bled, her mouth had bled, her body had twisted and contorted in pain. “No, she didn’t.”
Why would she have? It didn’t make sense. It was a lie, and if that was a lie, then maybe the whole thing—
“She brought scans with her,” Rahil continued. “Doctor’s notes. An inoperable tumor. She was already dying, Merc.”
“That’s—ridiculous.” The world swayed. Mercer swayed with it.
Rahil shifted—he was gone, and then he was back, pressing Leah’s notebook against Mercer’s chest. “I have the results here—she took notes—”
“I would have known!” Mercer felt himself grip the notebook instinctually, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t need it. It was all a lie—she’d told him she was fine. He’d noticed signs, but she’d told him—
