Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Three: The Underworld

I'm sorry, Nate. Not yet.

I look down at the water's surface, and flinch when I see no reflection there. Instinctively, I grab Mercer's elbow and pull him from his own death fantasies, dragging him forcedly in my heavy weighted dress against a current that does not want us to leave.

I stumble up the sand bank and onto dry land, Mercer still impersonating a wayward balloon, bobbing back towards the river.

'Wake the fuck up, Mercer!' I growl at him, wrenching at his skin. Nail marks bite across his arms, and I see him jolt. He blinks three times, his mouth agape.

'Nerissa?' he says, and his hand trembles to his forehead. Tears are streaked down his face, and his curly blond hair is now matted and stuck to his cheeks.

He looks as ridiculous as I do.

And to my surprise, he doesn't say anything. He just bursts into tears.

'Fuck,' I say again. I had no idea what could help him.

In my most uncomfortable manner, I pat his shoulder as kindly as I can. He turns to me for support, taking a rush at my shoulder and crying noisily onto it.

I go rigid. Close human contact? Not unless it involves fighting, and I didn't think putting Mercer into a choke hold would make him feel better.

'Uh...uhm...' I try to think what my dad might say. In the past, if he wasn't sober, he was chatty. And when he wasn't sober he seemed to think he could solve the world's problems on his own— including his reclusive teenage daughter's. Combined, the two led to my father desperately trying to get me to tell him what was going on.

Perhaps, on reflection, my dad isn't the best person to take example from. But as my stepmother has as much feeling as a metal stove, she's even less of a role model.

So I settle for the shoulder squeeze and, 'Want to talk about it?'

And secretly hoping that he really, really doesn't want to talk about it, because what would I say? That I'm not unhappy because I have some pathological desire for revenge? That being dead isn't so bad?

Mercer sniffs, and draws away from me, hiccupping.

'You should have let me go there,' he mumbles, 'that's where we're supposed to go. We're dead.'

I pause as he wipes snot-filled tears onto his sleeve. Pointedly, I say, 'We're supposed to find the God of Death here.'

'Here? Where's here?'

'The Underworld, of course. Where did you think we were?'

'I don't know!' he shouts shrilly, 'It's my first time being here!'

I give him a deadpan look. 'Mine too.'

'But you— you obviously know a lot more about it, heaven knows how but I'm so not prepared for this—'

'You are, look, we just have to find the Ferryman—'

'—and we're dead, for god's sake, and you...how are you so calm?'

I wiggle my fingers experimentally. 'Still feel alive. It's not as bad as I envisioned.'

'What did you envision?'

'Skeletons,' I reply.

Mercer starts to laugh, and at first I think it's an improvement. That I've managed to make him feel better. But then I realise that he's laughing only because if he wasn't, he'd be crying, and hysterical laughter is always the solution.