07 the mortal girl king
Mercy is sitting on the edge of the kitchen sink, severe in the moonlight. It's dark, other than the light through the window, Siken Lane enveloping her within it's shadows. The house that crawls with bleeding strands of ivy, intertwined with the porch frame, and cracking, thick white brick that keep the crumbling psyche of the house within tact. Her home is a polarising place. Not for it's appearance or the strange energy that's found within the skeleton, but for it's matriarch. She knows that she's within a dream, anchored to the kitchen because the rest of the house is a sprawling maze of wickedness. If Mercy steps past the threshold, she could get lost forever.
"Welcome home," Illusion's voice is a quiet lull, menacing in the moonlight that shines through their hollow figure. "It's just you and me."
"It's not really home." Mercy says.
Illusion leans against the bench. "He misses you."
"He isn't capable," Mercy snaps. She pushes herself off the sink, boots hitting the floor with a thump.
"But think of what he taught you. What he gave you." Illusion hums. "And all the beautiful things that you did together; you'd never felt that free before. We can offer you more. We could create a whole new world if you just took a little more."
It's rage fuelling Mercy's heart: the way it beats like a drum and the blood rises to her ears so fiercely that she can hear it, a waterfall clashing against her eardrums. Teeth bared, she's overcome by it. The sound that she emits is wholly un-human, teeth jagged in her Cheshire cat smile. As much as she resisted it, Mercy King was raised to be cruel; to be feared rather than loved. There's no mistaking that she's a monster. A wolf in sheep's clothing. She gives in. Pale hand rising, Mercy whirls on Illusion, attempting to grasp their pale neck between her fingers. To feel their skin underneath hers. To hold. To squeeze.
But her hand falls through like she's wrapping around thin air.
Illusion grins. Mercy's chest floods with horror, stepping backwards. Her back hits the island bench and she stumbles. This is exactly what they'd wanted. They follow her footsteps, ghost body crowding her space and pressing Mercy against the island. She's silent, mouth open in trepidation. Mercy can only watch as their hand raises, and they press a single thumb to her forehead, leaning into her ear.
"Let," they say softly, "go."
Mercy's eyes roll back, and she wakes up, blinking into Monmouth's darkness before peeling her sweaty self off of her mattress.
Monmouth Manufacturing is quiet at night. Mercy's in the bathroom again, head tipped against the porcelain sink, masked by darkness. The light to the bathroom flickers back on. She doesn't know when she'd turned it off in her haze, refusing to look at the ring of bruises around her neck for another second. Kavinsky's in the nightmares again. It takes a minute to focus, her eyes like a camera lens trying to bring the world back into view. The bathroom is stark; white and glaring. Ronan stands before her, intimidatingly towering over her curled body. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He eyes her, head pressed against the sink and scarred knees pulled to her chest; the tracks of salty tears, remnants of her breaking point. Exhaustion smudges purple shadows underneath her eyes, betraying her lack of sleep. Ronan kicks at her feet with his own. Mercy kicks back.
"You look like shit," Ronan says.
Mercy pats the place on the floor beside her. "You have a way with the ladies, Lynch."
Ronan makes a noise, half way between disgust and dismissal, in the back of his throat.
"Don't look at me like that," Mercy prods his leg. "You're not my type anyway."
He raises a brow.
"You don't have boobs." She deadpans.
Ronan's smile is small but lingering. The slightest quirk of his lips, sharp like the hooks of his tattoo. "And you don't have a dick."
Mercy pats the space again. The Lynch brother lingers for a moment, standing in silence and zeroing in on her one hand holding her neck. He takes the spot silently, long legs cramming to fit in beside Mercy's own. They're both tall, so it's a squeeze but they make it work, hiding together in the safety of Monmouth's bathroom: matching smudges of exhaustion and blood underneath the cells of their nails. In the silence, Mercy lets her hand drop from her neck. Ronan doesn't react, sliding his fingers around his wrist and squeezing his scars. Her eyes fall closed, head tipping back, knocking against the porcelain sink.
"I don't have the answers about your mom." Mercy says slowly, shoulders sinking. "But I've seen it before." Ronan remains quiet, so she continues. "She's alive. Don't think otherwise. It's almost like a coma, a catatonic state. Lynch, hear me when I say that she's in there, but she doesn't have energy. She's lost her connection to the living because the connection died. But Aurora is in there."
"What do you get out of this?" Ronan says, sour and apprehensive.
"Don't ask me that." Mercy responds.
"What's in it for you?" Ronan persists.
Mercy doesn't dignify his persistence with a response. She sinks into coldness of the tiles, pressing the chill into her spine.
"Do me a favour." It's Mercy that shatters the pause, the lull that fell over the bathroom. "Stay away from Kavinsky."
"I don't owe you anything."
Mercy cracks open a single eye, narrowed and unceremonious. She holds her stare, flicking over Ronan's hunched form and the red stains on his hand, the dried substance is flaking on his nails and knuckles. Blue eyes meet green. He is unwavering. Bruises contorting on the canvas of her skin as she moves, Mercy sits up.
"You don't owe me this." She says carefully. "You don't owe anybody else. Who you owe, is yourself. Kavinsky is bad news. Whatever he says is a lie. There is no control with him. No simple fun or just a night to let it all go. It's vivacious; it's consuming; it's addicting but it isn't the answer. He'll use you, and remake you for whatever he wants. Kavinsky doesn't have the capacity to care about people, Ronan." It's the first time she's ever called him by his first name. Green eyes meet blue again, and they're pleading. "I want to help you. So help me, help you. Promise me you will stay away."
Ronan is silent. He won't make a promise that he'll break.
Mercy opens Monmouth's door to Blue Sargent and her bike. She left Ronan in the bathroom, resting on the floor, arms curled around his knees. Curls wild, trapped beneath colourful clips and hands gripping the handlebars, Blue surveys Mercy's crumpled state with narrowed eyes. Tangled and covered in a Aglionby hoodie, she looks worse for wear. The redhead doesn't leave room for Blue to ask questions. Mercy swoops to the side silently with a dramatic bow, beckoning the Sargent girl inside. Blue grins, all teeth and twinkling eyes.
"Morning, Sargent." Mercy greets. She settles into the kitchen, knocking away takeaway boxes to fish out a coffee mug.
"King." Blue hits her heel to her toe.
They stand in an awkward silence, waiting for Ronan or Gansey to slip through the doorways of their rooms.
"So... Come here often?"
"We're not doing that." Mercy says, irritated by being woken up. "Just shut up and wait for the boys."
Mercy patters around the kitchen with ease, filling her mug and silently offering one to Blue. Blue shakes her head in rejection. It was a hard for Mercy to become comfortable in Monmouth's interior. She's never felt settled anywhere, free to open kitchen cupboards and steal food from the fridge. And though Mercy is technically an imposer on Monmouth's peacefulness, Gansey has made her feel at home all the same. There's never been time for her to stop at Siken Lane, so she's settled into the air mattress each night with a lingering wonder of when Circe King is going to show up on the doorstep. Blue and Mercy slip from the kitchen into the main space of Monmouth, the latter taking a seat at Gansey's desk. Ronan's the first appear from his bedroom, in all the glory of his tattoo hooks and shaved head. He leans against his bedroom's doorframe. Gansey follows not long after, hair rumpled and eyes too bright for the morning. Mercy nods in greeting.
"I think Ronan should talk to my mom." Blue doesn't beat around the bush, arms crossed and stood over Gansey who's settled onto the floor, laying beside his printout of the Ley Line.
Making a face into her mug, Mercy sips her heavily sugared coffee, eyebrows raised. There's a moment of silence before:
"No."
Blue makes a noise. "Excuse me."
"No," Ronan repeats. "I'm not going."
"Ronan, don't be difficult." Gansey says from the floor.
Ronan sticks his fingers underneath his leather bands. "I'm not being difficult. I'm just telling you I'm not going."
"That sounds like you're being difficult." Mercy mutters. She pokes out her tongue at Ronan when his blank stare fixates on her. He doesn't react.
"It's not the dentist." Blue says.
"Exactly."
Gansey's pen scribbles against his print out. "That doesn't make sense."
Blue narrows her eyes at Ronan. "This is a religion thing, isn't it?"
Ronan scoffs. "You don't have to say it like that."
"Actually I do." Blue snaps. "Is this the part where you tell me my mom and I are going to hell?"
"I wouldn't rule it out." He says, fingers slipping from his bands. Ronan crosses his arms. "But I don't really have the inside line on that knowledge."
Dropping his pen, Gansey rolls onto his back, peering between Ronan and Blue. Salmon polo crumpled, he looks confused. "What's this all about now?"
Mercy raises a brow, does Gansey really not get it? It isn't her faith in God that drives her to church every week, nor the trickling of cherry-picked ideas that Circe filters into her speeches, but a primal protectiveness for herself. There are no room for chances as a King: your soul is already poisoned. Mercy's destroyed enough of herself. She can't afford to take chances. A part of her understands where Ronan is probably coming from. No King has ever set foot in the home of a psychic. They'd sworn off them centuries ago.
"This is the part where Ronan starts using the word occult." Blue spits it out like a poison.
"Now you're just putting words in his mouth." Mercy says, defensively. "That's not fair."
Ronan remains unbothered. "I'm not using any word. I'm just telling you I'm not going. Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's not. My soul's in enough peril as it is."
Gansey frowns.
"Do you think we're in league with the devil, Ronan?" Blue asks, and Mercy winces. "They're evil soothsayers?" She seethes as Ronan rolls his eyes. "My mom first knew she was psychic because she saw the future in a dream. A dream, Ronan. It wasn't like she sacrificed a goat in the backyard to see it, She didn't try to see the future. It's not something she became; it's something she is. I could just as easily say that you're evil because you can take things from your dreams!"
"Yeah," Ronan says, "you could."
Mercy makes a noise, muttering, "Speak for yourself."
Gansey's frown deepens.
"So," Blue continues, "even if it could help you understand you and your dad, you won't go talk to them."
Ronan shrugs. "Nope."
"Why you close-minded — "
"Jane," Gansey cuts in. "Ronan."
"I am being perfectly fucking civil." Ronan says, simply.
"You're being medieval." Gansey replies. "Multiple studies have suggested that clairvoyance lies in the realm of science, not magic."
Mercy frowns. Circe King has always said that those who dared to the meddle of the future lie in a realm of evil. A magic that shouldn't be pushed. But she recognises the hypocrisy within those words. Faintly, Mercy registers herself pressing a finger to her nose. Her cupid's bow is dry. The Sargent women could be more helpful to Ronan than he's willing to recognise. She's already too far gone, but Ronan still has a chance.
"Blue and Gansey are right." Mercy hears her own voice but doesn't feel herself talking. "This could help you."
"Come on, man." Ronan says. He looks at Gansey.
Gansey pushes himself up. "Come on, man, yourself. We're all aware here that Cabeswater bends time. You yourself somehow managed to write on that rock in Cabeswater before any of us ever got there. Time's not a line. It's a circle or a figure out or a goddamn Slinky. If you can believe that, I don't why you can't believe that somebody might be able to glimpse something father along the Slinky."
Ronan blinks, searching Gansey's expression. Mercy remains quiet. She's never seen an expression like it; the face of admittance. His eyebrow unfurls itself, eyes slightly softer as they peer at Gansey. It's at this point that she realises, Ronan would do anything for Gansey.
"Whatever." He says, meaning he'll do it.
Gansey looks at Blue. "Happy, Jane?"
"Whatever." Blue parrots, meaning she is.
Mercy raises her mug to her lips, gulping a mouthful of coffee. She has no idea what just happened.
Mercy stands in front of 300 Fox Way for the second time that week and frowns. Her arms crossed against her chest, she forehead furrows. Music pumps through her headphones and the cord connected to her phone, filtering out background noise. But it leaves her alone in her thoughts. There's no cracks in this home—a maze of shadows to get lost within. It's warm, thumping with an inviting beat. And Mercy's never been more nervous. The anxiety churns in the pit of her stomach, lingering like a heavy oil. Gansey taps her shoulder twice. She sucks in a breath, apprehensive to part with the barrier between her and the rest of the world. But at a look from Blue, Mercy pulls off her headphones, letting them fall around her neck. The redhead's expression is blank, but her teeth tear at the inside of her mouth. She bleeds.
Ronan, Gansey and Mercy follow quietly behind Blue as she manoeuvres the blue house with the expertise that only somebody who lives there could have. In her hands, the Sargent girl holds the box from the table at Nino's. They bypass the living room immediately, squeezing themselves into the doorway of a strange looking room involving cats, a phone, sewing supplies and a woman hanging from purple silk by the strength of her thigh. Needless to say, Mercy's slightly impressed.
"We need your advice." Blue says, abrasive as ever.
"I'm sure you do," the woman's voice is low, a wave of smooth whiskey against Mercy's ears. It does little to soothe her nerves; silky and intimating. "Ask your question."
"Are you sure you can think that way?" Gansey asks, politely, referring to the woman's upside down state.
"If you're doubting me," the woman snaps, "I don't see why you're here."
Mercy sneers. "Nobody's doubting you. Don't get your panties in a twist."
Quietly, Gansey and Blue whisper to each other, things that Mercy can't catch. Her hands itch and she looks down to her skin, stained with grey flecks of Tywyll. Resentment chills her blood and it takes every piece of strength within her wiry frame to not dig the nail of her thumb into her skin.
"Calla," Blue's voice breaks through Mercy's thoughts. Calla, so that's the woman's name. "It's about Ronan."
"Which one's he again?" Calla readjusts the silk around her thigh, her back to the teenagers. "The pretty one?" Who's the pretty one? Mercy thinks. Gansey and Blue exchange a glance. The woman continues to turn. "The Coca-Cola shirt?"
Adam Parrish. Mercy snorts, thinking about the worn, red Coca-Cola shirt that she'd seen before on off-days in summer. Before they all knew each other and Mercy forced herself into their lives.
"The snake," Ronan growls.
Mercy nearly flinches. Chainsaw squawks from Ronan's shoulder, a menacing hunch of black as Calla finishes her turn. They stare at each other—the long moment drawn out and ominous. Mercy can't pick the thoughts behind either of their expressions: Ronan's mouth a firm, harsh line and shark-like eyes narrowed, his tattoo peaks from the collar of his shirt. He's a creature of dreams. And Calla, the arch of her eyebrow giving away her interest while attempting to be dismissive. Mercy finds herself shuffling forward, taking the spot beside Ronan. Together they stand, red and black against the patchwork of Fox Way's room—the two dreamer's, narrowed and sharp, against the rest of the world around them.
"I see," Calla says finally. "What sort of advice do you need, Snake?"
"My dreams."
Calla's expression falls into dismissive, spinning with the tension of the silk once again. "Persephone's the one you'll want for dream interpretation. Have a nice life."
Like a flaming crow on his shoulder, Mercy straightens her spine, stepping close to the Lynch brother. Chainsaw caws as Mercy grins. It's dangerous, and oddly violent for the little blue house on Fox Way. But everything about her is polarising. Red-hair flashes underneath the room's light, and Ronan's shaved head tips. Mercy and Ronan move in sync, like Siamese twins snapping their gnashing teeth.
"Now, now," Mercy drawls, lip quirked and dangerous, "don't count us out just yet."
"They'll interest you." Ronan says.
"More than you realise," Mercy adds.
Her smile grows, jagged and full of teeth as Calla faces them, stretching out her leg. Blue makes a noise, irritated, striding across the room with two steps and pressing the strange box to Calla's cheek. The wood is cold against Calla's skin. She stops spinning, slowly righting herself. It's a graceful movement, silk soft against her body.
"Why didn't you say so?" She says.
Mercy and Ronan share a glance before answering in tandem. "We did."
Calla's lips purse. "Something you should know about me, Snake, I don't believe anyone."
Chainsaw hisses, and Mercy's lip curls. Ronan levels Calla's gaze with his own. "Something you should know about me. I never lie."
Mercy remains by Ronan's side for the entirety of the conversation, a guardian angel of bright red. She itches, picking at her skin. The grey flecks turn scarlet and raw as she digs her thumbnail in, enough to feel something but not enough to draw blood. Blue glances to her and Mercy pulls her nail from her skin, stuffing her hands into the pocket of her oversized hoodie. Calla continues her feats in aerial yoga, curving and stretching her limbs to conform with the positions.
"All of these things are still a part of you." She says. "To me, they feel precisely the same as you feel. Well, mostly. They're like your nail clippings. So they all share the same life as you. The same soul. You're the same entity. So when you die, they'll stop."
Lips pursed, Mercy frowns. Does this mean her and Illusion share the same soul? An uncomfortable feeling pangs at the beating of her heart. Will it take her death to kill them?
"Stop? Not die themselves?" Gansey asks.
Calla's body turns upside down. "When you die, your computer doesn't die, too. They never really lived like you're thinking of life. It's not a soul that's animating them. Take away the dreamer and — they're a computer waiting for input."
Like the collection of trinkets, monsters and things at Siken Lane, hidden from view in the attic.
"So my mother is never going to wake up." Ronan says.
Mercy's frown deepens.
Calla frees her hands, pulling herself upright. "Snake, hand me that bird."
"Don't squeeze." Ronan says, folding Chainsaw's wings against her body.
Chainsaw bites Calla's finger. A snort slips from Mercy as the woman snaps at Chainsaw.
"Careful, chickadee. I bite, too." Calla says to Chainsaw, smile razor-sharp. She looks at Blue. "Blue."
Wordlessly, Blue rests a hand on Calla's knee. There's a long moment of silence where they just watch, and Mercy's skin itches restlessly. She needs out, feeling constricted without her headphones around her ears and inside an amplified home. Illusion is nowhere to be seen, but Mercy can still feel them like a thread, tugging against her own string.
Calla's eyes snap open, she smiles again. "What have you done, Snake?"
Ronan remains silent. Any answer would be a lie, and he is not a liar. Silence is never the wrong answer. Calla passes the bird to Blue, who tries to calm Chainsaw for a moment before placing her back into the safety of Ronan. Chainsaw glares, cawing with contempt and nesting into the bare skin of his neck.
"Here's the deal," Calla begins. "Your mother was a dream. Your fool father took her out — what, there aren't enough women in the world without making one? — and now, she has no dreamer. You want her back, she has to go back in a dream."
She returns to rotating, limbs stretching and catching themselves in a variety of complicated positions. Mercy isn't watching, nails digging into her skin as she thinks. The obvious answer is for Ronan to create something, mould a place for his mother to exist between the border of alive and breathing. Another, is somewhere they've already been.
"The forest," Mercy says quietly.
"Cabeswater is a dream." Ronan voices.
Calla stops rotating.
"You don't have to tell me I'm right." Ronan says, almost snidely.
Silence is never the wrong answer. Calla stares.
Gansey taps his foot against the floor, eager and impatient. "I guess we really do have to get Cabeswater back, then."
Blue tilts her head at Calla. "Any ideas?"
"I'm not a magician," Calla says. Blue spins her, and she laughs, the sound bouncing against the walls, disgustingly pleased and equally filthy. She points at Ronan as he leaves. "But he is. Also, get rid of that mask. It's a nasty piece of work."
Mercy turns on her heel, moving out the doorway to follow the other teens. Gansey and Blue walk together, a step behind Ronan in the hall.
"And Little Spider."
The redhead stops in her tracks, hand on the doorframe. She turns, whirling on Calla with bared teeth. "How do you know that name?"
Calla laughs again, bold in the face of a nightmare. She doesn't answer the question. "Come back when you're ready, Little Spider. And bring the locket."
She continues to spin, leaving Mercy speechless and left behind.