Read Online Mercy by Alissa York - Free Book Online Page B

becoming translucent, a bony lampshade lending warmth to the lunar chill.
    Corrosive
. The semen is eating his flesh.
    He throws the covers aside and leaps to his feet, the offending member thrust out before him, its clumsy brother fumbling at the knob of the door. Three leaping strides and he’s in the bathroom, wrenching wildly at the grey-trunked faucet marked
H
. The tap belches and spits, then blasts a brownish stream. His good hand becomes a vise, closing to hold the other down while the temperature rises through pleasure to blistering pain. The hand turns a dangerous shade. Still he holds it under, defying all instinct, burning himself good and clean.
THE CURVE OF A DRUG
    Halfway across the crowberry patch, Castor freezes, listening hard. After a moment it comes again—an unmistakable bumbling, a feathery-legged shuffle in the scrub. He grins. There isn’t a rock or a good-sized stick within reach, so he pulls the mickey from his belt and smacks it against his palm.
    “Fool hen,” he calls softly. “Foo-oool hen.”
    True to its name, the fool hen pokes its head out from behind a nearby spruce, flashing the red eye patch of a male.
    “Hey, buddy,” Castor croons, “it’s only me.” He advances slowly, gripping the bottle around its neck. “You trust ol’ Castor, huh?” The bird blinks at him. “Maybe that ain’t such a good idea.” Two feet from it now, he halts. “Sorry, buddy.” The bottle comes cracking down. Castor remains bowed over the fallen bird, staring deep into his mickey, unable to move.
    His eye settles in the arc of a morphine vial. St. Mary’s housekeeper sits propped up in bed, worrying something shiny in her hands. At first Castor thinks
rosary
, but as the necklace slips her grasp, he catches sight of a fine gold chain, then a hinged heart the colour of a new penny. She opens her mouth in what must be a cry of frustration, snatching it back up from the quilt.
    He knows the locket well. His eye landed there once, saw naked poplars through the rectory’s kitchen window, watched the housekeeper’s raw hands plunge into the steaming dishpan, the niece’s pale arm reach in close for a teacup to dry.
    The housekeeper’s lips move in a muttered curse or prayer. The little heart’s a tadpole in her fingers, a determined, slithery force. Finally, she gives up on her hands and wedges it like a nut between her teeth. It surprises her, springing open in two shallow halves. Only one side holds a picture, too small for Castor’s eye to make out. She gazes at it for a moment, then begins picking at its edge with her nail.
    In an instant he’s back in the bog. The fool hen lies senseless at his feet, its black breast turned to the sky.
HIS SUFFERING
    “Take them.” Vera shoves the only jewellery she owns into Mathilda’s hands. “Take them now.” Her eyes narrow. “That way I know for certain they’ll go to you.”
    Both chains are simple, plated gold. The locket is red gold, smooth and strangely plain. It pales beside the crucifix, white gold and fully two inches long, the hanging Christ so finely wrought Mathilda can make out the stringy muscles of His thighs, the heart-rending hole in His side. She lowers the Cross onto its back in her palm, the way the soldiers must’ve lowered it after He died. Stroking Him tenderly with the tip of her finger, she looks up to find Vera’s eyes have glazed over with the drug.
    Mathilda unclasps the thin chain at her neck and lays her confirmation crucifix aside. Vera’s is so much more solid—somehow deeply adult. She tucks it inside her dress, feels its cool back meet her skin.
    It swoops forward as she bends over the little book.
A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me
. She smiles crookedly.
He shall lie all night betwixt my breasts
.
AGNUS DEI
(
lamb of god
)
    Her eyes are mirrored signals flashing code from the pews. Try as he might to look elsewhere, August meets them upon entering, and again after the Gloria’s adoring