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14 a smile made for war
Mercy made herself at home in the passenger seat of the BMW. St. Agnes looms in the distance, an unwelcome opening of arms. She digs her elbows into the seat material, headphones pressing against the skin of her neck. Mercy is restless. She still feels as if vines are wrapping around her legs, a phantom touch. Ronan glances at her, one hand on the wheel and the other on his gearshift. She sighs, nose inching out the open window and her hair whipping against the wind. Ronan presses a button, it closes slowly, forcing Mercy to pull her head away. She scowls. They haven't talked about it yet: the vines or the Gray Man.
"I've never done that before." Mercy says. "I didn't know I could."
Ronan tightens his hand on the steering wheel. "Where did they go?"
Mercy shrugs. "I don't think they were real."
"Felt like it," Ronan remarks snidely.
"I think they're like our dream things." Mercy says, ignoring his comment. "But they don't last. Like maybe I can hold it for small periods of time. But it costs a lot."
"Of Cabeswater?"
Shaking her head, Mercy replies. "No. Of me. At least I think so."
"How do we test it?" Ronan questions.
"We don't." Mercy says. Her nose presses against the window, fogging the glass. She thinks, fingers on her sternum and vines still crawling around her Achilles Heel. Lips pursing, Mercy focuses on the weight on her chest where her locket should be. The string pulls so taut it snaps. Flashes of silk and long contorting limbs play like a movie on the glass of the window. She intakes a sharp breath. Calla. Come back when you're ready, Little Spider. And bring the locket. "But I think I know how we can find out."
