Table of Contents

Flaunt Your Chains

Forenote

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Other Books

Extended Content Description

Copyright

HOW TO

FLAUNT YOUR CHAINS

AND SURRENDER

A VEIN

Guides for Dating Vampires

Book Four

D.N. Bryn

This book depicts harm done to animals/pets (but no pet death), as well as extensive conversations and grief surrounding the traumatic deaths of family members.

For more details, see the back of the book.

To those who feel, too strongly and too often, who feel differently or in all the wrong ways, who box it up and who lose control of it, who feel at levels too overwhelming and complicated for words. I hope in these pages you find some of the words to some of what you feel.

With special thanks to Sami and Valerie Aethra for helping me better represent Rahil’s cultural heritage.

1

RAHIL

Rahil had expected to spend the day alone.

The scowl that his one-night stand pointed at him from across the man’s living room was disappointing but not surprising. Not even unwarranted, if Rahil was being honest.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” Well that was a bit rude of—of—god, what was his name again? Rahil could remember the taste of the human’s blood—tart to the point of sour—but not the handle he’d used on the dating app. Hookup app, really. The dating occasionally came after, and never for Rahil.

Still, he grinned his most winning smile, his fangs out, and fiddled with his long, dark hair in a way that had made the sour man growl delicious things into his ear last night, things that included a fair amount of the word “fuck” and then dangling an offer of blood if Rahil pleased him. Rahil had certainly pleased the man then.

Now it seemed, not so much.

“It’s day, if you haven’t noticed. The sun isn’t good for my complexion.” Rahil had spent a not-insignificant amount of time in the daylight in his over thirty-five years as a vampire, and he wondered if the dusty brown of his Indian heritage kept him a little safer than his more stereotypical paler counterparts, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t still die from too heavy a dose of sun-poisoning.

“Is that my problem?” The man looked less handsome in the bright light of the late morning, an aggressive twist to his mouth and a hollowness to his gaze that Rahil had missed before—or not cared to look too closely for. “You had all night to leave.”

Rahil was pretty certain they’d finally collapsed at about three in the morning, which was technically not all night. He had chosen to stay, though, his exhaustion and soreness and post-climax hormones finally enough to carry him away for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. If this was the price he paid, yet again, then so be it.

It was better than the alternative, Rahil told himself. He would take sharp words and a clear dismissal over the gentle excuse of having things to do that day and the casual promise of a text that never came. That wasn’t entirely fair; occasionally an offer of a second meeting did come. Rahil felt worse about those, because then it was him doing the letting down. Better they part ways now than later.

Rahil groaned, shoving his loose hair back. He hadn’t even had time to braid it. “Fine, let me get my coat.”

The man stiffened, and the shift in his stance revealed the cell phone in his hand. He held it like a weapon. Where Rahil was concerned, it was three clicks and a police siren away from being one.

“Would you be kind enough to grab it for me?” Rahil asked it like each word was a piece of fine porcelain. This man had wanted him to feel subjugated last night—maybe that would be enough to buy Rahil’s safety now. “It’s in the bedroom. On the floor, I think. Please.” His ass hurt, suddenly, and not in the nice, tender reminder of a night well spent, but a far more intrusive sensation.

For a moment, it seemed like the man might still object, but then slowly, one backward step at a time, he moved toward the bedroom. He reemerged with Rahil’s coat, shoving the old, full-length expanse of dramatic gray folds at Rahil’s chest hard enough to make him sway. Rahil spun, diving out the door before even bothering to put the coat on.

Sunlight streamed across the apartment building’s second story landing, and while Rahil knew he wouldn’t feel the effects of it for at least half an hour, he still scrambled to cover his thin white top. He looked slightly less like a stereotypical vampire this way—but only slightly. From the heels of his boots to the tight waist of his leather pants and the ruffles that tumbled around his pearl chokers, his whole attire screamed incoming: not normal, caught somewhere between fantastical pirate and Victorian goth, and entirely too warm for the current weather.

Despite the already sweltering summer morning, he buttoned his coat to his neckline, pulled his hood low and shoved his hands into his pockets, jogging to the shade of the trees that lined the street. Seeing this part of town—his old neighborhood, only a mile from the place he’d settled with his ex-wife to watch their boys grow up—slowly transform from quaint lower- and middle-class neighborhoods around tattoo parlors and family-run businesses to this artsy brand of boutiques and extravagant coffee shops had been killing him, but at least they maintained a lush landscaping. It was a pity they’d mysteriously only acquired the money for such manicured vegetation once they’d pressed the original residents towards its edges.

Rahil pulled out his phone—newly refurbished by himself. It was still at sixty-three percent. Very nice.

He checked his bank account, then his slew of taxi apps—how could such a short ride possibly cost that much at 10am—and back to his bank account, chewing on his lower lip. It was five miles to his house on the edge of the city. With his vampiric speed, he could make that at a sprint before the sun-poisoning caught up to him. Probably.

One of his nieces had sent him another hope your day is desi! gif over his email, which he quickly marked as unread again. He still had to figure out how to answer the family reunion chat in a way that opted him out of it without implying that he didn’t love or support them. Even then, he’d probably still get every auntie and all three of his siblings and his father complaining that he’d missed the last two. The thought made his bank account feel all the more empty.

Before he flipped his phone away, Rahil quickly skimmed his favorite dating app. He had a new message from an icon of a bare chest that read I think your fangs are really sexy and another with tell me where you’ll be tonight so I can fucking stake you. He’d accept both once he was home, on the off chance the latter thought he was making a hilarious dick reference and didn’t actually intend to murder any vampires. Ignorant asshole blood could sate his hunger just as well as anything else.

There was no response from the one match he really wanted to hear from, though.

Not that he’d imagined the man—Merc, as his profile stated—was likely to respond after ghosting Rahil’s every attempt to start a conversion. But Merc also hadn’t unmatched him. Rahil had stopped initiating, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the deed either.

Bare-chests one and two were nice and all, even if half of them turned out to be as distasteful as last night’s hookup in the morning, but Merc was the kind of man who didn’t need the shirtless pictures and sexual poses to convince Rahil’s body they were made to fit each other. What of his brown skin he did show was slightly pudgy over thick musculature and dotted with the occasional mole, his curls tucked back by a different vibrantly patterned bandana in every image—god, just by his pictures, Rahil knew he’d taste divine. It was his eyes that really caught Rahil, though, dark and deep and lovely as the night.

Intoxicating.

And unlikely to ever message Rahil back.

Maybe it was the fangs in Rahil’s third profile pic or the ‘favorite pickup line’ he’d used for his voice prompt—If I accidentally called you Daddy, would I get spanked?—or the fact that all he’d written in his description was tallest twink you’ll ever dom, while Merc had used words like hiking and creative soul and emotional connection. What did it matter, though? Rahil shoved his phone away and took off at a sprint, holding his hood up with one hand.

It didn’t matter.

However hot any of the humans Rahil let fuck him were, however good they tasted, it would be over in the morning. Maybe he could have gotten one really nice night with Merc, the kind he’d recollect in the way he still sometimes thought about his ex-wife when she’d ridden him, her hands gripping into his hair and a thin line of blood oozing from her abandoned neck bite. But it would still just be one night, and then it would be gone. Merc was clearly more interested in where a hookup might lead, and Rahil wasn’t interested in leading anyone anywhere. Not anymore.

Nonezo daddo, as his sons would have called it when they were trying to avoid eating their vegetables.

Even all these years later, the hollow space in Rahil’s chest still caught at the thought of them. He pushed it aside, focusing on the burning of his muscles and the sweat dripping down his back as he ran from shade to shade, dashing a sun-laden shortcut through one of the many micro-cemeteries that had made the city of San Salud famous. At least these ones, so near the edge of the city, were fresher, more for show than anything else—unlike the tragic ruins nearer the lakefront boardwalk, where the dead of decades of sanatoriums had been buried. If Rahil had been born just fifty years prior, he probably would have wound up locked in one of those for his eccentricities alone.

Not to mention the pansexuality. Or the fangs.

There were enough people out enjoying their Saturday morning that Rahil caught stares and whispers, but he pressed on. They could gossip about having seen a vampire fleeing the sun all they wanted, so long as he got home in one piece.

That was seeming less and less likely, though. Five intersections away from the last strip of slowly gentrifying shops, he was already feeling the effects of the light in an uncomfortable buzz that started deep in his bones. If he could just find a place to lie low for a few hours, maybe wait out the hottest part of the day…

The neighborhoods between here and his house were strictly residential, though, scattered homes built in a variety of styles over many years, interspersed by the remaining patches of sparse forest that had once surrounded his own lot like a blanket for acres. As the pain settled into his muscles, dropping him from a sprint to a lopsided jog, he searched for anything vacant and even halfway-shaded. His legs began to shake. If only he wasn’t so tired and old and—There.

Behind the house three down stood a massive barn-like structure, its windows shuttered. The lot looked quiet, but Rahil still skirted it with the utmost caution, his heart jumping into his throat at the bark of a dog from inside the cute single-story house. No one came out, though, and he rounded the barn to find a massive rolling door. It refused to budge, but the wooden shutter in the window at the top of its peaked roof was cracked open, with enough of a rim that Rahil managed to scramble up the door and leap for it, pulling himself up and over.

His arms shook, and for a moment he just perched there in the shade and the cool air—this barn had to have fantastic insulation—and opened the buttons of his coat enough to waggle the fabric, fanning the sweat he’d been building beneath his shirt. The position he was holding did not agree with his growing pain and shakes, and with a quick glance down at the assortment of craft benches and cupboards, he found a clear spot to leap to. And he leapt.

But he didn’t land.

As Rahil fell toward the ground, something wrapped around his legs, then his arms, catching him mid-drop. Suspended in the air with both ankles behind him and head level, Rahil twisted and pulled, his panic growing when each tug failed to free him, instead launching new—cords? They were thick as ropes, silver and malleable, but they moved with a mind of their own, wrapping around his torso and thighs. Were they getting tighter too?—oh god, he couldn’t tell. He had to stop—he had to stop struggling.

Stop struggling.

And just breathe.

Just breathe.

The inch-thick silver metal cords weren’t tightening, he decided, and now that his flailing had ended, they weren’t multiplying anymore either. But they were still there, hanging down from a mechanism in the ceiling and locking Rahil in place. He dangled from them, supported mostly by his hips and chest, with his knees bent to different degrees and one arm caught above his head. He felt like a shibari-entrapped prey in the middle of this bizarre barn of—fuck, were those torture devices?

No—no, they could just as soon be ordinary tools. They lined the wall above the work bench directly in front of Rahil, small instruments with points and blades, ranging from delicate, needle-sharp to broad, serrated saws. Anyone might have reason to own a display of various sized metal implements, some with blades. Anyone who also equipped their barn with traps.

Fuck.

Rahil didn’t dare twist to check the room for other potentially painful apparatuses, but through the gloom of the barn, a little too dark for his day vision and a little too bright to kick his night vision into full functionality, he could make out the points and curves and edges of other devices on the tables and shelves to his left. In his increasingly tense state, their shadows seemed ominous: the trophies of a serial-killer or the technology of a hunter.

He had no reason to jump to conclusions, he reminded himself, trying to suppress the steadily increasing beat of his own heart.

Except that he did.

Between the ropes and the blades, Rahil’s mind went to the same frazzled, antsy place it did with every new media update over the last few months. The danger within the city had been all over the news in an unending cycle of Vitalis-Barron: vampire hunters?, the ending a question mark, as though the world hadn’t been handed full proof of the pharmaceutical company’s villainy on a silver platter. Despite being unveiled, they were still out there, still performing their terrible deeds in the midst of what would surely turn into a legal battle soon, with PR conferences and statements and protests abounding on all sides. Amidst the chaos, those who hated vampires had grown even louder, their bigotry stoked from a spark to a wildfire.

And like a tragic cherry on top, Rahil had heard rumors that Vitalis-Barron was using this hatred to contract out their hunting.

To people like this. People with sheds full of weapons and chains, who could dismember a vampire and sell them the pieces. Rahil could almost feel the pressure of those deadly instruments carving across his own skin, adding exponentially to the growing pain caused by his time in the sun.

The cords that held him in place suddenly felt tighter again. As his lungs began to clench in panic, he tried to remember just how many good people in the city were currently raising their voices to combat its evils. But clearly no amount of allies could save Rahil from his own stupidity.

Fear lodged itself deep in his throat, so thick and dark it became indistinguishable from the shaking pain of his sun-poisoning.

Rahil was going to die here. He was going to die here, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be alone for it.

2

MERCER

Mercer had not expected to spend the day alone. The scowl his daughter was sending him across the kitchen table, though, told him he had to revise his Saturday plans.

“I thought we were going to do something fun?” he ventured anyway. “Go to the lake? If you’re feeling well enough, I could rent us a canoe.”

With an air fit for a 14th century general instead of a pale, freckle-faced middle schooler shoveling down a bowl of cereal, her dark braids crammed into a beanie, Lydia replied, “I’m busy.”

Mercer had eaten his own breakfast hours ago, but he picked at a few of the cereal’s marshmallows from the center of his palm. “You sleep in until all hours of the morning and then you’re busy?”

She didn’t even look up. “Yup.”

He had a sneaking suspicion that she was mad at him again, and try as he might, he couldn’t figure out why. “Puck, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Dad.” This time she did glance at him, just long enough for her dark eyes to meet his with a gaze so sharp and deep that Mercer couldn’t help but see her mother in it more and more often. That scared him in ways he wasn’t ready to admit to himself. Lydia snorted. “I just want to hang out with my friends—is that like a crime now or something?”

“Or something,” Mercer grumbled, and maybe he had meant it to be funny, but maybe at the same time he hadn’t, and it came out with a bitter edge he regretted instantly. He was the adult—the only adult Lydia had. He was not supposed to be arguing with his own daughter. Even if she was being an absolute pill for no apparent reason. But he couldn’t help her if she wasn’t willing to talk to him about it. Mercer sighed. “Have fun with your friends, then.”

He shoved the last few marshmallows into his mouth as he stood. They were undesirably sweet suddenly, little memories of days that seemed like a different lifetime. Who had he been when he’d sorted the pink marshmallows out of their cereal with an eight-year-old Lydia because she had learned that the pink food dye was made from bugs? It felt like just heartbeats earlier that he’d tossed similar pieces at her mother as they fed the fussy toddler, calling her The Puck for the first time. He swore a moment before that he’d been on his second date with Leah, where she’d told him she often ate cereal for dinner and they’d left their prestigious restaurant reservations for two bowls on her couch, his head in her lap as she tried to land marshmallows in his mouth.

When had those days slipped so far into the past? It felt as though there was nothing he could have done to stop the progression, and yet he was the one left hurting for it.

He, and his daughter, who’d gone back to ignoring him like it came as easy to her as breathing now.

Mercer threw out one last-ditch life preserver. “I guess I’ll just be paddleboarding by myself, while crying about uneaten movie popcorn. All alone. No one to save me from the Lake Ness Monster.”

He hoped their inside joke would buy him an extra moment of her attention. They’d been out on the lake the first time he’d made it, four—or was it five?—years ago, Lydia bouncing in front of him as he’d paddled their canoe.

“This is a lake, Dad. Lochs are in Scotland and Ireland. They’re Gaelic.” She’d sounded like a general then too, come to think of it.

“Well, then it’s the Lake Ness Monster,” Mercer had replied, “and it’s coming to eat you!”

Lydia didn’t laugh or squeal now, but the way she rolled her eyes seemed a little softer than before. Less irritated, at least. “I thought it was sexist and only ate little girls.”

“I could be a little girl. You don’t know my gender.” Technically, he’d played around enough when Lydia was younger to be fairly certain his gender was a boring match to the one that had been labeled on his birth certificate. But imaginary sexist monsters didn’t have to know that.

“Gross, Dad. You’re a full-grown adult. You’d be a woman,” she complained, but her lips twitched as she got up and she hit the faucet long enough to drench her bowl, even if she left it in the sink after.

Mercer didn’t have the heart to remind her to stick it in the dishwasher—he still had his late night queso dishes “soaking”, so it would be hypocritical anyway.

He watched as Lydia snatched her med bag off the rack and shoved her feet into her boots without bothering to lace them, but as she reached the door, she glanced back, her lips a little crooked. “Later!”

“Be safe, Puck,” Mercer replied. “Stay out of the forest—and the cemeteries. Call me if you’re tired, or you feel a spell coming, or you just want to rest—anything. I’m always here if you need to be picked up!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The door didn’t slam, and that felt like a success. Every step she took away from the house still broke Mercer’s heart, the cracks bleeding with an anxiety that had lived there ever since the police officer had knocked on his door that night. He could still hear the crisp, cautious question, Is Leah Bloncourt your wife? The rest of their conversation might not have existed, besides a scattering of words: hospital won’t accept her. Transformation. Unfortunately. I’m sorry.

When Lydia was out of the house, there was still a part of him that panicked at every doorbell and phone call, as though this would be the one where he’d learn he’d lost his little girl irreversibly; that she’d had an accident, her meds had stopped working, someone from Vitalis-Barron’s research department had realized what she was and decided vampires weren’t the only species worth studying. It was an illogical fear. Her meds had been doing a fine job for years and no one would want to study a girl whose nonhuman qualities were constantly trying to kill her. And accidents…

Is Leah Bloncourt your wife?

They’d used up their family’s share of bad karma, hadn’t they?

Besides, Mercer was doing everything he possibly could to prevent anything like what had happened to Leah. He knew all his daughter’s friends and ensured their parents were aware of any emergency procedures; took loops around the neighborhood as a local watch; confirmed that every time she left the house, she took extra meds, water, electrolytes, anything she could possibly need, and never engaged in anything dangerous, never overexerted herself, always had a way to reach him if she needed it. This summer was the first time he feared she wasn’t taking those precautions seriously, though. Maybe he needed a phone tracking app…

No, he didn’t want to be that parent.

But if something happened to her…

Mercer breathed in and out and tried to think of anything but her bloody and gruesome death. Instead, his mind just went right back to Leah. Oh, how things would have been different if she were still here. He wouldn’t have accidentally ended up with a dating app on his phone, that was for sure.

He knew, technically, how it had gotten there—too much gin and not enough club soda—right after finishing the reunion episode of his favorite reality dating show, which, based on how many of the couples had already split up, should really have had the opposite effect on his ideas of kindling a new love life. That was where the gin had come in. Seeing all the smiling faces on the app, though, with more bared skin than he thought he’d ever be comfortable presenting in return, he’d felt the courage of the alcohol slip out of him one left-swipe at a time.

Is this your future spouse? Each profile seemed to scream at him. He’d almost deleted it then and there.

Mercer leaned against the kitchen counter, fiddling with his phone before giving in and opening the app, like this time would actually grant him the conviction to press uninstall. Instead, it showed him a list of the reasons he’d kept it around: one short stream of messages from the only match in his inbox, completed by an icon of a devilishly grinning twink with sparkling brown eyes, a cascade of dark hair, and lean little fangs.

R. BabyCock

You say you like hiking huh? Well, you’re free to climb me any day of the week ;)

That was the dorkiest message I could have possibly sent, but I have no regrets.

I have one regret actually, because I think I’ve scared you off now. I do hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable; that was never my intention. I’m just a terrible flirt, who flirts terribly when people are out of his league.

Anyways, I will shut up before this becomes creepy on my end.

(But you can always reply, I’ll still be here.)

It was, in fact, terrible flirtation, and a little bit creepy considering the space of the timestamps meant that this “R” person had come back to add a response every few days, but it was also kind of sweet that it only got dorkier after the pickup line. Mercer would never meet R. BabyCock, and he didn’t have the guts to respond just to tell him so. He also didn’t have the guts to make his profile suddenly vanish.

Why the hell had he let himself sign up for this damn app in the first place?

From the living room, Kat made her adorably melancholic beagle bay at something in the backyard. Dam squirrels were probably trying to get into the birdfeeder again. He’d have to check it later.

Mercer closed the dating app. He didn’t delete it.

Instead he swiped around his phone a bit, checking on his socials—trying not to snoop too hard on Lydia’s in the process, though the fact that she hadn’t removed him as a follower yet felt like a win—and got distracted by an update video from one of the reality stars he’d hated in the last season of the survivalist dating show, Love Cabin, before he finally managed to work his way to his professional email. Mercer had a few new commission requests, which he opened one by one, taking a moment to consider the project’s complexity and his work schedule before accepting the first two and rejecting the third.

In the middle of his draft, a new email came through. The subject alone made his skin prickle. Holy Silver. He deleted it unread and prayed it would end at that. Too many people knew where he lived, and since the news had broken that Vitalis-Barron was—allegedly—employing hunters to bring vampires into their ‘totally legal’ voluntary research studies, somehow a lot more people also knew that Mercer had, years ago, made the holy silver that had wormed its way into those very hunter’s hands.

Well, they could all fuck off.

Mercer’s stomach twisted unhappily and a slight pounding started in the left side of his head. That brought an even unhappier churning to his gut. He breathed through it, scanning his body for signs that this wasn’t the start of a migraine. No, it seemed to be just a normal flare of anxiety. And maybe a headache. His blood sugar was probably fine after the marshmallows, but he hadn’t drunk his second glass of morning water.

Mercer shut off his phone and refilled his cup, downing it twice for good measure.

He had enough stress compounding in his life as it was; he didn’t need added triggers like screen time and dehydration creeping up on him. What he actually needed was a vacation—one of the relaxing kinds where he got to sit in peace for two weeks and do absolutely nothing for the first time since before he could remember—but he’d just spent a year’s worth of vacation savings on a glass-maker’s gloryhole and Lydia’s fall term for the private school where he paid them enough to actually care about accommodating her medication routine and the side effects of fatigue and nausea it produced. The best vacation he was likely to get was a free Saturday to spend with his daughter. Now that Lydia had trashed that plan, Mercer already knew that instead of using the time to relax, he was going to be making up for the migraine that had taken him out of commission for half of Wednesday and most of Thursday.

That was how life worked. Shit happened to the people with the best of intentions, and they had to suffer through it to keep making money until they died. His grouchiness wasn’t entirely fair, he decided—his job was one of the few real joys he found in life, even if it came with a fair amount of toil and didn’t pay him for half of the effort he put in. Though, frankly, that was his own fault for not being willing to cater solely to rich folks.

He filled himself a water bottle the size of his head, topped off Kat’s breakfast, and changed into his work clothes. The t-shirt was no longer the white it had once been, marked by enough color stains and holes to be a tie-dye experiment gone wrong, but his cargo pants were in slightly better condition, and it wasn’t as though anyone but Lydia ever saw him in this outfit. He shoved back his natural curls with one of his dozen colorful bandanas, threw on his boots, and made his way into the backyard.

Kat tumbled out with him, tripping over herself to race through the yard, sniffing a path around Mercer’s barn-sized work shed at the back. The sight of her gleeful bounding never failed to bring Mercer joy. He caught her and gave her back a hardy scratch as she tried to barrel past him again, setting her back down with a chuckle as she waggled and bayed. She went right back to her snuffling.

There was no sign of squirrels, but one brave sparrow still pecked away at the feeder despite the presence of the hound cheerfully circling below. Kat was certainly interested in something, though. Something leading her awfully near the front door of the shed…

Mercer begrudgingly pulled back out his phone, entering the passcode on the shed’s security app and—oh. Well, fuck. According to his phone, the shed traps had been activated. His nerves lit up, his mind turning back to the holy silver email he’d deleted that morning and the dozen others like it that had been arriving for the last month.

“Kat,” he called, then whistled, letting the dog mournfully romp over to him before guiding her back into the house. His heart pounded, but he pulled the largest kitchen knife from its block with steady hands. “Stay here, girl.”

The yard felt strangely quiet without her meager protection, but Mercer held his weapon at the ready as he braced against the shed’s heavy rolling door. If Leah’s traps were still functional, then he was being overly cautious. And he’d never known something of Leah’s to break without warning. Still though…

He eased the door open, stepping into the shed with his knife raised and his senses alight, the thrum in his chest echoing in his ears. As he took in the sight before him, he could feel the beat of it change.

“Oh,” said the vampire hanging from the ceiling. “It’s you.”

3

RAHIL

Rahil’s sun-poisoning symptoms had faded since becoming entangled, but he was not sure what his nerves were attempting at this point. His heart pounded and his breathing was shallow, the back of his mind fighting away the thoughts of a slow, terrible death. And then there was his dick, doing things. Not a lot of the thing, thankfully, but enough to tell him it was fully prepared to offer far more if the circumstances allowed.

And Rahil thought, maybe, just for a moment, that if this man was the one who would kill him, that would be all right, actually.

“Huh,” Merc replied.

Because he was Merc. He had to be, just as tall and broad as his profile pictures but wielding that weight with a presence that was unavoidable in real life, the physicality of him a breathtaking thing that seemed to fill the room as fully as his rich, sweet scent, dragging Rahil’s gaze even as the man stepped cautiously around Rahil’s suspended body. It was harder to focus on the butcher’s knife in his hands when his dark eyes were there, staring at Rahil with a hard skepticism that tightened Merc’s thick but manicured brows and pinched the mole beside his nose. The thrum of Merc’s blood through his neck sounded like music to Rahil’s ears, a delicate song that made him salivate.

Rahil was not easily embarrassed, with his stereotypical vampire dress and his flamboyantly cheesy flirting—and he could no longer count all the people who’d seen him naked. But here, now, he was oddly conscious of the way his low-cut shirt had fallen over one shoulder during his entangling, the ruffles fluttering around his dark nipples and the smooth surface of his abs visible, his long, unbound hair draping like a veil behind him. He was conscious of something else as well.

“I know how this must look, but I swear it’s just a happy coincidence.” He tried to laugh at the end, but the knife Merc was still pointing at him turned the sound a bit too uncomfortable to be humorous.

“So, you’re not stalking me?” Merc sounded unconvinced. He stepped forward, and his blade lifted towards Rahil’s exposed chest.

Rahil wiggled on instinct, but the bindings only tightened again, the cords around his arm and one thigh growing painful. He forced himself to still, to just breathe. To not think about how close he was to death or how damn hot Merc was while threatening him. A tiny whimper still left him, something halfway between pathetic and turned on. “I really had no idea you lived here.”

He could feel the blade now, pressed against the base of his sternum with enough force that Rahil had to quiet his lungs, his whole body rigid. When Merc held his gaze, he thought he might fall into it. Fall and never get up again. “If you have come to threaten or steal from me…”

“I just needed out of the sun,” Rahil whispered, staring back like his life depended on it.

Merc grunted. He glared for another moment, then slowly withdrew the blade.

Rahil took his first full breath since the man had walked in. The comfort of it felt worse, somehow, than the depths of Merc’s attention. “Though if there was anyone worth stalking, it would be you.”

My god, had he just said that?

He had just said that.

Maybe he deserved to die, actually.

Merc turned back towards him with the same stony ferocity as before, and it felt like the deep shadow of night falling over Rahil’s sun-poisoned skin.

Rahil swallowed. “I’d be so very grateful if you didn’t kill me.”

That finally shocked a new reaction out of the man: confusion and then horror. Merc set the butcher’s knife on the bench below his assortment of equally terrifying looking tools and blades. “Why the hell would I kill you?”

Rahil raised a brow. He fought the urge to twist his arm where the cords now bit in overly tightly. “What else is this shed for, if not torturing unsuspecting vampires?”

Merc made a sound that might have been a laugh, gruff and tight and breathtaking. “I’m a craftsman. A metalsmith, primarily. A little carpentry, too, and some glass blowing when I get the chance.”

“Oh,” Rahil sassed, like he wasn’t tied up at a stranger’s mercy. “That’s a perfectly good reason to have a variety of sharp instruments all in a row.”

“Were you afraid I was going to stick one of them in you?”

“Depends on which end you plan to stick…” Rahil definitely deserved to die. If his family’s god was not preparing to smite him at that very moment, there was clearly no justice in the world.

Merc seemed to take it infinitesimally better, lifting one stoic brow at him. “You really are just like this?”

“A stupid, irrevocable flirt with no brain-to-mouth filter? Yes.” If nothing else, he would die how he lived: a terror. “And you are really just hot. Well, not just hot. I could offer many other synonyms.”

The effect of the statement on Merc was to raise his other brow. Then he lowered both. “At least that’s settled,” he said.

“Does that mean you’ll fuck me?” He knew the answer, but it was still worth a shot.

Merc sighed. “R. BabyCock—is that really your name?”

“It’s Rahil. Rahil Zaman.”

The gaze Merc leveled on him was magnificent, his voice low and both his hands holding firmly to the counter behind him as he leaned toward Rahil. “Rahil Zaman,” Merc said, “what I plan to do with you is absolutely nothing.”

That was worse than death, Rahil decided. “I’m all for bondage and denial, but a couple of these ropes are a little tight.” He wiggled his arm for emphasis despite knowing that would only worsen the problem. Or maybe he was the problem. He was always the problem.

“You did that to yourself,” Merc confirmed and turned his attention to his phone.

Rahil whimpered pathetically, because he could.

Merc lifted his brows, not looking up. “Oh, hush. I’m fixing it.”

And he was—a moment later Rahil could feel the bonds recalibrate. He settled into a stable pressure that allowed him to rotate both shoulders, his leg no longer pinched at the knee. A few extra cords slid into place, easing his weight off the areas that had begun to cramp and leaving him in a position more like a reverse-hammock than full-on shibari. Nothing else loosened. Rahil pouted. “I don’t get to come down?”

“Are you going to leave if I let you?”

“It’s sunny out,” Rahil protested.

Merc nodded and slid his phone away. “Then you’re not coming down. I have work to do and you’ll get in my way. Your foolish choices aren’t ruining my day.” He pulled a notebook from a shelf beneath his tool rack and walked deeper into the shed. “You can move now, though. They won’t tighten enough to hurt you.”

Rahil fidgeted, managing to turn his body towards the main workspace enough to see Merc again. “Most queer men would find a hot twink tied in a revealing position the opposite of a day-ruiner.” Though he knew a fair few who would have seen his fangs and decided otherwise.

“I’m not most queer men.”

“You’re not indeed,” Rahil agreed, running his gaze over Merc and wondering what it would be like to do the same with his mouth—what it would feel like to press his fangs into that glorious flesh. Fuck, the fabric of Merc’s shirt was so worn that the bright work lights revealed the outline of his strong body, toned and padded like he was made for a wiry figure to curl against his crevasses. When he donned a leather apron over his chest, the coverage only added to his intrigue.

The craft benches behind him confirmed Rahil’s not-like-other-men theory too.

With the lights on and his body no longer fighting through sun-poisoning, Rahil could make out the wide assortment of beautiful things in various stages of production displayed in an orderly fashion around the room. Merc hadn’t exaggerated when he’d called himself a carpenter, metalsmith, and glassblower—he probably could have thrown “jeweler” in and still not covered his full skill set. His creations ranged from the kinds of staffs and weapons Rahil associated with fantasy movies to little ornate figurines to… Oh god, did the poor man not know how much that statue resembled a dildo?

But no… As Rahil squinted across the room, he could make out what looked like another of them, metal and ridged, a conjoined series of ornately engraved metal beads of increasing sizes, and something very much like a human-sized collar.

“Someone’s kinkier than he looks.” Rahil grinned, purposefully rolling his lower lip between his teeth.

Merc seemed unphased. “They’re not for me.” He lifted the anal beads as he spoke, handling the toy like it was a prized trophy as he brought it to his cleared workstation. His gaze remained firmly on the piece, yet Rahil could feel the weight of his words like they were wrapping around him as securely as his bonds. “But if they were,” Merc added, “they’d be none of your business.”

Rahil tried not to grieve too much. He’d never expected this man to fuck him, much less with custom-made toys. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “I’m in your bondage contraption. That seems like my business.”

“It’s just a trap,” Merc contradicted. “And it’s my wife’s, not mine.”

His wife’s. It wasn’t the first time Rahil had hit on a married man, but he tried to reserve those for open relationships, and he hadn’t noticed anything mentioning ethical non-monogamy on Merc’s app profile. He felt his cheeks heat, the desire that had fueled his idiotic outbursts previously fading a little. “Oh, I—”

Tool paused in his grip, Merc glanced at him so harshly he shut up. “My late wife.”

“Oh,” Rahil repeated in a vastly different tone. He couldn’t read Merc’s stoic expression, but he knew from experience that losing someone you’d loved enough to marry wasn’t pleasant. He’d felt that pain himself twice over, and so many times since: when the rain came down in the summer and she wasn’t there to pull him into it, when someone misquoted a philosopher online and she didn’t rant to him about why they were wrong, or when the coral jasmine of her namesake bloomed across the street and he couldn’t tell her she was far more beautiful than any flower and laugh when she glared at him for it, her solemn scowl making him want for nothing more than to kiss her. Letting the love of your life go was as complicated as it was eternal.

“Now, if you’re done badgering me…”

“Right.” And Rahil did the thing he should have done ten flirtatious impositions ago and closed his mouth.

With the restraints imposing their stillness on him and the serenity of Merc’s slow but steady work of creation as he etched into the metal, the silence felt less restrictive than Rahil would have predicted, a gentle caress that made it easier to focus instead of harder. He let himself simply enjoy the sight of Merc, the bulging of his muscles and the fierce attention he gave to his projects. Rahil still wanted that attention for himself, but since he couldn’t have it, this, he was certain, was the second-best thing.

Merc treated his projects with an intense devotion, seeming to forget that Rahil was there in favor of his strong fingers drifting over his work and his precise measuring and choosing of tools. He’d take lengths of time to lean over his sketchbook, diagramming out a dozen ideas before he so much as touched the half-finished object. There was something impossible about the way he worked, his lines too smooth and his materials bending to his will when Rahil swore they should not have.

How Rahil would have loved to be the thing that gave way beneath those hands, if only for an hour or two.

But he’d known this wouldn’t work. He’d known, and he let himself dream of it anyway, which was his own fault—a mistake he’d made once before in his life and would never stop regretting, not until the day they placed his tombstone next to the three others that shared a name with him, leaving his ghost to forever beg for their forgiveness.

What he tried not to think too hard about was the question of why Merc didn’t have any interest in him. He’d swiped right after all, despite the fangs in Rahil’s profile—fangs Rahil hadn’t bothered retracting in years, much less for their earlier conversation. But maybe Merc hadn’t glanced through all the photos before swiping. Maybe it was Rahil’s flirting that was not to his taste. Maybe it was something else entirely.

Dwelling on it was tiring. As the sun moved, and the ornate pendulum clock on the back wall shifted from eleven to twelve to one, he felt his normal exhaustion creeping back in, the little sleep he’d managed to steal last night wearing off. The fatigue dragged at his bones, bit at his edges, lay in his mind like a fog he had to constantly shake off. Finally, he found himself yawning, as though his body were asking permission from his brain for a slumber it refused to allow.

Merc glanced up at him. His brow furrowed. “You doing all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Rahil stretched his back, twisting his shoulders into a new position, and the cords moved with him like they knew what he wanted of them. “This would truly make fantastic bondage gear, you know. It’s a joy to hang in. Only three of my fingers have gone numb.”

“Three of your fingers are numb,” Merc repeated, looking mortified. He stood.

“It’s hardly the first time,” Rahil grumbled. But he couldn’t dislike the way Merc moved toward him, each step so sure that it seemed he was trading one project for another.

Before the man could touch Rahil’s cords though, a deep, masculine shout came from outside. Merc froze.

Rahil could feel the sudden force of the man’s tension so strongly it took hold inside him as well, tugging back up the fear he’d felt before Merc’s arrival. There were terrible people in the city, people who were louder and more aggressive than ever since the reveal of Vitalis-Barron’s vampire experimentations. Just because Merc hadn’t been that villain didn’t mean one wouldn’t appear.

By the way Merc glowered at the sound of the approaching voice, he certainly believed that could be the case.

As the caller came nearer, his words crystalized, his tone jovial in a way that sent chills up Rahil’s skin.

“Mercer Bloncourt!” the intruder shouted, “Let’s have this holy silver, eh?”

4

MERCER

Mercer wasn’t alone for the morning after all. It had been almost nice to have his quiet day bombarded by the very vampire he’d matched with, hanging from the ceiling in a disastrously risqué position, but that single rush of fear and the feeling of violation that Rahil had caused had been more than enough—he didn’t need this one, too. At the sound of his own name shouted across his yard, the internal tremble returned to his hands. He could almost feel an impaling in his chest as the demand followed.

Holy silver.

Let’s have it, eh?

Mercer should have prepared better for this, but if he were capable of foreseeing the future, he’d never have watched Leah leave the house alone that night, waved and smiled as she pressed her red hair into a ponytail, not thinking for a moment about what veins she might be exposing. He grabbed the butcher’s knife again, the feel of it fitting right back into his fingers as though it and his anxiety had never left.

“Merc—” Rahil started, the fear on his face a direct correlation to what bloomed in Mercer’s chest, but Mercer cut him off.

“I’ll be back.”

Maybe he should have let the poor vampire down, but he was already pushing open the shed door just enough to shove his bulk out and closing it behind him. It locked automatically.

Not a moment too soon either, as the threatening customer—if he was even offering to pay for this metal—stormed toward the shed. He pulled up short at the sight of Mercer’s butcher knife. His hand went to the belt at his waist, where a large pocket knife had been clipped.

“Get off my property,” Mercer hissed. He had no room for games, his panic still coiled in his chest like a snake prepared to strike. Kat bayed from the back door.

The intruder seemed to size him up—they appeared about the same age despite the silver already taking over the other man’s full head of hair, but Mercer had to weigh twice as much, and he was a foot taller, his reach longer. It would take the man two motions to draw his knife, and in that time Mercer could—could what, stab him? He didn’t want to think about that.

He wanted the intruder to leave and never come back.

“Is that normally how you introduce yourself to a paying customer?” The man smiled, and he held his hand out. “William Douglas. I’m friends with a few of your former clients. I’d like to talk with you about acquiring a batch of holy silver.”

Mercer did not smile back and neither did he lower his knife. “I’m not in that business anymore.”

“You’re still a smith, clearly,” William replied, his voice smooth and bright as the metal he was asking after. “How much effort would it take to go back to it this once? A single batch is all I’m asking. I can make it worth your time.”

Mercer scowled. “I am not fueling whatever war you’re waging.” He thought of the flashes of Vitalis-Barron splattered across the news: allegations of hunters and torture. Whether William Douglas was one of theirs, a member of the vocal anti-vampire groups who’d risen up in their defense since the first exposé, or simply someone fueled by their rhetoric, he was still part of the problem.

William’s brow tightened. “I just want to protect what’s mine.”

Mercer shuddered as the justification hit a little too close to home—to the pleas that had gotten him into that godforsaken business in the first place. What if your wife had left the house with holy silver on her? Maybe she would still be alive today.

He refused to think of her the way he had then, pale and sweat-lathered, her throat too raw to scream as they handed her into his arms. He refused, and he failed.

“No,” he said, through the pounding of his own blood in his ears.

William propped his hand on his hip. Too near to his knife. He was still smiling, wide as a predator. “You must have some left over? Whatever you have, I’ll pay well for it.”

“I’m not going to repeat myself.” Mercer could feel the way the words slid through his teeth, feel the anxiety that pushed him to step forward, butcher knife in front of him, because it was either that or flee entirely, though he wasn’t sure he’d choose either of those things. This, he did choose: “Get the hell off my property.”

William’s cordial mask fell, leaving only the bitter baring of teeth. He stepped back. “I will make it worth your time.”

It was a threat if ever Mercer had heard one, and it lingered behind even as William retreated, each stride so confident that it felt like he was the one who’d won, somehow, not Mercer. As he vanished around the front of the house, Mercer was certain of it. He felt empty, pathetic, terrified in a brand-new way, like the danger had moved from a tangible source in front of him, something he had the potential to fight, to a lurking thing at his back, demanding his continued vigilance.

He forced himself to check around the front of the house, catching the back of what had to have been William Douglas’s silver truck as it barreled down the street, too big and loud for suburban roads. Mercer tried to exhale a sigh of relief, but it was hard enough just to breathe at all. At least Lydia hadn’t been home, he told himself. At least she was safe, with her friends, living her rebellious early teenage years as best she could with a single dad and a chronic illness.

At least.

Mercer checked the locks on his doors anyway, before returning to the shed to find Rahil hanging right where he’d left him. That was when the relief finally came, little and late, but the sight of someone who wasn’t out to get him helped somehow. And Rahil was quite a sight.

His luscious hair curtained the sides of his slender jaw and his long neck before draping down his back, so silky that Mercer felt a tingle in his calloused hands at the thought of touching it. Every part of Rahil looked just as soft and lovely, from the exposed line of his slim shoulder down the long length of his torso. Even his fingers were delicate little things, like they were meant to be gently caressed and squeezed, his fingertips kissed.

Mercer banished the thoughts with a jolt of something very much like shame.

You won’t go to hell for thinking vaguely sensually about a consenting adult, he told himself, but as much as the knowledge was there, he couldn’t seem to fully internalize it. He’d worked through his bisexuality with tears and stress and a temporary denial of everything he’d once believed, but this odd impulse lingered, kept around by the idea that no one should have to worry about just how they were being ferried through someone else’s mind.

Not that Mercer cared if Rahil was ferrying images of his naked body—he might as well, since it was the only sensual part of Mercer that he, or anyone else, was going to get.

“How are your fingers?” Mercer asked, still awkwardly holding the butcher knife. He had been intending to leave the vampire up there and out of the way until he was finished working—or it was dark enough for Rahil to leave—but he didn’t want him to suffer.

Rahil seemed oblivious to the numbness he’d announced earlier, though. His expression, Mercer noticed, was still layered in the fear he’d displayed upon William’s arrival, even now that the man was gone. Rahil swallowed once, curling his hand open and shut. His bound wrist twisted. “You make… holy silver.”

Oh, that would do it. He must have heard everything. “Not anymore. Never again.” Mercer finally set the knife back down, leaning against the counter. “It was… complicated.”

Rahil gave the tiniest snort, flicking his head in a way that made his hair flutter. “Yeah, making weapons that specifically hurt a marginalized community sounds really complicated indeed.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Mercer frowned. “I had a reason.”

“Do tell it, then?” Rahil drew back his lips, his fangs on full display. “You have a captive audience.”

Mercer’s expression deepened into a proper scowl. Why did he feel suddenly like the bad guy here? He wasn’t the bad guy. His stomach hurt again, and he had the creeping sensation of someone behind him so strongly that he had to remind himself not to turn around. He watched Rahil, and just Rahil, focusing on the pinch of his nose and the points of his fangs. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Is that so?” Rahil snapped. “Can you be sure the metal you created never burned me?”

That made Mercer’s nausea churn all the worse. He drew a breath and let it out. If he was not the bad guy here, then he had the responsibility not to act like one. “You’re right, I can’t be sure,” he admitted. “The holy silver I made has been used by others to harm a great many innocent people. And I regret that deeply. At the time, I genuinely believed that what I was doing was a net good for the world. Now I know otherwise, and I will never go back.” He dragged his gaze to meet Rahil’s. “Can you trust that, at least?”

Rahil stared at him, and the longer their eyes held, the more the vampire’s resolve seemed to weaken. Finally, he shrugged, looking away. “If you say you’re not in that business anymore, then you’re not.” His lips quirked weakly, and despite the expression still exposing the full length of one of his fangs, there was something soft, almost precious, about it. “Besides, you don’t have to worry whether your holy silver ever hurt me. I’m immune.”

Mercer swore he hadn’t heard the vampire right. “You’re what?” He leaned forward as he said it, staring at Rahil as if those long lashes and brilliant hazel eyes would tell him he was wrong.

But Rahil only smiled wider. “Holy silver doesn’t burn me.”

“Impossible.”

“Improbable, you mean.” Rahil waggled his fine, dark brows.

Mercer crossed his arms. “How does your body do it, if you’re so convinced…?”

“Who knows. I may be a hot commodity, but I’m not a lab rat. Do you still have some of the silver?”

Mercer’s heart skipped, his instincts telling him this had to be some sort of trap, but no, Rahil seemed casually arrogant still. “A few pieces of the final batch, perhaps.”

Rahil outright smirked. “Then do your worst, torturer.”

Something about this felt like a trap all the same, but Mercer was intrigued now. This vampire had ensnared himself in Mercer’s shed, and seemingly accepted the sins of Mercer’s past, only to claim that this mythical, precarious alloy—the one thing no one else in the region could make—was useless on him. Mercer had to see it for himself.

He had to feel it.

Slowly, like he could take this all back at any moment, he drew out his set of physical keys. He could feel Rahil’s eyes on him as he knelt beside the tool counter, quietly unlocking the large bottom drawer of its lower metal cabinet. The power of the holy silver thrummed against his skin, not destructive—not to him—but clearly emanating its vampire-burning rays.

The pieces he’d kept came in a variety of styles: a few weapons he’d meant to melt down at some point, chains of various thicknesses, a few charms, a ring, and a couple slabs he’d never gotten around to shaping before he’d given up the endeavor. Mercer withdrew the smallest charm, holding it by its cord.

Rahil didn’t react, even as Mercer stood and lifted it between them.

Odd. Mercer caught it between his fingertips, cautiously moving it towards the vampire’s face.

This time a little shudder ran through Rahil, but it didn’t seem like the typical pain-reaction, the slight hitch in his breath almost sensual in nature. The tone of his voice certainly was. “Oh dear, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

Rahil’s smugness only served to make him all the more beautiful. It should have been illegal, Mercer decided. He did not want to keep noticing these things, keep wondering what it would be like to reach out, to follow the lines of Rahil’s skin the way the vampire clearly wanted him to. Mercer knew what that would end in—a disaster. Lydia was enough to worry about. He would not add a stupid, beautiful vampire to the list of people he’d inevitably grow some nonsensical attachment to the moment he let himself.

Based on Rahil’s dating profile, separating the emotional from the physical was second nature to him, but that had never been possible for Mercer, and when he was being honest with himself, he didn’t think he wanted it to be. If he was going to be physically intimate, he could only cross that line for someone he loved, and he didn’t have room to think about loving someone as a vague general concept, much less this specific stranger who’d fallen into his lap.

Mercer wiped the thought away, clamping down on it like even the idea of someday having sex again was immoral—a skill for which he had years of religion-imposed practice, even if he wasn’t doing much practicing of the religion itself these days.

He was not doing this to get a reaction out of Rahil, no. This was merely an artisan’s search for knowledge. Which was why he didn’t touch Rahil with his fingers as he ran the tip of the holy silver charm over the crest of Rahil’s high cheekbone, down the curve of his face. When Rahil breathed out a sigh, his mouth opened, and Mercer couldn’t seem to stop moving, feeling the light cracks the dry summer heat had left in Rahil’s lower lip through each tug and slide of the metal.

Rahil’s eyes closed for a moment, his lashes fluttering delicately. “Ah,” he whispered, “that tingles.”

Mercer pulled back. He flipped the charm into his palm, holding tightly to its heat and power as he tried to settle the eruption of something in his chest. “It really doesn’t hurt you?”

“There’s a… a sensation.” Rahil shrugged. “But it’s not bad. It’s sharp and hot, and a little euphoric. And my skin is fine afterward; you can touch it and see.”

That was a thrilling thought, which Mercer ignored with a vengeance. “My eyes do just as well, thank you.”

“Oh, so you’re admiring my form, huh?” Rahil teased, his shoulders shifting so that his shirt fell, impossibly, somehow lower.

Mercer had to look away in order not to stare. He slipped the holy silver charm back into its place in the drawer, shifting a few of the pieces around just to give his fingers something to do. “I admit you are distracting, though for very different reasons.”

The sigh Rahil released was tragic. “Fine, fine, I’m in the way, I get it. I could make it home now, if you’re willing to let me down.” He grinned. “Or don’t—you clearly have plenty of other torture devices at your disposal.”

Mercer followed his gaze to the bench of in-progress kink toys. For all his mind wanted to run wild, he kept his face stern, his voice as deadpan as if they were talking about the arrangement of his patio furniture and not sex. “Next time, perhaps.”

There wouldn’t be a next time, but Rahil’s expression was worth it: the soft surprise mixed with something very much like hunger. The vampire’s throat bobbed. “Yes. Next time.”

He still looked dazed when Mercer unlocked the trap’s app on his phone and hit the release. It let Rahil go slowly enough that he managed to pull his legs underneath him, but his limbs alone were clearly not enough to hold him up, his knees collapsing and his body slumping forward as he yelped.

Mercer moved on instinct. He caught Rahil’s tall, lean figure in both arms, wrapping one under Rahil’s shoulder and the other around his waist. Rahil leaned against him, breathing heavily. Mercer swore he could feel every inch of the vampire pressed firmly to his chest.

“Well…” Rahil’s breath fluttered over Mercer’s skin as he spoke, and Mercer was suddenly very aware of how close Rahil’s fangs were to his neck. “That was one way to get you to touch me, I suppose.”

Mercer stepped away from him so suddenly that Rahil yelped again, swaying before Mercer caught him by his arms, lowering him with far less contact onto one of the work stools scattered around the shed. “Easy there,” he murmured, one arm still supporting Rahil’s elbow.

Rahil laughed. It was such a soft sound, high and light and gasping. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He winked, though his breathing hadn’t entirely steadied. “Perhaps your holy silver has some effect after all.”

Mercer narrowed his eyes on the area of Rahil’s face where the metal had touched. “Are you…?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking. The skin seemed normal, just as smooth and lovely a dusky brown as the rest of him.

“I’m fine, really,” Rahil replied, his gaze fixed on Mercer’s neck. “Though I wouldn’t pass up a drink, if you’re willing?”

Mercer could feel his own pulse pound in his veins. He stepped back. “You can keep your fangs in your mouth, vampire.”

“Or you’ll do what?” Rahil leaned forward, his pointed teeth exposed: not in a threat but a challenge, like he was begging Mercer to do something, anything, about them. But then he only laughed again, slumping a little against the bench behind him. “I meant water, Merc. I’ve had a blood meal recently enough—an entirely consensual one, if you’re worried.”

“I wasn’t worried. I’ve known enough vampires to not make judgements.”

Rahil glanced at the still-open drawer of gleaming metal behind Mercer. “Was that why you stopped creating the holy silver?”

Mercer had no reason to answer; did he truly owe that part of his life to a mere stranger, much less a vampire? But the longer he hesitated, the more he realized he wanted to talk about this. Perhaps it was how Rahil put himself out there in every way possible that set Mercer so at ease, or perhaps it was merely that there hadn’t been another adult in his immediate vicinity for this long in what seemed like a lifetime, but something felt right. Simple. Fated.

“I’ve never judged vampires,” he admitted. “I’ve struggled with biases, but I know the ins and outs of the ways our society abuses people for power and money, and I have tried my best to be aware of that.”

He breathed in, breathed out, and knew he could do it. A decade later, and he could finally, finally, say the words without shattering completely.

“But there is one vampire I hate, one vampire against whom I felt, for a time, like any amount of protection I could create was a necessity.” He stood there, staring at Rahil, but he could feel his body reliving that night, that ring of the doorbell, that drip of blood from Leah’s lips, as he said, “And if I ever find them, I’m going to thrust what’s left of my holy silver so deep into their throat that they’ll never bite anyone ever again.”

5

RAHIL

Half a mile away from Merc’s house, and Rahil was still imagining the thrust of the man’s holy silver down the back of his throat. It wasn’t the nice kind of pressure—not being filled, but rather broken from the inside out. But that intrusion wasn’t for the nice kind of vampire, either.

It didn’t help that Rahil’s physical body was already annoyed with its actual situation. The sun was just low enough now to peek through the side of his hood as he jogged, slower this time, down the last five streets to his house, slipping into patches of forest whenever they came near enough to the sidewalk and dodging the road that led to the one cemetery in this city of gravestones that he couldn’t bring himself walk past without visiting. The sun-poisoning had come back with a vengeance. Or maybe those were just Rahil’s nerves.

Having Merc’s strong arms encircling his weakened body and gaze hot on his own had set him on fire, only for the weight of Merc’s threat to follow. It hadn’t dimmed any of the things Rahil felt towards him—none of the instinctual attraction, nor his growing romantic curiosity as he’d seen hints of who the man was beneath the strong exterior—but it had shaken something deep inside Rahil. Not because Merc had been vaguely hostile—he had every right to want his vengeance—but because Rahil knew himself.

He was the kind of person who damaged those he loved just by being near them, not realizing what he’d done until it was too late. There was a reason he’d never replied to anyone who’d asked for a second date. He tried not to dwell on it; there was too much guilt there, and for all his height and gangly limbs, his was still too small a heart to carry it all. But he could stop it from happening again.

He might not have been the one who sank his fangs into Merc’s wife, but his fangs had taken a life before, and his actions and inactions had taken yet more.

Rahil picked up his pace to a vampiric sprint as he rounded the corner of his lot. He dodged the mailbox propped against the pavement and the broken front fence, too decomposed to be useful as firewood, and jumped the giant crack in the steps to the porch for good measure. For all the house’s ghosts and grime, the derelict gothic three-story, with its absurd wrapping veranda and its pointed attic that peaked above the surrounding pines, felt like home, a place that had both figuratively and—in the well-wooded backyard—literally become its own little world, made just for him.

It was also home from the standpoint that he owned it, regardless of the safety hazard it constantly threatened to become. What he really needed to whip it into shape was fifty or sixty grand. What he had was taxes and a lull in income. Occasionally, someone would contract an electrical engineer who looked like a South Asian vampiric twink with a pirate’s wardrobe and only worked at night, if he gave them enough of a discount, or they had just the right set of kinks. But mostly they wouldn’t.

He’d figure something out, though. He always did, for all their sakes.

“Ray!” Sheanna waved at Rahil as he entered, almost falling off the living room couch she’d constructed out of an old mattress and various cushions.

Tal nudged her girlfriend’s leg, then went back to resting her chin on Sheanna’s thigh above the tear in her tattered fishnets. “Worried maybe you’d burned up, Mr. Zaman.”

“You look terrible,” Jim pointed out, lifting his buzzed head from his rolled-up sleeping bag.

Avery waved a wrist toward Rahil, and he couldn’t tell if they were offering him their blood or the beer in their hand. “We have drinks!”

Everyone else seemed to be partaking from the bag of gummies they’d positioned between themselves, so it was probably Avery’s blood on the menu. “I’m covered today, but thanks.”

Though Rahil had opened his crumbling home to a number of unhoused folks and anyone else who needed a safe spot with running water and an electrical outlet, whether for a few hours or a few years, he tried to keep his distance when he could—they were good people, but this arrangement worked best when they knew him primarily as the weird vampire who happened to own the place. The fact that this particular group was so free to offer him their blood already fucked with his heart enough.

In exchange, he’d offered to help with any electronic issues they had, fixing up their broken computers, phones, Tal’s digital drawing pad, and the half-smashed tablet that Jim had pulled out of a dumpster six months ago—because just letting them crash in his home didn’t cover things, clearly. He’d tried to convince his brain otherwise, but he genuinely liked getting his hands dirty with their occasional refurbishing. It broke up the monotony of constantly taking apart and reassembling his accumulated pile of electronic junk during bouts of insomnia.

If he could help it, there would be no sleepless fiddling this afternoon. He was in just the right place, between the after-effects of the sun-poisoning and his time with Merc, that with a strong enough dose of THC and a hot shower, he could probably manipulate his body into accepting a few more hours of sleep.

He eyed the baggie. “That batch any good?”

“You bet. Tanner ran it over around noon,” Avery replied. “We’ve got extra if you want some. We’re celebrating Sheanna’s layoff.”

“Is that something to celebrate?”

“If you knew her boss, yeah,” Tal grumbled, though from the looks on all their faces, this was an attempt to find the good in a bad situation. She bit half of another gummy between her teeth, then waved the remaining piece towards Rahil.

As he stepped toward them, someone shouted from the front of the house in a young, high voice, “Come out and face me, vampire! I know you’re in there!”

“The hell?” Jim sat up properly.

Tal squinted through the living room window. “Is that a kid?”

It was a kid—at least, from what Rahil could see through the colored panes in the chipped front door. Her hair was stuffed under a beanie, her black-on-black outfit consisting of so many layers that it was amazing how much of her long limbs she still managed to show. With her hands on her hips and her nose in the air, she looked emotionally prepared to break down the entrance. Not that it was ever locked. Rahil had a key for his room, but anyone could come and go from the main house as they pleased, even young teenagers with attitude problems.

“Vampire!” she shouted again.

Avery grimaced. “Should we…?”

Rahil shook his head. “I can deal with this…”

He hadn’t even let down his hood yet, so he slipped back out the front door with an air he most certainly hadn’t had coming in. His fingers still shook and his bones ached from the sun-poisoning of his jog home, but he leaned against the porch column with his arms languidly crossed, lifting one eyebrow. “You summoned?”

The kid’s bike was propped against the tree nearest the sidewalk, positioned in a way that seemed prepared to allow her to flee if she needed to. So, she wasn’t entirely an idiot, regardless of what the size of her nose ring suggested. She still took a few steps toward him, though, scowling into the shade of the porch. “Let me see your fangs…”

Rahil smiled for her.

She nodded slowly and looked him dead in the eyes. “I need you to turn me.”

Rahil couldn’t help himself: he laughed. It was too ironic, too much of a knife in the gut. How many times would the universe try this? He bared his teeth wider and said, bluntly, “No way, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.” She held her chin high as she marched closer. “I need this.” It amazed Rahil how little she sounded like a child as she said it, something tough behind her gaze—a sharp mix of rage and resolve. He’d seen that in his youngest son in the decade when it was just the two of them left; seen it destroy him.

“You don’t know what you need.”

“I’ve done my research,” the girl countered. “I know everything about vampirism. Not just the strength and the speed, but the sun poisoning, the garlic allergies—and garlic is in loads of premade things, I know that too—and how bad the change hurts and that it doesn’t heal you, it just makes you better at healing yourself and halts certain types of progressive diseases and cancers and—and seizures.”

Rahil had to force himself not to flinch at that six-letter c-word hidden in the mix. He had no right to the grief it stirred, only the guilt. He focused on that guilt, one brow still lifted as he sneered at his tiny opposition. “Then, you know the change has half a chance of killing you, too?”

“Not half.” The girl moved closer, coming right up to the edge of the porch. “Thirty-one point seven percent. According to a two-hundred participant epidemiological study conducted over the last five years. That’s not even a third.”

The exact statistic made it sound worse to Rahil, not better. He had been the sixty-nine percent. If the universe, or science, or the God much of his family still followed—whose existence Rahil had, at best, only a wavering hope in, which he decided he couldn’t quite classify as belief anymore—only allowed so many successful turnings, it made him feel very much like he’d taken one away from someone else. Someone who’d actually deserved it. He narrowed his eyes at the girl. “Why’s this so important to you that it’s worth that risk, huh?”

Instead of answering, she took the two steps up to the porch, her fists balled at her sides. “Turn me.”

When Rahil tried to step back, she only closed the distance, twisting to stay at the center of his attention.

“I’m telling you I want this,” she said. If the data couldn’t scare her, maybe the physical reality would.

“You want this, huh?” Rahil hissed. As quickly as he could while ensuring he only shoved her hard enough to hurt momentarily, he grabbed her by the front of her loose jacket and pinned her against the nearest porch column, fangs bared and mouth wide. She was so much smaller and lighter than him—clearly just a kid, no matter how much she was trying to act the cool, full-fledged teenager.

But instead of shrinking like a child or struggling away from him, she barely flinched. Immediately, she grabbed for her own collar. She pulled it down and pushed away the brown plaits that fell from beneath her beanie, tipping her head to the side. Baring her neck.

It was almost comical how unappealing that view looked to Rahil. He let her go with a scoff and a final directing shove toward the street. “Go home, kid.”

Rahil didn’t give her a chance to protest, wheeling on his boot heels and storming back into the house. The door rattled behind him as he slammed it.

It immediately opened again.

“I’m not leaving!” the girl shouted, stalking into the entry hall.

To the left of them, Sheanna, Avery and Jim all awkwardly peeled back from where they’d been snooping through the front windows. Tal popped the second half of the gummy she’d bitten into her mouth and waved at the girl, grinning. The girl didn’t seem the least bit fazed.

Goddammit.

“Stay, then.” Rahil shrugged dramatically, like he wasn’t currently trying to calculate all the possible crimes he could be charged with for letting a minor into his house like this, and comparing them to those for forcibly removing said minor by slinging her, bound and gagged, over his shoulder and dumping her on the sidewalk.

For the first time, she hesitated. She scowled at him, her nose ring twisting as her lips pinched up. “Really?”

Rahil grinned. Finally, some kind of progress. “Sure! For the daylight hours, at least. If you truly want to be a vampire, then you might as well see how one lives. I could use a part-time thrall.” If he was lucky, then by the end of the week she’d have written the idea off entirely. Maybe the bike commute alone would annoy her out of coming.

Slowly, the girl nodded. “Vampires don’t actually have those, you know.”

“I’m not all vampires.”

“Getting those vibes, yeah.” She crossed her arms. “Okay, but, so you know, I won’t like, do sexual favors for you or anything. I’m too young to give consent to an adult.”

Good fuck, maybe sex ed was a bad idea after all. “Kid, if you ever so much as mention sex to me again, I swear on the sun I’ll turn myself in to the cops then and there. Got it?”

She nodded. “That’s fair.”

“Good.” Dear god—what had he gotten himself into? “You have a name?”

The girl hesitated, but when she extended her hand, she looked as confident as ever. “Violet Demondza.”

“Master Ray Zaman, elder vampire, lord of the castle. Welcome to your dark apprenticeship.” If he was so good at ruining things, maybe—just maybe—Rahil could ruin vampirism for her.

6

MERCER

Mercer struggled to get anything else done that day.

He told himself it was because of the incident with William Douglas. He’d gotten far too many emails about holy silver, even a few phone calls, but this man had come into his yard—had violated the safe space he’d worked so hard to build for himself and his daughter—and demanded something of Mercer that he’d vowed never to return to. All while a vampire, whom William would have probably been thrilled to see that very holy silver used on, hung from Leah’s trap ten feet behind the door.

A gorgeous vampire, with a sensual edge that bordered on cheesy.

There had been a reason Mercer had swiped right when he’d first seen Rahil’s profile. It just wasn’t a good one. The romantic notions of his heart could leap for Rahil as high as it wanted, but that wouldn’t mean there was a place for him in Mercer’s life. Mercer was busy. He was accustomed to being alone. He had enough interpersonal trouble with Lydia’s sudden attitudes and disinterest in him. He didn’t even want to imagine her reaction if he had to sit down with her and tell her he was substituting her dead mother for a vampire.

He’d made it clear over the years that vampires were not the villains that society made them out to be, but they’d never talked of them beyond that. They had never watched media that featured vampires, never mentioned it when vampires appeared in the news—which was daily now that Vitalis-Barron protests were sprouting up and Wesley Smith-Garcia’s trial was ongoing—never even referenced them during discussions of nonhuman lineages and what it meant to come from an identity that held trauma in their bones. Mercer couldn’t ruin that easy truce by suddenly bringing a literal vampire into their lives, much less as a partner. Especially if people like William Douglas were going to keep showing up demanding holy silver.

The only thing worse than forcing Lydia to accept a new guardian figure in her life—and that was the only option Mercer wanted out of a relationship, not a quick fuck or a casual fling, but a genuine partner—would be to go through the work of helping her accept and build a familial bond with that person only for her to lose them, too.

All of this was going to give Mercer a migraine.

He wandered around the shed, making tweaks to one piece and notes for another, too distracted to truly get anywhere as the sun sank lower and the shadows shifted across the wall. Finally he ended up back inside, downing another two glasses of water and a granola bar, then popping an NSAID in the hopes that if something was building in his head, it might kick the incoming storm down a notch. He gave Kat a series of back rubs and a kiss on her muzzle, for which he received ten more kisses in return, then sent a check-in text to Lydia. He was grateful to see an immediate response come through, even if it included a rolling-eyes emoji and so much sass it could have killed a less stable parent.

Completely against his will, his fingers inched toward the damn dating app. Perhaps one last glance… He wouldn’t say anything.

Mercer nearly dropped the phone as his doorbell rang. Kat barked and bounded through the space between his legs. The frantic mishandling slid open the dating app anyway.

“Shit, shit,” he muttered, closing down the screen. He shoved the device into his pocket for good measure. Clearly, it belonged as far from his selfish, wandering gaze as possible.

The doorbell rang a second time, followed by a slew of knocks.

It doubled Mercer’s heart rate in an instant, and he could almost hear the officer’s voice the night he’d lost Leah, only now it was not his wife they were bringing him news of but—

He forced himself not to go down that road. He’d done it enough times, and always the terror had been a lie, a trap. Yet it still reared its ugly head whenever he least expected it. Mercer was afraid he knew exactly what to expect this time, though. One person had already found his house in their hunt for holy silver…

He debated going for the butcher knife again, but he was pretty sure he’d left it out in the shed.

The knocking continued.

Mercer crept up to the door, leaning down anxiously to peek through its tiny peephole. A middle-aged man stood on Mercer’s stoop, his brown hair pulled up in a bun to reveal the overgrown fuzz of his undercut. He tugged at his teal button-up with a scowl. A patch of sweat had already formed beneath his armpit in the heat. Mercer sighed, the anxiety draining out of him to leave a tingling dread in its wake.

He opened the door. “Good evening, Anthony.”

Dr. Anthony Hilker’s face brightened, a smile blooming across it. He’d grown a little facial hair since Mercer had last seen him—and was that a bit of gray? He also looked far more worn out than he had during their last face-to-face meeting, nearly a year ago.

“Is something wrong?” Mercer stepped back. “Your most recent package arrived fine.”

“Production hasn’t been hindered; it’s something else.” Anthony shook his head. His bun bobbed, a little lopsided. “I apologize for popping in off-schedule, but I thought, with all that Vitalis-Barron has been in the news, it would be better if I spoke with you in person.”

That put Mercer right back on edge. He might have considered closing the door again, were Anthony not already walking through it, that charming twist of his lips a testament to how easily he got his way when he’d set his mind to something. Which had worked out great for Mercer so far. So far, being the optimal phrase. “Tell me you’re not wrapped up in this vampire experimentation shit.”

Anthony made his way through the front of the house, heading for the living room like it had been just yesterday that he’d sat with Lydia on the couch, joking about her favorite new cartoon as he drew her blood. He avoided the seat now, surveying Mercer’s book collection with a casual detachment. “Would it make a difference?”

On occasion, Mercer genuinely liked Dr. Hilker. This was clearly not going to be one of those times. “If you were hurting innocent people? Yes, it would make a difference to me.”

Anthony lifted an eyebrow. “You’d stop relying on me for your daughter’s medication, then?”

The heat in Mercer’s cheeks was sharp and sudden. He turned away, instead of stating the obvious: there was no one else he could go to.

No one else would even bother with a condition as rare as Lydia’s, much less get him the drugs she needed under the table. His own migraine meds cost more per month, and they worked a quarter as well. He tried not to think of Anthony at his job; tried not to think of how selfishly Mercer had worried about Vitalis-Barron collapsing and putting Anthony out of a place to illicitly make his custom drugs.

Mercer crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”

“I need something from you.” Anthony smiled again, and damn, he was charming. “Something only you can provide.”

“I won’t make you any more holy silver. I’m not in that business anymore.” He thought of Rahil as he said it: lips parted, eyes alight. The image made him shudder.

“Not holy silver,” Anthony assured him. “Something like it, but without the burning effects—without the harm it causes. Vitalis-Barron studies the vampiric cellular and genetic structure by damaging their—their specimens, lab rats, victims, what-have-you—until the vampire’s enhanced body breaks to allow them in. Holy silver is but one method, its weakening effects directly disrupting a vampire’s cellular defense systems. The study I wish to conduct, however, will produce an end product that’s for the vampire. Tearing them apart cell by cell for it does seem a bit counterproductive to that. If you could give me another way…” Anthony held up his hands, almost pleadingly. “Let me put it this way: If the vampiric body is a walled city, Vitalis-Barron has been studying them by bulldozering inside and sifting through the pieces as they go. I want to climb over the wall and take a few samples without harming the city in the process. A gentler form of holy silver would help me do that.”

Mercer wasn’t quite sure he understood the scientific aspects of all those words, but he thought he got the gist of it—Anthony wanted to learn why and how the vampiric body functioned without causing harm to the vampires involved in the process. It certainly sounded more ethical than whatever Vitalis-Barron was doing. He understood just how necessary research was if anyone was going to create the kind of pharmaceuticals that would help vampires in their daily lives; sunscreens, blood substitutes, perhaps even something to prevent the deaths that happened during the turning. He tried not to let that last thought sink into his chest like claws.

But regardless of how ethical this route might try to be, anything that paired research with vampires was still dangerous. Mercer had to focus on that. He’d lost enough for one lifetime.

“I suppose it’s a valiant thought.” Mercer shook his head. “But it’s not my place. I know how much tension there is around vampire research right now—around holy silver, too, and anything like it. I can’t get wrapped up in that. My kid has no one but me.”

Anthony sighed, trailing his fingertip along one of the shelves. He stopped at a framed picture of Lydia, her hair in two chunky braids and her eight-year-old grin so large it seemed to take over her freckled face. “And here I didn’t think you’d be able to say no to me.”

The pit of Mercer’s stomach dropped. “Is that a threat?”

“Not at this time.” A shudder ran through Anthony. “I admit it is not beneath me, but it’s… I hope it doesn’t come to that, frankly. I’ve done similar things before and there are always unfortunate consequences.”

“You’ve done similar things before?” Mercer was distressed to find that it didn’t surprise him. Anthony Hilker had always given him vibes like the mafia—incredibly valuable to have on your side, and incredibly dangerous not to. Though, truth be told, Mercer suspected him to be more complicated than villainous. Complicated could hurt just as much as malevolence though.

“I’m not always this nice, Mr. Bloncourt.” Anthony smiled, the expression weighted. “But I like you, and I like Lydia, and the vampiric research I’m conducting is making progress in areas we’ve been ignoring for decades… and perhaps it’ll provide much for their community in the process. So, I was hoping that after all I’ve done for you, you’d be willing to try. Help me do some real good here.”

Mercer rubbed a hand across his cheek, holding back a groan. His mind was racing too fast, too hard. Anthony had said this wasn’t a threat. Or that it wasn’t yet. And there was that thought, small and sharp in the back of his head, telling him that if this research had only been done ten years ago, then perhaps… But it hadn’t been done. And so here he was. “I don’t know if I have the energy to do good right now.”

Anthony chuckled. “We’re not so different in that, I fear.”

He stepped away from the shelf—stepped toward Mercer, into his space until it felt nearly intimate. It was the closest another man—another human, beside Lydia—had come to Mercer in—in he didn’t know how long. Months? Years? It made the hair on the back of his neck lift in anticipation, and a flutter rise in his chest. Like a deer in the headlights, Mercer couldn’t move.

Anthony glanced out the window, then back. When he spoke, Mercer swore he could feel the man’s breath. “No one is supposed to know this, Mercer—I’m telling you because I trust you. You put your faith in me when your daughter’s life was on the line, and I respect that immensely.” His voice dropped, pleading. “The client I’m working for on this project has a child with vampirism—a child they want to help. You know what it’s like to be willing to do anything for your child. Help me help them.” He held out his hand, his palm up and his fingertips all but brushed Mercer’s chest. “Please,” he whispered.

It was the last straw, and Mercer knew it—knew it as the bleeding body in his mind shifted from Leah’s to Lydia’s; from a lost lover to the child who was still his responsibility to save. If being the cog that saved someone else’s kid also kept happy the man who’d saved his own, who saved her again with every pill she took, then so be it.

Despite his better judgment, Mercer shook on it.

Mercer’s hand felt clammy long after Anthony left, and he found himself with even less ability to work on anything. He paced the house instead, picking up as he went: his misplaced tools and perpetually lost earbuds, Lydia’s jewelry and endless supply of beanies, the dog toys that Kat would leave poking halfway out from under dressers and the corners of rugs. No matter how much attention he tried to pay to anything, he kept finding himself back on his phone, checking first for texts from Lydia, then that damnable dating app.

Too many times he swiped back into it, staring at Rahil’s profile like it might feed him something new if he looked once more; might update to a picture of the vampire trapped in his shed, shirt half off and fangs out. Mercer shuddered and closed his eyes, but somehow that was worse. Alone and behind his eyelids, physical intimacy didn’t have all the same barriers, no expectations, no reality. There, Mercer could be someone else as he peeled back the edge of that shirt, touched the tip of those fangs…

The sound of the front door opening was followed immediately by a customary, “Dad, I’m home! You can stop texting me now.” For the second time that day, Mercer nearly dropped his phone. He swore, adjusting his pants and forcing away the unnecessary vision. This was getting to be ridiculous. He had to stop it before it became something worse. Before he did something he regretted.

With shaking hands, Mercer deleted the app entirely.

7

RAHIL

Rahil was almost, kind of, beginning to like Violet. And that was a problem.

Every day she’d appeared that week—which was far too often and made him curse the existence of summer break with nearly as much vehemence as he had when his boys were home during it—he’d given her an outrageous task to prove her commitment.

“Pick us up a tub of peanut-butter from the grocery store, on foot, without letting the sun directly touch you for more than 60 seconds in total.”

“Figure out which of the pre-packaged foods in the freezer section have garlic in them.”

“Count all the pieces of silver jewelry on everyone at the local shopping center for the next hour.”

When she’d pointed out that none of it would be holy silver, he’d lifted a brow and replied, “How do you know that?”

Between the kind of tasks he could play off as vampiric training, he threw in some cleaning and a little yard work for the hell of it; he’d been meaning to try to prune out the weeds and plant a bed of wildflowers back there, even beginning to turn the lot’s various natural rocks into a pathway. If Violet was committed to being here, then she might as well do something useful, he figured, and if it made her give up faster, then all the better for it. Except she wasn’t giving up. Violet was still there, still badgering her way into his life like she belonged in it.

Every evening before she rode off on her bike toward the denser side of their suburban neighborhood, she’d scowl at him, her little nose ring twisted up as she asked, “Will you make me a vampire now?”

Rahil would smile. “Maybe tomorrow, kid.”

Maybe tomorrow seemed to be his mantra.

Maybe tomorrow Violet would grow bored. Maybe tomorrow Rahil would find a job that lasted more than a few days. Maybe tomorrow he’d get a message from Merc. Maybe tomorrow he’d rest for long enough not to feel like his body was falling apart. Maybe tomorrow he could say yes to a family reunion, instead of dodging his nieces’ cute memes and his cousins’ invites and his brother’s gossip and his aunties’ probing.

If tomorrow required a good night’s sleep—or even a day’s sleep, for that matter—to get there, then he was out of luck.

As the end of the week neared, he lounged across the living room’s mattress-couch, his exhaustion plucking at his sanity the way the years plucked at the peeling paint on the ceiling. He’d finished off the rest of the peanut butter with a spoon an hour ago, and his stomach gave an awkward rumble for it. A small ache of blood-thirst followed. It was truly a misfortune that vampires still required all the regular nutrients of food on top of a supplementary-something from human blood. He swore he’d learned what that something was, at one point, but it must not have been interesting enough to remember. Also, based on how few actual facts anyone seemed to have in regards to vampires, it might have been a lie—or a myth, a theory, a piece of misinformation, whatnot.

As Rahil lay there, the soft coo coo of a dove echoed down the weathered fireplace. It was overwhelmed by the sudden shuffle, then the crude squawking of multiple crows. Rahil grimaced.

He flicked mindlessly through hookup potentials, swiping right on anyone who seemed halfway bearable, despite just how poorly both his prior dates that week had gone. He could have asked one of his resident humans for a hit of blood at any point, but now they were out for the weekend, either working long shifts or staying elsewhere. Besides, he hated relying on them. The humans crashing at his house would always leave at some point, and whoever showed up next might not possess the same generosity.

Maybe tomorrow things would get better, but maybe tomorrow things would get worse instead. Rahil could never be sure.

His soul wasn’t engaged in the hunt right now, though. It was probably due to his experiences earlier that week, he told himself. One had merely been so awkward that Rahil had only got a nibble before the young man clumsily decided he had better places to be, giving three entirely different excuses as he left, opening the door to the bathroom instead of the one out. Rahil would have chosen that over his more recent outing, though.

His date had been hot, in a lean, middle-aged hipster kind of way, with a sharp smile and a dry humor that was easy to banter off, and he’d enjoyed Rahil’s fangs enough to ask for a second bite, coming between Rahil’s legs for it, but the whole thing had felt wrong in a way Rahil had difficulty putting words to. He was accustomed to being treated as a sexual object, but the way this man looked at him, touched him, spoke of him, felt a step beyond even that, like every inch of himself was being recorded for later use.

It was the kind of feeling that made Rahil want to check for cameras. Or chains. Which reminded him uncomfortably of the fact that there were vampires he knew ran in his circle—if only by the names on their dating profiles and the occasional glimpse of them at the Fishnettery or one of the local hookup parks—who seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. Not, he suspected, into the arms of a lover, but into the basement of one. If they were unlucky enough, the basement of Vitalis-Barron.

Rahil had left while the unnerving man was asleep.

As a new match sent him a picture that should have made his ass ache and his mouth yearn, it wasn’t his most recent date’s nearly scientific fascination with him that turned him off, though. It was the thought of watching Merc as he worked, and every daydream he’d had of those hands since. They’d been his least raunchy fantasies in years—a single fingertip, tracing down his body like it was a work of art, as Merc looked on with that cool, thoughtful expression of his. It made Rahil’s skin hot all over, the air trapped in the sauna of his lungs.

He flopped his head back with a groan, cradling his phone against his chest. He thought a grainy flake of the ceiling fell onto his cheek, but as he went to swipe it off, a juicy mosquito squashed beneath his thumb. It left a smear of red across his skin.

“You didn’t want my blood anyway,” he grumbled.

Rahil tried not to move, to let the wave of exhaustion rolling over him carry him into a dream. His body ached for a slightly different position, and his brain responded by pulling him into thought after thought, half-dismantled but a little too solid to allow for actual sleep. Sweat beaded in the places his skin pressed directly against the mattress.

Around the corner of the foyer, the front door opened and closed. A single set of smaller footsteps made their way across the living room.

Rahil didn’t bother opening his eyes. “If you’re going to stake me, can you do it quick? I don’t have all day.”

The mysterious someone sat down next to him. His skull pinched as his braid was caught under their weight, but he didn’t have the energy to tug it free. Maybe he was more in need of blood than he’d thought? Probably just more tired. Definitely more depressed.

“Something tells me that inviting hunters to slay you is not the optimal way to be a vampire,” Violet huffed.

Rahil squinted at her. “I knew it was you,” he lied.

“The whites of your eyes look weird.”

“Oh.” He rubbed across his lids, but no smear of darkness came off. “Are they red or black?”

“Red.”

“That’s fine then.” He shut out the world for three more seconds, counting them in his head. One, two, and—there was her next question, right on time.

“What’s the difference?”

Girl couldn’t go four seconds without asking something about vampires. Rahil groaned and gave her a little push, tugging his braid free enough to sit up.

Violet sported a matching maroon beanie and tank-top today, disregarding the heat in favor of the fashion statement. It was something Rahil would have done at that age. Something he still did, in fact, over half a century later. At least with his vampire genes, he still looked young enough to fall for that kind of ridiculousness.

He straightened the ruffles at the v-neck of his completely ahistorical white linen shirt and twisted his pearl earrings. They were not quite the elaborate symbols of status his ancestors would have worn, but then, he was hardly the chaotic force of nature that nonhumans had often been viewed as in pre-colonized India. His own ancestors would have likely elevated him to the same pedestals of wonder and dread that held fully mythological creatures like his family’s djinn or the Hindu’s asuras. Vanishing into the wilds only to spontaneously influence the lives of humans for extreme good or ill seemed like a lot of work though. He seemed perfectly capable of causing harm to the people around him without any wilderness involved.

“Black in a vampire’s eyes is a sign of blood hunger. Younger vampires especially will start to lose their grip on reality and become unable to stop themselves from feeding on the nearest human if they stay in this state for too long.” Rahil still had to fight back the impulse to curl up so tightly he twisted himself out of existence whenever he thought back to the few times he’d let his need for blood get that bad. “You know the myths of crazed, villainous vamps? That hunger is part of where the stories come from.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Racism.”

“Typical.” Violet rolled her eyes, like she was flipping off the entire social structure in her head. “And the red?”

Rahil grinned. “That just means I’m tired of your BS.”

“Ha ha,” Violet said, pronouncing each syllable separately. She crossed her arms, tipping up her chin in a way that should have looked childish on someone so young, but was executed with the perfect amount of cynicism to work regardless. “So, what bizarre shit are you going to make me do today?”

“You talk to your mother with that mouth?”

“Yeah, the twice a year I do talk to her.” The way Violet’s lips twisted up reminded Rahil a little too much of his own kids. Or maybe it was just himself he was seeing. The pain, the loss, the inability to confront it all. He didn’t know how to break through that barrier any better now than he had with his boys, and he struggled to decide if he was even the right person to do so—it hadn’t turned out so well before, had it?—but Violet pushed the topic forward all on her own. “So, bizarre shit? Yes, no?”

Rahil’s gut twisted as he took the coward’s way out. “You’re the one who elected to be here.” He shrugged. “If you want to be a vampire, you’re going to have to learn how to get blood—ethically. By which, I mean consensually.”

“There’s a blood charity in Ala Santa now,” Violet pointed out.

“Go ahead, then.” Rahil motioned to the door, one brow raised. “The Ala Santa neighborhood is, what, ten miles from our suburbs? Probably fifteen if you want to stay safe on that bike. With vampires coming from all over the city, you’ll have to get there early to be far enough ahead in line—just don’t start out before the sun sets, or take the same route too often, or ride too near the police, or else you might not make it at all.”

The sudden discomfort on Violet’s face was harrowing.

“It’s a lot harder than you first anticipated, I know.” He hadn’t meant to be gentle with her—had been trying this whole time to scare her off, not ease her fears—but he knew the pained look of a child realizing the world was crueler than they’d anticipated, and he couldn’t stop his impulse to soothe that aching, especially when the child in question had clearly already seen her share of hurt. “You get used to it, though; find ways to make it work.”

Violet chewed on her lip, bouncing her shoulders like she could throw off the hardships of vampires if she shrugged enough. As obstinate and abrasive as she was, she didn’t seem like the type who could find it in herself to actually do so. Though neither had Rahil’s youngest, until suddenly it was too late. Violet caught him looking at her—imagining a different child in her place—and huffed at him. “How do you get your blood, then?”

“Mostly hookups,” Rahil admitted. He held up his phone, tapping the screen back to life and flipping through the current match’s profile: all mundane gym shorts with half the man’s face covered in a camera flash. “It’s dangerous though, see, because you have to judge whether someone is going to be safe based on limited interactions, and no matter how certain you are, you’re not always right.” Rahil hummed. “I suppose it’s like being a woman on a dating app, except when your date kidnaps or murders you, people care even less.”

“Fuck that.”

“Indeed.”

She held out her hand. “Can I…?”

He offered her the phone, but as she navigated effortlessly back to the main feed, the profile in view switched to one far more suggestive. Rahil snatched the device back. “You know, actually, maybe this is not a good show and tell scenario.”

Violet smirked in a way that should have been illegal for anyone her age. “You afraid I’ll see a dick?”

Rahil cleared his throat, tucking the phone away entirely—into the pocket furthest from the literal child, just for good measure. “I think this is a conversation you should be having with your father.”

Blowing out air through her lips, she leaned back onto her elbows. “I don’t think Dad wants to see dicks.”

“To be fair, most men don’t,” Rahil pointed out.

“No, I mean, Dad likes dicks—or men, I guess—he just doesn’t want to see them. You’d think he’d be over Mom by now, but he’s still being all touchy about dating.”

Boy, had this conversation really gotten away from him. “And um, how does that make you feel?”

“You’re not my therapist.” Violet scowled at him as she said it, like she didn’t have a much higher opinion of her actual therapist, though Rahil couldn’t imagine most rebellious probably-preteens felt differently. She turned her attention to her feet, pointing and flexing her floral-covered Converses. “So, how does someone get blood if you’re like…”

“A child?”

“A teenager.”

“I don’t have any direct experience; I was already an adult when I turned.” How functional an adult was debatable, but Rahil did not need to be having that conversation with Violet of all people. For her sake, he gave it genuine thought, nodding as he finally answered, “You would need to have someone in your family who you know will always be there for you, who’s willing to give up parts of their own life to make sure you’re safe and healthy and happy. And preferably a phlebotomist. Drinking directly from the skin gets weird if you’re not into the person.” Not that it stopped him from accepting his housemates’ offers when he couldn’t find anything better. At least they weren’t family.

Violet stared all the more aggressively at her shoes, her brows sinking lower. She didn’t seem to come to any sort of conclusion by the time she shuffled to her feet. “Right. Well, I’ll—I’ll think about that. Thanks.”

“You do that, kid.” It was an abrupt shift, but maybe this was for the best. If she truly did think about it, she might finally realize that vampirism wasn’t right for her—wasn’t particularly right for anyone, so much as it was a thing that some people were, and therefore became a distinct part of them. A challenging, occasionally-traumatizing part, that also had its lovely aspects when life let up the stress and struggle enough to allow space for them.

Violet did a little spin on her heels and headed for the front door.

“You don’t want to weed more of the backyard while you’re here?” Rahil called after her.

“Maybe in your dreams.” She flipped him off as she left.

What a kid.

Rahil was pretty sure she wouldn’t be the person invading his dreams though—unless they were nightmares. With how little sleep he got, his brain seemed to be doing its best to avoid those. What he couldn’t seem to avoid were the daydreams. He spent the rest of the sunlit hours wandering between the living room mattress and the one in his room, carrying around a few pieces of wiring to fiddle with and uselessly checking the empty cupboard during each trek, before finally traipsing to the sheeted-off section of the porch when the heat got too much to bear up in the house.

Rahil tried, again, to close his eyes, but half an hour later he was scrolling through old messages on his phone. He checked on the news while he was at it, searching specifically for any updates on the Wesley Smith-Garcia trial. Each time he ventured into the discourse surrounding it, he could feel his blood pressure spike, but it was too important a case to ignore. Rahil was no expert in legal matters, but from what he’d gathered, after Wesley had helped a vampire escape from the Vitalis-Barron labs, he had been charged with attempted second-degree burglary of trade secrets. His lawyer argued that the willful intrusion into the private space was solely to assist people he knew were in danger and was therefore covered by something called the Good Samaritan Law.

The prosecution claimed that Wesley couldn’t have entered the area solely to assist anyone, pointing to the video evidence Vitalis-Barron had supplied of Wesley originally bringing the vampire he’d ultimately rescued into the lab in the first place. The defense then asserted that since the video proved Welsey had been brought by Vitalis-Barron employees into the building, he was there legally up until the point where he left his escort to help those in danger, so the Good Samaritan Law still applied. It felt like watching people build a picture out of a puzzle by putting the pieces in an objectively wrong order.

It made Rahil sick to think that this was how the lives of vampires were regarded: as sidepieces in a theatrical retelling of history that continued to center the humans. And yet, the more knowledgeable people of the internet seemed to believe that this—the Good Samaritan argument, specifically—could be the beginning of major legal change for vampires. If Wesley Smith-Garcia won, that was.

At the moment, everyone seemed on the fence about that, Rahil included.

He distracted himself with a few games, then a few videos, then another useless news search. By the time the mosquitoes came out in full force, he was shivering from a mild case of sun-poisoning, staring at the screen of his nearly dead phone and watching for a read notification on the last five messages he’d sent Merc.

Five mistakes he did not totally regret.

R. BabyCock

Just curious, how much do you charge for one of those ridged dildos?

(That is not flirty, by the way. THIS is flirting):

Just curious, babe, how much skin do I have to show before you put one of those ridged dildos inside me?

You’ve ensnared me in your ouroboros. Teach me how to be as subtle as your fingers as you enjewel that great long staff of yours. I’m ready to be staked by your holy silver. Come work the cold hard metal of my heart.

;)

But the thread just kept looking as though no one had been on. Before, Merc had always at least read his messages. Had seeing Rahil in person really made things this bad? Merc hadn’t seemed particularly interested, but he’d still been kind to Rahil—kinder than Rahil deserved.

Or maybe it was worse than disinterest. That William Douglas fellow had been very insistent when he’d demanded holy silver last Saturday. Merc might have scared him off then, but he hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who would leave well enough alone.

As a couple more days—and twice as many unanswered messages—passed, that worry started to seem less and less like an excuse to think about Merc, and more like a potential reality. If he did go—just show up at Merc’s shed again without warning—it would likely get him into trouble, and ruin Merc’s day to boot.

But whether or not William Douglas was the kind of fellow who would leave well enough alone after all, Rahil Zaman certainly wasn’t.

The cords were tighter this time, Rahil was sure of it.

It didn’t help that he’d been here for an hour already, creeping out of his house early enough that neither the sun nor the out-cold form of Jim on the mattress-couch took notice of him. Now though, there were beams of light pouring through the small windows along the top of the barn-style shed. Why, oh why, did he never realize just how bad a decision was until it was too late?

But he’d known, hadn’t he, that Merc wasn’t planning to see him again. That he might not arrive for hours, or days. That he might even turn his back on Rahil the moment Merc saw he’d invaded his space for a second time. And that he would be well within his rights.

But being here, taking this risk, had still seemed worth it in the moment. It was also seeming less worth it by the moment.

Rahil’s fingers had definitely gone numb again, his stomach growled from missed meals, and his whole body felt sore with the bone-deep fatigue of too many insomniac nights. He’d begun to shake and ache in bursts by the time the shed door finally opened.

“Oh,” Merc said, “It’s you.”

8

MERCER

Mercer was half tempted to leave the damn fool up there and walk right back out: to let Rahil hang in the trap he’d re-caught himself in until he used his oh-so-precious whimpering to vow never to be anywhere near Mercer’s property again. It would serve him right. Besides, with Anthony’s new project utterly kicking his ass—Mercer had made so little progress over the last week that if he didn’t have an epiphany soon, he’d have to bring in help—and vaguely threatening emails from William Douglas showing up in his inbox on the regular, Mercer had too much work and worry to cater to an unhinged stranger’s whims.

As he turned away though, the pitiful noise Rahil made did something to Mercer’s heart that he could only describe as painful and exceptionally unwanted.

“Merc,” Rahil whined.

He closed his eyes, and slowly, so slowly, he turned back around. “Ah, fuck.”

As he flicked on the lights, Mercer could clearly see the strain this was putting on Rahil’s body. He hung at an awkward angle, his fingers swollen on one hand and his skin raw where the cords held it. Shivers racked through him, the whites of his eyes shot with red and a sweat stain down the front of his gothic-pirate inspired shirt.

“I hate you,” Mercer muttered. He pulled the lever to lower the wooden flaps over the shed’s window—that, at least, would prevent any immediate further injury—but he refused the impulse to release Rahil completely. In distress or not, he was a two-time home invader now. Mercer gave the vampire another slow once-over, and managed to keep the jittery worry in his chest—either for himself or for Rahil, he wasn’t sure—from slipping into his voice as he asked, “What the hell are you doing here, Rahil?”

“I just figured I had such a lovely time last week,” Rahil answered, shifting to wink at Mercer head-on. His bonds tightened from the movement, and the self-satisfied expression turned to a wince. “I wasn’t here to take anything, I promise.”

That, Mercer felt he could believe. But it clearly wasn’t the full story. “A lovely time, huh? Was it the entrapment that did it, or the hunter threatening me, or some magical third thing? And don’t say my hot body.”

Rahil had the decency to look mildly embarrassed. “Partially that, yes. But I also figured, with how intrusive that Douglas fellow was last week, and you not reading my messages...”

Mercer nodded slowly, putting the pieces together. He was still trying to determine whether the picture it revealed was one of impulsiveness or just pure stupidity. “So, you trapped yourself in my shed, in case something had happened to me, because then you’d be in the optimal position not to come to my aid, and probably die here to boot.”

“Exactly.” Rahil grinned halfheartedly. “As the kids these days say, I go down with my ships.”

It took Mercer a moment to connect the pun, but when he did he had to stifle a groan. What would his kid call them? Rahcer or Merhil, maybe.

Mom-replacement, dad-hoarder, betrayer—there were a lot of other nicknames Lydia could come up with, he was certain. Mercer tried to focus on that above all else.

“You could have just knocked,” Mercer said. He was going down with this ship: the one where logic and common courtesy prevailed. The smith and the jester, was also a viable option. Or maybe, The disinterested and the flirt.

Rahil shrugged, looking far less concerned than he should have. “I thought this was more fun.”

“Fun.” Mercer didn’t buy it. Either Rahil had a truly masochistic streak or… or sometimes the most obvious answer was the right one. “How long have you been here?”

“Only since sunrise.”

The immovable object and the unstoppable force—that was it. A terrible ship name for an impossible situation. Mercer stared at Rahil, trying to make out any lick of sense he could. “I mean no offense by this, but seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“I ask myself that every day.” Rahil gave a lopsided smile, which didn’t quite fit the rest of his pained appearance, and said, bluntly, “Really, this is far from the worst situation I’ve deliberately fallen into.” He licked one of his fangs before adding, “The biggest inconveniences are that you’re here and I’m famished... which means I’m being tortured by one rather incredible snack.”

Mercer’s neck felt like it was on fire, and all the bundled worry he’d had for this—for Rahil, for himself, for the situation—flared into a singular panic. He took a step back, despite knowing that the vampire was fully contained. “My holy silver might not work on you, but I can find something that will.”

Rahil blinked, before his eyes widened. “Woah, hey, I did mean food hungry.” He laughed, sounding a little awkward. “I’m just teasing about you being a snack. I’m a stupid flirt; it’s what I do.”

A rush of embarrassment ran through Mercer’s cheeks as he realized this was the exact same mistake he’d made last time Rahil was here. Maybe Rahil was being vague this way just to fuck with him? No, that was silly; vampires needed to eat and drink just the same as any human and Mercer couldn’t expect them to be the ones to have to clarify simply because he took issue with the idea of being bitten.

Though, if he was being fair, Rahil deserved half the blame simply for choosing to act this coy. And be this good looking. And—he stopped himself before making an excuse regarding what Rahil was wearing, his Victorian-esque shirt so thin it was nearly see-through, with those same tight pants and what Mercer swore was a different pair of tall boots from the pair he’d worn last week.

“Too caught up in other things to grab breakfast?” Mercer taunted him, trying not to think about how Leah used to zone in on a project—ones with much the same absurdity and ingenuity as the trap Rahil had chosen to fall back into—for days at a time, only pausing to eat when Mercer brought her something. She’d always looked so beautiful with smears of grease on her hands and her red curls sticking out from the sloppy bun where she’d tucked pencils and small tools. If he was comparing the two scenarios, that would make Rahil’s project Mercer. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Or, more accurately, he was sure: sure that it shouldn’t have made him feel this pleased.

Rahil played with the ruffles on the front of his shirt, straightening out the ones that had been squashed under the cords. “It wasn’t entirely my fault. Things keep coming up between me and the grocery store. You know, like the sun.”

Mercer really had to stop setting him up for answers that reminded him just where their power imbalance lay.

He knew better than to feed wild animals. He had a feeling Rahil was more a stray than a truly feral creature, but he couldn’t go around feeding the strays either—not unless he wanted to take them in after. All he had were reasons not to take in Rahil, and besides, with Anthony’s request looming over him, he had other vampires to worry about. Rahil looked so pathetically miserable, though…

Trying his best to appear disgusted by the thought, Mercer dragged his last mini bag of emergency chips from the nonsense drawer—barbecue, ironically his least favorite flavor—and made a show of popping it open. “This is all I have on me. But I can’t imagine you’d want them.” He stuck one of them in his mouth after, for good measure.

Rahil looked like he was literally salivating, transforming from a devilish sex trophy to an oversized puppy dog in a matter of seconds. “Oh, that’ll do.”

Mercer lifted the bag carelessly by one side. “You sure?”

In response, Rahil opened his mouth, his tongue partially extended. His fangs were so slim and lean above it.

“What do you take me for?” Mercer grumbled. He stepped closer, and instead of placing a chip in Rahil’s mouth, he opted for the saner option and pulled out his phone, navigating to the trap app. “Careful now, you’re going down hard this time,” he said, clicking the button for release. He caught Rahil at the last moment, letting the vampire’s gangly weight ease into his arms.

“You have no idea,” Rahil whispered as his gaze met Mercer’s with a yearning so deep that it almost pulled Mercer in.

Almost.

He looked away, efficiently lowering Rahil’s shaking body to the floor. He let go as soon as Rahil seemed steady enough to lean against the cupboards on his own, but Mercer could still feel the pressure of him shivering through his skin. It was not calling him back. He wouldn’t let it.

He stepped away, trying to shake the feeling off. And stepped again.

Rahil watched him, his brow tight and his hands pulled up against his chest. Cautiously, he turned his attention to his fingers, wriggling them and hissing quietly under his breath, a sound more similar to a cat’s than anything humans could make. Mercer could see the pain in each movement, the stiffness and shock Rahil was clearly working through.

It made Mercer feel faint.

He tossed over the bag of chips, a little less concerned as Rahil managed to snatch it out of the air with ease. If his shaking body hadn’t been proof of his own stupidity, then the obvious hunger with which he dug into the snack was evidence that he hadn’t exaggerated how long he’d been hanging for.

Fuck, maybe Mercer was being too hard on him. Rahil was a vampire, after all, and Mercer knew, even from working with the more affluent of their kind, just how difficult and senseless that life could be. Sometimes irrational acts came, not from irrational people, but irrational presents and irrational pasts. Mercer knew that from personal experience.

“You must live around here?” he asked, fumbling for some reason why he of all people might have suddenly become this useless vampire’s special interest.

Rahil stuffed another handful of chips into his mouth. His shoulders bounced languidly. “A couple miles south. I have a quaint little five-bedroom Victorian with all the trappings; the creepy attic, the dark forest, the shadowy porch. The fireplace is definitely haunted.”

He had a home of his own, at least. From what little he’d seen of Rahil, Mercer could imagine it, too: the Gothically romantic old estate, with crows perched on the roof and ivy growing along the porch. Every piece of furniture was probably pretending to be as antique as Rahil’s outfits. “Sounds charming.”

A quirk came into Rahil’s lips, soft and genuine. It was precious. “I love it,” he said, pausing to shovel down the rest of the chips. “I’ve always enjoyed unique things, and I wanted a place that was big enough to share with others.”

“That’s a nice reasoning,” Mercer admitted. His own place was designed to be a tiny fortress for himself and Lydia alone and he was impressed by Rahil’s willingness to allow others in. Though it probably went hand in hand with his apparent willingness to force himself into the lives of random strangers.

“Thank you.” Rahil licked the last of his chip crumbs off his fingers with such gusto that Mercer had to look away.

He was not avoiding the sight because it stirred something in him—did it stir anything in him? He couldn’t tell beneath the guilty twist in his chest and the turn of his stomach. The more he did look away though, the more he knew the sight would make him feel things—good things—once Rahil wasn’t here, when his tongue was just a thought in Mercer’s head and not a reality. If he let it, anyway.

“Well, now that you’re finished…” Thank God his voice had not been hoarse; he could feel the lump.

Rahil made a sound far too much like a whimper. “You’re not kicking me out—with the sun this high?”

Mercer had to distract himself by opening his notebook. That only left the holy silver charm and a page of dead-end notes he’d made for Anthony’s project staring him in the face. The mere sight of it made him queasy with stress. What the hell hadn’t he tried yet? Surely nothing that could be done alone in his shed. “You’re not too far from home,” he told Rahil, distractedly. “You can take one of my old coats. I’ll call you a cab.”

“No, please,” Rahil said, turning almost sugary-sweet as he continued. “I’ll be quiet again, on my life, I swear. You can even tie me back up.”

Rahil was not making this easy.

It occurred to him suddenly that if Rahil truly refused, there was little Mercer could likely do about it. He didn’t burn under the touch of holy silver, was likely about as strong and fast as Mercer even in the metal’s presence, and Mercer hardly considered calling the police an option—he could predict how badly that would turn out for both of them. But what Rahil didn’t do was try to lord his power over Mercer.

As he stood, he made himself smaller instead, wrapping his arms around his waist with his brows tight. “Please?”

Mercer played with the holy silver charm he’d left between his notebook pages, watching Rahil for a sign that this was all an elaborate ruse of some kind. He could find none. “You said I can put you back in the trap?”

Rahil’s throat bobbed. “Yes.”

“And then, I could do what I want with you.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Rahil was offering to give up his power. His agency.

And instead of shying away from the idea, he was nodding, still looking at Mercer like some kind of fanged puppy-dog. “If you’d like.”

Mercer really, really did not need a stray right now, but as he pulled himself back from the emotions coursing through him, the pieces fell into place. Maybe Rahil was exactly what he needed—not for himself, but for Anthony. Mercer was supposed to create a substance that acted like impaired holy silver, producing a radiation that would dampen a vampire’s inhuman qualities without destroying them cell by cell.

And here Mercer had a vampire whose body was predisposed for that exact thing. If Mercer could figure out why, and reverse engineer the effect…

“All right,” he said.

Rahil’s brows shot up. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly. No pun intended.” Mercer gave his holy silver charm a little toss before setting it back on the notebook. “But if you stay, you’re helping me.”

“Oh good! There’s a few things you’re working on that I’ve been dying to try out.” Rahil winked, his gaze going toward the more kinky projects in the shed.

Mercer smiled. “Not like that.”

Before his victim could protest, he drew out his phone and reactivated Leah’s trap.

9

RAHIL

Rahil had not expected this.

To be fair, he hadn’t really known what to expect when he’d decided to tangle himself back up in Merc’s life without asking, but having the bulky man’s large hand wrapping delicately around his wrist was not it. His heart did an absurd little dance, thud-thudding against his ribcage so fast it made him dizzy. Merc’s scent wafted lightly throughout his shed—the rich tones of churned earth and the nuttiness of baking breads—but it washed over Rahil like an intoxicant as the man stepped into his space.

Rahil could do nothing but sigh, letting Merc lift his wrist above his head, Merc’s face so near, the lushness of his lips and the exposed side of his neck so close. He seemed not to even notice the effect of his breath on Rahil as he focused on Rahil’s hand until—

The cold, smooth skin of Merc’s trap-cords slid around Rahil’s wrist, taking the place of Merc’s warm fingers as he pulled back. Its path continued, snaking across Rahil’s shoulders and chest in an X that seemed more decorative than useful until Rahil leaned against it, and it tightened into place, nearly lifting him onto the tips of his toes with one arm bound behind his head. His heart thrummed even faster, and an awkward laugh bubbled out of him as his mind fought between fear and desire.

He trusted Merc. He thought he trusted Merc, but he worried now that perhaps what he’d trusted in was his own inability to care whether Merc was trustworthy or not so long as he touched Rahil in some capacity. Either way, he wouldn’t let Merc know that his palms were sweating again. Rahil grinned, wiggling the fingers of his bound hand experimentally.

“Kinky,” he said, somewhere on the edge between coyness and sexual harassment. “Have you always been this interested in bondage?”

Merc just stared at him, unfazed. “It’s to keep you from messing with anything you shouldn’t while I work.”

Rahil felt like there was more to it than just that—but he figured the more was probably just to fuck with him. He’d made it particularly easy. And he wasn’t exactly complaining. If he wasn’t going to be fucked, at least he could be fucked with.

Merc pulled over a small rolling counter and slid it in front of Rahil. Rahil lifted a brow at him, receiving nothing in response. That was almost a response in itself though—a frustrating but delightful one. After so many years focusing on the kind of people who would show him just how much they were enjoying his body in the moment, then throw him out the instant that pleasure passed, this stoic resistance felt like a breath of fresh air.

Even if Rahil had no hope of it actually going anywhere.

Except maybe a grave in the woods, based on the way Merc was eyeing his other wrist.

“So um, what are you planning to do to me?” Rahil playfully tried to tug his hand out of Merc’s reach, but Merc just waited for him to stop moving and smoothly caught him with a thumb and first-finger.

His gaze met Rahil’s as he held onto him, one brow lifting slightly. “Anything I want—that’s what you signed up for, after all.”

“To my ever-growing remorse,” Rahil lied. It was a lie, indeed—he could tell by the way his own body eased into Merc’s touch despite himself. Goddamn this man’s ability to make Rahil want to lay down his life for one more brush of skin. It was stupid, he knew. Stupid, and senseless, and with each gentle pressure as Merc laid Rahil’s arm across the table and bound it there using three of his trap’s silver cords, Rahil could not deny that the simple act of such nonsexual touch was turning something deep in his soul. Rahil relaxed into his bindings, tipping his head lazily as he watched Merc collect a variety of instruments along the other side of the mobile counter, including one small knife that looked sharp enough to cut an arm off if Merc set his mind to it. “Are you certain you’re not a serial killer after all?”

Merc did not confirm or deny it, but his lips quirked up on one side. He flashed his attention to Rahil and then back to his work, before saying, “Has anyone told you that you’re very calm for someone contemplating a terrible death?”

“All the time.” Rahil readjusted as much as he was capable of in his bonds, which turned out to be very little. “But really, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out why you react the way you do to holy silver.”

That caught Rahil off guard, in both the best and worst way. Merc was not only a craftsman, but a scientist of sorts, casting Rahil as his experiment, his project. But that project also involved holy silver. Rahil flinched involuntarily, nearly moving his arm out of Merc’s touch before the cords caught it.

Merc’s hand withdrew, concern flashing across his features. “Rahil,” he said softly, “I’m not in the business of hurting anyone. Not anymore.”

“You’ve said that.” Rahil wanted to believe him, too. His body betrayed him, though, tightening uncomfortably beneath bonds that had felt stabilizing only moments before. While his fangs were always out, he could sense them now in a way he couldn’t normally, like his brain was reminding him that he had points at the ends of his teeth for a reason. “I—I don’t know—” he began.

“I’ll stop now if you’re uncomfortable,” Merc cut in.

It was the last thing Rahil expected. It shouldn’t have been. It was only reasonable, only fair, and yet… Rahil swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and released a shaky breath. His limbs tried to turn to putty beneath the weight of his conflicting emotions, but he managed to jumpstart his brain fast enough to respond with, “Explain it to me, and we’ll see?”

Merc nodded. “I’m trying to make a metal that will lessen the effects of vampirism without the pain or burning that holy silver causes. It’s not to sell, either. It’s to aid in research that will create products for vampires.” The emotion in his voice was so unusual that it took Rahil a moment to parse it—it was love, he thought. Love, and pain. “This could be the first step in giving vampires agency over their bodies. That’s my hope, anyway. It might turn into nothing.” Merc rubbed his palm across his cheek to fiddle with a tiny piece of metal in his ear: a little gray earring, small and round. “I’m partnering with a brilliant scientist on this, one I know is not a stranger to helping people who have no one else to turn to. He’s done a lot of good for a number of nonhumans, and wants to believe this will be good too, if we can make it work.”

A lot of good. It sounded too good to be true: just one piece of metal for one honest scientist to better the lives of vampires. But it was a piece of metal designed as a more humane version of holy silver, and while the research field might have been a place where that was necessary, Rahil could easily see it pitched in other settings: anywhere it might be nice to eliminate a vampire’s unnatural abilities without receiving judgement from the more compassionate public. But, it was just one piece. Chances were, no one who might hold those views would ever see it.

This felt like too many ifs and ands, and frankly, that was not what Rahil had risked tangling himself in Mercer’s trap for. It seemed callous, though, to ask if the alternative to helping was being kicked out. How selfish was it to potentially risk the future of his community for one more day standing in this shed?

But what if the potential truly was for salvation instead of sacrifice...

As though he could read Rahil’s mind, Merc asked, “I can show you the kinds of experimentation it will take to produce such a metal, and then you can decide?”

How was he supposed to say no to that? Rahil shrugged, as though his beautiful torturer hadn’t offered him exactly what his body was begging for. “I suppose I can submit to that.”

“Good. Then I’ll begin.” Merc nodded solemnly to himself.

Rahil watched Merc with a mixture of anticipation and horror as the smith drew from his lockbox a larger holy silver charm, then a full bar of the terrible metal. He could feel his arm hair standing on edge, like his very cells could sense the pain and terror this substance had caused his race for thousands of years, those horrors reinvigorated as new generations of vampires lost contact with their community’s elders and their cautionary knowledge. But that pain didn’t befall him. As Merc touched the metal to Rahil’s skin, soft tingles raced up his arms.

Rahil made the mistake of wondering what sensation they might produce if pressed to other regions of his body and his dick raised a nearly literal hand to volunteer.

Merc watched Rahil’s expression, and when Rahil smiled, he nodded slowly and placed the holy silver into line with his other tools. Then, he got to work. Rahil couldn’t tell exactly what Merc was trying to accomplish, but he seemed confident as he cupped Rahil’s arm, pressing different metals—including the holy silver—to Rahil’s skin before changing them slightly: heating and blending and cooling, dipping them in a series of liquids or sparking a current through them. He jotted notes between each new iteration, his brow furrowed.

Despite losing himself in thought for minutes at a time, he was clearly keeping an eye on Rahil’s reactions, switching out his arms and adjusting his bonds just as Rahil started to ache. With his focus so complete and his strong hands delicately working Rahil’s limbs, his thick muscles flexing and trembles running through the heft around them, Rahil was mesmerized by him. Merc aimed his attention like a looming storm, intense and certain. Every waft of his sweet, earthen fragrance made Rahil’s mouth water, and every professional brush of his skin against Rahil’s sent as many tingles through him as the strongest iterations of holy silver. Though breathtaking he was—and as much as Rahil knew he’d promised to be quiet—watching him work only made Rahil more and more confused.

As Merc chewed on the end of his pen, staring hard at Rahil’s skin for no obvious reason—certainly no sexual one, anyway—Rahil finally broke the quiet. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know.” Merc withdrew his pen from between his lips; no bite marks, but the barrel glistened. He narrowed his eyes and dragged his thumb across the back of Rahil’s arm. “At this point, I’m just trying to understand you.”

“There’s very little to understand, frankly. I’m a pathetic mess who happens also to be breathtakingly gorgeous and relentlessly kind and a useless people-pleaser.” Which was probably why he hadn’t managed to kick Violet out of his life despite how bad an influence he was on the poor kid. Huh. Well, who needed a therapist when a hot craftsman was available with ropes and probing inquiries.

Merc’s lips quirked again. “I meant biologically. But thank you, that does clarify things.”

“Aw, well, biologically, I’m easily contained but rather hardier than I appear, and, again, breathtakingly gorgeous.” Rahil raised a brow. “What things did I clarify?”

“Useless people-pleaser.” Merc lifted his gaze long enough to give Rahil a little smile, deep in a way that caught Rahil off guard and made his heart flutter up into his throat. Merc’s next words only added to the effect, made worse, somehow, by the fact that he turned back to Rahil’s skin, gently holding his arm as he said, “Though your assistance is far from useless right now.”

“Ha.” Rahil tried to force the feeling away with a laugh. “Says the man who’s trying to understand me by staring hard enough.” Except that Rahil had been watching Merc all this time, watching him forge his metal like it was another part of himself and press his fingers to Rahil’s skin as if he could feel beyond Rahil’s flesh to something deeper. “Which is preposterous, you know, unless, by chance, you’re not human.”

Merc swallowed so slowly that Rahil would have missed it if he wasn’t staring. “Why would you say that?”

“You can make holy silver, for one. Not a lot of people know that its creation is more than a strongly-guarded secret. You need a special touch for it, one found originally in a few places across Europe, a number of African tribes, and the Aboriginal people,” Rahil explained. Merc’s brow lifted and his mouth opened, but Rahil caught him before he could ask the question, a little smirk on his lips as he said, “I’ve been a vampire for more of my life than I haven’t. I’ve learned things. And I’ve been staring at you for too many hours not to see the effect you have on your creations. It’s almost as humbling as the effect you have on me.”

Merc swallowed a second time, his strong neck undulating, but he held Rahil’s gaze, and Rahil held it right back. When Merc breathed out, he seemed to relax. “I’m what often gets called a fairy or fae, in Western cultures.”

Rahil hadn’t been quite sure that was the right term for them, but it made sense. “One of the more privileged nonhumans.”

“I am lucky enough to be from a lineage that, in recent years, has been ignored by a lot of the cruelty that targets vampires and werewolves, but it hasn’t always been like this,” Merc said. “Do you know why it’s called holy silver? Because the Catholic Church of the Dark Ages produced it, back when vampires were half myth, and all myths were half real. Fairies were the only ones who could make it, and we did not make it because we wanted to. We fought the stealing of our children and the indoctrination and the bondage until the industrial revolution, and then…” He shook his head. “Our perceived freedom has come at the cost of my ancestors assimilating until our sense of community and culture has been all but extinguished. I’m what some people call a last generation.”

Rahil could hear the pain in Merc’s voice, and he knew—even if it wasn’t his own story—that it was real, and deep, and traumatizing, because the story of his own ancestors was only so different; the same worn trope packaged in a new plot. He knew what a last generation meant, too, but only from a long life of picking up rumors of nonhumans wherever he could. “Your genetics are so mixed that your biological children with a human would no longer be fae.”

Merc shot Rahil a scowl, like the warning pin of a cat’s ears. “All my children would always be fae, because they’re mine.”

“Of course. You know far more of this than I do,” Rahil conceded.

Merc’s anger dwindled out with a sigh. “You’re not entirely wrong, though. Biological children of last generation fae don’t have the same capacity for minor material alteration—that being what we call the spark, and humans once called magic, though we now know it’s no more magical than a vampire’s transformation. Occasionally, their inability to access the spark… harms them; causes fatigue, heart palpitations, seizures, and eventually neuropathy and organ failure. For most of history, the more severe cases of it have been fatal.” He twisted his pen around in one hand as he spoke, clicking the point in and out in rapid succession. With a shaky inhale, he shook his head. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“Because I’m a good listener?” Despite the teasing edge to his words, Rahil spoke gently—Merc certainly seemed to need it. And Rahil didn’t blame him. He knew what it was like to watch his children suffer in ways he could do little about, and if he had known to expect that going into parenthood, he wasn’t sure he would have chosen that path. He still wasn’t sure he deserved to have survived it.

Merc broke the layers of tension with a snort. “It’s certainly better than your flirting.”

Rahil relaxed into a grin. “Now, that’s just cruel.”

“Sometimes the truth hurts.”

“I’d rather be hurt in other ways, thanks. I happen to have preferred entry points for pain and neither of them are my ears.” He winked.

Merc stared at him, stoically unamused. “You know you’re only proving my point, right?”

Rahil faked a dramatic sigh. “It shames me, and yet I can’t be stopped.” He smirked as he added, “You know, I think you’re wrong about being fae. You’re not a fairy, you’re a bear.”

Merc’s eyes narrowed. “I can make you regret that.”

“Please do.”

The flow of their conversation felt so natural that as Merc leaned toward him, Rahil thought, just for a moment, that the fae smith intended to kiss him. The press of the holy silver to his neck shuddered him out of the delusion. Of course Merc wasn’t looking at his mouth—not for anything sexual, anyway. But the fleeting hope was enough to drag a groan out of Rahil, his lips tingling with unsated want.

It made it all the worse as Merc asked. “How does that feel?”

“Like my world is coming apart,” Rahil muttered, closing his eyes and imagining the sensation was more than merely scientific. “Fuck.”

“Fuck?” Merc asked, clinically.

“Yes, please,” was all Rahil managed as Merc drew the silver along the front of his throat, the experimental slide of it paired with the pressure of two fingers to the side of his neck—two fingers like vampire fangs, Rahil thought, except instead of venom, it was the fae’s microscopic power bleeding through him, sensing some shift within his cells. Feeling him on a level no one ever had before.

“So, it’s sensual then?” Merc sounded mildly quizzical, and despite all of Rahil’s expectations, he didn’t pull away, seeming to accept Rahil’s attraction without participating in it himself.

That was better than nothing—and as much as he yearned for the full thing, he forced himself to admit that this was, in fact, best. If Rahil could benefit from Merc’s touch and gaze and the pressure of his holy silver without worrying that he was dragging the smith into something that would ultimately destroy him, perhaps they could both get out of this intact. If he could push Merc for more.

That push couldn’t entail lying to him, though.

“The feeling of the holy silver itself isn’t sensual,” Rahil admitted, “I think that’s, uh, your presence in it. The pure sensation is just a tingling, and I can feel some of the strength leaving my body, but when you place your hands like that…”

“Hmm.” Merc narrowed his eyes on the skin between his touch and the holy silver, pressing just a little harder. “I can sense a molecular shift in your cellular makeup, but a constructive one, not a destructive one.”

Rahil swallowed, trying not to squirm with delight against the cords that held him. “In my cells?”

“I’ve no biological training and the body is infinitely more complex than the simple metals and glasses I typically work with; the knowledge is more of a feeling than anything.” He withdrew his fingers, like the touch had meant nothing.

Rahil knew he’d have the phantom sensation of it for days yet, a pinch of ecstasy left behind.

“But I think I can use it,” Merc continued, putting the holy silver back on the table. “If you still feel content to help me? With one word, you can shut this project down. I wasn’t making any progress before you, and I’m not even certain I’ll make any with you, either.”

Shut this project down, he said.

This project, which was Rahil.

He tried to remind himself that there could be so much more at stake here than his own selfish desire for Merc’s attention, but Merc’s intentions were for good. He was genuinely trying to help vampires, not harm them. And if he could help support one particular vampire’s fantasies while he was at it… Saying no would be safe, but it would be an end to this. And saying yes—well. Rahil imagined days or weeks of feeling Merc’s fingertips on him, of getting to watch him work, catch his gaze, his scent, his attention from across the room. Rahil thought he’d have done anything for that. “My body is yours. Conduct all the experiments you want.”

“Your flirting truly is horrendous,” Merc replied.

Perhaps it should have hurt him to continue being insulted in this manner, but instead Rahil laughed, a bubbling, joyous sound that felt foreign to his lungs. It made him breathless and lightheaded and he didn’t mind. Right now, he was pretty sure all he could care about was the little crook in Merc’s lips, a soft chuckle accompanying it.

Rahil had, technically, none of the power—except the power to invade Merc’s life, he supposed—but now that he knew what to expect of the answer, he managed to be a halfway-decent person and asked, “Should I stop the flirtation?”

Merc shrugged, though his face revealed more than simple neutrality, his friendly smile lingering. “It’s amusing. So long as you don’t expect anything of it.”

“You did swipe right on me,” Rahil teased. “Though I suppose you ghosted me after, which should have been a sign?”

“You were confused whether the ghosting was metaphorical or metaphysical. I understand.”

After a delayed moment where his brain fought to make sense of the pun, Rahil cracked up. He was still laughing when Merc resumed his metalwork, but he could spot the humor on the smith’s face, and he vowed to himself that somehow, someday, he’d turn that gentle quirk into a proper smile.

10

MERCER

Mercer had framed it like he was partnering with Anthony—painted himself as having an agency he wasn’t quite sure he possessed. He felt like a small cog in a machine he couldn’t see the whole of. But if he knew anything, it was the powerlessness of watching your child suffer when they should have been thriving, of doing everything he could as a parent and still coming up short. If there was someone out there with the power and means to help their vampiric kid live a normal, full life—perhaps even one in the sun, going to school and not fearing the touch of holy silver or the reaction of garlic—and more vampires through them, he wanted to do his part in that.

But, goddamn, this was harder than he’d expected.

The odd little burst of joy that Rahil—of all people; he couldn’t quite fathom it yet—granted him was slowly fading into frustration. He could feel his brow beginning to pinch and the tightness in his jaw growing uncomfortable. Each time he rubbed unconsciously at his temples, he had to pause to check himself for an oncoming migraine. Something was certainly growing behind his eyes.

Finally, Mercer sighed and pulled out his phone.

Leah’s cords slid free of Rahil and retreated into the trap’s containment unit mounted in the central crook of the shed’s vaulted ceiling. Rahil rolled his wrists and stretched his arms behind his head, at which point Mercer forced himself to stop watching. He didn’t need any more fodder for his mind to latch to in dark, private spaces where he wasn’t himself and his shame couldn’t quite reach. And after allowing the vampire to flirt so outrageously for so long, he also couldn’t support any subconscious beliefs that there might be hope yet for the two of them.

Mercer focused instead on putting back the various forms of silver he’d been experimenting with.

“No luck yet?” Rahil asked.

Merc shook his head. “Nothing I’m doing to the silver is moving it toward the holy version’s result without creating the holy version in full.”

Rahil looked like he understood half of that explanation at best, but he gave an encouraging grin. “My skin looks better in gold anyway.”

Mercer froze. “Gold, huh?” He headed across the shed to shift through his ornamentation drawers, retrieving a small stick of gleaming yellow metal. Just the feel of it in his fingers already seemed right. “It’s a low karat option, but it’s all I have at the moment.”

Rahil held out both wrists expectantly. “Hurt me, daddy.”

Mercer wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Or die, perhaps. What his mouth said was, “Not today,” followed by, “Your skin is giving me a headache.”

Rahil lifted a brow with a smirk.

“Not like that,” Mercer clarified, scowling at him. The expression only made his face hurt more. He sighed again instead and found himself patting Rahil’s still-outstretched wrists like he had to comfort the vampire. “You’re free to hang out until the sun is acceptable.”

“What a radical change of treatment.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Honey, all I’ve been doing is tempting you, and it clearly hasn’t worked.” Based on Rahil’s smile, he was not the least bit offended by this. It was sweet, actually. As pushy as he was, he truly didn’t seem to have any expectations, just the desire to be listened to and perhaps appreciated.

It made Mercer’s chest warm and opened a soft, achy space where one absolutely wasn’t allowed to be. He slammed his ribs closed on it with a snort, beginning to shuffle the used metal pieces back into bags so he could sort them later, when his head didn’t hurt and his heart wasn’t being so disruptive. When he reached the holy silver, though, the tingle along his fingertips ignited the memory of all that he’d felt when he’d first created the metal. That had been a very different sensation, not just in his chest, but his whole body, the consuming feeling of loving and losing, the empty place in his heart coming with the eternal knowledge that someone he adored with all his being could be ripped away at a moment’s notice.

Pulling out the lockbox of holy silver, seeing the trap in the ceiling coming to life again for the first time in years, the startles of his anxiety at every knock at the door, and the warmth of blooming connection at Rahil’s laugh all made Leah seem closer than she had in years, and through that, brought closer her death—so slow for something so painful, and so fast for a thing that took the love of his life away from him.

Rahil was clearly more than just a good listener, but a good emotional interpreter too. His words gentle, he asked, “Last time I was here, you said you made that metal for one vampire in particular?”

Rahil was just a passing figure in his life: someone who’d stumbled his way into being a momentary work necessity, albeit a gorgeous one. Mercer owed him nothing. But he was a vampire who didn’t hide what he was, and with all that Mercer had seen of the world, that must have brought him as much pain as it did joy, yet he’d been willing to undergo more of that pain to be understood by Mercer.

And a tiny, traitorous part of Mercer wanted to be understood by him, too.

“Yes,” Mercer replied, crouching at the lockbox to drop the metal back into place. He couldn’t bring himself to close it afterward—to pull away from the memories it forged. Cautiously, he reached behind the silver to something he hadn’t touched in years: a little case still tucked in the back. He could never stand the thought of throwing it away.

Mercer barely looked at it as he lifted it out, snapping open the top. Crouching before Rahil, it felt like offering up an engagement ring. The thought made Mercer feel faint.

“This is the mold of their fangs,” he said, the sound of his own voice a distant thing. He could not remember the horrific casting, only the emotions that had driven him, the terror that had overwhelmed his entire being as Leah’s corpse slowly cooled around the metal, and the agonizing flood of his fae spark that had helped him sense every perimeter and ridge of the oozing bite mark.

Rahil touched the edge of the box, like he was convincing himself it was real. But he didn’t look disgusted or scared. He looked concerned. For Mercer.

“I wasn’t thinking at the time,” Mercer clarified. “I suppose I needed evidence. They didn’t want to take my wife’s body—like it was contagious, somehow—and I—I snapped.” After watching her fade through the agonizing pain, her life going out little by little, and knowing someone had inflicted that upon her—some vampire who’d drunk her so carelessly, so cruelly, that she’d become a statistic. Thirty-one point something, he’d read recently, now that someone had finally bothered to do a study on the numbers. “There is a vampire out there somewhere who threw my wife’s life away, and I could do nothing about it but make a protective shield of holy silver in the hopes that it wouldn’t happen again.”

Rahil pulled his hand back from the case, but then he reached again, settling his fingers atop Mercer’s instead. “You had every right to be angry.”

“I wasn’t.” Mercer’s voice broke. “I wasn’t angry. I was afraid.”

Rahil squeezed gently. “It’s all right to be afraid, too.” His gaze went to the mold, but Mercer couldn’t look at it, which meant he was staring at Rahil’s eyes instead, watching a shine of liquid build along the vampire’s lower lids. Rahil’s throat bobbed. “I know what it’s like to feel so—”

As he started talking, something banged against the front of the shed. Rahil flinched away at the same moment that Mercer jumped up, his heart rate rocketing. He could feel the blood already rushing to his head, a slight tilt coming into the world as his vision tunneled. His hands shook, but he balled them into fists, waiting.

Waiting.

Nothing else moved.

Slowly, Rahil started creeping toward the barn door, ignoring Mercer’s hisses for him to stop. Feeling his own life and his daughter’s and now Rahil’s stupid, beautiful existence all flash before his eyes, Mercer cautiously followed.

Rahil opened the door a crack, then a little more. “Were you expecting a delivery?” He asked, revealing an empty yard but for a shoebox-sized package outside the shed’s entrance.

Mercer’s blood ran cold. “No. Never to the shed.”

As he stepped closer, he could find no address, only his full name: Mercer Jacques Bloncourt.

Rahil lifted a brow at him, right there and yet so far away. The world seemed to tumble outward, and suddenly Rahil’s hand was on Mercer’s arm, gripping him tightly. “Are you okay, Merc?”

He shook his head. “Open it.”

Mercer’s stomach twisted, the panic sinking its claws deep into him as his brain fired unwanted images: knit beanies, locks of braided hair, ice chests with small, feminine fingers. But as Rahil broke open the folded top flaps, the crusted blood inside the cardboard box was from something entirely different. Written in sharpie beneath was the phrase love, William.

Its small body had been stabbed through by a little wooden stake, leathery wings pinned to the bottom of the package and its mouth forced open by a ball of red tissue paper shoved down its throat, revealing the dead bat’s tiny teeth.

Rahil dropped the box with a shout. It was Mercer’s turn to grab him, their eyes meeting like they both knew what the other was thinking.

“Has he been—”

“Only emails.” Emails, and now a dead bat. Did he know—how could he? He couldn’t.

Only Mercer and his daughter knew the details of Leah’s death, the blood clogging the back of her throat as her teeth turned to points.

Mercer felt faint all the same, his head so light that despite Rahil’s grip on him he had to lower himself to his knees with the aid of the shed door. He tried to reel in his anxiety, to focus on the fact that Lydia was safe, and he was safe, and even Rahil, whom Douglas surely would see killed if he knew the vampire was in the vicinity, was also safe. But Mercer’s gaze kept going back to the box. It lay crooked, the bat limp against the pins like a crucified corpse.

His mind cycled through the last thing he’d said to Anthony Hilker before the scientist left. “Do you know a William Douglas?” Mercer had asked. “He claimed to be friends with some of my previous holy silver clients.”

“Billy?” Anthony’s nose had wrinkled. “I know him. Old high school classmate—we went on a few dates after reconnecting online, but he’s… He’s too much like me. We would not have survived each other.” The way his expression had hardened was terrifying even in memory. “Be careful with him.”

Be careful with this man who’d killed and brutalized a living creature to send a message—and the message was clear: William Douglas was going to kill vampires. And if he didn’t have Mercer’s help with that, there could be consequences.

Mercer couldn’t breathe suddenly. He could feel the consequences already: his shed in flame, his house broken into, Kat’s limp body, Lydia’s blood across the carpet—

No, no, none of that had happened. But it could. It might. He was the only thing standing between the present and a hundred terrible versions of that future.

His world spun, and the one sound that came through was Rahil’s gentle voice, telling him he was safe. Safe, ironically, with a vampire.

11

RAHIL

In some ways, Mercer’s anxiety was a blessing, because it meant Rahil had something to focus on—something that wasn’t the dead bat, or the way Merc’s wife had been killed, or how Rahil could just as soon be that vampire the smith hated so badly, if the life his own fangs had taken had been a little less unexpected, or his part in it more egregious. He patted Mercer’s shoulder, reminding him he was safe, and reminding himself in the same breath. But just as quickly as Merc had fallen into his stiff state of shallow breathing, he seemed to pull himself back out of it, shaking his head as he apologized, all his attention on his phone as he reset his traps and locked up the shed.

“Will you be all right?” Merc barely looked at him, his gaze still distant.

“Fine,” Rahil answered, because he always was, one way or another.

It seemed like the words were just out of his mouth before Mercer was sliding closed his house’s back door and scooping up his dog for kisses behind the glass, leaving Rahil with only the midday sun and his own thoughts as his companions.

Mercer had asked if he would be okay—might have even let Rahil hide out inside the barn—but the knots in Rahil’s gut were too tight and numerous for him to consider invading the man’s privacy any further. It was clear both of them had their own internal battles to fight. Rahil jogged home through the heat, almost wishing the shakes and pain would come sooner so he’d have something else to think about but the past and the future. The future, at least, he could change, if he had the guts. He could just stay away from Merc after this; hope that William Douglas would never follow through on his threats and Mercer would finish his project without a holy silver immune vampire’s help.

Could, was the opportune word there.

He could have done many things in the past, could have lived a life that wouldn’t fill him with so much guilt and grief now. Yet here he was, mourning a woman from his past who he’d barely known, all because Mercer—a man Rahil also, technically, barely knew—had lost his wife to similar circumstances. Not the same circumstances, thankfully. A different victim, a different vampire, but both had ended in death.

Rahil’s tragic woman had been so distressed when she’d come to him, her eyes red and her ponytail lopsided. “Are you a vampire?”

It was so different from the way Violet had demanded to know last week, this woman’s voice small despite its strength and her apology after an awkward mess. When she’d asked Rahil to turn her, he’d known she’d needed this, even before she’d explained why, a folder of scans and doctors’ notes at the ready.

“You know that even if this ends the way you want it to, you’ll be undergoing a tremendous amount of pain for a life filled with difficulty.”

“I want to live,” she said, hard in ways her initial request hadn’t been, nearly as fiercely as Rahil’s ex-wife had snapped the opposite the last time he’d seen her alive. “If I stay human, I will be dead in under two months, but if there’s a chance I can go on kissing my spouse and holding my kid, then give me that chance.”

He should have said no, should have sent her back for a few more weeks of kisses and a final goodbye. But her request, her desire to live, to love, regardless of the risk, was everything he’d wanted to hear months before, and all he could see in her place was his ex-wife, standing in his kitchen with the same packet, and asking for one last night, one last night that had turned into one last year, and then a death bed he couldn’t stand beside and a funeral he couldn’t bring himself to attend.

So instead, he’d told this woman—this partner, parent, lover—simply, not here. If this went wrong, he couldn’t have anyone banging down his door. He hadn’t truly believed it would go wrong, even then. He’d made it through his transformation—painfully, but still. If he’d managed to convince his dear Shefali to take that same risk, she’d have had a similar outcome—a life. And so would this woman.

When the blood had started dripping down the back of her throat and oozing around her teeth as they were pushed aside for spiny fangs, when her eyes shot edge to edge in black, it had finally set in that he’d made a mistake. He should have known better—deadly errors were his forte after all.

Every wrong decision had seemed right to him in the moment.

Which was just another reason not to return to Mercer Bloncourt’s. Or was staying away the mistake? He’d left Matt alone, and Rahil’s abandonment hadn’t saved his youngest son any more than his meddling had saved his eldest decades before.

The shakes and aches that hit Rahil by the time he reached home didn’t help distract him from his emotions after all. Neither did the fruitless exhaustion that succeeded them, cruel enough to make his mind and body both absolutely useless while still denying him the deep sleep he desperately needed. He wallowed around the house for the rest of the day, too worn out even to fiddle with his pile of electronics, and avoided Sheanna and Tal when they appeared in the afternoon to crash for a few hours before heading out again—Tal to a night shift and Sheanna to check in on her great-aunt. There was food in the cupboards, at least, even if most of it was from the discount outlet. Rahil slipped a few fives in the communal grocery fund and cooked himself some noodles, drowning them with enough nearly expired butter to kill a weaker man.

For once, Violet didn’t come. Rahil hoped his talk of support systems had truly scared her off, though the later the evening got the more he missed her snarky banter. Without her or Mercer to talk to, he found himself despondently in his family’s group chat, scrolling back through the last week of muted messages, complete with pictures of his nieces’ pets, his sister and auntie’s champagne brunch, and his only nephew’s kids, all five teenagers wrangled together for a mix of goofy faces and disinterested scowls, with sweet little Naddy—now suddenly no longer an adorable eight year old—still smiling just as brightly as she had every time she’d asked Rahil if he wanted to help her make tea.

Fuck, did he miss them.

But he’d already taken up enough of their love—and far too much of their time and money, especially since Shefali passed away. Every time he saw them, there was another round of “Are you sure you’re okay?”s and “What can we do?”s and offers of everything from meals and their “extra” supplies, to loans they all knew he’d never repay, to a place to live for a few months or years or decades. Watching their self-imposed responsibility for him move from his parents to his siblings and now shift gradually toward the younger generation as his body aged slightly slower than the rest of his family was a misery he had made the deliberate choice not to let anyone bear.

Even if some of them hadn’t accepted that yet.

As the last of the light faded from the sky, Rahil sat on the front porch. He yawned sporadically, his brain somehow fuzzier after the day’s rest than it had been at the start. Every time he started to drift off, though, his mind would yank him back with intrusive thoughts of the woman his venom had killed, placing her face over the mysterious outline of Mercer’s wife, turning her choice into a violent lack thereof. He was about to go back inside for a cup of herbal tea despite the heat, when Violet came creeping up the front steps.

Rahil stared at her with one eye closed. “You’re here late.”

“Dad’s in a mood.” Her arms were wrapped tightly around her body, her usual outfit traded for a baggy t-shirt and pj shorts. She still wore a beanie. “He thinks I went to bed.”

Rahil glanced at his phone. It was past midnight somehow. “You should be in bed.”

Violet made a show of rolling her eyes. Then she flipped him the bird.

“Fair.” Rahil nodded. Stretching his arms over his head, he stood. His body almost gave out on him, sleep threatening to come for just a moment before it veered sharply back into ruthless fatigue. “You want some chamomile tea?”

“I thought it was the cold that vampires didn’t feel, not the heat.”

“I figure heat stroke probably makes a person fall asleep.”

Violet shrugged. “Count me in then.”

They made the tea in a communal silence, Violet picking the mug with a curse word on it despite the chip in the rim. It reminded Rahil of himself. And Matt. He didn’t want to think about his sons right then, though—he’d done plenty of that already for the day—so as they finished, he gave Violet a tap on the head. “Follow me.”

She didn’t even question him, which was probably a bad sign on her part, letting him lead the way up the stairs. He grabbed the pillow from his room and another from Avery’s—they were at their boyfriend’s in LA for the night—and headed up the second story spiral staircase.

“Watch the fourth step,” he instructed, even though he was fairly certain the wobbly wood could hold Violet’s weight.

Once through the trap door at the top, Rahil turned the opposite direction from the main attic space, handing Violet the mugs and opening the large back window under the low eaves. It creaked, stuck, then gave, swinging out onto the second story’s roof. Rahil stepped through.

“Careful,” he instructed, taking the mugs back so Violet could follow him. “And grab that blanket on the floor there.”

Beneath the layers of disinterest and annoyance, she seemed mildly impressed. “This is almost cool.”

“It’s a roof. Of course it’s cool,” Rahil replied, and spread the blanket on the lightly slanted portion above the master-bedroom, tossing the pillows onto it before settling down. “Fun fact about vampires—we love stargazing.”

“Ha ha,” Violet grumbled, but she tipped back her head. Her eyes grew wider and her shoulders more relaxed as she stared up into the cloudless summer night. The moon was still somewhere beyond the horizon and the city lights just far enough away to allow for the distant starlight to pierce the vale of endless emptiness, creating a kaleidoscope of glittering constellations.

Rahil sipped his tea despite how ruthlessly hot it was against the balmy night and took in the stars with her. “I wanted to build a patio up here. Put up a couple hammocks…”

Violet nodded. Slowly, without taking her eyes off the sky, she sat down too. She wrapped her hands around her mug, holding its warmth without drinking it, her expression as distant as the stars she gazed at. “Do you sleep up here?”

Rahil shrugged. “I don’t sleep much anywhere.”

“Oh.” Violet nodded again. “Me neither.”

“Insomniac?”

“Something like that.”

Poor kid; Rahil’s heart broke a little for her—a little more than it already had. He tried to ignore that tug in his chest, the temptation to do something for her—to be someone for her. Like his partnership with Mercer, this was a waystation. Violet deserved better than anything he could offer her. That was the point, after all: to convince her that it was best to leave him—and vampirism—alone.

The light of Violet’s phone flashed on, washing her face in an odd glow. She opened a music app. A gentle noise started up from the speakers, slow and melodic. She set the phone between them. “When I can’t sleep, sometimes this helps.”

“It’s very soothing.” Rahil drained his tea and leaned back, letting the sound roll over him. After all his years forming an endless list of things that wouldn’t put him to sleep, he knew nothing so simple could magically cure his wakefulness, but it was incredibly relaxing.

“It’s the song of the loneliest whale,” Violet explained. “He makes a call that’s 13 hertz higher than anyone else in his species, so none of the other whales respond to him. They can hear him, but they choose not to.” She took a sip of her drink, quiet and thoughtful as she stared out to space. “He keeps calling anyway, though.”

That made something in Rahil’s chest ache that was too close to home to be safe. “What a sad fellow.”

Violet hummed and pressed the rim of her tea to her chin. “Maybe he’s not just sad, but hopeful too. He has to keep believing that someday, it’ll work. That’s bravery.”

“Or stupidity.”

“I thought adults were supposed to encourage positivity, not nihilism.”

“I live in a house that’s falling apart, with a bunch of freeloaders, in a society that hates me, trading blood for sex.” Was that too much? Ah, fuck it. “Some adults can be positive because good things eventually happening to them is a genuine possibility, maybe even a definite one.”

Violet didn’t look disappointed at that, only thoughtful. She glanced at him, like she was trying to decide where to place him in her zoo catalog of adults. “At least you have a thrall now?”

The sound that burst out of Rahil was so similar to the laugh Mercer had inspired earlier that he almost choked on it again. He smiled at the end, giving Violet a little nudge in the shoulder. “You’re a good thing, kid. I don’t know if you have people in your life telling you so, but you’re a damn good thing, and you should have hope.”

The little twist in her lips was oddly familiar, there for a flash, then gone again. “Dad tells me that, sometimes.” She sighed. “But I don’t know if I should believe him. I don’t think he has hope either—not for me, and certainly not for himself. He’s kind of… stuck.”

“I’m sorry.”

Violet’s shoulders bounced. She leaned back, tucking her pillow under her head. The music that had been reverberating softly between them went quiet. “You missed the entire song.”

“Fuck, you’re right. Restart it.”

Violet did so with the utmost seriousness, settling back in after, stoic and serene. “Goodnight, Ray.”

Rahil closed his eyes. “Goodnight, you little creep.”

He swore the tiny snort she made was a disguised laugh.

Rahil gave it a count of thirty before he started to fake-snore.

This time Violet’s sound was certainly a kind of laughter, followed by a shove at his shoulder as she snapped, “Quit that! It doesn’t work if you’re just goofing off.”

Rahil grinned. “You sound like my mother.”

“Someone needs to.”

“You’re not wrong there.”

Rahil closed his eyes again, focusing on steady inhales and low exhales, and let the whale song wash over him. It was slow and melancholic, with a yearning that seemed to sink into his bones the longer he listened. He imagined the lonely whale drifting behind his eyes, eternally calling for a partner he would never find; the light rippling off his back and the empty ocean stretching before him.

With the song playing, Rahil felt hazier, his mind drifting as though through the same water. A yawn broke out of him. He found his thoughts sinking. He was pretty sure Violet’s breathing had slowed beside him, and his own fought to stay in time, until he was the whale, and the whale wasn’t quite so alone.

~

Rahil snapped awake to the sound of his morning alarm. He scrambled to grab it, only to realize it wasn’t his at all as he slammed his chin into the top of Violet’s head.

“Fuck-shit.” He jerked back, sliding a few inches down the roof. The stars had faded, the treeline a visible set of peaks behind the house as the sky began to lighten. Goddamn. How many hours had it been—five?

And he’d let a child sleep on his roof. A child whose father was probably going to have an anxiety attack over her whereabouts once they realized she was gone.

Violet rubbed her bleary eyes and grumbled curses under her breath.

Rahil tried not to panic too hard. “You okay, kid?”

“My back feels like shit,” she muttered, but a crook came into her lips. “We’re still on the roof.”

“Luckily. If you’d rolled off, I’d have been forced to bury your body beneath the roses.”

Violet snorted. “You don’t have any roses. Unless you mean your rocks and the weird pit.”

“That pit is for the roses—or some flowers, anyway. I just have to find a fertilizer first…” Preferably a cheap or free one. Perhaps the house could start composting. He poked Violet in the shoulder. “You should get home. I should get you home.”

“You and what car? Sun will be up soon, too.”

Rahil groaned.

Like she was moving on autopilot, Violet pulled a little container out of her pocket and dug two pills from it.

Rahil narrowed his eyes. “Those aren’t drugs, right?”

“Of course they’re drugs.” Violet rattled their case. “Doctor-prescribed.”

They didn’t look illegal, but then Rahil wasn’t actually sure what illegal drugs looked like these days. She was already swallowing them anyway, making a face after.

Rahil stood. He stumbled on the uneven surface of the roof as he collected their pillows and one of the mugs—he didn’t want to know where the other had ended up. If it was the only thing that emerged broken in the yard, he’d be relieved.

Violet immediately tempted that hope by slipping on an ungainly roof tile.

Barely thinking, Rahil secured her by the undersides of her arms with a stabilizing “whoa there, champ,” as he guided her into the windowsill. Not until after she was safe, rolling her eyes and detangling herself from his grip, did it occur to him: Violet was not his kid. She was not his clumsy little Matt, or his over-adventurous Jonah—and thank god, because at least whatever happened to her after she’d forgotten him wouldn’t be his fault. Probably.

Unless he fundamentally screwed her up too.

Rahil’s body reacted so physically to the thought of Violet suffering the way his sons had that he felt himself jerking back from her, hitting the lip of the open window pane and—fuck. But then it was Violet’s fists grabbing onto him—a little more pathetically for her much smaller weight—as she struggled to keep him from falling backwards. They both stumbled forward, knocking side-by-side into the windowsill.

“Ah, fuck,” Rahil slid again, and it took the better part of his vampiric agility to right himself.

Violet groaned. She dropped onto her butt and plopped her pointer finger in her mouth.

Rahil narrowed his eyes. “Let me see.”

“S’fine,” she muttered through the bleeding finger.

“I’m a vampire, remember. I can smell the blood.”

Violet grumbled under her breath again and held it out to him. A line of red quickly appeared in the small cut. “You want?” she asked.

“From you?” Rahil made a face. “Has anything I’ve taught you sunk in past that beanie?” He gave the top of her covered head a little rub.

Violet complained and batted him away with her uninjured hand, but Rahil was oddly flattered to notice how half-hearted the protest was. He should not have cared what a random preteen thought of him. Even if she had played him the lonely whale song and reminded him of his sons. She had a home to get back to and a completely normal human life to keep living, with parents who would probably be worried sick if they knew she was here. Or at least a father, since it sounded as though her mom was mostly out of the picture.

Rahil brushed past her with a tsk tsk sound. “Come on, let’s get a band-aid on that before you leave. I can’t send you home cut up.”

Violet whined some more, scowling all the way to the kitchen, where Rahil dug the little case of band-aids out of the house’s stash of expired medicine. He found one with stars on the back of the plaster.

Peeling off the sticky sides reminded him, painfully, of the year that three-year-old Matt had been obsessed with the healing power of band-aids. Jonah had never failed to help paste them over little Matt’s bruises and bumps and bug bites, taking each prepped plaster from Rahil with the serenity of a hardened nurse.

Rahil turned away quickly, shoving the trash into the bin so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at Violet and seeing his own children. By the time he finished, she was already standing by the hall to the door, both hands in her pj pockets as she rocked from heel to toe.

“Hey, master-vampire-Ray?” she said, and grinned. “You’re a good thing too.” With that, she left.

Rahil was too stunned to follow her out. The sudden weight in his chest felt about the same size and shape as a heart, like a dead muscle trying to sink its way into his gut. You’re a good thing too.

He wished he was, for her sake, and the sake of everyone who wasn’t here to tell him so any longer.

Rahil Zaman was not a good thing. If he was lonely, it was for a reason.

12

MERCER

Mercer was doing an outstanding job of nothing at all.

He was at the tail end of a migraine, having laid in bed with Kat slumped worriedly against his legs for an extra hour until the worst of the light sensitivity faded and his stomach stopped flip-flopping. At that point, Kat had begun casually licking his face. He dragged himself up and into the kitchen to refill her bowl for the day, only to find it already done and Lydia miraculously awake and alert, sitting on the counter eating Cheetos from the family sized bag. She’d clearly been at it for a while, based on the thick coat of cheese on her fingers and the smear of it along her phone. She was swapping sparkly skulls around her screen, but one look at the bright, colorful display made Mercer wish he’d stayed in bed.

“Morning, Puck,” Mercer muttered.

“Morning,” she grumbled right back through an orange mouthful.

He eyed her drearily as he fished yesterday’s mug off the drying rack. Something seemed… different. She was too peppy for 8:30am. And there was an inch-long brown thing stuck in her braids.

Mercer prodded it, trying not to open his eyes too wide lest he accidentally resurrect the worst of his migraine. “Is that… a dead leaf?”

Lydia shook her head and shoulders, dislodging his touch and pushing the tangled ex-greenery off. “My god, Dad, why do you have to be like that?”

How could someone so small and precious sound so incredibly snippy? Mercer couldn’t decide if he wanted to hug her or strangle her. Instead, he bit his tongue and went for a gentle, “I was just asking a question?”

“Are you?” Lydia snapped back, clearly mocking the indecisiveness of his tone. She rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s a dead leaf. It’s fashionable.”

She was lying to him. Mercer wasn’t entirely sure why or about what, but she was. His instincts told him to push for more—leaves were from the outside—if she had been outside this morning—if she’d left the house without him knowing, and she’d forgotten her meds, or a seizure had hit unexpectedly—

But no. She was fine. She was alive and well and here, and she was fine. Mercer forced himself to breathe. Lydia didn’t need his anxiety, particularly when she was clearly in some kind of mood—maybe she’d been having insomnia again and not told him? If she wasn’t sleeping, it would put extra stress on her body and—

And he could not fix that by making accusations.

Mercer forced himself to breathe and smile. “Well, I suppose you are Puck, after all. Leaves are your natural habitat.” He fished a handful of Cheetos out of her bag.

“Hey!” She tried to pull the entire package away from him far too late, but her posture relaxed, a tiny quirk coming into her lips.

He ruffled her beanie. “Finders keepers.”

Lydia’s nose wrinkled. She leaned forward suddenly, and like a great white coming in for the kill, she chomped down on the ends of the Cheetos poking out of Mercer’s fist. The effect was to squish far more of the crispy orange sticks against her chin and cheeks than into her mouth. “Abort! Abort!” she coughed, spewing crumbs in her wake.

The sudden motion made Kat spring up from her post-breakfast lounging, her tail bursting into waggles as her ears perked. She barked once, jumping at Lydia’s legs like she could save the day if only she was tall enough to lick the crumbs off her face.

Despite the subtle pounding still lighting pain through one side of his skull, Mercer cracked up. He rubbed Kat’s head with one hand and smeared an extra line of the orange dust across Lydia’s cheek with the other, giving a maniacal cackle.

“Child abuse!” Lydia shouted, waving her hands in front of her face. But she was laughing—really, truly laughing, the kind of reckless giggling that he’d barely seen from her in months.

The sound made Mercer’s heart swell. Ignoring the orange dust, he wrapped his arms around his daughter, snuggling her against his chest. She made a disgruntled noise and wiggled as Kat bayed excitedly at them again.

“Daaaaad. I have to wash my hands!”

“And your face!” he laughed, letting her go and stealing another handful of Cheetos from her bag. Kat gobbled up the pieces that dropped from his fist.

Lydia bumped her shoulder playfully into his side, but as she moved to the sink, Mercer’s attention caught on the way she washed her fingers, awkwardly avoiding getting a brand-new band-aid wet.

He could feel himself scowling in the sudden pressure that built behind his eyes. “Did you get cut?”

Lydia flinched, her momentary joy dropping away. It hurt Mercer to watch it go, hurt him more to know that he was taking it from her. “I’m sorry, Puck. I’m just—”

“Worried, yeah.” She slid her wet fingers over his hand. “But it’s a tiny scrape. I’m fine, Dad, really.”

That was another lie. It made Mercer’s heart ache and his throat tighten, but it was all he could do to flip his hand around and squeeze hers. “Okay,” he forced out, quietly. “I believe you.”

An untruth for an untruth; was this their relationship now? But Mercer didn’t know what else to do.

As she strolled back toward her bedroom, Cheeto bag still in hand and Kat trailing happily in her wake, he wondered: did they even own band-aids with stars on them?

No matter how his relationship with Lydia twisted and turned, at least he now had his days with Rahil, if only for the moment.

Every time Rahil joined him in the shed, he had to remind himself that it was a business transaction. A momentary blip of touch and laughter that Mercer was, very decisively, not going to keep, for Lydia’s sake most of all. But, God, after nearly three straight weeks of working with Rahil, he was certainly enjoying their time together in the moment.

Though he’d never tell Rahil that.

Mercer grabbed the vampire’s wrist as clinically as possible, raising it to the silver cord awaiting him. It slid tightly into place.

Rahil watched him with a casual expression, one eyebrow lifting. “Do you really need to keep doing that? You should know by now that I can simply be asked to stay put.”

“I do know.” Mercer lifted an eyebrow right back at him, adding flatly, “But you enjoy this more.”

“Oohhh,” Rahil replied, and his grin was so outright devilish that Mercer had to turn away to keep his face neutral. “My pleasure is your command now, is it?”

They were not flirting. Of course, Rahil was still flirting with him, but it took two to tango and this was, at best, a dance in which Mercer had allowed himself to be momentarily pushed around on a gym class roller-board. “If that were true, I wouldn’t keep wasting our time together by staring at a chunk of golden metal.”

“You’re forgetting the bits where you probe me with that metal and ask how it feels.”

“Oh, no,” Mercer chided, already lifting his unfinished gold—which he’d taken to calling unholy gold, in direct contrast to holy silver—out of the safe box. “I do that because I enjoy it.” He graced Rahil with the smallest of smiles, taking a quite-definitely-unholy amount of pleasure in it; he could pinpoint the exact unholiness of it by how aggressively his unconscious tried to shame him for the impropriety. Which was, frankly, silly, since these particular pleasure responses didn’t even involve sexual thoughts… At least not anything more sexual than Rahil already seemed committed to perpetrating, with his innuendos and open shirts. Mercer was pretty sure he wore so many of the old-fashioned ruffles just to taunt people into grabbing onto them. That was one scenario Mercer had spent far too long imagining just before bed last night, shame be damned.

“Do you also enjoy edging?” Rahil asked. “Because I think that’s what you’re doing to our poor unholy gold.”

Mercer nearly choked, recovering with barely a hum in the back of his throat as he forced himself to nonchalantly glance up at Rahil. “Our unholy gold?”

“You wouldn’t have it if not for me.”

“As you so eloquently assured me, I technically don’t have it at all yet.” Mercer was trying to hold out hope. Every improvement had been followed by a sudden nosedive, if not a full-blown crash that required a brand-new piece of metal. They were, at least, finally making Rahil feel things.

Though, as he kept putting it, he’d felt things from the moment he laid eyes on Mercer. Mercer would remind him every time that he was fairly certain Anthony Hilker had no use for an erection-inducing metal.

“To reiterate—”

Rahil cut in, “You have nothing but me and my pleasure.”

Mercer continued regardless, concealing his desire to smile by scowling pointedly at the metal he held. “—when the current alloy is pressed to your skin, you experience”—maybe that was better than feel—“a slight tingling at the site, and some minor dampening of your abilities?”

“More like a very minor throbbing, the slight sense of exhaustion, and a delightful fluttering of butterflies in my stomach—though I think you’re the cause of that last one.” He winked.

Mercer narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Exactly how long ago were you in middle school?”

“No one is too old for crushes.” Rahil shrugged. “I should know, I’m… sixty-four? God, am I sixty-five now? Time is a construct anyways.”

Sixty-five? He didn’t look a day over forty—or act a day over twenty-three, for that matter. “You…” Mercer started, then the facts hit him. “Vampire,” he grumbled.

His brain presented him with the unwarranted thought that considering the slightly extended vampiric lifespan, they’d die around the same time. Unless Mercer’s fae blood also gave him a few extra years—he hadn’t known his own fae parent long enough to know whether or not to expect that—or something other than age took one of them first, an accident or illness for Mercer, or vampire hunters for Rahil. Not that it mattered, since they would only be working together for a few more weeks or perhaps months at the most.

Rahil bared his fangs proudly. He leaned forward, giving them a little predatory snap in the vague direction of Mercer’s throat.

“Oh, you don’t dare.” Mercer stared at him—hard—half hoping he wouldn’t take the bait and half hoping he would. Not to be bitten himself; he had no interest in that, surely. But if Rahil felt like pushing… Well, Mercer could push back. He would give the obstinate flirt something to moan about, if he could justify pulling the item out of storage.

The vampire didn’t push, but he did pull, twisting as he made a show of examining Mercer’s neck. “You know with muscles like those, you’d be a delight to sink a fang into…”

Mercer stepped forward, his mouth a line, his eyes narrowed. “Would I?” He was goading Rahil now, he knew, and he didn’t know why he was doing it—this wasn’t exactly the time—but he couldn’t help himself, like he couldn’t help the ways his body reacted as Rahil leaned closer, tongue glancing over the tips of his fangs.

Rahil’s throat bobbed. As he stared at Mercer’s neck, he made a sound of desperation. “It would be nice,” he pleaded.

“For you, I’m sure it would be.” The little shudder that ran down Mercer’s spine wasn’t exactly fear, but it wasn’t void of that either. He took the tiniest step back.

Rahil’s mouth moved with him, his brow begging as his lips hung open. He whimpered.

Mercer held up a finger, not quite touching him. “Don’t move. I have something that might solve this problem for you.”

“What—” Rahil started, but Mercer pressed his fingertip to Rahil’s lips.

“No questions. This is yes or no only.”

Rahil seemed to contemplate that for exactly 0.03 seconds. “For you? Yes.”

“Good.” Mercer turned back to the bench, digging through a drawer until he found—ah, he had one premade still. Without explanation, Mercer took hold of Rahil’s chin and nudged open his jaw. The round insert of pliable material was the perfect size to slip into Rahil’s mouth, forcing his tongue down as the vampire’s brow tightened with confusion. His eyes were alight still, curiosity clearly outweighing his worry. When Mercer instructed him to bite down, he did so, and released on a second command.

Mercer pulled the mold free: a perfect array of teeth imprints with two long, lean fangs. One of them curved slightly inward. It seemed oddly familiar, but since Mercer had gotten into the business of vampire kink, he’d taken a dozen similar modeling sets before, and they never ceased to remind him of the fangs still sitting in his holy silver box. He hadn’t properly looked at those for so many years that he wasn’t quite sure his memories of it were even accurate. He could probably have modeled the same vampire’s teeth since and not realized it.

The thought sent a shudder through him.

Rahil interrupted it with a clearing of his throat and an awkward laugh. “I thought for a moment you’d decided you’d had enough of my flirting after all.”

“Really,” Mercer said, flatly. He lifted his gaze, giving Rahil a purposeful stare before pulling out a case of his working fang caps. Of the four differently sized sets, none of them fit close enough to the measurements in Rahil’s mold. Rahil’s fangs were fairly unique after all.

Perhaps he could make Rahil’s a custom set later, if he ignored how much effort he’d be putting into something he was only doing for a chuckle. Maybe Rahil could enjoy them with whoever he decided to obsess over next. The mix of reassurance and distress Mercer had at that thought was too bizarre for him to dwell on.

He turned his attention to the elaborate kinky muzzles of metal swirls and lace, picking one that could clip into Rahil’s hair and around his ears.

Rahil’s nonchalant manner slid a little. “You’re not planning to gag me, right?”

“I think you might die if you can’t speak, so no.” Mercer turned back to him, holding up the muzzle. “Lift your chin.”

“What—” Rahil started again.

Mercer pressed a thumb beneath his jaw and hooked the muzzle carefully into place. With the tiny gaps between the metal and fabric, it didn’t entirely hide the sight of Rahil’s fangs, but as he twisted his face, the cage concealed by the elegant design butted against Mercer’s arm, keeping Rahil from catching it with his mouth.

“Cruel,” Rahil muttered.

“But not a gag.”

That didn’t stop Rahil from pouting. “You lock away my fingers and put my other best asset in a cage.”

“And at no point have you refused,” Mercer reminded him, having far too much fun for his own good. If Rahil was going to taunt him so purposefully, it was only fair that he got the chance to retaliate.

“People pleaser, remember.”

“So you’d let anyone torment you like this?”

That made Rahil’s mouth shut entirely. He finally grumbled, “Only anyone with hands like yours.”

“Hmh. Compliment accepted, I suppose.” Mercer turned toward his metal workbench, scowling at the unholy gold.

What to try that he hadn’t already? Over the last three weeks, Mercer had gone through every step of the holy silver process forward and backwards, tracking results and comparing them to the way the holy silver reacted to Rahil’s body. If he really wanted to be sure his creation was working, he’d need a vampire who wasn’t immune to test it on, but at this rate, it would be months before that happened.

Anthony was already sending him questions about his progress, though his emails had been getting buried in the threats from William Douglas. At least, up until yesterday afternoon, when those threats had suddenly ceased. He hoped that meant the man had given up.

Mercer glanced back at his phone just in case. Still nothing. That should have comforted him, but somehow no sign of William was worse. At least when the emails had been coming, his fear had a target; now he had all those same anxieties, but they built pointlessly in his chest, so amped up they were prone to start eating him alive soon.

Mercer began heating the gold a little aimlessly, hoping something might occur to him as he played with it.

He still hadn’t gotten anywhere when Rahil butted into his thoughts. “How are you still single, with your good looks and all these glorious arts and crafts to use as leverage? I know your wife’s passing was hard, and it takes time to feel ready for a new partner after a loss like that, but surely you have enough life left that you want someone to spend it with?”

“For the record, I am only forty-one, which is plenty young still. But I’ve been happy on my own thus far, thank you.”

“All alone?” Rahil sounded hesitant—no, not merely hesitant, but worried for Mercer, as though at the wrong answer he was prepared to assign Mercer a companion.

Mercer’s mind flew to Lydia, his beautiful sharp little girl with all her fresh barbs and the growing dryness of her humor, and he wanted to tell Rahil that he was the farthest thing from alone. But that wasn’t quite true. And he found he didn’t want to tell Rahil about Lydia—not for her protection, but for—for—he wasn’t sure. It felt like if he knew about her, it would be a reason for her to know about him; and Mercer couldn’t have that.

Regardless of what context they were introduced in, with Rahil’s fangs out, Mercer could not predict Lydia’s reaction: her fear, all that trauma from Leah’s death pulled back to the surface. There was a good reason why Mercer kept his customers away from his daughter, and this was no different.

“Not always,” was the answer he went with. And then, nudged out of him by an unwarranted ache in his chest, he asked, “Do you have anyone?” He had not thought his own voice could still sound that gentle when talking to someone other than Lydia, and the shock of it almost caused him to fae-spark the nearest atoms into his molten metal. He could not bear to check behind him for Rahil’s reaction, but by the mirrored softness of his voice, it seemed to have done similar things to his vampiric associate.

“I could,” Rahil said. “There are people living with me—friends, I suppose you could call them, though I’m more like their benevolent landlord who charges them nothing and occasionally eats their food—and my family never fails to include me in their group chats. I still have some contact with my ex-wife’s family too, on occasion.”

“Ex-wife?” Mercer glanced back then, unable to stop himself from meeting Rahil’s gaze. “How long were you together?”

“Almost twenty years.” Rahil looked so weary, a deep, settled sadness that Mercer understood, born from a love profound enough that it never quite went away. “Our divorce was… well, not amicable, but not surly either.”

“You loved her still?” Mercer guessed.

“Very much. We just… we didn’t know how to turn that love into something that would help the other anymore. We did try again, finally, years later, but…”

“Are you still in touch?”

“She, um.” Rahil’s voice broke, barely returning as he averted his gaze. “She died of lung cancer about a decade ago, right after we got back together.”

“Ah. I’m sorry—for all of it.” It wasn’t quite his own story, but Mercer understood parts of it, nonetheless. There was nothing for him to protect or mend here though, and he didn’t know what more to do except to either wrap his arms around Rahil, or else change the subject. He cleared his throat. “Were you a vampire before you met her? If that’s an intrusive question, don’t feel as though you need to answer.”

“No, no, you’re good.” Rahil seemed to pull himself back together as he said it, his lightly forced grin revealing the tips of his fangs behind the muzzle. “I turned the year after we met. It threw a slight wrench in our engagement plans—vampires were only considered marriageable material in certain states at that point—but we worked it out. Both our families were unusually kind about it, though hers needed coaxing. Mine I had to coax into backing off, if you know what I mean. But I’d rather that than the alternative. It could have very easily gone worse.” He looked thoughtful as he said it, a little forlorn and almost… conflicted? The expression passed too quickly for Mercer to be certain. Rahil chuckled. “At least you didn’t have to have that awkward ‘Hey Mom, Dad, I’m a fae,’ conversation with your family.”

“Ha, well. My parents weren’t in the picture for long. It was my human grandparents who raised me. That conversation had far less sitting down and talking and a lot more of Grandma shouting about the changes five-year-old me had made in her favorite porcelain bowl.” He smiled at the memory, his grandma half-dressed in her Sunday best, staring in shock at the stones now molded into her dishware. “They had their flaws, but they were good people. I wish they were still here for—” He cut himself short before saying Lydia. That was the exact can of worms he’d already opted not to open.

His shortstop seemed less sudden, though, as Kat immediately began baying from inside the house.

Usually he’d disregard her barking—most likely targeted at whatever small animal she’d noticed on the lawn—but with all the threats from William Douglas of late…

Mercer stepped toward the shed door. Immediately, Kat went quiet again.

Just a visiting rodent after all, then. That was fine. Everything was fine.

Mercer forced himself to shake off the twist in his gut. William Douglas had stopped contacting him yesterday, and no other holy silver solicitors had found his home; and he could hardly check on Kat every time she barked. He turned back to his workbench. Fighting to regain his focus, he skimmed his fingers aimlessly over the supplies he’d gathered before Rahil’s arrival, still uncertain what to try next. He settled on simply the prototype metal, scowling at it. Maybe he needed a different approach…

“It sounds like you were always working toward this kind of craftsmanship then?” Rahil asked, clearly referencing their original conversation.

“Ever since I learned how to spark,” Mercer replied. Between the conversation and the metal in his hand, he could feel his body finally relaxing. He glanced at Rahil with one eyebrow purposefully raised. “I was properly good at it, too, until you arrived.”

Rahil outright smirked. “Distracted by my many fine attributes, huh?”

“And your terrible flirting.” Mercer bounced the metal up and down a few times, feeling the subtle pressure differential he assumed had to be his fae abilities interpreting a transfer of energy with each touch and toss. He was getting nowhere.

Maybe he needed a reminder of where they’d left off.

“Give me your hand,” Mercer instructed.

“Well…” Rahil teased, opening and closing the one bound up in Leah’s cords.

Mercer stared at him flatly until the cheeky bastard finally extended his free arm. Carefully holding Rahil’s hand with only his fingertips, Mercer pressed the metal to the vampire’s palm.

A little shudder went through Rahil that Mercer worried had nothing to do with their attempt at unholy gold.

When Mercer laid his own palm over the metal, he could sense the subtle radiation emanating off the gold, the tiny shifts in Rahil’s cells because of it. Rahil slid his fingers between Mercer’s, squeezing them gently. His smile was so soft it hurt.

It was just nonsense flirting. Just—

Mercer inhaled sharply, half the unwarranted tug at his heart and half the feeling of the ways that the gold’s radiation was subtly influencing Rahil’s body, transformed by whatever molecular processes kept him safe from the influence of regular holy silver, then refracting back in far smaller quantities into the metal. There was something there, something—

Mercer pulled away so quickly that Rahil swayed, giving a little whimpered sound that was probably just surprise filtered through this playful persona Rahil had chosen to adopt with him. Mercer ignored him—ignored the stupid thing his own heart was still doing—and put his mind to the shift he’d felt in the metal. If he could just mimic that, they might actually have something.

Alone, no amount of Mercer’s fae spark could shift the atomic arrangement in the exact way he needed it, but he retrieved a few other compounds that felt right and set to work. This was art as much as it was chemistry and physics. Asking the universe to change for him did not come for free; he had to give something to the process: love and understanding, a nurturing touch with a desire for beauty, for creation and not destruction.

It was a little like being a father, he thought, as he pressed his golden alloy into the first of its transformative helpers, feeling the hopeful transition of it under the influence of his spark.

He could barely hear Rahil’s questions behind him, but somehow his brain picked up on the distant slam of a car door, just distinct enough to trigger a leap in his chest as hope collided with worry. The subtle rumble of a portable speaker followed, blaring one of Lydia’s favorite songs.

She was early.

Mercer’s spark snapped out, the transformation he’d triggered stopping with it. The softball practice he’d hesitantly let her join on a trial basis just for the summer training season wasn’t meant to end for another hour—which meant something had happened. She’d been hurt. Or her heart wouldn’t stop palpitating. Or they’d sent her home because she’d seized, and—

They’d have called him. If there was an emergency, someone would have called him; someone would be coming to his door, not just the meandering sound of Lydia’s music and her off-tune singing beneath it. But if she was here already, that meant…

Mercer’s gaze shot toward Rahil, and despite all his practice shielding his true feelings, Rahil must have seen the panic in his eyes.

Rahil’s brow lifted. “Who’s that?”

“No one,” Mercer answered, as the music very obviously moved toward his house.

“I bet you tell that to all your vampires.” There was an edge to Rahil’s saucy tone, but he didn’t seem upset, so much as offended. Hurt.

Mercer couldn’t let himself be swayed by that. “It’s not important for you to know,” he said, trying to keep his voice free of emotion. Lydia’s music was still getting louder—which meant she’d diverted around the front door, maybe when she’d realized Mercer wouldn’t be inside.

In a guttural, sing-songy voice, Lydia shouted, “Daddyo?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Mercer shoved his metal back into its lock-box and latched it as he called back, “Coming, Puck.”

Rahil was staring at him now, his eyes big and his brows high. He hissed under his breath, “You have a kid? Why didn’t you mention you had a kid!”

A million reasons, Mercer wanted to say, but he knew they all boiled down to a couple that he, frankly, didn’t feel much like putting words to. He retrieved his phone to disable the trap cords. “We’re done for today.” His fingerprint reader misaligned on the first try.

“You—”

From the side yard, Lydia’s music volume lowered. “They double-booked the field,” she said, voice closer with every step. “So we did some stretching and got let out. Mx. Tanner says we’ll reschedule.”

Not a sudden and terrible injury then. Good, good.

The relief Mercer felt was contrasted in Rahil’s face, though, as shock, then panic transformed across it. He pulled aggressively at the cord on his trapped wrist.

Mercer was so confused that it took him an extra second to actually hit the trap’s unlock. Rahil was free and across the barn in a blink, pulling himself onto the tables and toward the cracked window above the shed door, his muzzle already discarded.

What the…

“So, can I, um, can I help in here?” Lydia called in, knocking on the side of the shed as she moved toward the door.

Mercer wanted to be overjoyed that she was asking at all—she was asking and Rahil was leaving, doing his best to stay out of view of her—but the speed at which he was attempting to abandon the space seemed so peculiar that Mercer just stood there in shock instead, watching as Rahil slipped on his first attempt through the window. Rahil thudded against the wall, scrambling back up just as Lydia strolled through the doorway. She stopped, squinted, and pushed her beanie back a hair from her forehead.

“What’re you doing here, Ray?” she asked.

Rahil’s throat bobbed. His lips pulled back in an uncomfortable grin, and said, “Hey, kid.”

13

RAHIL

And things had been going so well, too.

Not perfectly—Mercer was still not flirting back, nor touching him more than necessary—but their on-and-off banter and the occasional brushes of skin he did receive were as good as Rahil could have possibly expected, teasing ruthlessly at both his body’s desire and his slowly mounting blood hunger. Better still, the emotional depth their conversations were hitting forged something deep and lovely in Rahil’s chest, and as much as he knew it would make the pain of losing Mercer hurt worse later, he couldn’t help but bask in it now. He had not realized how much he’d needed to get off his chest; how long he’d hidden these things that weren’t even properly secrets, for lack of someone close enough to tell them to.

And then it turned out Mercer had a kid. Which wasn’t a problem, because Rahil would never meet this kid. Would never get the chance to screw them up the way he’d ruined his own. It was all fine, good, dandy.

The moment he’d heard her voice though, with that snarky little edge that was trying so hard to seem older than she was, Rahil had realized just how wrong he’d gotten it. Rahil already knew Mercer’s daughter. He’d made her do his chores and let her fall asleep on his roof and told her that life sucked.

And she thought he was testing her in order to turn her into a vampire.

Oh fuck.

Rahil felt the bottom fall out of his stomach and he suddenly wasn’t so hungry for anything—blood or body. His fingers felt like putty, and his legs were moving of their own accord—and not always the ways they should have—which made the sill of the shed’s escape window no longer quite within his reach. As he slipped, his heart leaped into his throat. Tunnels latched around the edges of his vision, focusing in on Violet’s shocked face. She asked him something, and all he could manage in response was, “Hey, kid.”

Then he fell again.

The next thing Rahil knew, he was on the floor, a pair of hands wrapped around his arm—small hands, gripping him just as tightly as Mercer had while Violet shouted, “Ray!”

“Lydia—” Mercer said from behind, like he meant to tell her to get back, as though Rahil was some wild animal that might attack once he was conscious enough.

Wait, Lydia?

Huh.

Her little hands did vanish then, replaced by Mercer’s large, calloused ones as he lifted Rahil’s shoulders. His fingers brushed along the side of Rahil’s head—a misplacement, surely. “Rahil? Are you hurt?”

“I only fell out of the window,” Rahil grumbled, but he didn’t really want to move, because moving meant losing Mercer’s touch and facing whatever came after. But that very touch became more insistent and with his vision clearing, he could see the worry on Mercer’s face. It was so tender. Rahil forced himself to admit, “I’m fine, really. Just an inconvenient loss of consciousness.”

Mercer breathed out, but Rahil could tell he was trying to force himself to feel a relief that wasn’t truly accessible. “Leah used to call them that,” he muttered, then seemed to realize what he was saying, and the wall of stone fell back over his features. But the way that stoicism had gone and returned: it meant there was something beneath it. Maybe that there was always something beneath it.

Rahil didn’t have time to dwell on that, because Violet—Lydia?—pipped in, “You know each other?”

Merc turned his attention to her so suddenly that he nearly dropped Rahil, before proceeding to detangle himself from Rahil’s presence quickly enough that he might as well have dropped him. Instead of answering his daughter’s question though, he narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m more surprised to learn that you know each other.”

Lydia-Violet looked like a deer in the headlights. Her throat bobbed, and her jaw clamped shut. Clearly sensing her refusal, her father turned his stare on Rahil instead. The moment his attention was off her, Lydia-Violet shook her head slightly.

No… No what? They couldn’t deny that they’d met. But why they’d met… Oh.

The way Lydia-Violet had spoken about her father clicked into place. Of course this man—this lovely, protective, terrified man—would not take well to learning that his daughter had been pursuing the same transformation that killed her mother. Oh god. Lydia-Violet’s mother had been killed by a vampire. And here she was…

Rahil was missing something, he was sure, he just didn’t know what, and as much as he hated lying to Mercer, the pleading in Lydia-Violet’s gaze slayed Rahil’s objections. He couldn’t break her heart like this, especially when he didn’t know everything yet. But Mercer was still watching him, with an increasing ferocity in his gaze that made Rahil worry that if he left the question unanswered much longer, Merc would come to an even worse conclusion about Rahil’s dealings with his daughter than the already harsh reality of the situation.

“We, um...” He tried to smile and then thought better of it. “I needed someone to help with yardwork, and shopping, and you know—things I can’t do in the sun. She’s been riding her bike down the street in front of my place since the summer started, and my sons used to make a bit of money mowing lawns and stuff when they were her age, so I thought she might…” If he kept going much longer, it was going to sound like a full-fledged lie, so he ended with a shrug, and a pathetic look.

Lydia-Violet jumped in for him. “You wouldn’t let me babysit, so I found something else.”

“Lydia,” Mercer started, the war of emotions in his voice making it tremble. He drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and continued, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Definitely-Lydia shrugged. “You knew I was out on my bike some.”

“Not multiple miles away!” Mercer sounded like his throat was closing. Rahil fought the instinct to reach across the divide Merc had placed between them and squeeze his hand. “What if—”

“If something bad happened?” Lydia finished with an eye roll. “Ray was there. He could help.”

Rahil doubted the extent to which that was true, but he nodded anyway. “I would never have let anything happen to her,” he lied, wishing with every cell of his body that it could have been the truth, for her, for his sons, for his ex-wife who’d refused to let him turn her at the end, and for the woman he had turned only to be met with horror and death.

Mercer’s scowl deepened.

Before he could speak, Lydia snapped, “You have to chill, Dad.” And with that, she stormed out of the shed.

Her father’s anger grew into a desperate kind of fury. He stormed after her, calling her name. With the sun high overhead, Rahil tried to keep within the building’s shade as he watched them cross the yard, unsure whether to stay or leave. Lydia refused to stop, throwing open the Bloncourts’ back door so hard it banged. Merc just stood there, halfway across the yard.

His shoulders slumped.

Rahil lifted his hand, like he could reach out, stretch through the sun and wrap an arm around Mercer and tell him that not everything would always be okay, but that in itself was okay, too. That for him, things would get better. He was good; he was doing well. He had not ruined anything.

The desire scared Rahil enough to force him back, up against the shed wall, pressed into the shadows like the night creature he was. Emotional comforting and soft embraces was not where his relationship with Merc had ever been going. Merc would have to find that elsewhere, if he chose to accept it at all.

But when from inside the house, Lydia screamed, Rahil still ran in Mercer’s footsteps without a moment of hesitation.

14

MERCER

Mercer loved his daughter; more than his work, more than himself, more than life. It was why he’d spent so many years building this home for her, in a safe neighborhood with a job where he could drop things and run to her at a moment’s notice and a private scientist who kept her meds updated and coming. It was why hearing her risk all that for a silly part-time summer job made him so angry. So scared.

He didn’t even want to contemplate Rahil’s involvement in this yet.

It was also why all that frustration and hurt vanished at the sound of her scream.

A thousand terrible scenarios tried to flash through his mind, but they were too many, too fast, and all he felt was the pain and fear of them choking him as he ran. He tore through the back door, barely feeling the pound of his feet as he tripped and skidded, coming to a stop in the kitchen. Lydia sat on the floor, trembling.

In her arms, Kat seized.

The beagle’s eyes had rolled back, a pale line of foam around her lips. Her mouth hung open, and the residue of something white seemed to cling to the back of her tongue.

“Daddy?” Lydia pleaded.

“Oh, God.” Mercer didn’t know if it was a curse or a prayer. Both, he figured. It was all he seemed capable of.

Rahil almost knocked into him from behind, one arm wrapping around his back and the other grabbing him by the arm. He seemed to take in the scene much faster, immediately snapping, “She might be poisoned; could you use your spark to stop it?”

“I…” Mercer swallowed. This was a living creature—a hyper-complex organism, with far more elaborate arrangements of atoms than anything he worked with in his shed. But maybe… if he could just stall things long enough to get better help…

Mercer dropped to his knees beside Lydia, carefully taking Kat into his arms as he whispered encouragement—“I’ve got you, you’re going to be okay, you’re safe now, you’re safe,”—afraid it was all a lie; it had all always been a lie. And as gently as he could, he pushed his spark into Kat.

He could feel so much and so little at the same time, a chaos of molecular systems he had no way to influence or even understand, but deep in there, he picked up the tug of singular atoms he knew well—iron, magnesium; a little lead, copper, and tin—and one compound that was more familiar than the rest. An active ingredient in Lydia’s medication? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do with it either—what if his action increased its toxicity? But what if it didn’t.

Mercer could feel the strength of Rahil’s hand on his shoulder and Lydia’s warmth pressed against his side and he did the only thing he could: he broke the deadly molecules in two, right down the middle. They shifted as it came apart, rearranging themselves slightly, and that… was it.

Kat’s shaking slowed, then stopped.

Mercer tried not to let the relief come yet. They were far from out of the woods.

“Where’s the nearest emergency vet?” he asked, cradling Kat against his chest as he stood. She made no sound, and he had to remind himself that she was still breathing.

Lydia gave a tiny sob, her eyes huge as she shook her head in confusion, but Rahil immediately pulled out his phone.

“North on Pine Street and left on Citrus,” Rahil said. “It’s on the right after the micro-cemetery, like a quarter mile down.”

“Right.” Mercer was already moving. He could hear Lydia scrambling along behind him, one hand looped through his arm to hold Kat, but he was in the car, pulling out of the drive by the time he realized Rahil wasn’t with them.

The vampire stood in the shadow of the front door, waving weakly. He looked like a mess, worried and pale. Mercer didn’t have time to wave back before they’d passed him, tearing down the street at a rate that Mercer would never have dreamed of nearing were it not for the beagle unconscious in his lap.

“Hold on there,” he muttered, not sure whether it was for himself or the dog. “We’re going to be just fine.”

Mercer tapped his foot against the sterile tile, squeezing Lydia’s hand as they sat, their plastic chairs as close together as they could get. The waiting room lights were a little too bright and the buzz of the air conditioning a little too loud and all he wanted was for the vet to come back out and tell them everything was going to be okay. This wasn’t Leah.

Kat was the first and only new family member Mercer had let into their little two-some since his wife had died, and that seemed meaningful. Losing her now would feel like a sign. It shouldn’t have, but it would.

Mercer could only take so much more heartbreak.

And Lydia—

Goddamn—what was he going to do about Lydia?

“Is it my fault?” She said it so softly that Mercer thought perhaps he’d misheard her, but she looked more than panicked—she looked guilty, too.

Mercer squeezed her hand. “No, Puck. Sometimes these things just happen.”

As he said it though, his mind raced. He should have double-checked the kitchen before he left the house. Had he knocked something onto the floor while cooking? It had felt so much like Lydia’s medication, though. Maybe that was what he’d knocked over.

Mercer felt his lungs tighten, his vision turning to spots, and he forced himself to focus on one breath at a time, keeping his face blank and his gaze fixed on a single point.

Lydia seemed too lost in her own anxiety to notice. “It was my pills, though, wasn’t it? I saw the container on the counter. It was open.”

“On the counter?” Mercer felt his brow tighten as a spark of confusion wormed into his panic, but Lydia had already continued.

“I swear I closed it this morning,” she rambled, weak and wet. “I put them back in the med bin, against the cupboard. I know. I know I saw them there when I left.”

“I know you did, Puck.” Mercer felt the words come out of his mouth, sounding so much more reassuring than he felt, but his mind was still churning.

He found himself rubbing the back of Lydia’s hand when the veterinarian walked out. Her gaze locked on them immediately. Lydia jumped up, Mercer not far behind.

“Kat is stable,” the vet assured them. “She has a long recovery ahead of her, but whatever she ingested is out of her system.”

Relief hit Mercer, but somehow it couldn’t wash away the fear that had been growing inside him like a mold for so long. Still, he managed a soft, “Thank you.”

Lydia bounced on the balls of her feet, looking back to the glass window in the door the vet had arrived through. “Can we take her home?”

“Not yet. She’ll probably need to stay overnight in case anything changes. But if you wait for a few more minutes, you can come see her before you go.”

“Yes,” Lydia agreed instantly.

Mercer nodded. “Please.”

“I’ll be back to get you when she’s ready, then.”

As the vet left again, Lydia flopped back into her chair, tapping her toes, but this time she seemed less anxious, more impatient.

Mercer rubbed the back of her hand again as he returned to his seat. “See, it’s okay—Kat’s okay, and that’s what matters. We’ll double check our pill tops in the future. Everything will be fine.”

He’d put up sticky notes to remind himself. Set an alarm maybe. Whatever they’d done wrong wouldn’t happen again.

Mercer would make sure of that.

Lydia sniffled, but she nodded. A weak smile tugged at the side of her mouth. “Kat’s okay,” she repeated.

And Mercer almost believed her.

He squeezed her hand again. This time, she squeezed back.

They were okay—they were okay. He repeated it to himself a few more times, until his body finally started to understand, at least a little. Each inhale came easier. The aftermath of weakness and trembling filled his insides, but his muscles loosened. His mind let go of its stranglehold on Kat’s wellbeing.

Immediately, a new thought replaced it.

Lydia knew—was working for—Rahil.

Mercer still wasn’t sure how to feel about that. His impulse was to be furious at them both, her for traveling so far and getting a job behind his back, and Rahil for putting a strange kid to work for him. There were so many ways that could have gone wrong, so many ways Rahil could have taken advantage of Mercer’s daughter. But Mercer knew Rahil; he thought he did, anyway. And what had he said: that his own kids had done similar things?

Rahil had kids.

They were probably grown now, at Rahil’s age, but he’d been a dad, and by the way Lydia had run to him when he’d fallen—this vampire she’d spent a mere couple of weeks employed by—he’d been a good one. That made Mercer’s heart leap a little, soft and warm.

He glanced at Lydia, only to find her already staring at him. Her eyes narrowed. Then she asked the last thing he’d expected. “Are you dating Ray?”

“What?” Mercer balked, feeling his stoic expression slip into bewilderment. “Why would you ask that?”

She stared at him like she was the one concerned for his state of mind, then rolled her eyes. “Dude, you’re so oblivious.”

“I am your father, not your dude.”

Lydia shrugged. “Well, are you gonna date him, then?”

Why would she even ask that? Did she not know Rahil was a vampire? No—no, she’d been doing chores for him because his vampiric qualities made certain things harder for him to achieve, and besides, she could not possibly have missed his perpetually displayed fangs. And she just… she didn’t care. Lydia didn’t give a single crap that Rahil could use his fangs to end a life the same way her mother’s had been ended.

Huh.

Mercer didn’t know exactly what emotion that evoked in him, but it felt a lot like guilt. And pride. He was proud of her; proud of her for being the person he wasn’t, better and stronger and more compassionate.

“Well?” Lydia demanded.

“No?” was the best Mercer could do. No, he wasn’t going to date Rahil. He’d specifically set out not to date him. He didn’t need another person in his life, regardless of how peculiarly neutral Lydia seemed about the concept. Her neutrality didn’t change anything.

“Is that a question or a lie?” Lydia muttered.

“Now, hold up, Puck—” Mercer started, but before he could wrangle together a parental critique of her snark, his phone buzzed—he was vaguely aware that it had done that a few times before the vet’s announcement—and he tried not to look, but something twisted in his gut, pulling his attention toward it. A text from… Rahil? Oh, right, Mercer’s number was on the fridge for emergencies.

He swiped at the notification to find a tiny thread.

Unknown Number

Hey Merc, this is Rahil. You’ll want to see this. I found it inside a medicine bottle on the kitchen counter. Please be careful.

I know you’re probably busy with the dog, but I need to make sure you get this.

How is the dog, by the way?

Okay, last time.

(Last time for real.)

Mercer’s heart fluttered like it wanted to curl up and hide beneath the blanket of his lungs as he opened the image for a better look. It showed a scrap of paper, torn from the distinctive rainbow notepad he kept on the fridge. The blocky text looked so familiar that Mercer’s hands shook before he even managed to read its short inscription.

Love, William

Mercer’s blood seemed to run cold, the chill taking him over from the inside out.

There was a reason Lydia’s bottle had been on the counter, no lid, no pills. A reason Kat had suffered and nearly died. And that reason had signed his name to it and everything.

It turned out, William Douglas knew how to make good on a threat.

15

RAHIL

It didn’t help that Rahil had already been shaking before he found the note.

He hadn’t received that much sun, he kept telling himself, just the jog from the shed and standing in the kitchen for a few minutes before he remembered to draw the blinds. Maybe it was hitting him harder for having missed a meal recently, but he wasn’t really in pain either. So, the shaking was… dread? Fear?

When he’d pulled the little paper scrap out of the unlabeled medication bottle and seen the writing, his heart had lodged in his throat. Then, the anger came.

He’d expected terror—the knowledge that he would be dead the moment William Douglas realized he and Mercer were working together, and the instinct to flee and never look back—but what he felt strongest of all was a deep, unsettling rage at the man who’d dare hurt someone as thoughtful and cautious as Mercer, and as brave and kind as Lydia. How dare this monster threaten either of them.

Rahil didn’t want to interrupt Mercer’s emergency with this, not after how open Merc had been about his capacity towards fear, but his number was on the fridge and Rahil knew it was safest not to wait. When he didn’t receive an immediate response, he forced himself not to panic.

It occurred to him, ironically, how different this wait was from the first two times Mercer had ghosted him. He’d thought he’d felt things then, but it was nothing compared to this: the anxiety, the tension, the need. He needed Mercer to be okay. He needed Lydia to be okay. There was no way around it.

When Mercer still didn’t respond, Rahil began checking the house for open windows or obvious traps and finding—and locking—the one side window that William had clearly used to enter. Still, he felt uncomfortable hanging out in Mercer’s house. He averted his gaze from the pictures of Mercer and Lydia that were hung around the space, the little personal knickknacks and attributions of a life as a family. Merc hadn’t really invited him in, so much as simply not had the attention span to tell him to leave.

He also hadn’t had time to close up the shed.

That solidified it. Locking the back door behind him, Rahil sprinted back to the shed. He checked it over too. There was no sign of William, thankfully, and the holy silver lockbox that Mercer had moved to the benchtop was still shut tight, so he closed the door, then the window he’d been coming through for good measure. Standing in the shed’s dusky darkness, it smelled like everything he associated with Mercer: rich, dark earth and the mouthwatering aroma of baking bread. The same scent as the blood he’d never get to drink.

God, he needed to force himself to go on another random hookup. But he couldn’t even think about opening his dating app right now.

Rahil slumped against the counter, sliding slowly down to the ground. All the energy seemed to slip out of him, putting him right on the edge of something almost like sleep, without enough oomph to push him over into actual, useful slumber. He contemplated straight up calling Merc, but he was probably the last person Mercer wanted to hear from right now. Instead, he pulled up Lydia’s 52hz whale song and set it to play on repeat.

Even that wasn’t quite enough to numb the constant buzz of Rahil’s brain, but it soothed some things. He ended up scrolling through articles about the whale, finding a few sources that claimed 52hz was probably a blue whale-fin whale hybrid. Rahil could understand that—the feeling of not being entirely one thing. Not human enough to live a typical existence and not monster enough to use his vampiric aspects to better his life, not solitary enough to exist without people surrounding him and not functional enough as a member of a family or society to find true community. A father, but not. A widower, but not. Just a stagnant, cyclic outsider, calling a song no one else was able to hear.

He scrolled with a little more frustration, but his finger stopped on a paragraph at the end of the article.

—recordings of what is likely a second 52-hz whale—

A second 52hz whale.

There was, possibly, maybe, a second 52hz whale.

Oh.

Rahil closed the phone, tipped his head back, and quietly, so quietly he might as well not have existed at all, he wept.

Metal Daddy

That’s highly unfortunate

Please stay safe yourself

Kat is recovering and will come home tomorrow

It was the first time Mercer had ever texted him back. Rahil almost wanted to laugh, and not just because of what he’d impulsively set Merc’s name as in his phone earlier. Merc didn’t seem very worried, either, though he supposed that even when the man had been shaking, his voice had remained stony and his words direct. He could have been falling apart behind the stern bravado.

Rahil

Good for Kat!

I’m still in the shed, if that counts. Locked it and the house up the best I could.

Also, I’ve been poking around out of a sense of precaution (or maybe I’m just fidgety. We’ll call it precaution, though. Like how I call my stupidity bravery instead.) and I must know: What are these?

He sent a picture of the small mess of electrical and mechanical chaos sitting on a top shelf.

Metal Daddy

Caution is certainly a thing you need when you approach my storage cupboards

Those were Leah’s

If one of them murders you slowly, don’t say that I didn’t warn you

That was basically permission to touch them, which was good, because Rahil had technically already started. It was too enticing, wiring sticking out and boards set up in ways he wasn’t familiar with. He hadn’t gotten to work on anything this fun since his ex-wife had been there to help him get contract work.

Rahil wasn’t sure how he felt about poking inside Mercer’s late wife’s creations, but his fingers were antsy, and his mind needed something—anything—to focus on. He wouldn’t make any changes, and he’d put everything back before Merc returned. And if one of them did kill him, at least he wouldn’t have to face the way he was feeling about Mercer.

With an assembled collection of tools from around the shed, Rahil got to work. He quickly settled in on one specific device, for no other reason than the sticky note on it that labeled it as for Lydia. What it was meant to do for Lydia, Rahil wasn’t sure yet. At the moment, it looked a bit like a tissue-box-sized metal compartment had spilled all its wire and circuit-board guts out, along with a few compressed metal structures that resembled the trap cords when stretched out. Other than those, there was no clue as to what it was actually meant to do. Which made it all the more intriguing.

It felt like only a few minutes later when Mercer appeared at the shed’s entrance. Rahil jumped from his cross-legged position on the floor, nearly knocking apart the series of boards and wires he’d been reassembling. “Fuck—sorry.”

Mercer drew in a breath, held it for far too long, and finally strolled into the shed like he was entering a warzone. “It’s all right,” he said, softly. “I didn’t exactly tell you not to.” But then he gave a longer look at the pieces scattered around Rahil, and his stony expression widened into shock.

“I’m so sorry.” Rahil grimaced. “I was just going to peek at them, but I started to get the hang of this one and it seemed nearly complete, so I… It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“You’re finishing it?” Mercer’s gaze moved from the device spread between Rahil’s hands and lap to Rahil himself, and his jaw dropped for a moment before he said, almost fondly, “You’re smart.”

“Ah, well, not really. It probably won’t even work.”

“Don’t do that,” Merc snapped.

Rahil’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Don’t pretend like this is nothing. This,”—he pointed to the half-assembled project—“is genius.”

“They’re certainly more complex than anything I’ve seen.” That was an understatement, with components ten years outdated made for some mysterious function that, based on Leah’s other work, Rahil doubted would be accomplished by anyone else for decades. He was pretty sure pieces of it were Merc’s handiwork too—seamless things he couldn’t quite identify the material or make of, much like the trap he’d now been caught in deliberately a dozen times or more.

“And you understood it just by looking?” Mercer asked.

“Well, I mean…” Rahil felt his breath catch in this throat. It was the way Mercer was staring at him, wide-eyed and wondering. And proud. Just like Shefali had the first fifteen years they were together. He might not have deserved it, but god did he love it, all the more because it was coming from Merc. “I guess so, yeah.” He didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t sound like he was complimenting himself. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with Lydia, by the way.”

“You saw an ordinary girl trying to find her place in the world and you made her happy. That’s not your fault.” Merc paused, then moved closer, slowly crouching down across from Rahil. “Do you remember when I was telling you about last generation fae?”

The sudden nearness of Mercer’s neck was doing things to Rahil, things completely irrelevant to their conversation, or their future, and he tried to ignore it. “Their children can have issues with their spark, yeah. And Lydia, she’s one of them?”

“Yes.” Mercer looked so defeated as he said it, not like a man going into battle, but one coming home after a lifetime of war. “We have meds for her, custom ones that took a great deal of time and research to make. They stop the worst of her symptoms, but she still struggles with sleep and pain—a lot more than I think she lets on. That’s why I didn’t want her babysitting, or working at all. If she has a bad day, or forgets her meds, or she’s in an accident and gets rushed to the hospital…” He clearly wasn’t capable of finishing that thought, so Rahil did it for him.

“You don’t want to see her hurt because of her differences,” he concluded. “I understand that.” Though he wasn’t sure whether he agreed. There were two 52-hz whales, after all. What if there were even more?

Mercer shook his head with horrified bewilderment. “The pills William used to poison Kat were Lydia’s. He saw them in the bin with my migraine meds and our over-counter pharmaceuticals—all of which would be bad for a dog—and still chose those. Maybe he was watching her and knew she relies on them, or googled the compound name to find out how rare it was, but somehow he figured out that losing those would hurt us the most. Lydia still has a smaller container in her bag, but he used most of what we had.”

“That fucking bastard.” Rahil surprised even himself with the little vampiric hiss that followed his words.

“He went after my dog,” Mercer agreed. “With my chronically ill daughter’s meds. Because I won’t make him a goshdarn weapon. A goddamn weapon.”

Rahil felt sick at the thought. “What are you going to do?”

“I could call the cops,” Mercer said, but he sounded strained, like just the idea was killing him.

“Would you tell them a man is trying to threaten you into making a metal only the fae can?”

Merc rubbed the front of his forehead, dragging his fingers down the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He made a pained noise.

“What about… leaving?” Rahil suggested. And while everything in him clenched up, warning him that it was too much, that he was no more fit for this than his crumbling home, he added, “I’d offer you my place, if you have nowhere else?”

“All my work is here.” Mercer sighed. “I’d send Lydia with you, if she hadn’t been biking there already. Who knows if William has been following her when she’s out. I’ll see if an old school friend can take her, and then I’ll, I don’t know, figure something out.” Merc did a thing between a nod and a head shake as he said it, his somber expression impossible to tell whether it was a mask or not. He stared at the technology in Rahil’s hands, before adding, “You said you were finishing that?”

“Attempting, yes.”

“What if we don’t need to leave, or to involve the police?” Mercer suggested. “The shed trap isn’t enough to protect my entire home—Leah hadn’t finished the updated models she was working on for the house when she passed—but one of these projects was meant to be for Lydia, for her to carry, like a security—”

“Yes,” Rahil interrupted. This was better than bringing Merc back to his home anyway—this was a way he could help without it being too personal. Too emotional. And Leah had done most of the work already. Rahil could finish that up, Merc and Lydia would be safe, and then—then—well. “I can do that. I might need a few more pieces, some trial and error. It’ll take time.”

Mercer nodded, looking more and more reassured. “Making holy silver takes time too, so far as William Douglas knows. If I tell him I’m working on it, maybe that will satisfy him long enough that you can finish.” He cringed. “I’ve already dragged you into one thing, and now I’m putting something else on you, too. Would it help if I paid you?”

“Please don’t. I’m helping because I care—about Lydia. She’s a good kid, and if something I can do will protect her, then I’m happy for it. And I get to watch your buff body at work a little longer?” Rahil winked. “I care about that too.”

Merc snorted, but the edge of his lips quirked. “If you’re sure.”

He was so close—close enough that if Rahil wanted to, he could stretch out his foot and rub it along the inside of Mercer’s thigh, or lean in and press lips to his pulse; if he’d be allowed to. They had been this near before, of course, but always in motion. Always with a purpose. And never when Rahil was this hungry. The thoughtful silence they were lingering in gave far too much room for Rahil’s focus to latch onto the man in front of him, the rich, delicious smell that filled every space he walked into, the curvature of his insulated muscles, the pulse of blood through his neck and the shine of sweat from the blistering summer heat. Before he could stop himself, Rahil whispered. “There is one thing you could do for me.”

To his surprise, Merc simply lifted an eyebrow. “Say it.”

Rahil wanted to stare into Mercer for this, wanted to hold his gaze so firmly that the man could see the sheer depth of his craving, but he couldn’t bear to even look, knowing fully well that his desire wouldn’t be reflected back. His attention shifted to Mercer’s feet instead. He pushed a hand uselessly through his hair with a chuckle. “I know you didn’t want this, but if you could spare me a little blood, just a couple times a week, until we’re done…”

“Let me think about it. I’m not saying no, I just—”

“I get it. Your wife passed from something that involved a bite, and I’m just a stranger with no business putting you in my mouth—”

“Stop.” Mercer held up a hand, and for an instant, Rahil thought maybe he’d just dug his own grave, until Merc’s expression softened. “First, your flirting is getting even worse. You should quit while you’re ahead. But you’re not a stranger to me, Rahil. If I were going to let anyone bite me, it would be you. I truly am not saying no. I just need to think about it.”

“Oh,” Rahil said, because it was the only thing his brain seemed capable of. Not saying no. “All right,” he managed, throwing on a smile. He hoped he didn’t sound as awkward as he felt. “Thank you for considering it.”

“Thank you for being here.” Mercer smiled, small and strained but undeniably genuine. “You’re a good person—a good friend, and good for Lydia, too. I hope you know that.”

Like daughter, like father—Rahil could see the resemblance so strongly now; he didn’t know how he’d ever missed it. They were both detached from the outside but rattling with emotion underneath and ferocious when they believed in someone.

And somehow, they’d both made the mistake of believing in him.

16

MERCER

Mercer wasn’t wrong, was he?

He’d told Rahil they weren’t strangers. Told him he’d think about doing the impossible.

He’d also told Leah he’d be fine alone with Lydia, to go out for the night because she deserved it. When he’d said it, he hadn’t meant he’d be fine alone with her forever. Alone, without his wife to help build the life they’d always dreamed of, to raise the child they’d made together, to love and be loved until they were both old, their curls no longer separated into her red and his black but both of them equally gray.

Mercer had been wrong before.

Every time his reality TV watching spiraled into therapy videos analyzing contestants’ behavior, he wondered if that was what he was truly afraid of—not the loss or the grief, but that it would be his fault.

Mercer kept his ears peeled for the sound of Lydia shifting in her room as he walked the length of the house and back, as though each step he took might reclaim some of the space William Douglas had violated. It didn’t. Instead, it made a subtle ache spring into his temples. He was too tired and stressed to lay down and hydrate.

He, Mercer Jacques Bloncourt, had told a vampire he’d think about being bitten. Bitten.

The idea sent a shiver down his spine and formed a tingle deep in his gut. A flood of shame came with it. This was just an act of intimacy like any other—not that those came particularly easy to him either. And it would be Rahil, after all, loyal and optimistic and brilliant Rahil, who looked at Mercer like he was the most beautiful thing that had ever existed. And here Mercer was… leading him on?

Was he?

Oh God, he didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know what he was okay with, what he wanted, where he saw his future going. All he knew for certain was that he needed to keep Lydia safe, and he really didn’t want to lose Rahil at the end of their working relationship either.

Mercer dropped onto his bed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose as he groaned. When he finally opened his eyes again, his gaze went to one of the few mementos of Leah he could bear to keep around the house—a little squirrel sculpture he’d bought on their third date after they’d spent their entire trip to the local animal rescue sitting in front of what appeared to be the world’s most empty wolf enclosure, chatting about anything and everything. When something had finally moved under the pine trees, she’d grabbed his arm in excitement and he’d jumped with tension, only for them both to burst into laughter as the mysterious creature emerged with a bushy tail and an acorn. Her head had fit so well in the crook of his neck, her lithe body trembling with hilarity as she teased him.

She would tell him he deserved every kind of love he wanted, and then some, right before licking up the length of his cock with a smirk. Mercer didn’t know what it was that made that act, one that had often felt so awkward in real life, burst like a firecracker in his mind.

He shuddered and pressed his palm to the seam of his pants in a slow, cautious motion. The aching that greeted him was enough to make the pain growing behind his eyes dim for a moment. He rubbed again, firmer and more committed, then paused long enough to push the door closed and take himself properly in his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to think only of Leah: her long, lean body, nearly as tall as his, and her firm small breasts, and the cheeky way she’d smile at him before giving him everything he didn’t know how to ask for, how even to want. He refused to let her lips morph into Rahil’s or her short curls to his long braid or her blunt teeth nibbling at his skin to points that could sink in. What would that feel like? He knew that there were people who liked it, even craved it.

That was not what this was, he told himself, stroking harder and faster as the blissful pressure in his cock intensified. It was not this.

He came with a muffled grunt, peaking so hot that for a moment nothing existed but him in his body, and the thought of fangs.

Three hours later, and both his desire and shame had been forced to the background as Mercer stared at his email chain with William Douglas.

Dear William Douglas,

If I agree to forge three fresh pieces of holy silver for you, will you leave my family alone?

V/R,

Mercer Bloncourt

Mr. Bloncourt

So long as the product lasts, I’ll have no reason to return. I’d like to discuss the details in person, though. Just you and me. I’ll be watching.

With love,

William

It made Mercer shake internally, an incessant, deep-seated anxiety that rattled in his bones. His vision tunneled on the sides, the world wavering every time he lost focus. Somehow, he managed to type:

Mr. Douglas,

I will meet you in the far patio area of Van Gogh Park at 8:30pm tonight.

Mercer

He reread the email over and over, yet the moment he pressed send he had to check it again, sure he’d made some mistake. It looked fine. But often things looked fine up until the moment they weren’t. Mercer rubbed his temples and forced himself to breathe. He could hear Lydia’s cackle from down the hall, and he held onto that.

The vibration of William’s incoming email still startled Mercer’s heart into his throat.

See you then.

With love,

William

Mercer closed his eyes and prayed: let this not be a trap. He had been the one to propose it, he knew, but he also didn’t put it past William to twist the situation to his own benefit. What other choice did he have, though? He’d flipped through the news in between drafting his first email, just to be sure of himself.

The cycle alternated between the current war across the seas—the newest one, anyway—and whispers of a press release coming from Vitalis-Barron, alongside statements from Wesley Smith-Garcia’s lawyer—some woman named after a Greek hero, though Mercer could never remember which one—and the drabble of endless everyday life: gun violence and police violence. It hadn’t taken him long to find an article about a detective in Las Vegas who’d used holy silver to get a confession out of a vampire she’d arrested. The woman received a week of suspension; a week during which the vampire had died in a holding cell of causes reported to have nothing to do with the police who held the keys to his room.

The Lydia-sized child inside Mercer wanted more than anything to find someone to take over this situation and save the day, but if there were going to be heroes here, they would have to be himself—himself and Rahil, with the ghost of Leah’s genius guiding the vampire’s hands.

He forced his feet under him, his phone into his pocket, and his lungs to expand, then contract, expand, then contract. There was one more hurdle to climb before the Everest he’d be summiting at 8:30 tonight, this one a little bundle of sass with a beanie and probably a fresh bag of Cheetos. He paused in front of her door, just listening for a moment to her muffled motions, the occasional line from whatever teenage thriller-romance she was into and the grumbles of her protesting the character’s utterly baffling choices. Maybe someday she’d come back to watching quirky reality dating shows with him.

Or maybe, he’d ask if he could join in on her shows.

Maybe then, she’d even say yes.

Mercer closed his eyes, preparing himself for the worst. “Hey, Puck, can we talk?”

17

RAHIL

“Well, fuck.”

“Not again!”

Sheanna and Avery shouted in unison from opposite sides of the house as the lights all flickered off at once. Downstairs, Tim cursed.

It figured that the only functional part of the entire building would fail. Rahil rolled off his mattress with a grunt and trudged his way down the hall.

His usual fatigue was doubled by his lack of a recent blood meal, but he hadn’t felt up for asking his housemates for yet another feeding, especially when the thought of sinking his fangs into their skin made him yearn for Mercer instead. He was regretting letting his thirst grow like this now, though, the stairs creaking under his feet as he held onto the railing.

“Who forgot to pay?” he shouted, receiving two instantaneous responses of “Wasn’t me!” and Sheanna’s muffled groan.

“It was my turn? Fucking hell. I’m an ass. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

Rahil made a noncommittal sound. It wasn’t the first time, and if she stayed for another year, he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. “Fridge?” he called. There was hardly anything in it to spoil, but just in case.

“Already on it,” Avery replied through a mouthful of something.

Rahil grunted again. He fumbled through the closet for candles, his monochromatic night vision doing nothing for his tired limbs and groggy mind. He hadn’t even been playing the loneliest whale’s song, but he found it calling in his mind all the same. The lighter wouldn’t start. He flipped through two empty matchboxes—why were they even in there still?—before finding a half-full one.

“I’m going to the café,” Tim called.

Avery jogged down the hall after him. “Oh, can you drive me?”

“Me too,” Sheanna added. She popped her head around the corner. “Do you want to come?”

“Go on.” Rahil sighed, waving her off.

He felt too old for this. Too old, too worn, too many other things crowding for his attention. For a while, he’d assumed there was a point where things got easier—kids grew up, retirement money came in, life was more reward than burden—but that was the compensation for people who weren’t him. People with living families and rounded teeth, who knew how to fix their sons’ worst days and pull their spouses out of addictive spirals. People who did right by the ones they loved.

Instead, he was doing mediocre by the ones he’d kept at an arm’s length and wishing he could sleep through it all.

Rahil lit one of the candles.

It was useless to him now that he was alone, transforming his perfectly good night vision into an awkward mix of drained colors and shadowed edges, but the dancing flame gave him something to focus on. He cradled the little light between his palms. It too could so easily transition from a life-giving source to a deadly terror.

Suddenly, Rahil couldn’t stand to be there anymore, in the empty, crumbling space with only that tiny light as his companion. He put on his shoes and slipped out the backdoor, past the long, shallow pit dug for a future flowerbed and down his rock-lined path, holding his palm over the candlelight as it wavered. His legs kept moving, carrying him along a familiar—if infrequent—path, through the little forest that surrounded his house, down the adjacent street, another forested path, then a rabbit trail behind the back fence of a large house, a left and then another right, and up and over the wrought-iron fence.

He landed like a ghost between the graves. His candle flickered out.

Rahil’s vision quickly adjusted to the darkness, the outlines of modern headstones popping in monochromes, but he didn’t need sight to know where he had to go. He could feel their resting places like they were engraved into his heart, one searing coordinate after the other: Jonah’s headstone weathered on one side where Shefali would lay her head on it, plucking apart jasmine flower petals as she tearfully told him how his family was doing, and Shefali’s tall, proud gravemarker with her favorite Mary Oliver poem carved in tiny letters, and Matt’s, so fresh that it still felt like a foreign object, even if Rahil had, in many ways, lost his younger son years before his actual death.

If he could only lie beside them long enough to sink into the grass…

Rahil began to follow the path toward them, toward that place that felt like the inverse of home: gaping, waiting. From the other direction came an awkward clatter.

Rahil nearly dropped his candle with a start. He clutched its base, his ears perked for another noise. This was not a spot many frequented after dark—there were far older graveyards in the city’s center for those who simply wanted a place to explore. His mind jumped to William Douglas, trying to supply a logical reason why the man might have tracked him here. But that was ridiculous.

Another noise followed the clatter, this one more a snuffle, then a sob.

Ah, definitely not a malevolent hunter then.

A fellow mourner would usually have made Rahil turn tail, but the closer the sounds came, the more familiar they grew. His heart twisted in on itself, calling for the rest of his body to respond. It couldn’t be, he tried to argue. But it could—this was the nearest graveyard to them both. Of course Leah’s body would be here too.

That settled it. He’d check, keeping his distance, and then text Mercer if need be.

His candle still tucked against his chest, Rahil crept through the tombstones. As he neared the location of the sobbing, he tried to work his way around behind the small person crouched over one of the gravestones. A bike hurled onto the ground beside the grave. The toe of his boot caught on something in the grass. He scuffled forward, stepping on it instead—was that a goddamned sprinkler?! He cursed.

Lydia tore to her feet, shrieking.

Rahil should have known better than to have good intentions. He swore again. “Shh, it’s all right.”

Her eyes widened. Beanie tucked to her chest, she took a step forward. “Ray?”

Rahil tried to smile. “Hey, Lydia. You visiting someone, too?”

She sniffled, glancing back toward her mother’s grave, but she managed to draw herself to her full height, her chin in the air as she replied, “My vampire name is Violet.”

How could he ever have not realized she was Mercer’s daughter? Merc might have built up his stony façade like a wall, while she sharpened hers into a barb, but they shared the same fierce brow and harsh jaw, detached gaze and unfazed posture. Only Lydia’s was clearly about to crack. Rahil frowned, stepping back enough to look her in the eyes, though he wasn’t sure how much of his face she could make out. “Violet Demondza-Bloncourt, does your father know you’re here?”

Her braids trembled as she shook her head. She kneaded her fingers into the beanie she held. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

“Because he’ll come get you?” Rahil guessed.

Lydia made what had to be the most miserable sound any intelligent species on the planet was capable of. “He wants to send me away.”

“Away where?”

“To Los Angeles. For the whole week.”

“Ah, so two and a half hours away for less time than a single vacation. I see, I see.”

“You don’t get it!”

“Maybe I don’t. A week in Los Angeles with old friends who care about you sounds really nice to me.” As he said it, though, he recalled every time this decade his extended family in Palm Springs had offered to let him stay, to coordinate their activities around when he would be able to join in, to adjust their busy lives for his vampirism just so he could participate.

And every time, he’d said no.

Something stung in the center of Rahil’s chest. Carefully, he placed a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “But I do get that staying here, with him, means a lot to you. You want to be there for him, because he’s your dad, and you love him.”

“He’s so—so stupid,” Lydia said, like she was agreeing with him. She seemed about to add more, but a sob wracked through her instead, and she pressed both hands to her eyes. Rahil could see the tears all the same.

Yesterday, it would have felt like an overstep, but this was Mercer’s daughter—his friend’s daughter—and she was crying in front of him, had come to her mother’s grave for comfort. So gently, carefully, he wrapped his arm around her back, offering an awkward side hug. “Do you want…?”

Lydia managed to look up at him through her reddening eyes and sniffle once. She ignored his attempt in favor of crashing into him, both arms wrapping around his waist as she sobbed quietly into his vintage shirt, her knees giving way as she clung there. Rahil wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that, but he knew he couldn’t let go.

She deserved never to be let go of, dammit.

Rahil wrapped Lydia up, sinking to the grass with her. He held her like he had his sons at her age, just before Matt decided he was too cool for that, and Jonah... He wasn’t sure that Jonah had decided much of anything up until the end, just wandered off. Rahil hadn’t known how to stop it then, and he was sure he wouldn’t know if it happened again either, and that—that made him hold on to Lydia all the tighter, as though the sheer force of the hug could keep Mercer from experiencing the same pain and loss that Rahil had.

But it would not be enough.

There was no hug he could give that would keep a child out of danger, no compliment from him that could make them love themselves, no forgiveness he could ask that could take back the cruelty of past actions. He just had to be here long enough to direct Lydia back to a proper father—one who was surely panicking over his daughter’s disappearance right now.

Still rubbing Lydia’s back as she cried, Rahil sent off a quick text: She’s safe. I’m with her at the cemetery. Don’t come.

He muted the chimer after and slid the phone away. “There there,” he muttered, brushing his hand over Lydia’s braids.

Her crying turned to the occasional lingering sob, and she wrapped her arms around herself, but didn’t pull away. Slowly, Rahil detached enough to relight his candle. The faint orange glow of it flickered over Lydia’s tear-stained cheeks. She wiped them, one side after the other.

Rahil offered the candle to her. She took it, cradling it between her hands.

Finally, she asked, “Dad didn’t send you here?”

“No. I came to visit my family.” Family. The sound of that word in reference to himself felt like he’d stabbed a blade into his own chest. It had been something like two decades since he’d used it out loud. Like a solid point. An eternal connection.

“Where?” Lydia glanced around, like a group of people might appear between the tombstones, but Rahil pointed across the graveyard.

“They’re buried on the far side. My sons, and my—my wife.” Ex didn’t seem important right now.

“Oh,” Lydia said. She had sad eyes, Rahil thought. Whenever the intensity left them, that was what they seemed to become. Sad. It reminded him too much of Jonah. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for you, too.” Rahil nodded toward Leah’s grave. “Do you talk to her?”

“Twice a year,” Lydia recited, a bitter edge to her voice. Anger, over sadness.

“Except tonight?”

Lydia looked down at the candle in her hands, twisting it to spill the melted wax over the sides. “I don’t know,” she said, finally, and Rahil thought he understood.

“You just needed someone who wasn’t your dad, and you didn’t know where else to go.”

She sniffled and tossed her shoulders. The candlelight danced. “Well, yeah, but you’d make up some reason I can’t be a vampire because I cry too much, so—!”

It took a moment for Rahil to piece together the logical jump in her response, but then he got it, and he almost wished he hadn’t: she’d thought about coming to him. She’d wanted to, and something had held her back, maybe the excuse she’d given or maybe the simpler reason that she hadn’t known if she’d be accepted. But she had needed a place to go and decided Rahil felt nearly safe enough to be that place. Rahil’s chest ached. He wanted to wrap her up in a second hug, while knowing that what she truly needed was the opposite of that. Even her mother’s grave was a better parenting substitute than him.

There was one thing maybe he could do, though.

Soft but firm, trying to withhold any judgment—or worse, pity—Rahil asked, “Why do you want to be a vampire, Violet?”

Lydia dug one of her fingertips into the spilled candle wax hardening on the side of her hand. “If I’m a vampire,” she said, carefully, “then I can’t be a fae.”

Ah. “Is this because of your spark?”

She nodded her head, a tiny motion that made her braids jiggle. “If I turn, my dysfunctional spark will go away. I’ll be strong instead, and maybe I won’t be able to do everything I could before, but there’s lots of things I already can’t do, and I won’t need meds and be worried about missing them or losing them or the dog eating them and—” She drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “It’ll be better. For everyone.”

“I see you’ve put a lot of thought into this.” Rahil didn’t agree with her conclusion—he knew the grass was not always greener on the other side—but he understood where she was coming from. He’d been in a similar position himself once, though he’d been twice her age with far fewer options. “Does that everyone include your dad?”

Lydia nodded again, this time with more assertion. “He worked so hard to get me my meds, but he’s sad they aren’t perfect, and he’s always scared they’ll run out, or they won’t work like they used to. Without my spark, Dad can relax.”

Ah, there it was—the deeper reason. Rahil could hear it in her voice, the sureness of her words and the fire beneath them. Not shame or guilt, but anger. Mercer was tearing himself apart trying to ensure his daughter had the easiest and safest life possible, when all she wanted was to just live—inconveniences included. Vampirism seemed like an easy way to make those inconveniences less reliant on him, less stressful to him.

It wasn’t true, though.

If only Rahil had a way to convince her of that. But he was pretty sure that was something only Mercer could do.

“You won’t tell him?” Lydia asked, turning stonier as she added, “You can’t.”

Fuck. Rahil did not like this, no more than he liked not telling Mercer why he’d started meeting with Lydia in the first place. He groaned. “I won’t tell him yet.” It was the most he felt comfortable agreeing to. “Because you should be the one to do that.”

“No!”

“He’s your dad, kiddo. He loves you—even more than you can possibly imagine ever loving him.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “And so what? What’s it gonna change if I tell him ‘hey, Dad, I don’t care if I die’?”

The way Rahil’s throat closed at the sound of those words felt like being back in the hall of the house he’d raised his boys in, opening the bathroom door as water spilled across the floor. He curled his fingers around Lydia’s shoulder, holding himself to the present. There was nothing in the past that could help him now. No one left there.

Only mistakes.

Through the ringing in his head, he managed to say, “No. Under no circumstances are you going to phrase it like that, you understand?”

Lydia nodded, looking at her beanie, now discarded into her lap in favor of the candle. It had droplets of wax scattered across it.

Rahil felt like he was the one who wanted to die now. “Violet, do you…” Fuck, he didn’t know how to say this.

“I want to live,” she said, and he believed her. Thank god, he believed her. “It’s just if I did die in the process of living, I think I’d rather have done that, then done nothing at all? Whether it works or not, or lasts or not—whatever happens—I want to do something. That’s all I can do, right?”

Rahil had witnessed both sides of that equation end in death, and he didn’t know how to answer her, except perhaps, to tell her there was no answer to any of it.

18

MERCER

Mercer could barely see the text through the sheen that had flooded his eyes the moment he opened it.

Rahil

She’s safe. I’m with her at the cemetery. Don’t come.

She’s safe.

At the cemetery—

Leah. Fuck. He hadn’t even thought—she’d seemed so disinterested the last few years he’d taken her for their bi-annual visits, one on Leah’s birthday and the other on her death anniversary. Lydia had spent twenty seconds muttering under her breath at the grave and then trudged off with her hands in her pockets. Had that been a show? A mask? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t read his daughter at all?

But Rahil—bless that ridiculous, wonderful vampire—was with her now. Of course he’d somehow found her, as Mercer had been tearing his car down the nearby streets, his hands shaking and his foot clumsy on the accelerator. He wanted to drive straight there, despite Rahil’s warning, but he stopped himself, both hands fisted so tightly around the steering wheel that he could barely feel his fingers anymore. His back hurt, he realized. His back and his heart and his throat.

Thank God Rahil had found her.

He was amazed—and a little guilty—at how relieved that made him. Well, not relieved, exactly, with his heart still pounding and his mind still racing toward the next worst thing that could happen to her, but comfortable, at least. If Lydia was going to run away from him, he wouldn’t have wanted her to run into anyone else.

Despite Rahil’s terrible flirting and his lack of self-preservation, Mercer had seen how calm and confident Rahil could be in a stressful situation, and suspected that when he cared about someone, he cared a great deal indeed. And he did seem to care for Lydia. Or, in the least, he’d gotten Lydia to care for him, which Mercer knew meant far more than an obvious sign of the reverse.

Mercer

Thanks

I have to meet William 830 Van Gogh Park

Don’t let her leave until I can pick her up

As much as he wanted to race straight to Lydia’s side, Rahil was right—it wouldn’t be good for either of them to invade her safe space. And it was 8:23. Mercer had somewhere to get to, now that he knew he wouldn’t be showing up to his meeting with William to find a freckled body part in a—

Mercer had to swallow down the bile that shot up the back of his throat and force himself to imagine Lydia sitting beside Rahil, laughing and crying together. No vengeful hunters came blowing through the cemetery’s front gate. No rogue vampires leaped from the shadows. No freak fires. No earthquakes. They were just happy.

Mercer checked his phone. 8:25. Dammit, he had to go.

With his body still feeling like it had been run over by a boat and strung out to dry, he turned the car around.

Why did Lydia have to do this to him now of all times? Not that he’d told her where he was planning to go tonight, or why. She knew that there was someone targeting them in the hopes of getting holy silver—he’d decided it wasn’t safe to conceal that from her—but nothing more, no matter how much she’d begged and shouted. When she’d started screaming that she was fae too, and that meant she was also a part of this, even if she was broken, he’d wanted to strangle her and wrap her in the longest bear hug of the century all at the same time. Instead, he was pretty sure he’d snapped something about her age—that memory was an empty hole of terror and grief—and told her the conversation was over.

And it had been, for which he was almost grateful, until he’d found her bedroom screen popped open and her bike gone.

But she was safe, with Rahil, and that was enough for now.

Enough to let him pull into the empty lot of the local park, still shaking somewhere beneath the skin yet contained from the outside, his stoic exterior perfected after so many years of this subtle, forever fear. He would get them through this, like he’d gotten them through every single hurdle life had thrown them so far. If he kept pushing, kept moving, they would be okay.

Until they weren’t.

But that was a later thought, a deep-breaths and paper-bag panic with the babble of reality TV turned up enough that no exterior sound would make him think of the police banging at his door with their pitying announcement.

Now, he pushed out of the car.

William Douglas was already sitting on the cement table in the exact middle of the patio area. In the day, the space was a collage of soft colors dappled through tree branches, a grassy hill separating it from an old, well-kept set of swings and a castle slide, but the darkness turned the playground into a hulking menace of creases and hideaways, the harsh lines of the sitting area casting black shade beneath them. The area’s single light was yellowing, and William had managed to sit in a way that turned his silver hair translucent, deepened his eye sockets into a skeletal feature, and made his smile a long, lean thing of darkness and teeth.

Mercer slid in across from him. “I don’t see why this couldn’t have been an email.”

“Where would the fun in that be?” William leaned forward, locking his fingers together atop the table. “How long will the silver take?”

The small, reactionary part of Mercer wanted to snap back however long it needs to, but he was afraid of William’s response to that, and afraid too that the more he pushed, the more suspicious the bastard would grow. Instead, he gave a tiny huff, frantically attempting to calculate just what kind of deadline he could get away with. “The process is finicky, especially for larger pieces. It will depend on what you’re asking for and a little on luck.”

“For this batch—”

“One batch,” Mercer objected. Even if it was all a ruse, he also didn’t want to appear like he was giving in too easily. “One batch, and you leave my family the fuck alone. Go have your fun and forget I exist. That’s the deal.” He didn’t actually believe that William would stay gone, whatever he promised. But he had to act as though he did.

William leaned back a hair, his gaze narrowing. His upper lip curled. “One good batch. And I test them before paying.”

“As long as it’s not on my property.”

William’s shoulders bobbed. “I’ll need a pair of blades, ten feet of chain, and a manacle set, thick enough they won’t break during… use.”

Mercer’s stomach churned at the mere thought. He had to ask, even if it was irrelevant. “What kind of use?”

“Fun, as you say.” He tipped his head with a grin, the light spilling into one of his eye sockets as he winked. “There’s good money in contract hunting too now, with Vitalis-Barron’s own people under the spotlight. One batch like this is just the start of what I could use—what I could pay you for. We could come out of this rich, if you wanted.”

“You tried to murder my dog.” Mercer scowled over his internal shiver. He could feel every terror and grief inside him roiling, threatening to break through the walled exterior he’d spent so much of his life forging. “As a rule, I don’t form business partnerships with people who do that.”

“Aren’t rules made to be broken?” William laughed, the sound grating across Mercer’s sensitized eardrums.

“One batch,” Mercer replied, slow and steady.

“If you insist.” William smiled in a way that reminded Mercer how the baring of teeth in other primate species was considered a sign of aggression. It made more sense now.

“I do.” Mercer stood, almost breaking down as his large thighs brushed the underside of the cement table and his brain screamed that he was trapped. Then he was free and up and fine. He was fine. “I’ll have that batch of silver ready for you in… a week?” Was that enough time for Rahil to finish one of Leah’s old projects? Any longer, and if William had knowledge of the holy silver creation process, he’d know instantly that something was wrong. It would have to do.

“Five days.” William joined him beside the table, one thumb looped in the pocket of his jeans. “And you never see me again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mercer grunted. He shook William’s hand on a dazed instinct, feeling the coat of grime on the man’s greasy palms for minutes after William had already vanished around the corner of the lot, toward the street parking.

Mercer couldn’t remember his walk back to the car, only the bone-deep fatigue of sitting down and the nausea that boiled up so fast he had to lean his head against the steering wheel to keep from retching. His head throbbed. But it was over, at least. He just had to get home.

And Lydia. God, Lydia.

Mercer

I hate to ask this of you, but can Lydia stay with you tonight

Rahil responded immediately.

Rahil

Of course. I’m happy to watch her for as long as you need. We can get a cab to you in the morning. Please stay safe. (Your hands are too dextrous for the world to lose access to them.)

He followed the line with a gif of someone inappropriately wiggling their fingers, and Mercer had to set the phone down entirely and close his eyes to keep everything inside him in check. With the world blocked out, though, confined to the cooling summer night air and the sweat on his brow and the thought of Rahil beneath his touch, he didn’t want to open them again.

19

RAHIL

Caring for a preteen in a dilapidated house with no power, little food, and few useful sleeping areas was actually far less daunting than Rahil would have imagined. Lydia was worryingly fascinated by the idea of candles—apparently Mercer wasn’t a fan of letting anything flammable in the house—and pumped to sleep on what she called the “modern coffin” of old mattresses. She even accepted potato chips for breakfast like it was a perfectly normal choice instead of the only thing they happened to have in the cupboard just then.

Mercer texted a few times throughout the night, with short, punctuation-free messages that simply confirmed he was alive and asked for status updates. By mid-morning, he still hadn’t responded to Rahil’s request to come by, nor answered any of Rahil’s calls. He’d had a long night, Rahil told himself. He was probably finally asleep.

Rahil had no reason to interrupt that. He was simply feeling anxious and hungry because he hadn’t made time for a blood meal in a few days, and Mercer’s promise to think on his request ran through Rahil’s mind. He’d certainly just make things worse if he showed up now—get tangled in the shed trap, like he had the last time he’d invaded Mercer’s property in an attempt to check on him.

But this time, they had two projects to finish. And Rahil had Mercer’s daughter. Hunger or not, perhaps there was good reason to go…

As he threw on his coat, hood up and collar flipped to his cheekbones, he scowled at Lydia parentally, being sure to show his fangs. “If you leave this house for any reason that isn’t an immediate threat to your life, not only will I never turn you, but I’ll tell every single vampire in the entire city that you’re off-limits for life.”

Lydia didn’t even look up from her phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll stay put.”

“Me too!” Avery shouted from behind her. That they were already planning to be home for the next few hours and were willing to watch over the house and Lydia in it was a genuine miracle.

“And if you see anything suspicious—”

“Call you,” both of them responded.

“Good. And don’t blow anything up.”

“No promises!” Avery called after him.

He caught Lydia flashing him a sloppy finger as he stepped into the sun.

The sprint through the neighborhood barely registered to him, each lunge just a mechanism moving him closer to Mercer. By the time he reached the Bloncourts’ lot, the slight shaking in his bones only spurred him to step more lively. He vaulted up to the shed window—closed and locked now—to peek in. Some things had been moved since he’d left the afternoon before, but his heart sank as he found no sign of Mercer himself.

It was eerie not to hear Kat’s curious baying as he approached the back of the house. That door was locked, as was the front, the building dark and uncomfortably quiet. Rahil began to truly shake then, the beginnings of an ache settling into his muscles. He kept calling Mercer’s number, pacing around the shaded side of the house and trying to peer into the windows.

Through a slit in the dark curtains, a distant screen lit up.

Mercer’s phone.

It was on the ground, face up. Discarded. When Rahil squinted, he swore he could make out the silhouette of dangling fingers above it.

His heart rammed into high gear. He scrambled at the hinges of the window, pushing with all his vampiric strength. The metal locks popped. The glass slid effortlessly to the side as the screen caved under Rahil’s weight. He tumbled into the room, a pinwheel of limbs and adrenaline.

A massive shape lunged at him from the bed to his right, both hands outstretched. Rahil should have been able to dodge—his instincts were fast enough, surely—but another instinct caught him a moment too soon, his body recognizing what his brain could not. Fingers wrapped around his throat and the fabric of his shirt, closing down, warm and rough and—

Mercer froze. His hands loosened, and his eyes widened.

Rahil didn’t move either. He could feel the pressure of Merc’s fingers, so firm and yet gentle, and he could not have forced himself to pull away, not in a million years, not even if it meant trading his life for just one more second with all of Mercer’s attention on him like this. One of Merc’s thumbs shifted, gliding, slowly.

“Fuck,” he whispered. Then he retreated.

Like he hadn’t practically burst Rahil’s heart open and caressed it, he slumped back onto the bed and curled into a fetal position, one arm dangling over the side of the mattress and the other tucked around his head.

“Lydia?” he asked. His voice sounded strained; not just tired, but tight and gruff. Was that pain?

“She’s fine. At home, with a friend,” Rahil said quickly, following it up with the more important question, “Are you?” As he spoke, he could feel his own fingers absently tracing the places Mercer had touched. Here, in his bedroom, his smell was intoxicating.

Mercer breathed out. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arm tighter around his head. “Normal.”

“I’ve seen you normal,” Rahil protested, “and usually it’s a lot… stonier. And more upright.”

The little groan Mercer gave was so weary that it made Rahil feel like he was overstepping. They had gotten close; somehow—preposterously—the situation with William and Rahil’s connection to Lydia had forged a bond stronger than merely a business partnership or a flirtatious acquaintance. But perhaps it was not enough for this.

Rahil had broken into Mercer’s house this time.

He leaned back, tucking his arms around his waist. Softer, he said, “I’m sorry. It looked like you were hurt, and I’d assumed it was William again—I can leave. But if you’d like help...” Rahil couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth. Him, help? With shed projects, perhaps, but not with this—not with emotions, or pain, or whatever it was Mercer was going through now. Rahil’s track record with that kind of assistance was astoundingly deadly. Somehow though, Merc chose another part of his statement to question.

“You, intruding?” Mercer groaned again. “Clearly, I don’t mind people breaking into my house. You don’t see any traps here.”

That was… a joke? Mercer was laughing at him.

Huh.

Rahil opened his mouth and closed it again. “There’s no reason to tie myself up if the hottest person in the room can’t keep his eyes on me.”

Mercer squinted at him from beneath his arm. “I can confirm that the migraine is the problem here, not your body.”

Mercer was laughing at him, and flirting with him? Well, not with him—that implied a togetherness. At him, then. Mercer was flirting at him.

Rahil’s heart couldn’t keep up with all these erratic adjustments.

“Well, um, that’s a shame, because I can only fix one of those things.”

He wasn’t sure Mercer could even properly see him through the bulk of his lashes and the wrinkles dropped low on his forehead, but a little tug came into Mercer’s lips. Then he groaned, his whole body going tight.

Rahil knelt beside him and, ignoring his instinct to lean toward Mercer’s neck, he laid a palm on Merc’s arm. “What can I do?” he asked, so firm yet gentle that he surprised himself. Had he been like this with Shefali, every time she’d failed to go cold turkey? He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want the answer to be yes.

“Curtains.” Mercer grumbled, covering his eyes once more.

Rahil closed the window despite the heat—he’d find a way to fix the lock later—and pulled the curtains across, turning the room to gentle blue shadows.

“Water?” Mercer asked. “The pink one.”

Rahil had no idea what the pink one was, but when he opened the fridge, he found a line of bottled electrolyte waters in three colors. Pink it was.

Mercer managed to sit up enough to sip it before requesting an ice pack next. The freezer held a variety of them, but Rahil found a series of small ones with a flexible cloth casing that formed a hat and brought the whole contraption. He helped Mercer pull it over his head until most of his skull was covered and two of the front packs slid over his eyes.

“Do you have medication?” Rahil asked.

“I could do another ibuprofen, but it probably won’t help.”

“Nothing stronger?”

Mercer grunted dismissively. “Already done. Mine works best taken at the beginning of the migraine and I was at that meeting with William. Been meaning to try a new prescription but…” His voice wandered, and Rahil thought he could fill in the ending for him: but he had Lydia to take care of and a shed of projects to finish and every time he went to the doctor, there was a chance that they would try to pin his migraines on his fae ancestry or disregard his pain entirely based on the color of his skin. “At least the aura has passed.”

“The what?”

“Vision… stuff. I go half-blind for a bit,” Mercer explained, clearly struggling to put better words to the issue. “I’ll be fine. These pass after a day or two.”

That didn’t seem fine to Rahil. If there was someone who could fix it, though, they would be a doctor, not him. He had other work to do. “If you can disarm the shed, I’ll grab Leah’s work to fiddle with here?”

Mercer made a sound of protest, but he pointed sluggishly toward his grounded phone. Rahil handed it to him, and a moment later Mercer let it fall onto the bed. “Done.”

“I’ll be right back,” Rahil promised.

He sent Avery a check-in text as he entered the shed, receiving a near-immediate response that was so positive he would have been suspicious if it was anyone else. There was an attached picture of them and Lydia with something that looked distressingly like blackjack. Lydia had stuck out her tongue for it. Rahil chuckled, recalling just how frustrated his wife—ex-wife—had been during the year Matt had decided to make a ridiculous face for every photo he was in, claiming it made them non-viable options for hanging.

To taunt him, Shefali had bought the biggest possible version of their Christmas photo that year and framed it above the fireplace, where Matt’s tongue had stuck out at every visitor until the day the movers came to take Shefali’s stuff away. Rahil didn’t know if she’d still had it hidden away somewhere when she’d died. He hadn’t asked.

He probably should have. He hadn’t kept many pictures of Matt, and now…

Rahil shuddered away the thought as he stepped into the shed, avoiding looking in the direction he knew Mercer’s holy silver to be, stashed with the fangs of a vampire Merc might have gone so far as to capture and murder, had he not lost the will. With utmost care, Rahil gathered Leah’s project from the back of the shed and closed the door behind him. After working there for over three weeks, he could make out the gentle whir of Mercer’s traps reactivating.

He thought he understood them a little better now, having seen the inner mechanisms of their creator’s other work. But there was still a long way to go before Rahil could reconstruct the little for Lydia device he’d selected from Leah’s pile of unfinished projects. Based on its size, he figured it had to be made for portability, and with its trap-like ropes, there had to be some defensive aspect to it. Something that could provide Lydia with a safe space, but also allow her the ability to chase after her dreams and find her own place in the world.

She needed that—deserved that. She was a good kid, with a good dad. She’d do better than his own children. Maybe she already was.

Mercer barely seemed to notice as he settled onto the floor beside the bed.

Rahil had been there to check the windows the day prior, but sitting with his—Leah’s—project, his focus broadened and his attention wandered to the details. The room held a standard mid-sized bed and dresser, with a potted plant hanging from braided rope in one corner and a landscape painting on the wall. For a man whose life involved creating the most beautiful and unique pieces of metal, wood, glass, and more, the space was oddly bare of such ornamentation, its aesthetic rooted in its simplicity. The more outrageous touches were the sheer extent of cream and blue pillows that spilled in waves over the sides of the bed, and a small cork board where Mercer had pinned up so many pictures of Lydia and Kat that the board itself was barely visible.

It was humble yet lovely, stony but soft: in all ways perfectly Mercer.

Rahil transitioned between glancing at his friend, collecting updates from Avery, and fiddling with Leah’s device.

He focused on the mechanical aspects first—those came easier to him, after so many decades transitioning to more and more complex pieces of equipment as electronics developed from massive boxes for simple functions to highly intricate computing systems that fit in the palm of a hand. Despite the complicated nature of Mercer’s coiling silver cords, and the enthralling sensitivity of Leah’s little sensors, his hands seemed to know instinctively how it was meant to go together, fitting piece after piece. It would undoubtedly require some adjustments for its software as well, some finishing touches perhaps—hopefully not a full construction, as Rahil was still motivating himself to better learn the programming end of things.

For the hour it took Rahil to finish the device’s hardware assembly, it seemed like Merc was asleep, but he finally shifted, pulling off the inevitably warmed ice pack hat. It left his curls in an adorable mess, the tight black curls sticking up at odd angles. He squinted at his phone, “You’ve been checking on Lydia?”

“Merc,” Rahil said, gently.

Mercer sighed. “Of course you have.”

Rahil stood, showing Merc the latest picture Avery had sent as he picked up the ice pack. “I’ll throw this back in the freezer for you.”

Mercer grunted his thanks, his smile weak but genuine. When Rahil returned, he was sitting upright, though barely. “I forgot, I have something for you.”

“Hmm?” Rahil’s heart did something terrible and wonderful, but then Mercer opened a notebook with pages of blocky text, schematics, and equations. He scolded himself. Of course the gift was simply to benefit their work.

“This was Leah’s. It should have notes on the project you’re finishing… somewhere.”

At the emotion in Mercer’s voice, Rahil’s original joy returned, softer and steadier. Merc had chosen to offer this up, this intimate piece of his past lover, for Rahil’s use. As much as it was practical, what with Rahil working on the project in order to protect Lydia, it was also vulnerable. A vulnerability that Mercer shouldn’t have been offering him, but still.

Rahil didn’t know what exactly to do with that—to run, for Mercer’s sake, or to stay for his own—and instead his body took over, accepting the notebook and perusing it slowly. It was practically a piece of art, with its sprawling notes and scribbles in the margins, so different from Mercer’s precise organization. There were pages and pages of them, too, dozens of different projects, each more genius than the last. Rahil was in awe, where awe looked just a bit like jealousy.

He glanced at Mercer. “Leah did this as a hobby?”

Mercer had already leaned his head into his hands, but he looked up, eyes bleary. “She could have gone for patents, made a lot of money. But she said the world didn’t deserve her technology until she could refine it past the point of misuse. Otherwise, they would employ it as swords instead of shields.”

“She sounds like she was as kind as she was brilliant,” Rahil said, and meant it. He leaned over to nudge Mercer’s knee. “It seems you had good taste.”

Mercer scoffed, and he must have heard Rahil wrong through his migraine because he grumbled a teasing, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’ve been flattered enough for one lifetime.” Rahil shrugged, fiddling with the wire he was supposed to be rerouting. “That’s what happens when you go on nothing but first dates for a decade.”

The look Merc gave him was entirely unreadable, cast behind his stoic blankness and the tightness of his pain, but there was a depth to his gaze that made Rahil nearly uncomfortable from its intensity. Uncomfortable, and hungry, like he was unfinished—not close enough; not open enough—as though he was meant to be peeled apart before the craftsman.

He tried on a smile, hoping the joviality would help.

It only prompted a question from Mercer. “Why no second dates? You have your fangs visible on your profile. I cannot imagine your matches don’t know what they’re getting into.”

“With me? Bah. No one can ever truly know what they’re getting into where I’m concerned. You weren’t even into me and I still managed to overrun your shed and corrupt your daughter. Imagine putting ‘falls into traps as a hobby’ on your profile.”

Mercer lifted one hand in submission. “I retract. You are intolerable after all.”

Rahil winked. “Good. At least we’re on the same page.”

In the quiet that lingered, he managed to connect a few more pieces of Leah’s device into place. Mercer rubbed his temple, his expression sliding in and out of relief. “You didn’t text them back, did you?”

“Huh?” His mind went to Lydia and Avery, and he nearly reached for his phone, when Mercer followed up.

“Your first dates. You get blood from them, and then you ghost them. You hypocrite.” His mouth was quirked as he said it, the final word gentled by laughter.

Rahil’s cheeks burned. One-night stands weren’t uncommon, not on the apps he used, but the idea of doing that to Mercer—and the knowledge that he would have, had Merc not been the one to ghost him first—seemed ludicrous and insensitive. Mercer was worth so much more than a single evening.

So much more than anything Rahil could give.

“I mean…” Rahil struggled to find words that didn’t paint himself as either the villain or the victim. There had to be more categories of person than that. “It was a useful way to acquire blood from consenting individuals, but I wasn’t looking for a… for a family. That was all.” He couldn’t meet Mercer’s gaze as he said it.

“I understand,” Mercer said, his voice weak. Rough. “With Lydia, even just the thought of bringing one person into a space we’ve shared with no one else for so long… It’s almost unthinkable.”

Rahil noted the almost, and his heart blistered. It was not his almost, but he yearned for it anyway.

“You’d mentioned your own kids yesterday?” Mercer asked. “Where are they now?”

Rahil had expected the question, expected to flinch and laugh, but the gentle ache in his chest and the desire to lean closer to Mercer, take comfort in the shape of his knee, the warmth of his skin—that he’d not expected in the slightest. “In the same cemetery as Leah, beside their mother.”

“God. I’m sorry, I should have—”

“It’s fine. It was—” My fault, he nearly said, but Mercer didn’t need to hear that too. “It happened a while ago. Well, one of them, anyway. The other feels as though I lost him years before I actually did. The last time he and I spoke, my ex-wife was on her deathbed, and our relationship had been all but nonexistent for the decade prior.”

“You had two… two boys?”

“Yes.” Rahil swallowed down the lump that threatened to rise. He should have been better at this; it had been a long time—long since he’d seen either of them, at least. But it had been just as long since he’d spoken of this loss with another person. “Jonah and Matt. Very white names. Blame my wife, and her English grandfather I suppose; he was a Matthew, too.” He said it affectionately. It had seemed like the right choice for the cultural climate of the time. To many people, it still did, and he couldn’t blame them for it.

The little chuckle that got out of Mercer was worth more than gold. Even unholy gold. Despite the pressure in his chest and the tightness behind his jaw, Rahil smiled.

“You had Jonah, Matt, and… have I forgotten your wife’s name?”

“Shefali.” He didn’t bother correcting Mercer—not ex, not late, just… wife. In a way, it worked. However far they moved from having known each other, he would still love her for what she had been to him. They were as impermanent as anything could possibly be, yet their ghosts were eternal. “Her name comes from the jasmine flower. I used to plant them everywhere I could. She pretended she hated them.”

“I can picture it.” Mercer chuckled, but it turned into a wince. He rubbed his fingers into the space behind his ears, working down along his neck. As though it were some kind of vampiric lingerie, the shield of his hands suddenly made Rahil’s hunger come alive again. This was not the time, he told it. But perhaps it could be time enough for something else.

Rahil set Leah’s project to the side, shifting onto his knees. He pointed to Mercer’s hands. “Does that help?”

“Hm? Rubbing?” Mercer groaned softly. “Yeah, for the moment. It’s just a band-aid.”

“May I?” Rahil held out both his palms as an offering. “I’ve been told I have very good fingers. And I promise not to take advantage of your glorious neck proximity.” He winked, hoping the joke wasn’t too much. After Mercer’s hesitancy around a potential bite, he worried…

“Please,” Mercer grumbled. “As though you could possibly intimidate me. I have seen you tied up, you know. And begging.”

All the blood rushed from Rahil’s head to exactly the wrong place and he couldn’t even fault it. He was sure Mercer could tell, too. “We could always do that instead.”

“My unholy gold counts on it, yes.” Merc snorted, but there was a humorous quirk to his lips as he patted the bed beside him.

A thrill ran up Rahil’s spine, then right back down again, settling low and aching as he climbed onto the mattress. He had to keep reminding himself that this was purely a medicinal act, as platonic as any touching of skin atop a bed could possibly be. But it was atop Mercer’s bed, and it was Mercer’s skin he was sliding his fingertips over, Mercer’s hair that was so soft beneath his touch. Rahil slipped into place behind his just-a-friend, counting to three to calm himself and ensure he’d properly repressed his hunger before he began to massage.

For the first minute, the world was just him and Mercer, his thoughts honed on the ways Merc’s body responded to the pressure—gentle noises and relaxing shifts and uncomfortable flinches all guiding Rahil’s hands. He forced himself not to think of what other ways he could invoke a similar pleasure. There were advantages to not being bound.

Advantages that were also supplied to his fangs.

In specifically not imagining every sexual route his hands could take, every moan and grunt and expression of bliss he might invoke, his mind detoured instead to the heaviness of his fangs, the thirst still roiling in his gut.

Mercer’s neck was so long and thick, the pound of his blood beneath the skin a steady, confident thrum. The taste taunted him. It would be easy to lean in now, to press lips to skin, then just a prick of teeth—let his venom drown Mercer’s migraine in soft bliss for a while. Let him feel as good as he deserved to, after all that he’d been doing to care for his daughter on his own.

Rahil wouldn’t, of course: consent was a bondage of its own, and as much as it galled him, it was just as sexy as the physical cords he’d let Mercer wrap him in so many times.

But he could still imagine.

So, he did.

20

MERCER

In between the pain and the nausea, Mercer could not stop imagining one step further.

Before Rahil’s arrival, he’d simply been missing Kat’s constant migraine-attention—the way she’d curl up next to him the same as she did when they slept at night—but Rahil’s massaging made him feel in ways that no pet possibly could. With every drag of Rahil’s hands, Mercer dreamed of one lower glide, fingers slipping beyond the systematic up and down motion on his neck and sliding into the front of his shirt. Just an inch. Just a taste.

He could want for more, he told himself—but later, when he didn’t have the subtle pounding in his head as a distraction, his layers of fatigue and strain slowly unraveling beneath Rahil’s touch to become a limp, malleable thing willing to do whatever was asked it of for one more moment of relief. One stronger moment, one wider moment, one moment that would put the rest to shame. Though he knew then, alone in the darkness with his right mind awake and alert, his embarrassment was just as likely to get to him as the want.

So, Mercer just idled there, trading his knots of agony for the soothing pressure of Rahil’s touch and imagined one extra inch of contact, over and over and over. A subtle wrapping of fingers over his throat. A little tangling into his hair. A breath on his cheek. A brush of a mouth on his neck—maybe even the fangs. Maybe…

God, he had to stop this.

He was pretty sure that God had stepped out for the moment, though, and left a sock on the knob to Mercer’s brain as they went. At least, he hoped. No divine deity deserved to experience the sheer conflict of nausea, joy, lust, and shame going on in his mind.

As Rahil moved his hands up from Mercer’s neck and into his hair, rubbing such gentle circles against the back of Mercer’s skull that it was all he could do not to moan, he tried desperately to turn his thoughts onto anything else. Anything but Rahil or the pain. Unfortunately, the only other thing that would stick was Lydia.

“Are you dating Ray?”

She’d seemed so utterly neutral about it, like replacing her mother with a strange vampire was normal in her eyes. Expected, even. Mercer still didn’t know how to feel about that—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, in case his own feelings affirmed the way his suffering body was relaxing under Rahil’s touch, the length of skin between his jawline and his collarbones growing a bizarre ache like it knew something he didn’t. Besides, regardless of what his daughter thought of Rahil, she was the one who needed Mercer’s attention right now.

“Is Lydia still…?” It came out as a mumble, half-intoxicated by the groan he’d been trying so hard to suppress.

“Let me check,” Rahil whispered.

He kept one hand in Mercer’s hair, though, as he fiddled with his phone in the other. His fingers drew back and forth, a gentle tracing that was certainly no massage, but despite the space it opened for the pain to return, there was a tenderness and a care to it that Mercer craved all the more. He wanted, stupidly, to melt backwards, let Rahil wrap around him. To give in to temptation.

Was it truly the first time in nearly a decade that he’d been taken care of like this, or did it merely feel that way? The space within his ribcage tightened, bright and bittersweet above his unhappy stomach, and he wanted, nearly, to cry, before Rahil broke the moment with a pat to his shoulder.

“She’s still good, yeah,” he said.

Mercer had to pull himself back into form like he was dragging his numb body up the last ten feet of Mount Everest. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” As he spoke, he began massaging Mercer’s scalp once more. If he wasn’t fooling himself, Rahil sounded like he was climbing the exact same peak, and possibly failing. “Anything for you—and Lydia. She’s a good kid.”

“She is,” Mercer managed, trying not to focus too much on the glorious sensation of Rahil’s hands, while still allowing himself to appreciate the relief it was bringing. The headache was only one part of his migraines—paired with nausea, fatigue, vertigo, light sensitivity, a full-body physical discomfort, and occasionally a spotty aura of flickering lights that took up half his vision—but having something cared for was far better than nothing at all, and far better still because it was Rahil’s fingers doing the work. “You’re good with her, too. I can tell by the way she talks about you. Your own kids must have adored you.” Well, he supposed accidentally bringing up dead kids was one way to cut the mood.

Rahil stiffened, fingernails digging in slightly before he seemed to realize what he was doing and loosened again. “Yeah, I, um, I think they hated me, actually.”

Mercer was glad Rahil was behind him because he couldn’t keep the confusion and anger off his face. “Why would you think that?”

He wanted to say, too, that he was sure Rahil was wrong. But he didn’t know enough about Rahil—about that Rahil, anyway, the one from ten or twenty years ago. He could have been the kind of man who was willing to create metals that killed the oppressed, good reasons or not. People made terrible choices, then grew from them.

Mercer was proof of that.

Rahil gave a noncommittal noise. “That story is… a lot. And you have enough pain in your life.” He tapped gently against Mercer’s temple as he said it.

Mercer twisted to catch his gaze, ignoring the vertigo the sudden movement caused. “Weight isn’t a burden if it’s shared between enough people. Please, tell me. I’d like to know.” He lifted the very edge of his lips. “Only if you continue rubbing my head, though.”

“Ha,” Rahil said flatly, but he gave a weak smile, and when Mercer turned back around, Rahil’s hands resumed their original motion. He didn’t speak again for what felt like minutes, but Mercer gave him the space, letting the quiet linger. Finally, Rahil cleared his throat. “Jonah was such a bright and caring kid. He loved everyone—was always the first to offer help, to make someone laugh, to end a fight or find a compromise. But somewhere between Lydia’s age and high school, something changed…”

“Ah,” was all Mercer felt confident saying, but it seemed enough support to prompt Rahil to continue.

“He probably had chronic depression. We—Shefali and I—we didn’t really know what was wrong, though, or what to do about it. Shefali pretended that things were fine so aggressively that it seemed she convinced even Jonah for a while, but I think he was just learning to hide it.” Rahil drew in a sharp breath, and one of his hands left Mercer’s hair for a moment before returning. “He wasn’t really home much, and spent a lot of time by himself when he was. We had an older micro-cemetery a block from our house then, and I’d find him there sometimes with his headphones in, drawing spirals on his skin with markers. They were always so beautiful.”

The twist at the end of the word sank Mercer’s stomach like a pit. As though he could feel all the beauty Rahil had seen in his son turn to ashes—he wanted to hold on to that micro-cemetery moment, to stop the story there. But Mercer was afraid he already knew what the finale had wrought.

“In the end, I just kept pushing him to get help, over and over—fighting him, like that could bring him back.” Rahil’s massaging stopped, the tension in his grip brittle enough that it seemed a strong wind would break him. “I pushed him so hard that I pushed him over the edge.”

“Oh, Rahil.” For all that his head and stomach ached, Mercer’s body barely hurt compared to the thought of what Rahil had been through. He didn’t fight his instincts—didn’t think he could have won if he tried—just reached up to cup one of Rahil’s hands in his. He laced his fingers around Rahil’s and squeezed.

“They say that when someone chooses to leave the world early, that there’s a lot of little things that build up to it, but it’s also one specific moment, when inhibition is too low and life shoves too hard and the opportunity is there.” Rahil sounded as though he was choking, each word forced through a noose. “For him, I was the shove.”

“Rahil.” His name emerged like a prayer, a plea, and Mercer didn’t care. All he did care about right then was dragging that horrid agony off Rahil, of letting him breathe again. He turned, the cries of his body ignored as he pulled one of his legs onto the bed and gripped Rahil’s face with his other hand. “You could not have known.”

A stain of tears lined either side of Rahil’s cheeks, and his chest heaved like he was suffocating, no air coming forth.

“Your feelings—they’re normal, surely. I know that just the thought of Lydia…” Mercer couldn’t bring himself to even reach the end point; it was too excruciating to consider. A tremble went through him, and however much his mind refused to think the same about his own child’s bad choices, he spoke the truth anyway: “But it was Jonah’s decision.” He tried to be firm, but gentle—be the comfort, the reason, and the stability he’d received from Rahil when he was holding Kat on the kitchen floor, caught in a panic. “Would you have felt better after the same outcome, had you done less instead?”

Rahil didn’t answer that, just looked away. He breathed in, then out, and dragged a hand over his face. Instead of responding, he said, “Matt didn’t handle it well. He was rambunctious at that age, more likely to get into trouble than not, but with Shefali grieving and Jonah gone, I… I didn’t want to make the same mistake again. I let him go his own way.”

Mercer dropped his hands into his lap and gave him a nod to move forward with the story—perhaps this was what he needed. To get it all out there. “What happened?”

“Nothing, for a while. He graduated high school. He went through college, too. But somewhere around there, he started to pick up… ideas: that the reason life had given him pain was because certain people weren’t doing their part, or actively preying on the good and the hardworking. Not certain individuals, mind you, but certain categories of people.” Rahil shrugged after, but the anguish on his face was nothing like dismissal. “Last October I was contacted as next of kin. He’d been killed in what was labeled a freak vampire attack.”

Like Leah, Mercer’s subconscious screamed, but he feared that this was not like Leah at all. Leah was the fluke, as he’d slowly realized over a mound of holy silver. Usually, when vampires killed people, it was either a tragic accident or they had a very, very good reason.

“When I realized he’d been working for Vitalis-Barron, I knew it was more complicated than a mere freak attack.” Rahil smiled in a way that was no smile at all, drained of life and the corpse possessed. “If he was killed while acting on the beliefs he’d been espousing, then I doubt it was the vampire’s fault. But he was still my kid, and I—”

“Rahil…” Mercer wanted to reach for him again, but the way Rahil held up his hand brought him to a halt.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t tell me there was nothing I could have done. I was his father, and a vampire, and I let him wander so far into the darkness that he became a threat to my own people.”

Mercer didn’t know what to say to make things any better, so he watched as Rahil’s expression bittered further, and felt his heart tear a crack down the middle to match.

“Matt reached out to me last summer. He said he just wanted to get a meal and reconnect, but I...” Rahil shook his head. “I was too afraid of what I’d find.”

“You might have been right. He could have been planning to take you to Vitalis-Barron.”

“Or I might have been wrong.” He stared past Mercer, at nothing and everything. “Matt took his mother’s surname after she died. He adored her. Even if they disagreed on many of the things he and I did, he adored her anyway.”

Mercer still didn’t know what to say, so he went for the only truth that he knew. Breaking past Rahil’s guilt and grief, he wrapped one arm around him, feeling for his bones beneath his skin like he was nothing more than a ghost, and pulling him back to reality. “You are not alone, Rahil,” he said, and hugged him.

Rahil shook. For a moment it was his only movement, those soft, pathetic trembles, but then his arms lifted and he wrapped them so timidly around Mercer’s back that he seemed scared of spooking him. The longer they stayed like that though, the tighter he held on, burying his face in Mercer’s shoulder and sobbing, gentle, soundless sobs. They did nothing for the pain in Mercer’s head, or his stomach, or his heart, but he found he was all right with that.

As Rahil stilled, Mercer broke the silence. “Sometimes I think, what if there was something I could have done to save Leah? What if I had told her to focus more on personal protective devices, so she had some way to fight off the vamp who bit her? Or gone to pick her up that night? There must have been one right turn that I missed along the way.”

Rahil’s hands snaked up to rub at the back of Mercer’s skull once more. His voice sounded weak, but surer, his head still resting on Mercer’s shoulder. “If there was, then it was one choice: one night—a single blind pick of the draw. You didn’t cause that. You were just unlucky.”

It felt wrong to be told so by the person unluckiest of all. In a way, Mercer could see the truth in it, though. He had no control over past mistakes he couldn’t have known would matter at the time. But now he did know. Now he had that choice—to protect and provide, or to let his little girl struggle towards the same fate. He stroked Rahil’s back gently, letting that touch, too, ease some of his discomfort. “I could have found the bastard who bit her, at least.”

He only realized how impolite that might have come off to a vampire after he’d said it, but Rahil only sighed, like the inevitability of the situation saddened him. “I’m sure they would have deserved it.”

His face was so near Mercer’s neck that Mercer could feel the gentle flow of his breath, each word a sensation amidst the pain. His skin tingled. Oh God. He swallowed and focused on the rhythm of his hands up and down Rahil’s back—not too low, not too suggestive. Comfortable. Comforting. They were just being there for each other when the other person needed it.

That was all.

“You know,” he said, softly, “I am aware that most vampire bites are enjoyable events. And that it very rarely leads to a turning.”

“You have to drain most of the blood to reach that point,” Rahil agreed. His hands drew lower, thumbs massaging into the back of Mercer’s neck, before they paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak so callously—”

“I know what Leah went through. I made sure to know.” Mercer breathed in, then out. He wanted this. He had wanted this all morning, and all night, despite—or because of—the pain, and he was allowed to help a friend, if it was something they both wanted. “What I know of her turning shouldn’t change whether I allow myself to consent to something similar—not that this is similar. This is different. And because it’s different, I shouldn’t hold it to the same prejudice.”

Rahil sounded like he’d swallowed the moon. “It can be very enjoyable.”

“And you’re hungry,” Mercer added. “You are hungry?”

“A bit.” His mouth was so near Mercer’s pulse suddenly that Mercer could feel it in his whole being.

He had to close his eyes to stop it from overwhelming him, to pretend they weren’t so near, and this wasn’t so real. He managed, still, to whisper, “Then all right.”

“You’re sure?” Rahil whispered back.

It felt like a thousand butterflies had been set loose inside Mercer. “Just once. As a thank you,” he lied. It was not a thank you, it was a you’re welcome, and with the way he was yearning, it might just be a you are welcome forever, if only to his blood.

Not his heart—though he was pretty sure Rahil had seen the whole of it while sitting there—and not his body, as much as he would surely relish this moment in his wet dreams, but simply his blood. Mercer could spare that.

“All right,” Rahil murmured.

And he did not sink in his fangs.

Instead, it was his lips, soft and warm, and his hand cupping the other side of Mercer’s neck, and his presence around Mercer like a shelter—a protector—and then, finally, the prick of teeth. Mercer had been imagining a sharp pain, followed by something nice, something tingling and warm, but what he received wasn’t sharp at all, just pressure and pleasure, so gentle that he felt himself leaning into it, pressing his flesh up against Rahil’s teeth.

Rahil moaned. His hand on Mercer’s neck tightened and he worked his mouth in methodical drags that made the sensations cascading through Mercer’s body thrum beautifully, rising and falling like a dance. As he basked in the flow of the venom and the nearness of Rahil’s body, he found himself playing with Rahil’s loose hair, drawing fingers through the long locks and smiling as Rahil shivered beneath his touch.

“You are lovely at this,” Mercer whispered, the agony of his migraine fully obliterated, if only for the moment. “It’s much better than your flirting.”

Rahil pulled his fangs free to mutter, “Oh, fuck off.” But he sounded utterly attentive, like all that terrible teasing had tuned his desires to Mercer’s. He certainly seemed perfectly in sync with Mercer’s wants, Rahil’s body supple as putty, curled against him.

Mercer could feel the prick in his neck beginning to ooze warm blood, but as Rahil leaned back in, he caught the vampire’s jaw in his hand. Gently, Mercer rolled his thumb along Rahil’s lip and traced the long, sharp length of his fang. The tip was still pink, the diluted hue saturating Rahil’s mouth.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you never feel the need to hide these,” he murmured.

Rahil’s expression deepened into a look of such pride and longing that Mercer moved his finger on instinct, cupping the underside of Rahil’s fang and pressing up until a slight pinch gave way to bliss. Rahil moaned, sucking gently for a long, heavenly moment before Mercer let him drag his tongue over the wound to close it.

“Your neck is still bleeding, babe,” he whispered against the pad of Mercer’s thumb, nuzzling gently.

The term of affection took a moment to register, the tone of it fitting like a missing puzzle piece into the collage of the thousand times Leah had said it. As it clicked into place, Mercer felt himself stiffen. Everything flooded back: nausea, pain, tension, dizziness.

Rahil mirrored the action, both of them still and taut. They felt so close suddenly, so much of Rahil touching so much of Mercer that it made a metallic rush of shame bloom in the back of Mercer’s throat. He didn’t know whether to lean back or to—to—what other option was there?

To say, finish me off, babe?

The thought made Mercer even more nauseous.

But before he could choose to do anything, Rahil was sliding away from him, one hand rubbing his own neck—the same place where Mercer still bled. “It just came out, I’m sorry.”

Oh God, Mercer hated seeing him like this. He swallowed, trying to find a way to bail without making Rahil feel so damned sad in the process. “No, I—I’m sure you’re used to saying that to the men you bite. I get it.”

That did something worse though, Rahil’s expression sinking into a desperate melancholy. “I…”

One of them shifted—one or both, Mercer didn’t know—and Leah’s notebook toppled off the bed. It flopped open to the last page, spilling out a picture that Leah had tucked inside the back flap: her short red curls a mess from the beach wind, swirling across her cheek as she turned her face into the crook of Mercer’s neck, one hand lifting to block the camera. She never had been a fan of pretentious, staged photos. He’d always joked about taking them and she’d always laughed and hidden, like it was a game to see how blurry and silly she could make things.

He had nearly forgotten that day. Nearly forgotten how happy they’d been.

Rahil’s fingers twitched toward the picture. “That’s… her?”

“Leah, yeah.” Even with her face hidden from the camera, the sight of her, smiling and alive and in love with him, made Mercer feel all the more ashamed, all the more like he’d just done something terrible.

He’d let Rahil call him babe… and then pushed him away for it, denying them both something that was clearly good for them. If Leah could see him now, she’d have punched him in the shoulder and told him to stop breaking hearts already, and that included his own. Maybe he was allowed to have swiped right after all…

But Rahil was already standing, one step back and then the next, his eyes glued to the picture of Mercer’s late wife. He didn’t look like he’d seen the same ghost Mercer had. His had teeth.

21

RAHIL

It felt as though the ones Rahil had lost were truly haunting him.

For just a moment, the world had seemed right again, as he’d cuddled against Mercer’s chest, letting his lips be stroked, his fangs caressed and the venom within flow so freely that all signs of Mercer’s migraine had vanished. Some hopeful, traitorous part of him was convinced that things were meant to be like that: the two of them, hiding from the world.

The two of them, together.

But then that desire had slipped free in a term he’d forgotten was part of his vocabulary, as if he was lounging in bed with Shefali on a Saturday afternoon, the sound of the boys playing in the living room echoing up the stairs. This wasn’t his life partner, though—was, in fact, a man who’d declined his affections at every turn. It was incredible that they were even friends. And Rahil worried he’d ruined that too.

His attempts to retreat left Leah’s notebook spread across the floor, a picture starting up at him. Scraggly red curls and pale skin. It couldn’t be her. Surely, there were other redheaded women in the city of San Salud. Other redheaded women who’d died from a vampire bite.

Rahil couldn’t think through the frantic spinning in his head, and he fought just to breathe as he slid off the bed. He couldn’t be here. Not with Mercer looking at him like that—so guarded and serious—and the sudden epiphany Rahil didn’t know yet how to explain. He needed to get away. To figure this out.

Mercer had been right to tell him off.

And he was off now, standing in the center of the room, his gaze darting anywhere but at Mercer. “I’ll um, I’ll bring Lydia back. When I’m home.”

Mercer looked like he was about to stand, but he put a hand to his head instead. “I—Okay.”

“And I’ll bring Leah’s—her project, with me,” Rahil added. Whatever happened, he had to finish that. For Lydia. For Leah. He knelt automatically, piling the pieces atop each other. “I can work on it in my, whatever.”

“Okay,” Mercer repeated.

He’d seemed like an open book since Rahil had sat down on his bed, run his fingers through the man’s gorgeous curls and pressed against his beautiful skin, but now he was unreadable again, stoic and staring. He said nothing as Rahil scooped Leah’s technology into his arms, balancing the notebook awkwardly on top. The picture floated to the floor.

Rahil gave it one final look. Through the earthy, nutty tang of Mercer’s blood, he swore he could still taste a different person’s blood on his lips: sweet and spicy. Whoever she’d been, she had asked him. He’d thought he was doing the right thing.

Was there a right thing, where he was concerned?

Mercer kept staring at him solemnly, like the answer was no. Rahil had messed this up, like he’d messed up everything else.

He stepped out, stepped away. And then he ran.

Rahil's phone buzzed as he jogged, shaking and aching, through the front door of his house. He could hear Lydia and Avery, still clearly enjoying themselves somewhere above. He wanted nothing more than to ignore them both. Ignore them, and ignore the notebook he held, and pretend like there wasn’t the tiniest chance that his cancer victim and Mercer’s curly redheaded wife had been the same person.

Setting down the weight in his arms, he struggled for the easiest of his many two disasters. Upon opening his phone, he found the massive string of texts he’d been receiving wasn’t even from Mercer—and his heart sank despite himself. Instead of awkward requests to return to a solely business-related partnership, or worse, to not bother coming back at all, his phone was clogged with adorable pictures of a niece’s new puppy, complete with so many responses that he couldn’t even tell who’d posted the first one. Apparently, they were having an adoption party. Rahil was invited. Amira could pick him up if he needed the ride. They were even shifting the time to be closer to sunset, just in case.

Rahil felt sick.

He swiped through useless updates on the Wesley Smith-Garcia case—the jury was about to go into deliberation, it seemed—until he reached the one unrelated text.

Metal Daddy

Let me know when you’re home safely.

Between his sun-poisoning and whatever else the emotions of the day had stirred in him, Rahil suddenly needed to throw up. He grabbed behind him for the front door, but as his hand slid across the knob a knock came from the other side.

Rahil’s chest caught. His blood ran cold, then hot. Had Mercer…?

Despite all the issues it would create, all the emotions Rahil hadn’t yet worked through, he still wanted to throw the door open and find Merc there. He’d smile, small and crooked, and say hello, babe, or something just as cheesy, and then they’d—what? Live happily ever after? And what would happen to them then, if it turned out Rahil truly had—that he’d—

He drew a breath, steadying himself, and opened the door.

The woman beyond wore gloves and a scarf despite the warmth of the summer, her hood up against the sun and her braid pulled over one shoulder. He would have known she was a vampire even if he hadn’t noticed the trembling, or the hint of black blood-hunger in her eyes, or the way she flinched at every noise, like a hunter was about to creep around the corner.

“Rahil Babcock?” Her voice was raw.

In his present state of emotions, the surname made him flinch. “No—Zaman. Babcock was my wife.”

“But you’re Matthew Babcock’s father, right?” the vampire insisted.

The chill in Rahil’s blood deepened. Why would a vampire want to know that? An unwarranted thought passed through his head: that this vampire was here now to tell him she’d been the one to kill Matt. That she hadn’t meant to.

That this was all just a misunderstanding.

“Do you want something?” Rahil managed, the words grating against his throat.

The vampire before him flinched. She tucked her arms across her chest, like she was trying to put up a shield, and her gaze wouldn’t quite meet his. “Matthew always said you were one of the rare good ones—someone who kept to their ethics and the law regardless of the circumstances. That if all vampires were like you, maybe we could live in peace.”

Rahil felt the burn of the tears before the emotion hit, jagged and aching in the center of his chest. Such a backhanded compliment, a complete misunderstanding of what drove this alleged abandonment of ethics in some vampires, despite all the nuance and compassion Rahil and his wife had tried to instill in their son growing up. He didn’t have room for this, not after everything that he’d already delved into today. With a short intake of breath, he wiped back the tears and tried not to feel it all at once.

His son had loved him. Despite the depths of Matt’s corruption and cruelty, somewhere deep down, he had loved Rahil—had let that love convince him that there could be goodness in vampires. And it still hadn’t been enough.

But then he’d reached out, and Rahil hadn’t reached back, and that hadn’t been enough. If Jonah had been there, or even Shefali, they would have known what to do to help Matt, but Rahil had sat in his decrepit house and let his son dig his own grave.

“I can go,” the vampire muttered, taking a step back, towards the sun. She shook so hard it looked like she might not make it.

“Do you need something?” Rahil asked, softer this time. He reached out a hand. “Of course you do, look at you. Come in. Please. Come in.”

Now she looked like the one about to cry. She moved slowly—hesitantly—and Rahil wondered how her life had been since she’d turned, for her to still be so skittish even around other vampires. She didn’t even seem to notice the desperate state of the house, her flighty gaze going immediately to the windows and doorways. She jerked at the sound of Avery cackling from upstairs. Her fangs slipped out a little, and he could see her fighting to push them back in.

“Come; I have something that will help.” Rahil didn’t give her a choice, ushering her past the stairway and away from the distant humans, until they reached the kitchen. “The freezing ruins a lot of their nutritional value,” he said, drawing the last two cubes of emergency blood out of the freezer, which looked a little wonky from the hours the power hadn’t been running the previous night, “but they should at least curb the edge until you can feed properly.”

She shoved them both in her mouth at once, cracking her teeth through the cubes like it was the first thing she’d eaten in days. By the state of her eyes and the blackness of the hunger already creeping into them, she probably hadn’t fed in even longer.

Rahil cleared his throat as she finished, leaning back against the counter. “Better?”

She still shook from sun-poisoning, but she seemed slightly more stable—less suspicious of him, if nothing else. “Yes. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem.” Rahil would just have to—somehow—get Tim’s coworker’s phlebotomist sister to draw Tim’s blood again to replenish the freezer, was all. Rahil gave a weak smile, trying not to exude as much awkwardness as he felt. “So, tell me how you knew Matt?”

“He mentored me, before…” She gave a slight lift of her upper jaw, letting the first tips of her fangs slip out before pulling back in.

So her turning had been recent. “At his Vitalis-Barron job?”

“Yeah.” The vampire shifted uncomfortably. She looked out the window, her expression twisting. “You know it’s not like I believed everything they were doing was fine. But if they were taking the bad sorts off the streets and progressing science at the same time…” She said it so defensively and readily that Rahil wondered if it was even him who she was arguing with or herself. She tucked her arms back around her waist. “Not all vampires are as decent as like, you, or whatever.”

“You’re right,” Rahil assured her.

It was clearly not the response she’d expected. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

“Most vampires act decent, but not all of them. They’re like any other group of people. In any population, there will always be assholes and abusers, people who make selfish and cruel choices.”

“Right,” she agreed hesitantly, like she knew the catch was coming, as the catch had clearly come for her already, with fangs and a bloodlust.

Rahil lifted a brow. “If you had shown up at Vitalis-Barron’s front porch instead of mine, do you think they would say you were one of the decent ones?”

Her expression cracked down the middle, and she sucked in a breath. From the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he knew her answer. He wouldn’t force it out of her, asking for something else instead. Something deeper.

“Why did you come here, kiddo?”

She did look at him then, just in time for him to see the full force of her breaking, the welling in her eyes, still tainted black from her blood starvation, and the juts of her cheekbones sharp with regular human hunger. The trembling beneath her skin turned to a sob. She curled inward.

After all the harm she’d clearly done to his people, Rahil could have let her suffer the weight of this alone, but he found he didn’t want to. She had been someone to his son, and been influenced by him, and that made her Rahil’s responsibility. He reached out with care, gently rubbing her shoulder a few times. “I’m glad you came to me. I’m glad I can help you, even if it’s just a little.”

She kept crying, her plea seemingly for the universe more than it was for him. “We were making things better. We were the front line. We were bringing justice where others couldn’t.”

He let her have her anger and her misery, gently adding after, “Are you sure that every vampire’s death you caused made the world better? Did you ever get it wrong?”

She held her trembling hands over her face. Her voice was so small. “I don’t know.”

“I do know that all people will get things wrong sometimes. That’s how life works. If, knowing we will make mistakes, we design a system that could let one of those mistakes irreversibly ruin someone’s life, or take it away entirely, then perhaps that system itself is wrong.” He hadn’t known how to say that to Matt—how to let himself get close enough to say it—but for this poor stranger, standing in his kitchen, the words were easy.

The vampire wiped her eyes, managing to look at him finally, her brow tight and her mouth askew. “What can I do about that?”

And that was the end of Rahil’s wisdom. He shrugged, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I guess in this case, you chose not to participate?”

She gave a little snort. “I’m certainly not catching vampires for Vitalis-Barron anymore.”

“Well, that’s a good start!” Rahil smiled. “What are you doing, kiddo? Do you have a place to stay? A blood supplier?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I…” She wrung one of her wrists, her shoulders raised defensively around her neck. “I’ve been sleeping in mausoleums and drinking what I can.” The sheen of liquid returned to her eyes, her cheeks darkened with the flush of vampiric blood. “I don’t want to be one of them. I want to be decent—”

“But it’s hard,” Rahil cut in, “when your only options are to be selfish or starve.”

Her tears spilled once more, but this time she made no effort to clean them, only nodded and stared morosely across the kitchen.

Rahil took pity on her once more. “There’s a blood charity in Ala Santa now. I can get you a cab—”

She stiffened. “No. They know me—knew me, before. If I appear now, they might…”

“Ah.” Rahil sighed. It was her own damn fault, yet that didn’t have to mean she deserved what was happening to her. That was the thing about fighting to make the system better, after all: it got better for everyone. It had to. “You’re right, they might not give you blood. They might try to come after you. Or they might see the very person they’ve set up this charity to assist and help you regardless. I don’t know; I don’t know them.”

She said nothing to that, but her tongue drew across the currently blunt teeth where her fangs were retracted, and she looked like a person on the verge of an existential crisis.

It made something catch in Rahil’s chest, new and familiar all at once. He gave her a soft smile. “You can stay here for a few weeks, if you’d like. We don’t have much, but we’ll see about getting you blood.” If they had to, they’d make it work. It wouldn’t be the first time, though he was pretty sure only Jim had been here on the last occasion they’d harbored another vampire. It would be better if she had somewhere more stable. Somewhere that didn’t rely on Rahil. “What about family? Partners? Old friends?”

“If Matthew was here, it would have been easier. He’d have helped me—he knew me, and he’d know I would never use my new fangs to hurt humans.” She looked embarrassed as she said it, like having that depth of a connection to someone was worthy of shame, not admiration. “That’s why I came to you. If he trusted you, then I hope I can too.”

Rahil wanted to argue with her—he was no better or worse than any of the vampires Matt hated, and neither was she. But this—this wasn’t Rahil’s kid. There had to be someone better equipped. “No one else?”

She looked away, chewing on her lower lip.

That wasn’t the whole truth, then. “Are you worried they won’t accept you? That they wouldn’t understand you’re still you, despite the fangs?”

She shook her head. “They know I’m me—that’s the problem. They know I’m—” With an inhale, she corrected, “They wouldn’t think of me the way Matt would. They’d accept me for my vampirism, but the things I did while I was human… I don’t know. I think they’d take me in anyway, but it would be out of pity; despite what they think of me, not because of it.”

Something with spikes twisted deep in Rahil’s chest, welling up a pain he didn’t want to look at. He had already told everyone. He had been accepted by his family long ago and was able to step back when their attempts to harbor him became too much. He didn’t have anything to be sad about.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “If I can just get on my feet, you know. I’ll be fine.”

Rahil didn’t think that was the whole truth either. Though he supposed there were many types of fine in this world. He could hear one of them echoing down the stairs in the short, snorted laughter of Lydia and another in Avery’s large, long cackles. Neither of them were what most people perceived as fine, either in health or situation or class, yet here they were, making the world more beautiful with every moment.

If this strange woman—this vampire—had decided she’d make things work, he hoped she was right.

“Well, then, welcome.” He paused, trying to scrounge back through the first moment when he’d opened the door to find her there. All he could recall was his flicker of hope that it would be Mercer, the horror that they might be connected in more—and more terrible—ways than Rahil had even considered, and the emotional dive of this strange vampire’s first words. “Did I miss your name?”

“No, sorry, I don’t think I said.” She played with the end of her braid and smiled weakly. “I’m Natalie Deleon. You can call me Nat.”

22

MERCER

Rahil was just… gone.

Of course he was. What else had Mercer expected to happen, when he’d shied back from a simple term of endearment and then flaunted a photo of his dead wife a moment later? Though, flaunted was perhaps the wrong word. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done. All the emotions that came with the jumbled memory were shame and fear now, layered in the returning pain of his migraine and the added nausea of anxiety, but he didn’t think that was what he’d portrayed to Rahil at the time. Maybe he’d brushed Rahil off; maybe he’d yelled at him.

Mercer couldn’t tell what of his recollections of that moment had even been real, now that he was alone again, hours later, his ice pack back on and his stomach so twisted that he clung to the room’s tiny trash can in case anything spontaneously decided to come up. His migraine was mostly over at this point, so whatever nausea remained was emotional in nature, but that didn’t reassure him. At least he knew how to deal with his typical physical maladies. With this, he had no idea where to start.

Lydia had gotten back forty-five minutes ago, stepping out of a cab like she was the divine emperor of Earth. Then she’d tripped on the even ground twice before reaching the front door. Pulling her beanie over her eyes, she’d charged past Mercer with a sullen, “Hey Dad,” and gone straight to her room, shouting at him that she was “trying to nap, geez,” when he knocked.

Mercer endeavored to make peace with that. According to one of Rahil’s earlier texts, she’d taken her morning meds. If she was refusing to so much as talk to him about her problems, at least she was resting. He wanted to ask Rahil if he knew more, but instead he dragged his trash can to the hall, listening to the gentle echo of Lydia’s favorite sleep-song.

The loneliest whale, she’d called it.

“Like you.” She’d nudged him in the shoulder.

He’d been taken aback by that, making a noise of confusion before responding, “What do you mean? I have my Puck!”

She’d just grumbled some derogatory term and moved on. Mercer had thought her ridiculous. If he were truly lonely in the way she’d implied, then he’d know it. He’d have gotten on a dating app long ago—would have found someone to help him raise Lydia when she was still young enough that a new parent wouldn’t feel like an invasion into an already stable life. If Mercer was lonely, he wouldn’t have let Rahil run out the door.

He could still feel the ghost of the vampire’s touch, the pressure of his fangs, the softness of his voice. Just the thought of it bloomed something raw and covetous inside Mercer, like sand poured into a gap that had needed filling for years—draining back out just as quickly with Rahil now gone, and no certainty that he’d return in the way he had before, with flirtation and tender fingertips and—

Mercer was not lonely.

Rahil had simply done something to him; that was it. This new aching was Rahil’s fault, not his. Rahil with his silky hair and soft hands and his way of making Mercer feel like he could relax, even if it was just for that moment, just for one long, perfect breath. Rahil, who couldn’t see his own worth. Who’d convinced himself that he’d done nothing for the people he loved simply because their paths had strayed away from his own.

Mercer missed him.

He fucking missed Rahil, like a crack had been revealed in his chest, and only that soft touch could fill it again. And the more he sat with that knowledge, the less Mercer knew what to do with it.

Groaning, he pressed his head between his knees. Lydia’s music had ended, and when he leaned across the hall to crack open her door, he found her asleep on her floor, a pillow tucked beneath her chin. He closed it once more.

There was still work to do, regardless of his indecision and the cracks in his heart. Now that his head no longer pounded and any sign of a lit screen didn’t make him want to die, he had better check his emails. With another groan, Mercer dragged himself to his phone.

He continued to sit on the floor with his waste bin as he responded to a couple of new customer inquiries, then confirmed the pickup time for a pair of repeat clients who were coming to get a set of kinky jewelry after sunset the next day, and sorted through spam, ads, and a few artist newsletters. As he finished, a new email came in. Its subject line alone made him shake. He swore he hadn’t felt this bad when he’d sent the original message alerting Anthony to Lydia’s med situation, but sometimes the answer was worse than the question. Still, he had to open it.

Mercer Bloncourt,

This is certainly an undesirable situation. I will do what I can. If you can ration Lydia’s medications to every ten hours, her nerve dysfunction and pain might relapse, but based on our early attempts at dosage, her seizures should remain fairly suppressed. It might buy us a day or two.

In the meantime, continue to keep me updated, both on your unholy gold work and any further issues you face with William Douglas.

Very Respectfully,

Dr. Hilker

Mercer threw up. Only bile came out, and he felt no better for it.

Anthony would see about replacing Lydia’s stock of meds, but if he couldn’t…

Mercer had known that might be the result. Lydia’s medication required a specific and complex combination of ingredients and technology to produce, and Anthony’s backdoor—which Mercer was pretty sure was another word for illegal—methods of production meant he had access to them at such rare intervals that he created as much as he could when possible, usually stocking Lydia up for months at a time. The thought of his daughter undergoing all the pain and debilitation of life without meds because her only access to them was through a shady, experimental avenue made Mercer furious at everyone and no one, at William Douglas and society as a whole, and at himself most of all.

He knew how precious those pills were, and how big a threat William Douglas could pose. Mercer should have had the forethought to protect the most important things in their home and their life. Yet here he was, sitting on the floor, hoping and praying that someone else could fix his mistake in time.

Mercer’s stomach churned again. If he kept sitting there, kept thinking like this, he’d be sick in more ways than simply his stomach. And he had to be well enough to pick up Kat in two hours.

Scratch that, an hour and forty minutes.

Mercer forced himself up, pacing around the house a few times—checking windows and doors and then windows again—before finally trekking out to the shed, where he was immediately distracted by a news notification on his phone.

Wesley Smith-Garcia had lost his court case.

It felt like too bad a sign to fully internalize the horror of it in the moment—and too obvious, in hindsight, that of course this would be the outcome—and in shock, Mercer scrolled through the incoming articles of self-righteous applause and compassionate dismay. As he refreshed, a new press release appeared near the top of the feed. It had a statement from the young man’s lawyer about their resolution to appeal to the California Supreme Court. “In any other case,” she had allegedly said after the verdict was released, “if someone had risked their life to save a neighbor from a hideous death, they would have been lauded as a hero. It is a failure of our justice system that we condemn those heroics simply because the neighbor in question is a vampire.”

Mercer forced himself to close his phone and set it to the side before he could instinctually scroll down to the hateful comments he knew would be piling up below the post. He didn’t need to see those right now. For the moment, it had to be enough to know that there were people out there standing up for the vampires in their lives, even if the reason for that was the horde that stood against them—against those like Rahil. Against Rahil himself.

Mercer tried to focus on one project, then another, but his mind kept roaming back to the vampire he’d been spending so much time with. They’d worked together in this space so often over the last few weeks, that he swore he could smell Rahil here; sense a tingling of his presence. Or perhaps that was simply the memories that kept reemerging, bringing the feel of Rahil’s fingertips putting such tender pressure on Mercer’s head and the touch of his lips to the side of Mercer’s neck.

It did him no good to dwell, but he couldn’t help himself. He traced the edges of the unholy gold they’d been working on—nearly finished with—and imagined the way it had made Rahil’s skin shiver. The bliss of his bite. The softness of his skin.

Mercer curled his hand around the metal, his spark lighting through it at the memory. He sensed the collision of energy and atom as though feeling the seep of venom into his veins. Suddenly, he knew exactly what he needed to do for the final step in the unholy gold’s creation.

Between picking up Kat from the vet and checking on Lydia, Mercer’s work with the metal took the rest of the night. Each heating, pushing and overlaying of the unholy gold in the presence of his spark felt like an act of worship—not simply to the God he’d grown up with, questioned, and uncertainly returned to, but to something bigger still. To the lonely place inside his chest and the idea that it could be filled someday. To himself.

And, regardless of whatever became of their relationship, to the vampire who’d gotten him this far.

23

RAHIL

What if he’d already ruined Mercer’s life once before without knowing it?

Rahil tried to shake the thought away as he worked with the software on Leah’s now structurally completed device. The device she’d left behind because she’d died. Because she’d been killed.

His fingers shook a little, and the layers of code—already not his forte—blurred together before his eyes.

But she’d asked him—she’d said—she’d been so sure—

He jumped as Leah’s notebook dropped off the edge of his knee, clamping closed the page he’d found labeled for Lydia. He couldn’t bring himself to pick it back up again. It didn’t matter, really—there’d been nothing more in the lists and procedures below the heading than what he’d already gathered by looking through the half-finished device.

But he couldn’t help thinking that perhaps there was still something in the book that he needed to read. Something that might solve the knot in his chest. The feeling that this all was his fault, somehow.

It was ridiculous, he told himself. Mercer’s wife hadn’t been sick. She had no reason to beg to be turned. She was murdered—a victim of a terrible crime, by some selfish vampire who couldn’t, or didn’t, control their thirst. That was what Mercer had told him.

Or, at least, that was what Mercer thought.

How many times had Rahil thought that Shefali had given up smoking, only to find her sneaking ‘just one more’ cigarette outside the grocery store or at the park or in the yard? Love did not make a person perfect—he knew that better than anyone. Leah could have loved Mercer, and still…

That was the final straw. Rahil flung himself across the room, snatching up Leah’s notebook and sprinting with it through the house, up the stairs. He jiggled his keys out of his pocket as he ascended to the attic, hopping over the squeaky stair, and sliding himself through the trapdoor like there was a ghost on his tail. He stood, panting, and turned away from the window toward the chest he’d tucked into the shadows at the back of the attic.

A layer of dust coated the top of it, billowing into the air as Rahil flung the lid up. Mementos assaulted him; photo albums, little-league trophies, the Beanie Baby elephant Jonah had carried with him on his adventures for years before trading it for a notebook and a pen, then a Sharpie and his own skin, and finally his skin with something sharper still. Matt’s favorite stuffed animal was tucked beside it. Had Rahil just forgotten that it was a bat? Little brown wings with Velcro ends and big green eyes. He’d worn it to kindergarten like an armband. Rahil had forgotten that. Or he just hadn’t wanted to remember.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat, wiping hastily at his eyes as he dug around his past, retrieving an envelope tucked against the chest’s side. When he’d realized the woman was dying, he should have set them out on the sidewalk with her, let the EMTs find them when they came, but it hadn’t occurred to him in the moment—the only thought in his head that she was dying, that she would be dead soon, that it was his fault. It hadn’t felt right to just throw them away after.

Rahil glanced over them, but they looked just as real as they had every other time, the top with her name cut off but everything else still there. Cradling them in his lap, he flipped through Leah’s notebook next, like he might find a duplicate of the scans tucked into their pages. Put the knots in his chest to rest or tighten them up for good.

Engineering note after engineering note filled the book, but the further in he went, Rahil found little scribbled sections that didn’t seem to belong. Headaches, one read, with a list of dates under it, two in March, five in April, ten in May, thirteen in June. Another seemed to track water and food intake—which, even to Rahil’s undisciplined eating habits, seemed wildly disproportionate at times. There were a few symptoms lists, a few lists of what seemed to be diagnostic possibilities, with most options crossed out. Finally, the nail in the coffin—though perhaps not literally—was a note that simply read Oncologist with a phone number. It matched the one on her scans.

Leah had been…

Rahil’s mind flashed back to the model Mercer had made of the vampire’s fangs.

“I could have found the bastard who bit her, at least.”

Ah. Well, he certainly had. Mercer had tied that vampire up, pressed holy silver to his skin, and bared his neck for him. Given him space in his home, in his life. And all this time, he hadn’t known. Hadn’t even seen the signs.

Rahil’s gut twisted, bile coming up the back of his throat at the thought of this notebook sitting in Mercer’s house, the key to a lie that Mercer had built so much of his life on. There was no final note in it, no reason to believe Leah had ever thought Mercer would find it. Maybe that’s how hard she had convinced herself that she’d live through this as a vampire, able to explain everything to him after she was already safe and well again. Or maybe she’d found some other way to justify it to herself.

There was no use interrogating a dead woman. Besides, she may have hidden her cancer from Mercer, but it was still Rahil who had cut short her life weeks or months before it might have otherwise ended. Still Rahil who’d left Mercer to deal with her agony, black blood spilling from her eyes and mouth and a gaping fang wound that refused to close in her neck. Still a decade of pain and personal failures that Mercer had been forced into because of Rahil.

Would it make things better for Mercer, or worse, to know that he’d allowed the very vampire who killed his wife to touch him, and press those same fangs into his neck, and bring him bliss with the venom that had ended his lover’s life? He’d worked through his grief for so long. Rahil didn’t know if it was right to rip open those old scars just for the sake of his own conscience.

His hands shook as he tried to gather the doctor’s papers back up. Each one felt forbidden, like he’d ripped them from a layer of protection around Mercer’s heart. He fit them into the back of Leah’s notebook, closing the other pages down onto it.

It didn’t make the information go away, though. When he saw Mercer again—if he saw Mercer again—he’d have to decide whether this knowledge was worth the potential heartbreak.

And what the hell was he going to do, then?

24

MERCER

What the heck was Mercer even doing?

He watched the light dance across the metal in his palm, a beam of its golden reflection flickering over his brown skin and across the grass. It seemed to spark into the carved lines of Leah’s gravestone.

He hadn’t said a word to her since he’d arrived—he wasn’t sure exactly what he had to say—but it had felt right to come. Or, it hadn’t felt right not to. Or something. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Mercer wasn’t sure of anything, except that he’d done what he could with the metal in his hands, and now he had to decide what to do with the vampire who’d helped him make it.

“I’m not replacing you.” Mercer’s voice caught as he whispered it, and the lump in his throat seemed only to grow from there. “I know you know that.”

Leah's grave didn’t answer, but he felt what might have been the ghost of her laughter, or just the memory of every time she’d playfully made fun of him. Of course she would laugh now—that’s what she’d always been: joy and passion and life. Right up until the night she wasn’t any of those things.

Mercer closed his eyes and twisted the unholy gold again, feeling the power that flowed through it now, as forceful as any holy silver, but no longer deadly. Hopefully. He had more than just this hope riding on tonight though.

He forced himself to tuck the metal away, pulling out his phone instead and flipping to the thread with Rahil’s texts—nothing new in the last twenty-four hours.

One way or another, they had to finish this. So Mercer started typing.

25

RAHIL

It was nearly finished.

Rahil stared at Mercer’s newest text and couldn’t help the knife-twist in his chest. Their relationship—their friendship—had already dissolved from that one ruinous word—or at least, Mercer had given no indication otherwise—and now their partnership was coming to a close, too. He glanced at the mostly assembled pieces of Leah’s project. It would work—she had been brilliant with its design, and he had no doubts that if she had lived long enough to see it through, it would have been perfect. Rahil was only finalizing her wishes, wrapping up her construction, protecting her daughter.

It was the least he could do.

Even if, perhaps, her death had not been entirely his fault, it had still been his doing. His agreement to assist her final wish. His fangs in her neck. His belief that he could give her what he hadn’t been able to give to Shefali. And in the end, he’d taken her away from the people who’d become so dear to him now.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do with that information. But he only had a little time left to figure that out.

Rahil checked the text thread again, like something on it might have changed.

Metal Daddy

I’ve finished it

I need a vampire who isn’t you to test it on

Do you know anyone

Did he know any vampires? Of course, Rahil knew vampires.

He knew them from bars, from brushes in the night, from flashes across his dating app screen, but he didn’t really know them. There were no vampires he could just call up and ask a favor of. No vampires, except possibly…

The thought made him feel just a little queasy. Did he really want to show a substitute for holy silver to a person who’d once used that very metal to hunt down other members of his community? Even if she did have fangs now, she had been the exact kind of person he worried might get their hands on a metal like this.

But Nat was a vampire.

Confused and conflicted but still a vampire. Maybe this was just what she needed: to feel like part of something again, only this time something that helped instead of hurt. And this would help, Rahil told himself. He’d gotten the project this far—and not just because he’d wanted to see more of Mercer’s biceps, feel the touch of him through the pressure of his holy silver, breathe in his scent for one more day. This metal was going to do good, as Mercer had said.

Rahil could prove that to himself now.

He slid his phone into his pocket, and headed down the hall, calling as he went. “Hey, Nat? I have something you could help with…”

As they approached Mercer’s yard, Nat wrapped her arms tighter against her sides, but Rahil could see the outline of her fists clenched at the ready. The twilight had nearly turned to a full expanse of summer stars, the night air a perfect gentle warmth. Insects quieted their songs as Rahil and Nat passed. Kat bayed at them with so much gusto that it triggered barking from the dog three doors down. The sound relaxed a small, perpetual fear that had been hiding in Rahil’s gut since he’d found her seizing in Mercer’s arms.

If she could be okay even after the worst had happened, then perhaps Mercer and Lydia would too. They were both brave and brilliant individuals. With the help of Leah’s protective device, they would be fine.

They didn’t need Rahil there to accidentally fuck things up for them.

Which was good, he told himself, seeing how he now had Nat to worry about instead.

Though she had agreed to come with him, he could see the hesitation in her stance, her dread and anger wrapped so tightly around herself that it seemed she was trying to protect herself with it. Rahil feared that those emotions could not form shields though, only blades.

The shed was beautiful in the darkness, lights streaming from the high window where Mercer had pulled up the shutters. Rahil could hear Mercer working inside, with the gentle cling-cling-cling of a hammer on metal. It sounded, weirdly, like being home: familiarity and warmth and affection.

Except that Rahil had ruined that affection with a thoughtless word. This place was never going to be a home, he reminded himself—even more so now that he had Leah’s notebook under one arm. He still didn’t know what he was going to do with it, but it had felt wrong not to at least bring it. Especially if this was going to be his last proper conversation with Mercer. With Leah’s device in his pocket, he just had to be here long enough to pick up the rest of the parts he’d need for it, and then the next time he returned, he could leave the completed piece on Mercer’s back porch without a word. It would be better for them both that way.

Rahil shoved the painful thought aside and led Natalie forward.

She tucked her fists tighter as they entered. Her gaze swept from Mercer’s broad form over the assortment of tools, and she looked just as Rahil had felt when he’d first laid eyes on those same instruments. She stopped in her tracks, shuffling between her feet instead of moving.

“Mercer!” Rahil all but shouted, hoping to move things along before he lost Nat entirely. “This is Natalie. She’s volunteered to test the unholy gold for you.” Volunteered, after Rahil offered to let her stay with him as long as she wanted, pretty please. But he would have done that anyway if it looked like she needed it, so it wasn’t as though he was giving anything up for Mercer.

Mercer smiled at Nat, small but warm—and this was what customers must have seen from him, this kind but contained stranger, wearing a mask of courtesy. Perhaps mask was not the right word, though. The benevolence Mercer was presenting was certainly genuine; it was simply that it hid far more beneath it. Rahil had seen behind that top layer, seen the man for who he was, and called him babe, for the first and the last time.

Rahil noticed, dismally, how Mercer didn’t turn his customer-fronting face onto Rahil, as though Rahil wasn’t even a part of the conversation. He gave his smile, his handshake, his attention to Natalie only, warming her up as he guided her further into the space. Her fear seemed to ease some.

Maybe this was good for her, then. Rahil tried to feel relieved.

“Yeah, I’ve run into holy silver a couple of times so far. It’s not fun.” She fiddled with the skin around her fingernails. A couple of times. What was normal for a fresh vampire these days? Rahil wasn’t sure. He’d gotten fairly good at avoiding the kind of people who had access to the metal. Before Mercer, Rahil hadn’t felt its touch in years.

“I have customers coming soon, so we’ll make this quick. The unholy gold is in here.” Mercer tapped the top of a fancy box he must have retrieved just for this. So, he was a bit of a showman. Rahil wanted to tease him, but he knew it would go nowhere, and for once, that made the desire unbearable. He turned his attention to Natalie instead. “The moment you feel even the slightest pain,” Mercer explained, “tell me, and I’ll pull the metal back. Anything else you feel—anything that isn’t discomfort—remember it. I want to know that, too.”

“Okay, sure.” Natalie nodded. Her gaze was fixed on the box, and the nervousness of her expression had been replaced by a whole new tightness: curiosity.

Rahil’s gut twisted.

Her lips parted as Mercer withdrew the unholy gold from the box, and she inhaled, soft and slow. “It’s beautiful.”

—Oh no—

“It is,” Mercer agreed, but he seemed to be staring through it. Looking into the past, perhaps, to Lydia, or Leah.

He approached Natalie slowly. With each step, Rahil could see the change come over her, then feel it in himself—atop the dregs of his ever-present exhaustion was now an abnormal drop in his attention span, his vision, hearing, and muscles all weakening as his mind and body settled into a state that it seemed only his bones remembered. The worst days of being human, he thought: the constant pull of his cells toward the chaos of falling apart. It felt almost akin to not having fed in a few days, though during that stage, his vampire mutations forced his body to destroy the better parts of itself to maintain its ability to lunge and leap and tear, trading in the mind’s functionality for a stronger body.

As Mercer lifted the metal in front of Natalie, Rahil could see the tremble that went through her. She looked anything but afraid, though. Her fingertips danced over the edge of the unholy gold as she watched it eagerly. The intensity of her interest made Rahil feel sick.

He should not have brought her. What had he been thinking, really? That this would make her more vampire, instead of less?

“I feel weakness, and a soft buzz,” Natalie described, still touching the metal, “But nothing else. No pain.”

Rahil should have been feeling happy that all Mercer’s effort had clearly paid off, but all he could think was: he had agreed to work on this—this thing that attracted a scientist, but also this woman who was so recently a Vitalis-Barron hunter. Who remained, in many ways, that hunter.

“I want to believe this will be good,” Mercer had said on the first day he convinced Rahil to work with him. And Rahil had believed it. At least, he’d chosen to believe it, because he’d wanted a reason to keep standing beside Mercer. Now that their partnership was coming to an end, Rahil wasn’t so sure he could see the promise in the unholy gold the way he once had.

Mercer had assured him it wouldn’t be used outside of one single research study, but with the way Nat was looking at the unholy gold now, it made Rahil suspicious. Wouldn’t someone, somewhere, realize its potential for subjugation? Was this one slice of vampiric research worth risking people banging on Mercer’s door, begging for this “humane” way to defang their enemies, their neighbors, their coworkers… their family?

Mercer drew the metal back with a nod. He had no smile now, only somber relief as he slid his unholy gold back into the box. Natalie watched it go with a hungry look. It was almost bloodlust, and it twisted a knot in Rahil’s already unsettled stomach.

“Your work on this is amazing,” she said. “If we had more unholy gold, we could help regulate the less seemly parts of the vampiric community without accidentally causing anyone else harm in the process.”

The thought made Rahil feel worse than he had when the unholy gold was present. If the wrong people got hold of this metal, that was exactly the excuse they’d use.

Mercer shook his head. “I created it for scientific research, and nothing more. Any vampire who experiences it will do so willingly.”

“We already have holy silver scattered across the city—across the globe,” Natalie protested. “How is putting this out as an alternative worse?”

Rahil could bring himself to do nothing but listen in growing horror.

“I agree there’s too much holy silver, yes,” Mercer said. “But you can’t eliminate that by replacing it with unholy gold.”

Natalie looked beseeching. “If humans felt safer, though—”

“What do we give the vampires to help them feel safer?” Rahil snapped. He let his anger live in the words, alongside his pain. “What would you get, to make you feel safe, if you’re begging for blood and everyone who walks past has unholy gold around their throats?”

“I’m just saying…” But she didn’t seem to know enough of what she was saying to finish, wrapping her arms across her chest instead, her gaze drifting to the floor.

She couldn’t know what to think about this, Rahil reminded himself. She wasn’t the average person in San Salud, not even the average vampire. She probably hadn’t felt safe herself in a long time, first because of the exaggerations and lies Matt was feeding her, and then because those lies had become her reality, her perceived protection snatched away forever by the vampire who turned her. If she was going to come to terms with that, she’d need more than one conversation with a disgruntled older vamp, especially one with Rahil’s abysmal track record for helping people. She could get there, still. Probably. Maybe.

A pair of masculine voices carried from around the side yard, one soft and dark and the other lighter, more delicate. The second laughed.

“They’re early,” Mercer grumbled, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Those are your customers?” Rahil asked. They had to be, with their happy chatter growing closer by the moment.

Natalie looked like she thought they were something else entirely, though—villains or ghosts. Her face paled and her eyes widened. She stepped backward, aimless and panicked, before covering her face in her hands and sprinting out of the shed.

Rahil stared after her in bewilderment for a full three seconds before realizing it was probably his responsibility to follow.

As he jogged after, he nearly ran headfirst into the approaching couple. At least their confused gawking revealed exactly which direction Natalie had fled. Rahil lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry, she’s just a bit skittish.”

The darker-haired of the two looked vaguely familiar, and Rahil feared for a moment that they’d slept together until he spotted the fangs peeking out from beneath the vampire’s lips. Probably not, then. Maybe they were a frequenter of the Fishnettery—one of the vamps who routinely shopped around there for their prey. This one seemed to have done well for himself.

The vampire’s human companion smiled, tucking back a lock of his sandy hair. “We understand.”

Rahil took that as his cue to continue running. Only after he’d left them both behind for the cover of the trees did he wonder if perhaps Natalie had recognized their voices because the vampire had been a part of her turning. That thought made him want to wheel right around and charge back to Mercer, on the slightest chance he might need the same protection.

But Mercer had been running this business for years, and he’d keep doing it once Rahil was no longer in his life. He could take care of himself. He had to.

Rahil found Natalie curled up behind a tree at the edge of the lot’s tiny forest, her knees to her chest. Part of her braid had come loose, creating a veil around her face. Her shoulders shook, but she didn’t seem to be crying, just sucking in air in tiny, shallow gasps.

Rahil knelt in front of her, pressing a gentle hand to her ankle. “Breathe with me. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

For what felt like an eternity, his words had no visible effect, but he kept repeating them, slowly inhaling and exhaling with her as he rubbed her leg soothingly. Finally, her breathing steadied. She looked at him, and he could make out the thinnest line of liquid along her lower lids.

“You’re safe,” he repeated. “And you’re not alone.”

Regardless of what she’d done, and whatever beliefs she was still fighting, so long as she kept fighting them, she deserved not to be the lonely whale. The label of decent vampire should have always been the default, not a title in need of earning.

“Thank you,” Natalie whispered. She wiped her eyes and pulled her hand back. It made her look all the more dejected, somehow, red and puffy and tired.

Rahil hesitated, before asking, “Were they the ones who hurt you?”

Natalie’s expression contorted into panic, then agony. “No! No, they’re good people.”

Yet, she was crying again. It clicked for Rahil with a pang like a knife to the chest, his phone heavy with unread messages from his family chat. Perhaps these were the people she couldn’t bear to tell—the people who would accept her vampirism? It would make sense: one of them was a vampire himself, even. A vampire who could have helped her.

But Rahil also knew what she’d done to vampires in the past, and he thought he understood the desire not to involve herself again, when she’d once caused so much pain, perhaps against the very people who would be compassion-bound to accept her regardless. It was the same reason he wasn’t sure he should be the one kneeling in front of her at that moment. No, he was sure he shouldn’t have been, not after all his past failures. But he was her only option.

Unless he could convince her otherwise.

Rahil lowered himself the rest of the way to the ground, casually settling in front of Natalie. “I know this isn’t my place, but why do you think it would be so terrible if they found out about you?”

Natalie scowled at her hands. Curled up and grubby like that, she looked more akin to a small child who’d lost their way in the woods than an adult who’d made a series of very harmful choices. She bounced her shoulders dismissively. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” Rahil said gently. “It’s just painful to put into words. I get that. I’ve… had to go through some of that pain recently.” He breathed in, then out, thinking of Mercer’s touch, his reassurance, his warmth. Even if Rahil had ruined it all, he wouldn’t have traded those moments for any amount of emotional shielding. “I promise, I won’t judge you for whatever you tell me.”

Natalie snorted, side-eyeing him. “You’re already judging me.”

Rahil gave her a dry grin. “Well, no more than I judge myself.”

He could feel her take that in, and slowly her apprehension waned. She shrugged again and looked away. “It’s a lot of different things. Mostly, I—I didn’t know what they were. Andres,” she clarified, “my cousin; they’re the vampire. But they never told me. And I wouldn’t have said the kinds of things I did to them about the vampires—the vampiric community—if I’d known,” she corrected, like she was trying the new phrase on for size and still unsure how she felt about it. “And all that time, I must have hurt Andy, but I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

“So, if you’d have known what they were, you’d have believed all the same things, hurt all the same people besides Andres, but you’d just not have spoken of those things to them? Do you think that would have made them happier?”

“I…” Natalie opened her mouth, and it just hung there, her brow knotted and her cheeks pinkening. “They wouldn’t have known otherwise.”

“But you would have. And I don’t think they’re so oblivious that they wouldn’t have sensed anything.” Rahil lifted an eyebrow. “People know when they’re being judged, after all.”

Natalie’s flush deepened. “Well, I did say all those things, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Would they be the sort to forgive you, if you asked?”

Natalie picked at the edges of her fingers. “I don’t know if they’d forgive me, but they would accept me, because I’m a vampire now, and that’s just how Andres is. They’re good.”

Rahil hummed in understanding. “Do you think you’re good now, too?”

“I thought I was good.” Natalie growled, pained and frustrated. Her hands tightened, not to fists but to claws. “What if I can’t tell if I’m good or not, if I’m doing the right thing or not? What if I’m hurting the people I love and making the world worse and I just don’t know it? What if I’ll never know it?”

“Do I look like my name ends in an -ees or an -otle to you?” Rahil snorted, hoping the teasing masked at least some of his panic. “I wish I had an answer for that.” Maybe if he did, he could fix his own impact on the world and the people he loved. Natalie needed something, though—something to encourage her to keep trying, regardless of the ambiguity of internalized morality. He cleared his throat. “I think that perhaps we are not so different from any other computing instrument. Every now and then, you need a recalibration. And that doesn’t mean you’re broken, just that you got a little off-course. And that’s hard, because all we have are each other to recalibrate with. But we do our best, and trust people we know are kind and generous and take other’s pain instead of causing it. We trust them to point us in the right direction so that, hopefully, we become the kind of people who can help them trust themselves in turn.”

As he spoke, he thought of Mercer. Kind, generous, taking on the pain of his daughter even when it meant more than his share. And he had known that Rahil wasn’t worth a long-term relationship, hadn’t he?

Something disquieting tingled in the back of Rahil’s mind—something he feared didn’t align—and he shoved it away. What was important was that their partnership was nearly over. And Natalie had started talking again.

“I guess?” She looked hopeful as she said it. “What do I do while I’m still figuring it all out? I don’t know who to trust yet. Or how to… calibrate.”

“Well, for starters, you don’t flee into the backyard forest of a random stranger you just met that evening.”

Natalie snorted. Her lips quirked momentarily up. “Your backyard forest seemed kind of far away for a dramatic flight, not gonna lie.” She sighed then, stretching her legs part way out from her chest. “You want me to talk to Andres?”

“Would Andres want you to reach out?”

He could see the question hit with each cringing muscle. “They’ll be so pissed that I haven’t already. But what if—what if I’m not ready, yet?”

Rahil grimaced. Getting support from Andres was the right choice for Natalie—he was sure about that—but the thought of pushing her into this made his stomach hurt and his limbs flighty, like he needed to check over his shoulder that no one was watching this. He couldn’t force her to connect with anyone she wasn’t ready for.

He tried not to think about the family thread on his own phone as he said, “You strive to become ready.”

Natalie chewed on her lower lip, fiddling with the end of her braid. “Can you help me?”

Him? Rahil was already making a mess of this—how was he supposed to give her something he hadn’t even been able give to his own sons?

But she was watching him, her eyes wide and her expression so desperate that he couldn’t tell her outright no, not when that meant throwing her out into a world where, due to one extra pair of pointed teeth, she was unlikely to find a different answer from anyone else.

“I can…” he meant to continue by specifying I can provide you a place to sleep but nothing more, perhaps, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come, and he was just there, telling her, he could. Lying, probably.

From beyond their little forest, he could hear the voices of Andres and his companion leaving the shed, joyous as they slowly wandered back toward the street. Natalie didn’t sprint after them. She tiptoed through the brush, one step, then another, peering out at their backs. She watched them go.

Rahil put a hand on her shoulder. “Go back to the house. You can stay there as long as you need.”

Natalie breathed out at that, seeming to release something deep and heavy she’d beed holding inside herself—mostly fear, but Rahil thought he recognized the snuffing of hope, too. “And you?” she asked.

“I have one last thing to do.” He tried to smile after, but there was no flicker of hope to pull from, not for him.

As Rahil approached the shed, Mercer didn’t move from his place leaning against the entrance, his arms crossed and his face a mask again. “I’ve arranged for the unholy gold to be collected in the morning.”

All the turmoil Rahil had felt watching Natalie’s eyes light up at the sight of that mystical metal tried to wash back over him, but he had agreed to this. Despite everything in him protesting the idea of it now, he’d known what he was signing up for. Mercer was counting on him. So, with his better judgement screaming at him, he said only, “Yes. Right.”

At least it wasn’t until tomorrow.

When Mercer didn’t respond, Rahil crept closer to the shed, not sure why he was so nervous suddenly. The damage to their relationship had already been done, hadn’t it? And it wasn’t like Mercer was going to do anything more to him. There was little worse he could do.

Rahil pointed awkwardly behind Mercer, still holding the cursed notebook in one arm. “There’s just a couple pieces of Leah’s I still need.”

Mercer nodded twice.

“It’s coming along well,” Rahil added, slipping through the door. He felt like he was walking too fast and too slow all at once. Where did arms normally go? Whatever, he was at the shelves. He grabbed what he needed—and the spare motherboard for good measure—and set the notebook down in their place. Mercer didn’t even seem to question it.

Good, then. That was good. Whether he found it someday would be up to fate then, and to him. It was better if Rahil didn’t make this choice for him, especially if they weren’t going to mean anything to each other going forward. That was good. It was fine. It was… well, it just was, now, Rahil walking away from those shelves for the last time, and it seemed too late to change his mind.

“I’ll keep working on this when I get home.” He balanced the new pieces against his chest as he made his way back out of the shed. “It should be done soon.”

Mercer didn’t even nod this time, his throat bobbing instead. It made Rahil think, stupidly, of the taste of his blood, even fuller and richer than the incredible bready, earthen scent that always surrounded him. Rahil wanted to cry.

He took one step back, then another. He almost turned. Almost, then stopped. The heavy thing in his heart paused its aching as he cleared his throat. “Mercer?” He could still bail. He could save himself the heartbreak—but that was a lie. His heart had already broken. Now was his chance to save Merc’s heart instead. “I’ve never used that term of endearment for anyone I’ve been with since Shefali. I just—I thought you should know. It would have been yours alone, if you’d wanted it.”

There, he’d said it.

He couldn’t see Mercer’s reaction with the light streaming out behind him, enshrouding his face in shadow, only the stiffness of his posture and the stillness of his limbs. But Rahil had done his part, made the world a little better, despite what it had cost him, and now—now—he could go. So he did. He went.

Just before he reached the side yard, Mercer called after him. “I don’t think you should be working on that.” His voice sounded gruff, deeper than normal and a little strained.

Rahil cringed. The pieces felt heavy in his hands, and he understood why Mercer would want them back, why he wouldn’t want to risk Rahil carrying them off—but then again, he didn’t. He didn’t get this—didn’t get why, after how well they’d worked together, when Mercer had known the whole time what Rahil had wanted from him, why they couldn’t at least just keep doing what they’d been doing. “I’ll work quickly. You’ll have all of it back in a day at the most,” he lied, having no idea how long it would actually take him.

“No—no.” Mercer shook his head and stepped forward. The closer he came, transitioning from the harsh backlight of the shed to Rahil’s crystalline night vision, the more his stiffness looked not severe and foreboding, but awkward and scared. Where his stony mask had crumbled around the edges, Rahil could see shame. “I mean you should take a break tonight,” he clarified, giving Rahil a grimaced half-smile. “Let’s get food or drinks or something, instead.” He swallowed, and Rahil could feel the motion of his throat from there. “Come out with me.”

Food.

Drinks.

Come out with me.

“Like…” Rahil didn’t know how to finish the question. If he did, he was afraid he’d make a run for it.

Mercer had been right to push him away. That had been the best move for both of them, Rahil knew. Yet his heart still pounded, please, please, please, as his whole world tunneled to this single moment, where Mercer was almost his, where their future could be any number of amazing things. He was young again, catching Shefali’s eye across the lecture hall as he failed Intro to Philosophy for the second time just so he could go to her TA sessions all over again, and he was ancient, staring across a humble backyard into the eyes of the beautiful fae man who’d denied him every step of the way.

He could almost feel Mercer’s fingers around his heart. The pressure of his nails. The ghosting of his breath.

Mercer swallowed again. “I’m not sure, yet.” He closed most of the space between them—not quite as much as Rahil craved, but enough to feel like Rahil could reach out and touch him if he wanted. “But I like you. I like… being with you.”

It was the most awkward announcement Rahil had ever heard, and it bloomed flowers through his ribcage and set butterflies loose in his belly. He grinned, nearly dropping the pieces in his arms from the sheer mass of exhilaration that cascaded inside him. “You like being with this useless people pleaser?” Rahil snorted. “So, you enjoy being gratified in the most frustrating and unhelpful way possible? Because I can do that—with two different holes, in fact.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Mercer grumbled.

“Identifying the endgame is the first step to achieving it, or so I’m told,” Rahil teased, but he forced himself to pull back, even if he would never have dreamed of pulling out. “I, uh, am not asking for anything more than you feel like giving, you know.”

“And I’m not promising anything more than that.” Mercer gave Rahil a stern look that made him want to giggle despite the gravity of the statement. “I just want to have a night that’s all mine, and when you’re here, I feel the world is meant for me again.”

That made Rahil so happy, he almost couldn’t focus on the why of it. To be the thing in all the world that made someone else feel like it belonged to them? It sounded too much like a second whale. Rahil tried to suppress the panicked joy. “What about Lydia?”

“She’s at a sleepover,” Mercer said, his inflection strangely lacking.

It wasn’t the best sign, Rahil figured, but he also didn’t know what to do about it, so he simply made a sound, hoping that spurred the conversation on. “Oh?”

Mercer grimaced. “We had another—” He breathed in, then out. “We had a discussion. And we decided that as long as Lydia keeps her phone with her at all times, doesn’t leave her friend’s house, and checks in with me when she goes to sleep and again when she wakes up, that she’s allowed this.”

“You felt bad because you yelled at her and tried to send her to LA, and this is your penance?” Rahil interpreted. By the second little grimace Mercer gave, he had to be right. He was right, too, about Mercer’s stony exterior hiding something. “But you’re still worried.”

“It should be safe.” Mercer said it like he was still convincing himself. “I don’t believe William will go after her while he still thinks I’m making his holy silver. It would be counterproductive to his goals, at this point.”

“That’s logical, and it is good for you and Lydia to both have time for yourselves, you know. If you asked me, I’d say this was the right thing. But I’m the very worst person to ask, so probably you’re actually making a huge mistake,” Rahil said.

That seemed, strangely, to comfort Mercer. His expression loosened, and he gave a soft chuckle. “You’re right—about the first bit. As a parent, I know that, it’s just… yeah.” Then his brow did the cutest crinkle Rahil swore he’d ever seen. “Well, how do you feel about making a huge mistake with me?”

A huge mistake.

Rahil’s chest seized with the realization that if they did this, even just for the night, whether as friends or as something more, he couldn’t leave without telling Mercer the truth of how Leah died. But a night like this would give him time to find a good lead into such a horrific conversation. Once Mercer was away from the regular stress and settings of his life, hopefully the truth of Leah’s death wouldn’t throw him back into a new panic, this one aimed at Rahil. Maybe, if Rahil found the right moment, this could strengthen their relationship instead of ruining it.

He had to believe that.

Rahil smiled. “I’d be honored to make all the hugest of mistakes with you, bab—boss?”

Mercer’s lip quirked as he nodded and led the way toward the front of the house, only pausing for a moment as he passed Rahil to give a low, warm, “Good boy. Now put those back and come along.”

Chills ratchetted through Rahil’s entire body, and his stomach went so giddy that it took him a moment to contain himself. With the goal of breaching the worst conversation in the back of his mind, and the thought of breaching some very different topics he’d been flirting around for weeks in the front, he dropped everything into the shed, and followed.

26

MERCER

Mercer had done it.

He’d asked Rahil out. On a date. Well, a kind of date. Something like a date, at least.

Mercer stood on the sidewalk, staring aimlessly at the building’s front entrance, its crab shack aesthetics pierced by soft neon lights and crowded with laughter, pride flags hanging like drapes in the windows. He still felt like his head was somewhere in the clouds, if there were any clouds on the perfect, clear summer night, the twinkling of the stars glimmering past the boardwalk’s moderate light pollution to laugh at him. What had he been thinking—asking Rahil on a date? Mercer hadn’t been on a date in a decade.

But looking at the vampire beside him, his dark hair pulled back in a long, thick braid and his flowy white top nearly falling off his shoulders, Mercer wanted to figure this out. He swallowed and tried to tug his lips into something like a smile. He must have failed because Rahil lifted his eyebrow in concern.

“Do you not like the Fishnettery?” he asked. “You told me to pick the place—you should have been more specific.”

Mercer gave a soft huff. “No. It—I’m sure it’s great.”

“You’ve never been?” Rahil concluded. “Oh, my dear Mercer.”

“Leah was never the clubbing sort, and then we had Lydia…”

Rahil nudged his shoulder gently into Mercer’s and the physical contact shot through Mercer’s body like a lightning rod. He barely had time to recover before Rahil was moving forward, waving back at him as he went. “Well, come on.”

Mercer pushed his fingers into his pockets and followed. Maybe he should have changed out of his work attire? He’d been wearing his better set for his meeting with Andres and Shane—a clean gray t-shirt and faded maroon pants—but the bright yellow bandana holding back his hair had smudges of something red on it, and he could have used the eyeliner he kept around on the off chance he had reason to go to something more interesting than Lydia’s teacher-parent meetings. He’d figured that interesting thing would be a renaissance fair or a convention; somewhere he could set up a stand, maybe, and sell trinkets.

He had nearly done it a few years ago. Here now, surrounded by people enjoying themselves, sauntering down the boardwalk or kissing in the parking lot or hanging off the Fishnettery’s porch with drinks and fried shrimp, he remembered so clearly the moment his imagination had gotten the better of him, turning the thought of a cute artist grinning at him from across the aisle into an afternoon of convention research so overwhelming that it had ended in nausea and panic. He’d impulsively closed all the tabs he’d been searching through and opened a reality show instead, and that had been the end of it.

Mercer paused at the Fishnettery’s doorway, the onslaught of sound and motion hitting him like a physical pressure. Rahil glanced at him. His fingers brushed the side of Mercer’s hand, his mouth nearly touching Mercer’s ear as he spoke over the rush of the crowd. “Let’s go around to the outdoor space. It’s usually calmer.”

“That would be nice,” Mercer shouted back, feeling himself leaning too, his face nearly touching Rahil’s.

Rahil nodded and began weaving through the crowd.

They picked up a pair of drinks—two colorful mixed concoctions Rahil swore by, with a sharp cherry flavor and a bitter edge at the end—and found a table for two near the water. Live music echoed from a stage beside the building, a small band by the bizarre name of Versatile Lemons avidly belting the lines to a catchy song, and the view of the lake boasted a fair number of lively boats and yachts, everyone out enjoying the beautiful summer evening.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Rahil asked, taking a sip from his drink.

“I have my shed.”

Rahil chuckled into his glass. “Something that isn’t work, please.”

“Hey now, my work is delightful.” But he paused, thinking. His mind went to the conventions he’d never attended, the ren faires, the community art gatherings, the cute little pottery workshop he drove past on the way to the grocery store every Tuesday morning, a group of seniors working on mugs inside. But he didn’t have time for that, or a need—he had a daughter.

“Lydia and I used to go do things. Kids’ museums, canoeing, the park, the theater. But she hasn’t been very interested in spending time with me lately.” He pushed forward, trying not to let his heart get caught on that unending pain. “I suppose I enjoy watching reality dating shows—don’t laugh.”

Rahil was already cackling, though, one hand covering his brilliant smile. Despite Mercer’s fears, it felt like being laughed with, not at. Like he had told the joke, not been the brunt of it. “Which ones?” Rahil asked. “My housemate watches this show where they undergo challenges to plan the most outrageous weddings, and she keeps trying to get me to join her.”

“That’s one of my favorites! The season with the archaeology theme produced the best weddings, in my opinion, but I swear the music professors in season seven were the most dramatic couple in the history of dating shows.” Then Mercer added, genuinely curious, “So, why don’t you join your housemate for it?”

“I…” Rahil’s mouth hung open, then his brow slowly tightened. “I don’t know anymore.”

It was such an odd answer, but Mercer could feel the sincerity of it, and the vulnerability too. There was something wonderful happening inside Rahil’s mind, and while Mercer wasn’t privy to it, he was proud all the same. He let the moment linger, sipping his own drink before asking, “What do you do for fun, Rahil?”

Rahil snorted. “I trap myself in the sheds of overworked reality-show lovers, obviously.”

Now that was the opposite of his sincerity, the sarcasm no less a mask than the serious expression Mercer often donned unintentionally. He dug a little deeper. “What do you wish you could do, then?”

Rahil was quiet for a moment. He tipped the liquid in his glass back and forth, watching the maraschino cherry glide over the ice. “I wish I could work,” he said. “Getting to help you with Leah’s unfinished project has been… incredible. Truly, incredible.”

Mercer’s heart ached at the bittersweet joy in Rahil’s voice. He wanted, suddenly, to reach across the table, close the separation between them and take Rahil’s hand in his own, for whatever comfort that might bring them both, but he stopped short. Then he tried to unstop himself. They were here for this. For each other.

But the moment had passed, and Rahil cupped both his palms around his own neck, a little awkwardly out of Mercer’s reach.

Mercer scrambled to find something to carry the conversation, and his stupid, reeling mind settled on the worst possible thing. “So, you don’t have a job?”

Rahil visibly cringed. “I have… occasional gigs. Not a lot of people want to hire a vampire to come into their house at night, and if they’re going to bring the piece to you, they usually want a shop to drop it off at.”

That kind of financial instability sounded troubling, but at least Rahil had housemates. Perhaps they picked up the bills when he couldn’t. “I’d hire you,” Mercer said.

“You did offer payment, as I recall.” Rahil’s gaze darted suspiciously to Mercer’s neck.

The flood of desires that cascaded through Mercer was insufferable, and he wondered how people survived dating vampires long-term—how they lived with the knowledge of their vampire’s mouth on their skin and that glorious venom flooding their system and the thought of it all happening while they came into—fuck. Mercer should not have been thinking about that, not here, not ever, not unless—

He took a massive gulp of his drink, realizing too late that alcohol was probably not the best choice if he wanted to keep these feelings under control.

“Yeah,” Mercer replied, lamely. “But, um, in this case I mean a proper business deal. I’d take orders for my shop that include electrical components that you can assemble, and we could split the profit.” Was he just offering Rahil a permanent spot in his shed—in his life? God, what was he doing?

He didn’t want to take it back, though, not with the way Rahil’s expression transformed, moving through shock, then hope, then joy. “You’d really do that for me?”

“With you. I’d do that with you,” Mercer corrected, and Rahil’s face lit up even more.

It left the warmest ache in Mercer’s chest, like a tiny sun had formed just for that.

And he knew wherever this night was going, it was going to be good.

One drink turned into two, then three, and Mercer’s inhibitions began to fail so hard that by the time they’d been at the Fishnettery an hour and a half, Mercer had to all but lurch himself out of his chair to stop from leaning closer to Rahil.

“Where are we going?” Rahil laughed.

Mercer could not frankly say, if I don’t give my legs something to do, I might end up with you sitting between them, so he said nothing, just grabbed the edge of Rahil’s shirt sleeve and tugged. That was appropriate. It was not skin on skin—not pushing things any farther than they’d already been—just a guiding force, manipulating Rahil with no more pressure than he had back at the shed. It was good, it was fine.

He let go the instant Rahil followed, and despite all of his mental reassurances, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

They left the Fishnettery through the side entrance, but instead of leading Rahil back to the car, Mercer turned right, heading onto the boardwalk. With the summer heat tamed by the night, the long lakeside walkway held a vibrancy specific to tourist seasons, teams of mobile merchants hawking handmade trinkets and lit chariots pulled by bicyclists, a few artists hosting outdoor gallery viewings and even a man with a giant snake offering to let people hold it for donations. Without the security of the gay bar, Mercer spotted the looks a few individuals gave Rahil’s fangs, but there were enough people moving around them that most didn’t even notice, and no one lingered close for long.

Rahil himself seemed oblivious, his grin bright and his gaze dancing from one spectacle to the next. When they passed live music, he swayed to the beat, and when a teenager in a dance circle landed a backflip, he cheered for them. He was so alive, so spontaneous and open to the joy around them, that it made Mercer want to release a little of the tension in his chest and just breathe. That was what he’d come here for, wasn’t it? To be a part of this world, with someone like Rahil.

Mercer momentarily directed them off the boardwalk to an ice cream parlor for two scoops of Butterscotch Delight for himself and one of Cherry Garcia for Rahil—Mercer was starting to see a theme with the cherries.

“You have a type,” he muttered, nodding to the pink ice cream.

Rahil lifted a brow. “Are you saying your taste is better?”

His taste was limited yet highly varied, and right now it was perfect: long hair, brown skin, a pair of gorgeous fangs in an even more handsome smile. But he shrugged. “It’s adequate.”

Quick as a flash, Rahil slipped in to lick at the ice cream in Mercer’s cone.

In place of the horror and disgust Mercer knew he’d normally have felt at the intrusion was simply a quiet affection, born of a feeling he couldn’t quite place, much less name. He chuckled. “So?”

“Disgusting,” Rahil concluded. “I don’t know why you’d ever go for it.”

“Well, it does something for me, I suppose.” He felt his lips quirk and he let them, the awkward grin undeniable, if not unabashed. The joy must have secretly been an intoxicant because not only did he add, “You’ve got a little something,” but his body reached over to wipe a smudge of tan cream off the tip of Rahil’s nose. Before he could stop himself, he instinctively tucked the fingers into his mouth.

Mercer couldn’t decide if the way Rahil looked at him then was worth everything and more, or the force that would end his life. Probably both. At this rate, he was starting not to care so much about holding back.

And that meant the anxious part of him had begun to worry over whether or not the things he wanted were even on Rahil’s radar. He hadn’t been very specific when he’d asked Rahil out. He’d implied casual, when what he now realized he’d wanted was the option of slow, and those could be very different things to different people.

“So, besides the blood and such, you’ve been primarily invested in hookups?” He remembered Rahil telling him there were only ever first dates: bleed ’em and leave ’em style.

“I… mh.” Rahil grunted, looking decisively at the lake. He picked at the edge of his cone with his nail. “Usually my dating is just for the meal, you know? Sometimes the sex is nice, too, but it’s mostly a quid pro quo.”

Mercer did not think this was how Rahil had described it last time; that sometimes seemed to be doing a lot of work for him, and it made Mercer’s heart ache. Here he’d gone weeks refusing to let Rahil bite him, when they could have both gotten a very nice trade out of it the whole time. It seemed stupid in hindsight. Then again, if he’d let Rahil bite him in the beginning, maybe it wouldn’t have felt good to him then. He’d found Rahil a gorgeous specimen to look at, certainly, but he hadn’t trusted him, hadn’t been soothed by his touch or seen the deep secrets in his past, hadn’t witnessed Rahil look into his soul in a way few others ever had.

It was those things that had made the experience breathtaking; they were their own part of the toxin.

But it was also those things that had made Mercer sure from the start that he would never want a hookup, or even a casual date, with anyone, and he’d come this far trying to ignore that fact. “I know what you said about the—the term of endearment”—Mercer couldn’t quite get himself to form the word suddenly—“but are you ever looking for more than quid pro quo?”

Rahil shot the question right back at him. “Are you looking for anything at all?”

Mercer felt he deserved that. He grimaced. “Well, with the right person. I didn’t think so, but I’m less sure now. I’m hoping I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m hoping so, too,” Rahil said, and smiled.

Rahil paused by the railing to watch a party yacht cruise by, and Mercer joined him, feeling inches too close and feet too far from Rahil at the same time. What would it be like to wrap an arm around his back, to squeeze gently against his hip, to settle the side of his face into Rahil’s hair? Incredible, he imagined, better than his dreams. But how would it feel to have done all of that a thousand times, and to know he’d get to do it a thousand more? That was the sensation his heart had once yearned for. One he’d achieved, only to find that a time would always come when he couldn’t do it all again—when all he had was a cooling corpse and an imprint of fangs and a hundred-thousand invisible cuts in his heart.

The thought made him tuck his free arm against the railing and fling his mind out to sea.

The yacht that slowly drifted through the little lake-harbor in front of them seemed to glimmer with the effects of wealth: sparkling champagne and sheer dresses dripping with glitter and shiny silver Rolexes. Even in that perfect celebration though, a single pale-skinned young man with coiffed white-blonde hair sat alone at the back of the boat, his hands clenched in his lap. Alone. Unhappy. Perhaps those two things were unconnected, though. Perhaps this man was simply thinking of his baby at home.

Perhaps—

As Mercer watched, a tall, broad young man who seemed to be the life of the party—his jacket already off and his top button undone—detached himself from a gaggle of appreciators and slipped toward the back of the boat. He tapped the solitary man on the shoulder, laughing and shoving him before pulling him up.

Despite the distance, Mercer swore he could see the shift come over the loner, his meager protests giving way to a looseness, as though the person who’d come for him was a light against the darkness of the world and a shield for its pain. He let his exuberant friend coerce him onto a jet-ski beside the yacht and pressed up against his broad back as they roared away from the party.

Mercer’s heart ached, warm and wanting. He knew he was too invested in the simple emotions of two distant strangers not to be projecting onto them, but he could not deny the way their perceived friendship tugged at his chest. Who did he have, to pull him from the darkened edge of the crowd and whisk him away to better things? Lydia? But he could not even claim that anymore, and really, was it his daughter’s responsibility to ensure that he enjoyed the world? Without her, though, he had no one.

The back of Mercer’s throat caught. He could feel his ice cream dribbling down the side of his cone, over two of his fingers, but he couldn’t seem to go back to it. With Rahil standing at his side, he could feel his own empty chest in a way he’d been avoiding at home, surrounded by photos of his tiny two-person, one-dog family and mementos only they knew the secrets to—Mercer Jacques Bloncourt was alone.

His daughter had been right about him.

He was that lonely whale after all, his voice echoing not into an endless sea but within the prison of his own creation. He was the one sitting at the back of the boat, waiting, waiting, but when someone had finally come for him…

Rahil nudged his shoulder gently into Mercer’s, and it was like coming awake for the first time in years.

“You all right?” Rahil asked, and Mercer couldn’t wrap his head around what the words meant.

He genuinely, desperately, wanted someone in his life, someone permanent and his, someone who knew to look past his stony exterior, who teased him and cared for him and pulled him into the light.

Someone like Rahil.

No, not simply someone like him. But him.

Mercer wanted to spend the rest of his life having this moment over and over again with Rahil Zaman, vampire, people-pleaser, and the only living person in all Mercer’s life who’d managed to find the key to his soul. He wanted Rahil’s fangs in his neck and Rahil’s lips on his skin and a life where that was the routine they both held, glamourless but perfect.

Mercer wanted Rahil’s future, every last day of it.

27

RAHIL

Rahil wanted to quietly make history with Mercer, for better or for worse.

If he could trap himself in the fae’s life the way he had trapped himself in his shed, by god, Rahil would have done it in that moment, watching Mercer’s face transform from brow-pinched scrutiny, laced in melancholy and desperation, to sudden soft joy. Should he be able to do one thing in life, consistently and exceptionally, he’d want it to be that.

He knew, in the rational back of his mind, that he would never be so good as to keep up that joy forever, or even for long—he’d fuck it up, invert every last happy feeling with his own incompetence, the same way he had with his first family. But for that moment, that one glorious night, he wanted to believe otherwise. Mercer Bloncourt made him wish the best for himself, and with the alcohol still running through his veins and the thrill of Mercer asking him out, he gave in to the darkest desires in his heart: that they might work out.

That they might more than work out.

Which meant he really needed to bring up Leah’s death.

But he couldn’t just plunge from I hope you’re the one for me to just so you know I killed your last soulmate without skipping a beat. There had to be some way to ease Mercer into it. To make it feel less shocking, less—something. Less like the original news of her death.

The thought of how exactly he’d manage it sent a light panic through Rahil, but it was cut off by a spark like lightning as Mercer slid one finger against the pulse at Rahil’s wrist. After a slight hesitation, Mercer dropped it lower, then lower still. His fingertips slid between Rahil’s.

“Come with me,” Mercer whispered.

Rahil forgot everything but the inevitable: the rush, the fall, and then eternity. Even if it was short, even if it ended in a crunch of bone against the pavement, he was going to give whatever he could to this beautiful, thoughtful man. He tangled his fingers with Mercer’s and let himself be bound by the strong grip and firm calluses of someone who’d given him that same trust in return. “Just show me where.”

The boardwalk was still teeming with life, the warmth and chaos swaddling Rahil like a comfortable cloak, but Mercer led him to the end, down onto the less-populated wooden path that swept northward toward the state park side of the lake, dropping the last few bites of his ice cream cone in the trash as he went. Rahil didn’t think it was from lack of wanting it either—rather an excess of wanting something else—and the notion made his stomach flutter, his chest tight. As they ran out of the purposeful pattern of bright lamps, Mercer paused, glancing at Rahil with an expression hauntingly gorgeous in the deep shadows.

Again, he asked, softer and more hesitant, “Come with me?”

“Anywhere,” Rahil said.

Mercer turned them off the main path, onto a steep stone stairwell that Rahil wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. They nearly ran straight into a young man with a bottle clutched in his grip. He hissed like a vampire, alcohol flooding his breath, but as Rahil instinctively hissed back, he swore the stranger’s teeth looked wrong for fangs. The man tucked his way quickly up the stairs and Mercer tugged Rahil further down, and then they were alone on a tiny wall that jutted out into the water, empty and quiet.

Down the beach, a small group sat around a bonfire, someone plucking at a guitar while the others swayed, but it was far enough off for their little dock to feel like a world all of its own. Seemingly endless water stretched out before them, the silhouettes of the mountains jutting like claws of darkness into the starry sky. It smelled of Mercer and of the lake, a damp, slightly dank scent, not traditionally pleasant but comforting after so many years living in San Salud. Rahil imagined the original inhabitants, carried down in stretchers to soak in the mystical healing powers of the sun and the dry southern Californian air. Neither saved them, but Rahil was pretty sure whatever this was could save him any day.

Mercer let go of Rahil’s hand then, but it didn’t feel like pulling back. It felt like permission.

Rahil slipped out of his shoes and settled onto the edge of the wall, dropping his feet into the water. It was perfect—more cool than warm, but enough of a contrast to the balmy air to be a shock.

A little clumsier, Mercer settled in beside him. Their thighs didn’t quite touch. Their breaths didn’t quite mingle. And Rahil couldn’t help but bridge that gap. For better or for worse.

“Can fae see better than humans?” he asked, leaning toward Mercer. His knee knocked Mercer’s—fabric on fabric. Warmth on warmth.

Mercer turned his face, and Rahil could feel each word like a tiny gust against his chin. “In the light, yes—better than Leah and my grandparents, anyway—but not in the dark.”

“That’s a pity; you’re lovely by starlight,” Rahil whispered, and he used his night vision to take in every angle of Mercer’s face, the dark rim of his lashes, the stray curls floating free of his bandana, the length of his neck, the strength of his jaw and the breadth of his lips, even the mole that graced their edge. In every lighting, from every angle, he was spectacular.

Rahil had known this, he thought—it had been why he’d swiped right in the first place, why he’d tangled himself in Mercer’s trap a second time—but he hadn’t known it this way. There were pretty people, gorgeous people even, and then there was this: a gorgeous person. A whole being, every flaw made lovely by the depth of his motivations and every wrinkle turned to a laugh line by the joy that just being here, just listening to him speak, brought Rahil. And he could not look away.

But Mercer didn’t either, holding Rahil’s gaze in the darkness like he was searching for something. He lifted his fingers, hesitated, then pressed the tips ever so gently to Rahil’s jawline. “There you are,” he whispered. Then he cringed, drawing the hand back. “Sorry,” he explained, “Ice cream stickiness.”

As Mercer leaned down to rinse the butterscotch coating off his skin, Rahil caught him before he could reach the water. His heart thudded against his rib cage, a thousand butterflies mating in his stomach. This could be the exact wrong thing to do. It could ruin whatever they had going; and for the first time in a decade, Rahil thought losing a night like this might kill him, not from lack of blood, for once, but from the aching depths of his heart.

What else was he supposed to do, though?

He lifted Mercer’s hand, tenderly. “I could help with that.”

When Mercer didn’t protest, didn’t pull back or shrug the statement off, Rahil chose not to question further. He pressed Mercer’s fingers to his lips.

Rahil kissed one callus after the next, tracing tiny work scars and wrinkles, before gliding out his tongue in an experimental drag. He didn’t care what else was surely on Mercer’s hands, cloaked by the sticky sweetness—he could have happily been licking off anything, for the expression that crossed his date’s face. Mercer averted his gaze, his lips parting and his brow knitting. His lashes shuddered as he breathed out.

“Speak to me,” Rahil muttered against his knuckles. He’d meant for confirmation, but what Mercer gave him was far better.

“How does it taste?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“Dark and sweet,” Rahil replied, no hesitation, no shame. “With a hint of salt, and musk. Like you, complex, and lovely.”

Mercer leaned toward him, his breath shallow as it gusted across Rahil’s forehead. His other hand pressed to the side of Rahil’s head, taut as a drawn bow, as though that simple pressure might ease whatever excess of longing was going on beneath Mercer’s skin. His mouth nearly brushed Rahil’s temple as he whispered, “Keep…”

“Keep what, babe?” Rahil teased, letting his tongue graze Mercer’s skin.

Mercer made a sound that was so deep and disgruntled it was nearly a growl. It seemed to release something inside him, something Rahil had seen in every motion of his work and press of his hands during their long hours in the shed, and had been overwhelmed with even then. Now, centered fully on him and his acts, his pleasure, he could feel the demand in every crevice of his being, consuming him from the inside. “If you don’t finish the job, darling,” Mercer rumbled, “I will tie you up and throw you into the lake.”

Rahil went to work, dragging his tongue across Mercer’s fingers, treasuring each sensitive nerve ending like they were the length hiding between Mercer’s legs. His own cock was so sensitive with want that he could feel it straining, begging, and he thought of nothing but giving Mercer the same feeling with each kiss and suck of the sweetness on his fingers.

Mercer was clearly feeling something, because his voice was a darkened mess when he pulled his cleaned hand away. “Good boy,” he murmured against Rahil’s forehead.

It seemed to zap all the energy out of him, turning Rahil into a puddle against Mercer’s side. His fingers wove into Mercer’s like that was their home now, and he breathed deeply of the rich scent of Mercer’s neck. The pulse of his blood was so deliciously elevated. He nuzzled, tender, pleading.

“You want that?” Mercer asked, his free hand still, somehow, in Rahil’s hair, gently stroking over the pulled-back locks that fed into his braid.

“Mhmm,” was all Rahil could manage.

He swore he could feel the tiny side quirk of his lover’s lips as Mercer said, “You can wait.”

Rahil groaned, but then the hand in his hair slipped down, trailing over his shoulder and his chest. Mercer seemed almost clinical about it—clinical in his evenness, his purposeful stroking, like despite the commanding presence he was trying to exert, he was just as afraid of this falling apart as Rahil was. With the same steady pace, Mercer trailed his fingers over the edge of Rahil’s beltline and against the front of his pants.

Rahil’s dick seemed to swell against his touch in a frantic firework of bliss, making his head light and his body weak.

Mercer exerted just a little pressure, stroking softly in a way that Rahil knew would keep him yearning stupidly for as long as Merc decided to torture him. But it was a beautiful torture—a perfect, endless moment of sensation and hope and life, with Mercer’s skin beneath his lips, blood pumping just out of reach, and Mercer—Mercer Jacques Bloncourt, fae craftsman, father, stony-faced and boiling with so many emotions beneath—his Mercer was giving to him. The thought swelled so huge and delirious, from his mind to his chest, that his lungs were moving and his lips forming words before he half knew what he was saying.

“I love you…”

It was barely a whisper, just an echo of the thought that was blooming softly in his heart, but it hit him like a hurricane as Mercer went completely still. The tension radiating through him was palpable.

Rahil knew instantly that he should not have said it—not yet, not with the equally large confession he still held inside him. But he couldn’t say, I love you and your last love died at my fangs, now could he?

“Like this,” Rahil clarified, swallowing hard. “I love you like this, so confident. It’s, uh, a good look for you.”

That tension remained though, as tight as Mercer’s breathing. His fingers wove through Rahil’s and slowly squeezed. “You could simply love me, if you wanted.” They were broken words, mangled by so many emotions that Rahil could only distinguish them by looking at the chaos of feeling in his own chest and finding the same silhouette.

“Mercer…” He lifted his face, pressing it to the side of his date’s as he stroked his hair. Gently, he kissed Mercer’s temple. “I do love you,” he whispered. It was out now, wasn’t it? Whatever happened, it was worse to deny it. “I don’t know how it began, or how my feelings progressed this fast—except that I’ve seen so much of the world that I don’t love, and the more I see of you, the more I…”

It was so stupid. So much and so stupid, and after going on a thousand first dates that turned into nothing—most that he’d never have wanted anything else from, even in the most perfect of worlds—this felt like a different reality entirely. Like he’d broken out from some hellish canyon and found that there had been another 52hz tune echoing above him the whole time, calling to him from across a chasm of empty water.

Rahil gave a tiny laugh, as happy as it was disquieting. Sometimes the best things were wild and scary and perfect, he supposed. “Has Lydia ever played you that whale song?”

Mercer hesitated. He drew his thumb over the back of Rahil’s hand. “She… said it was me.”

The other loneliest whale.

Whatever dam had been holding in Rahil’s emotions broke in an instant of bittersweet joy, tears welling behind his eyes and his chest aching. He pressed his lips sweetly to Mercer’s temple. “Maybe the loneliest whale was both of us.”

“I’ve been so alone.” Mercer’s voice cracked. “I’ve had Lydia, but… she’s my daughter. She can’t hold me up or take care of me—she’s just a kid.”

“What you’re wanting for is a partner.” Maybe this time—maybe Rahil could do this right—maybe—

“I think it is,” Mercer replied, the shock in his voice resolving into realization as he said it. He tipped his head, catching Rahil’s gaze in the darkness, so close they were almost kissing. “I was perfectly happy with Leah. She was everything—She still is.”

It was not what Rahil had expected to come next, but it touched a place of love inside him that he didn’t realize needed to be found, to be pressed against and told was real: that he could still care about Shefali, after all this time. And that those feelings were normal. It also reminded him, uncomfortably, that he needed, more than ever, to find an opportunity to talk about his own part in Leah’s death. And here they were, already broaching the subject of Leah.

But the conversation still felt one step too removed, Rahil’s own emotions making circles around the topic. Soon though. He could find a way.

Rahil cleared his throat. “Shefali and I should have been forever. I told myself that so many times after we divorced. We’d been so happy, too, and we were in love—I’ll always be in love with her.” But then he wasn’t able to make it work. Rahil couldn’t say it out loud and have to hear Mercer’s encouragement, confront what it meant, so he skipped over it. “We got back together when she was diagnosed, but we had so little time then.”

“The lung cancer?”

“Late stage, yeah. Maybe we’d healed enough from losing Jonah or maybe we were just scrambling to try and make something out of the love we both still held since it could have been our last chance, but I—I made a mess of that too.”

Mercer brushed his free hand over the side of Rahil’s hair, so gently it hurt. “Rahil…”

“I offered to turn her.” He could feel the vehicle of their conversation speeding down the path, barreling toward the jump, and he’d have to take it—he’d have to tell Mercer soon. They were all but hovering around the topic without Mercer even realizing it. Rahil’s heart thudded, the excitement that had been pooling in better places now turning to knots in his gut.

Mercer tensed, as though his body knew what was coming just as much as Rahil’s did. “But Shefali didn’t…?”

“No.” Rahil shook his head, short and sharp. “She said she wanted to die on her own terms. Which was funny, because it was the same reason I gave when I turned.”

“You chose to turn?” The question seemed to spill out of Mercer, before he paused and added, no less aghast, “You were dying?”

“Freak accident.” Rahil shrugged, not because it didn’t hurt, but because it had hurt for so long that its pain, like so many others in his life, was just an ordinary part of him now. “I don’t really remember it. Shefali and I had just moved in together—much to our families’ chagrin—into an apartment in the downtown area, and I was walking home just after midnight from the mart a few blocks away. We’d finally finished unpacking, and Shefali needed a pack of smokes. A driver, drunk I think, swerved onto the sidewalk—I don’t even know if they realized they hit me. I was pinned on a piece of old metal in the alley for… a long time? But a vampire smelled all my lost blood. That’s the part I really do remember—feeling so desperate. Wanting to take any option that might make the suffering shorter. I was terrified of spending weeks in a hospital with my insides stitched up, everyone praying for me, pooling money for me to stay, not knowing if another surgery would kill me or save me.”

He could feel the waves of emotion that rolled through Mercer, his body stiffening and his fingers tightening around Rahil’s, his other arm gently pulling Rahil closer. It made those scars so much easier to bear, knowing that someone who cared—maybe not loved, yet, but cared, deeply—was bearing them with him. Mercer didn’t try to interrupt, and when he did speak, it was soft, not with pity but with attention and compassion. “I’m sorry.”

Rahil leaned into his touch. “For a long time, I thought I’d made the right choice,” he admitted. “But now I feel like… like I took that choice away from someone else. The coin only flips to heads so many times. I got lucky, so someone else…”

This was it. The segue.

He knew exactly who’d died making the same choice he had, and Mercer deserved to know it too.

But Mercer was already on the move, shifting to cup Rahil’s face in his thick palm, his eyes bright in the darkness. “Babe, you are brilliant enough to know that that is not how chance works.”

Not how chance works.

Brilliant.

Babe.

Rahil drew in a breath and was almost surprised to hear it sound like a sob. The warmth that slid down his cheeks caught him off guard, nearly as much as the sniffle that followed. This was not—it was hurting?—he was hurting. He didn’t understand why or how something like love could have done this, but in that moment he felt every year of loneliness and shame and grief as one blinding flash, and pressed against the solid form of someone who cared, it finally, fully hurt.

Mercer pulled him close, wrapping him up in a hug that felt so familiar and yet like nothing Rahil had ever experienced.

But he didn’t know yet. He didn’t know he was comforting the person who’d taken away his wife. Who’d ruined his life. Maybe now it would be all right, though—now that they both knew they wanted this. Maybe they could work through it.

“Mercer,” Rahil tried, his throat closing on the last syllable.

“I mean it,” Mercer insisted. “It was not your fault. Everything you blame yourself for, it’s—”

“Mercer,” Rahil repeated, stronger.

This time, Mercer just looked at him, not pulling away, but more pulling to attention. Soft, but firm, he said, “Yes, Rahil?”

Rahil had to swallow down every last panic fluttering through his body, and condense it all into his twisting gut as he said, “There’s something I have to tell you.” It sounded so ominous, but then so was the fact of his fangs in Leah’s neck. Maybe the best thing to do was not to shy away from that reality, but to acknowledge it. Rahil took one of Mercer’s hands in his, squeezing firmly. “I’m afraid it’s dark, and it’ll be painful at first, but I think you’d want to know now.” He couldn’t bear to look at Mercer as he continued, so he just did, one word after another. “When I was looking in Leah’s notebooks, I—”

But Mercer cut him off. “Is this—This is about her—about her death?” He didn’t sound horrified, yet the pressure of his fingers twisted around Rahil, until Mercer was the one holding Rahil’s hand. Mercer shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it right now. Later maybe, but… This is the first night where I haven’t felt like I have to orient my life around the pain of Leah’s passing and I want to keep it that way.”

The back of Rahil’s throat seemed to lose all moisture. He swallowed again. “It might change how you feel about me.”

“Nothing from our pasts can do that.” Such certainty. Mercer didn’t know what he was saying, Rahil told himself. What if he did, though? If he knew this was about Leah’s death and that it involved Rahil… what option was there, but the obvious? Maybe this really wasn’t the terrible, shocking secret Rahil had made it out to be in his mind.

“Tonight,” Mercer insisted, “can we just be who we are tonight? No more anxieties, no more guilting ourselves. We do enough of that every other damn day.”

“I…” Rahil started, and he had a momentary twist in his gut, an impulse to say it anyway; they’d come this far, and it felt wrong to keep bottling it up. But Mercer was asking him—begging him, practically. He could see the tightness in Merc’s brow, the tension in his grip, and Rahil didn’t want to overstep—

A shriek interrupted his thoughts as a pair on a jet ski charged toward their darkened little lakeside wall. A broad-shouldered, cackling man with his open shirt flapping in the wind revved the engine. The smaller figure buried in his back screamed, “Reginald McFlame-Beard Hughes, I swear to god—”

The man steering—who Rahil was pretty sure didn’t have a beard—only laughed again. At the last second, he turned the jet-ski, forming a wave of water that crashed over Mercer and Rahil’s little wall, drenching through the top of Rahil’s head and the front of his shirt. He wiped it out of his eyes. His nose smelled like the lake.

“Watch it! There’s people here,” Mercer hollered, scrambling up as he waved his sandals at them. He looked so much like a stereotypical old man shouting at the clouds that Rahil couldn’t help the little delirious chuckle that left him.

All the pent-up emotion and the highs and lows of the night tumbled together in a sobbing laugh, leaving him leaning onto his knees as he tried uselessly to catch his breath. Mercer rubbed his back, muttering profanities. Rahil had almost pulled himself together again when the jet-skiers had the audacity to come back around, slower this time.

The man at the wheel called an awkward, “Sorry!” while his companion scowled.

Mercer waved the bird at him, and Rahil broke into a maniacal grin. A snort left Mercer, then a chuckle, and finally he dropped his face into Rahil’s wet hair and cackled awkwardly.

By the time they were both standing, shoes in their hands and shoulder to shoulder, it felt like an entire night had passed.

“I think it’s time we head home?” Mercer asked.

Home.

He must have caught something on Rahil’s face, or in the press of his shoulder, because he adjusted quickly, “My house, I mean. Though, someday I want to see this gothic mansion of yours.”

“Ha—well.”

It seemed there was more than one truth Rahil had to break to Mercer. But he hadn’t wanted to hear it; not yet. It would be better back at the house, anyway, at the very end of the night, in a place where Mercer could comfortably curl up and deal with his grief, if need be. If Mercer wanted tonight to simply be for them, nothing to shatter their remaining happiness, nothing left to work through but their own joys, then so be it.

Rahil tried not to stick his hands in his pockets just to give them something to do. His clothing had mostly dried during the walk back to the car and the ride to Mercer’s house, but he still felt uncomfortable as he stood in Mercer’s driveway, trying to judge in which direction Mercer intended the night to go, other than happy. His instinct was to build himself a shield of terrible flirting, but he worried if he tried that, he’d make a mess of the wonderful sincerity they’d managed so far.

Before he could decide what exactly to do though, Mercer demanded, “We’re going to the shed.”

He was on the move before Rahil could fully process the statement, and Rahil had to jog to catch up. Mercer’s muscles bulged in delightful ways as he heaved open the side of the shed, but Rahil still couldn’t figure out what they were doing. Leah’s device and the additional pieces he needed for it were in there, sure, but if this was just about retrieving them, it could all fit in Rahil’s hands—in his pockets, even, if his pants weren’t so tight. Rahil spotted the pieces in the cast of the lower security lights, and he made for their table, but Mercer stopped him halfway there.

He calmly reached for Rahil’s wrist, directing one of the trap cords around it.

Rahil didn’t pull away, but he tightened his brow, hoping that maybe, just maybe, there was something more happening here. Something beautiful. “I thought we were done with the unholy gold?”

“We are,” Mercer agreed. “But I’m not done with you.”

And—fuck it all—Rahil could think of nothing else suddenly. His body took over, shoving aside the knowledge that they were both avoiding Leah’s death as every nerve in his body came alive for one thing and one thing only.

He was fairly certain his soul had ascended.

28

MERCER

Mercer was doing this.

His heart pounded and his stomach had knots in it and the religious-raised teenager in him had determined that his soul was descending to hell with each wrap of the cord around Rahil’s wrist, but he was doing this, goddammit. Rahil had been begging for it for weeks, yearning for it, making his adorable noises and expressions and his ridiculous flirtations, and if they were going to be together—the thought still sent a giddy flutter through Mercer—then what was the reason to deny Rahil any longer?

Rahil had spent the evening giving Mercer the world, and for that, Mercer was going to give it back to him. No dark pasts, no guilt or trauma, nothing between them but affection and ecstasy. Besides, Mercer didn’t need to hear that Rahil had realized he knew Leah’s murderer; that they’d been friends once, or perhaps enemies. That they were living carefree out in the world or that they’d been killed years ago. He could hear it all later, mourn afresh later, but right now was a glimmer of joy and peace for just the two of them.

Rahil all but swayed against his chest as Mercer took hold of his other arm, tucking them both behind Rahil’s head as he wrapped Leah’s trap cords in spirals up and over. Maybe she hadn’t built this system with bondage in mind, but he thought she’d be impressed with his use.

If Leah was looking down on him from heaven, then Mercer hoped she had popcorn for this. However it turned out, it was sure going to be a show.

Mercer let the extra length of the cords tighten until they drew taut, leaving Rahil’s feet still on the ground but not giving him any extra space to move. He could dangle from the ceiling later. They had all night, and Mercer was going to make the most of it.

Rahil gave an experimental twist, which only served to trap him onto the tips of his toes. He smirked, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Do I get a safe word, babe?”

“Boss,” Mercer said.

Rahil deflated just a little, though he seemed to be doing his best to mask it. “Do I get a safe word, boss?”

Mercer snorted. The knots in his stomach eased as he took hold of Rahil’s chin. “Honey, boss is your safe word.”

“Ah, so in order to escape your pleasure I have to submit myself to your corporate authority. Crafty.”

“You think you’re here for pleasure?” Mercer cocked a brow. “This is a work shed. I’m doing work.”

As he spoke, he opened one of the long bench drawers, its sensual contents separated between crafting examples and the new creations he was in the process of perfecting: dildos and other inserts, muzzles and metal collars, a bit of leatherwork he’d been experimenting on and a dozen other pieces that clipped, tightened, and pressed. From Rahil’s angle, he knew all but the edges of the largest toys would be hidden, so he took his time, repositioning each into the perfect display before glancing back up at Rahil. Finally, he lifted the whole drawer, letting Rahil see inside it just for a moment as he carried it to the closer bench.

Rahil’s eyes grew so wide from the single glimpse that Mercer couldn’t help the quirk that came into his lips. With each stride he felt a little more confident. Even if he wasn’t positive what he was doing, if it had an effect on Rahil, then it was perfect.

“Your work is torture,” Rahil concluded, absolutely confirming all of Mercer’s suspicions.

“Is it, now?” He hummed and pulled out the little box with one of his most recent creations tucked away inside the velvet. He pulled it free, concealing it in his palm as he turned back toward Rahil.

Rahil leaned toward him, mouth open and fangs extended. “You know I could bring you pleasure instead, if you let me.” As Mercer lifted a hand to Rahil’s jawline, he provided evidence for his point by running his lips, then his tongue, along the side of Mercer’s hand, but as he dared to try pricking the skin, Mercer twisted his fingers, pressing his thumb to the side of Rahil’s fang to wedge his mouth open.

“Perhaps torturing you is what brings me pleasure.” He pushed his thumb farther in. Rahil’s lips were soft, his tongue moist, and Mercer tried not to think too hard about what those properties might be useful for in a future context. For now, his focus had to be on Rahil, because if it wasn’t, Mercer was unsure where exactly it would end up: in the gutter of shame or, worse, turned off entirely. “Besides, I thought you liked a little pain… If it was in the right hole.”

Rahil’s throat bobbed, and his long lashes fluttered like the mere thought was about to make him come. “Mhm.”

“Open,” Mercer commanded.

Rahil resisted just a little, forcing Mercer to press down on his tongue to make him display the full length of his fangs.

Mercer retrieved the pair of custom fang caps he’d molded the day of Kat’s poisoning, and pressed them onto Rahil’s fangs. These ones wouldn’t prevent a bite in and of themselves, their tips still pointed and hollowed to allow for the distribution of venom, but the little chains that hung from their backs were just the right length to hook to Rahil’s lower canines. Once the whole contraption was locked into place, Rahil moved his jaw experimentally. He blinked each time the chain kept him from opening it wide enough to bite.

“Fuck,” he finally muttered, the metal in his mouth glinting.

While he couldn’t wrap his mouth around Mercer’s wrist, much less his neck, there was still just enough room for Mercer to slip the tip of his finger in. He pressed it experimentally against the needlepoint of the cap, pushing up past the flicker of pain until the venom he knew would be pooling just inside the metal casing released beneath his skin. It rushed like a tiny orgasm through the pad of his finger, tingling up his wrist and along his arm.

God that was so nice—so incredibly, impossibly nice that part of Mercer wanted to melt against Rahil, let him prick every last inch of skin. The little knot in his gut urged him forward, though. He withdrew his finger from Rahil’s mouth and wiped the drop of blood from his fingertip onto his own lip, just to see what it would do to Rahil.

The vampire whimpered, watching him with the kind of pleading look that made him more puppy-dog than predator. “Fuuuuck,” he groaned.

“Not yet,” Mercer said. “Torture first.”

“Why must you hurt me so?” complained he who had the perfectly accessible safe word.

Love, perhaps, Mercer thought, but the way that settled like a thousand butterflies in his stomach made him only shrug. “You’re a bit hard to commit violence against when all the places I want to intrude on are covered. An artist needs a proper canvas, and this...” He traced a finger across the fabric of Rahil’s shirt, down his chest—not thinking about how close they were to touching, how his skin would be pressed against Rahil’s in moments, Rahil’s body a plaything in his hands, soft and vulnerable for him. Rahil’s pleasure was Mercer’s responsibility right now. He didn’t need to be focusing on his own wants, or to let those wants turn to fears.

Next time, perhaps he’d feel more open to it. When they both knew the game better. When they were sure of this. Then he could appreciate Rahil’s gorgeous figure and give himself over to as much venom as Rahil could safely offer. For now, there was more than enough pleasure just in knowing he was providing what Rahil had been begging for during the last month.

And Rahil seemed to be eating up the stoic performance that Mercer was putting on, the distance only making him squirm all the more.

Slowly, like he was drawing a gem from a husk of rock, Mercer tugged free the buttons down the front of Rahil’s shirt, forcing himself not to be distracted by the beauty beneath, not the gentle rows of Rahil’s ribs nor the dip of his navel, not even the smooth circle of his dark nipples. He didn’t wonder if they’d taste like Leah’s—like salt and tension—or whether he could trace them later, as Rahil fell asleep.

Rahil’s pants came free like the garment had been waiting for that moment, a little moan escaping Rahil as his hard dick pressed out from a distressing lack of underwear. That was a conversation for later, though. Now, Mercer took in the small but strong line of Rahil’s dick, a well-kept cascade of hair around it. Of course he was clean and prepped for this; this was what Rahil did, after all—have impromptu sex in stranger’s sheds.

Except he’d told Mercer that he wasn’t a stranger but a love. The man he wanted to keep calling babe. His one and only true darling.

And Mercer was going to trust that, despite the fear that came with it.

Slipping Rahil out of his pants was easy when he was held so aloft by the cords, and Mercer took a step back after, giving himself thirty seconds to admire Rahil, if only for the way Rahil preened and flushed beneath the attention.

He was beautiful like this—his arms bound behind his head and pieces of hair around his face escaping his braid, his unbuttoned shirt hanging off his shoulders, the long edges framing his dick. In so many ways, he was different from Leah, and yet there was something similar too, in the lean, knobby build of his frame and the way he held himself between so many different emotions at once, both confident and insecure, passionate and restrained, genius and ignorant. Mercer wanted to see more of him, know more of him, to mark every similarity and difference, not because Rahil and Leah needed to be compared, but because they both deserved an eternity in Mercer’s heart.

Mercer took another step back, before turning toward his box of toys. “What should we try first, then?”

“You could just fuck me,” Rahil suggested.

“Oh no.” Mercer clicked his tongue against the front of his teeth. “You’d like that far too much.” Meticulously, he lifted out a pair of small nipple clips, their polished strings of weights sparkling with a glitter coating and interspersed gemstones.

Rahil fidgeted and his fang tips gleamed as he bit into his lower lip.

Mercer lifted a brow and tucked the clips conspicuously into his front pocket. He withdrew a leather blindfold next, swirls of metal and delicate lace ornamenting its black surface, turning it from a functional piece to a work of art, then a few different cock rings that seemed about Rahil’s size, cautious to choose ones that wouldn’t hurt too much to be applied while Rahil was already hard. Dangling the blindfold around his own neck by the loose straps, he returned to stand in front of Rahil.

“What, no more terrible flirting?” he asked. “Have I finally gagged the great seducer?”

Rahil met his gaze with such soft longing that it took Mercer’s breath away. “Perhaps I was asking for something I never expected I’d actually receive.” One side of his mouth quirked into a lopsided grin, and the hair dangling around his face slid against the metal of his fang-muzzle. “It seems your touch leaves me speechless, torturer.”

With the backs of his fingers and the side of his thumb, Mercer pushed Rahil’s fallen locks to the side, and gently, his heart thudding against his rib cage at a thousand miles a minute, he whispered, “You leave me speechless, babe.”

“Ah, fuck.” Rahil looked like he was going to melt right out of his bindings. “Do your worst,” he pleaded. “Please. Goddammit, whatever you’ve got for me, I want it, Merc.”

“Very well, then.” And he had never been more glad that he’d waited this long, nor that he’d finally let himself cave. “I have you, Rahil. And I’m going to make you feel like you never have before.”

29

RAHIL

Rahil Zaman had worn nipple clips before, and he’d had so many different cock rings slid and shoved and twisted onto him that he’d lost count, and he’d been bound and gagged and on a couple occasions, worse. But this was something he swore he’d never felt before. This was everything. It was his whole body yearning both physically and emotionally, wanting for not merely touch and pressure and a pretty form to watch as it happened, but for this specific man, this perfect, wonderful man, to take him, skin, bone, and soul.

It was, in ways, how he’d felt with Shefali, and yet it wasn’t—because Shefali had taken his heart long before his body had thought to want her. With Mercer, the attention he’d initially stolen from Rahil’s cock had been the thing to shift to a deep, overwhelming love. And back when he’d been with Shefali, he hadn’t even known he could ask for something like this from her. Goddamn, was it good.

Rahil stared down through the open lines of his shirt, past the weights that tugged and pinched at his tender nipples, to Mercer’s hands as he slowly tightened the cock ring into place, and from the center of his being, Rahil ached. He’d never been a particular fan of his own dick—it wasn’t large, or thick, just a piece of him that served a purpose—but as the meld of twisting metal and silicone slowly tightened into place around it, Mercer’s fingers so gentle in their support, Rahil wasn’t sure he’d seen a more lovely part of himself. Every brush of skin on skin there made him sway under his bondage, and every slow but sure tightening drew a whimper out of him. Mercer’s warm breath made him shudder and when Merc finally let go, shifting back to admire his handiwork, Rahil’s desperation felt like a wild beast.

“How is this?” Mercer asked, looking up at Rahil with the slightest smirk on his otherwise stoic expression. “Be honest.”

“Vile,” Rahil replied. “And perfect.”

“That’s not very descriptive for one of so many words.” Mercer stood, fiddling with the blindfold still loosely necklacing his collarbones. “Perhaps this will help.”

Rahil’s heart skipped a beat as the silky fabric was pressed over his eyes and his world narrowed to the sensations of his skin and the flutters of indistinct movement. He flinched instinctively as Mercer glided a single finger down his navel, the touch so sudden that the soft tingle of it was multiplied into something delirious and overwhelming. The moan that slipped out of him felt like it came from nowhere and everywhere.

“Better?” Mercer asked.

“Maybe for you,” Rahil grumbled, and waited for another touch, a prod, a pinch even.

What he was not expecting was the cold glide of a new pair of cords wrapping around his shoulders and chest in elaborate loops and twists. For a moment, he couldn’t figure out what Mercer was going for, until the cords slid between his thighs to cup them, looping down his legs. Slowly, the whole trap lifted him. He could feel the touch of air on his hole as his ass was guided up, his legs spread and knees bent, until he was suspended on his belly with his bare feet tucked toward the ceiling.

He’d lost all sense of direction, all knowledge of where Mercer was in relation to himself, so when two slick fingers dragged up his entrance, his head went light and a shuddering rush ran through him. Rahil bit into his own lip with a gasped, “Ah, fuck.”

“Describe it for me,” Mercer hummed, as calm as ever. “As a baseline.”

That was doing things to him too—things he didn’t realize were possible—like the contained, casual way Mercer was approaching this was making Rahil’s body fall apart all the faster and harder. As Mercer rubbed a fresh spot of lube across Rahil’s opening, pressing his fingertips inside, Rahil gasped. “Like you’re fucking with me. I can feel the wet of your fingertips with my whole goddamned body, and when you press me open—” He hissed as Mercer did it again, this time with more force. “It’s like—like you’re threatening to take me apart.”

“Good.” Mercer withdrew his touch, and it felt like a void, like Rahil’s body was tingling against a great nothingness, until out of the darkness, a palm smacked vibrantly into his right ass cheek, sending a cascade of sensation through him.

“That stings,” Rahil grunted.

“And?”

He groaned, wondering how badly this would come back to haunt him. “And it makes my dick ache, and my insides ache and my balls—”

His words turned to a hiss as Mercer slapped his other ass cheek. He patted it gently after, sending tingles across the tender skin. “You’re lucky my collection doesn’t contain any paddles at the moment.”

“Mhmm,” was all Rahil could manage.

Fingers stroked through the stray hairs around Rahil’s face and he could feel Mercer’s breath on his forehead as the man whispered, “You’re doing lovely, babe.”

Those four words turned every lingering hint of pain into a cascade of pleasure. Rahil could feel himself beaming, but he couldn’t help it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Can I have a kiss?”

For a moment, it seemed he’d scared Mercer off, but then the faintest press of lips met the corner of Rahil’s, Mercer’s hand cupping the other side of Rahil’s face for stability. It was so gentle, so hesitant, that when Mercer pinched the skin of Rahil’s dick a moment later, his world shattered.

“Torture,” he muttered, as soon as he found his breath.

“As you say.” Mercer was already somewhere behind him again.

Rahil wiggled a little in his bonds, his ass already aching to be filled. Anticipation and want and dread all warred in his chest, racketing up his heart rate and making every inch of his skin hypersensitive. When Mercer’s palm slid against his belly for support, Rahil was so prepared for any kind of touch that he moaned from just the gentle contact. Then something pressed inside him.

His breath caught in a high, wondrous sound.

“Good boy,” Mercer murmured, stroking Rahil’s belly as he slowly adjusted the dildo in and out. “Now describe it for me.”

“Cool and solid. And good. I can feel the pressure of the tip, rolling—oh god.” He could see nothing, but he could sense his own lashes fluttering against the blindfold as his eyes fought to roll from the tender intrusion. “Is it… glass?”

“How brilliant you are.” Mercer’s voice was velvet and cherries, a dark, sweet thing that made Rahil want to melt, and he tugged on Rahil’s braid gently. As much as he’d loved the banter that had led them here, this new twist sent Rahil right over the edge.

He hummed the most desperate little happy sound of his life and succumbed to the glide of Mercer’s instrument. When Rahil’s tormenter removed it entirely, his insides felt loose and giddy. There was nothing but shuffling for a moment, and Rahil expected a new infliction, but instead he heard a sound like an ice-bucket being rattled. His spine went sharp.

“If you pour that—” he started, hollowly.

“Honey,” Mercer cut him off with an added pinch to his ass. “Shh.”

“Uhuh,” Rahil replied, feeling the tingle of a flush running down his chest. His cock shuddered.

He had far less warning this time, as Mercer gripped him at the same moment that he pushed a new toy into Rahil’s entrance, solid and hard as the last but properly cold. He sucked in a breath as it pressed deeper inside him, chilling his flesh and tightening the space the previous dildo had loosened. With each drag and thrust, the sensation turned ethereal, his nerves alight. He moaned, twisting against the bizarre affliction, and swore he could feel every molecule the dildo was made from, every icy micrometer that riddled his aching insides like a tease.

“Describe it for me,” Mercer purred.

And Rahil did.

Mercer tormented him in return, dragging the toy in and out, finding a hundred little pressure points Rahil hadn’t realized he possessed. Merc seemed to know exactly how hard to push to bring Rahil to the edge without letting him come. By the time Merc withdrew the toy, Rahil trembled in his bondage, his body limp and stiff all at once as he moaned.

“You’re being such a good boy.” Mercer cradling Rahil’s engorged dick as he said it, so tender in his stroking that it hurt. “Do you deserve your pleasure, now?”

“Please.” Rahil begged. “Fuck me.”

“Wouldn’t you just love that.” With his other hand, Mercer stroked Rahil’s entrance. “But I have something better.”

He let go.

The object he pressed against Rahil’s hole seemed, at first, only a little different than the other two, smooth and solid—metal perhaps—but as he pushed, the girth changed, stretching Rahil wider than he he’d ever felt. His ass tightened over a line of dynamic ridges and swells, sending flurries and a rough ecstasy up his spine and down the swollen length of his dick. It was his entire world now, that single point of strain and waves of pleasure that radiated from it as Mercer cooed to him, “Take it all for me, that’s it.”

It kept coming, every time Rahil thought it shouldn’t, thought surely he was full, Mercer found a way to stretch him further, taking him with such calming precision that it felt like being consumed from the inside. “Mhmm,” Rahil whispered, arching against the pressure. Somehow that only made the feeling grow.

“You’re doing so well,” Mercer teased him. “Just a little more, and then we can have fun.”

Rahil didn’t want to know what Mercer’s definition of fun was, and yet he would have done anything to have it inflicted upon him, would have suffered whatever Mercer wanted just for this moment of pain and pleasure, his lover’s hand on his ass and his body at the man’s will. The tiny, pleased hum Mercer gave rattled inside him. Then his world came apart as Mercer drew back the dildo and thrust.

The friction of it driven back and forth at breathless speed filled Rahil with white light, flurries of bliss shooting through him. He screamed. It lasted forever, a torrent of erratic sensation and ruthless pressure, all that force seeming to drive down his cock, until suddenly it was over, leaving him tingling and gasping, so loose and limp that he barely felt it as Mercer gently withdrew the toy.

A soft towel dabbed at him, cleaning him off before Mercer tenderly extricated the ring from his newly limp dick, and unclipped his nipples. He eased free the ropes so slowly that Rahil lost the moment where he shifted out of their hold and into Mercer’s arms, blinking himself to life with his head on Mercer’s shoulder as the blindfold slipped free.

“Mhhh,” he said, deliriously, squinting against the dim light as his eyes adjusted.

Mercer’s lips pressed against his forehead. “My good boy.”

“If you keep that up, I might literally never leave your shed,” Rahil grumbled, smiling against Mercer’s neck. He could still feel the fang caps muzzling him, and while he didn’t mind them, they seemed to have lost their purpose now. Mercer had given him everything, and now it was his turn to give back. He kissed Mercer’s skin, cupping his face, and as he reached between Mercer’s legs, he murmured, “Do you have something comfortable to sit on? I’d like to take care of you, too.”

Rahil didn’t have any specific expectation for how the rest of their evening would play out, but of all the reactions he had anticipated, the panicked way Mercer froze was not one of them. Mercer shook his shoulders with enough anxious force to dislodge Rahil’s affection, pulling his hips away. “No, it’s—” He shook his head. “It’s fine. I got plenty out of just that.”

Rahil’s whole chest mourned, not for the end to their intercourse, but for whatever was clearly hurting inside Mercer. He took a slow, stable step back, keeping one of his hands on Mercer’s arm as he found his lover’s gaze. Not just his lover, but his love. “Merc,” he said, gently, “you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. But please, babe, if we’re doing this—if we’re being together, not just here tonight in the shed, but going forward, then tell me what you do want from me, so I can give you that instead.”

For a moment, Mercer looked as though he might try to cover whatever he was feeling in a layer of stony solemnity. He dragged his hands over his face. Then slowly, deliberately, he opened his mouth, and pressed his lips to Rahil’s, and it felt like a second orgasm, this one in his heart.

30

MERCER

His lips on Rahil’s felt good.

He’d been afraid—not just afraid, but terrified, that it wouldn’t. That he’d gotten so far, led Rahil along throughout their date and into this delicious game of pain and pleasure, and it would all fall apart with one kiss. When Rahil deepened it, Mercer pulled away, but not very far—just far enough to look him in the eye and speak.

“I’m not… great at this. Doing what I just did to you—that’s easy. Or, easier, at least. But having you… being touched, and…” With each word, he could feel himself collapse inward, the world constricting as his heart beat faster and faster.

“You had sex with Leah, right?” Rahil didn’t sound demanding or judgmental, only inquisitive. Thoughtful.

It loosened the knots forming inside Mercer just enough that he could nod. “Yes—many times. We made Lydia.” Mercer shrugged, motioning aimlessly toward the house. His throat felt heavy, but Rahil was still there, his shirt dangling and his body marked by Mercer’s exploration of it, yet his attention so thoroughly on Mercer now, like this was his only reason for living. He was everything Mercer had ever wanted, and more. “Leah made me breathless just by being there—like you do, I suppose—but that was… it was more about the romance. The sex came because of the romance. And we did have good sex, but it was still hard in the beginning and sometimes hard after that, too. In the media, adults throw themselves at each other without shame or awkwardness, but it hasn’t come that easily for me. I grew up being told that I wasn’t allowed to so much as think like that about another person until we were married, and then we were married and I—” He sighed and a little tremble went through him. “If I’m in the right state, the right place, I love sex in my head; sex feels sexy in my head. But getting it to feel that way in life is harder. Does any of this make sense?”

“Oh, babe.” Rahil rubbed the side of Mercer’s arm. So slowly, like he was asking for Mercer’s permission, he eased closer, wrapping Mercer up in his arms, solid and steady. “Are you asexual?”

“Am I…” The question caught Mercer square in the chest. It wasn’t that he’d never thought about it before. But it had never seemed like something he could say for himself conclusively, not when it was just him and Lydia. “Can someone be asexual as a result of their upbringing? Like, because of religious trauma and such?”

Rahil looked pensive as he answered. “I don’t think so. But I imagine that can mask the fact that someone is asexual because that trauma tries to convince you not to look too closely at what attraction you do feel.”

At what he did feel. Mercer felt a vague, disembodied lust, and shame for that lust, and shame for that shame. He felt awe for Rahil’s beauty, for every part of his graceful body, for his skin and his lips and even the way his ass curved. He loved the sounds Rahil made as he was pleasured—and the fact that it was Mercer who could make them. And he certainly had the capacity to orgasm. Despite all of the incredible parts of that, he wasn’t sure whether any of it counted as attraction.

“Perhaps I am asexual,” he said finally, “But I’m still… I still want physical love, if it’s from someone who loves me. I still feel. It just might not be the same way you do?”

Rahil cupped the side of Mercer’s face so tenderly that it made Mercer want to curl up inside himself, with just that feeling to hold onto forever. “Then, if you’re okay with it, I’d like to try something.”

Mercer’s heart slammed against the front of his chest, and his body warred between wanting nothing more than whatever Rahil could offer him and fearing it so thoroughly that the anxiety shut down his desire to even try. He managed to nod, though, drawing in a little breath. “All right. Okay.”

Rahil smiled, and it seemed to light up the inside of Mercer’s chest. “Do you want to go somewhere more comfortable?”

“I have a cot in the back cupboard.” It felt right to do this in the same place he’d explored Rahil’s body—gave it some symmetry.

Rahil nodded. He fiddled gently with the lip of Mercer’s shirt. “Would you like me to take these off for you, or—”

“I’ll do it.”

Mercer held his breath for a protest, but Rahil’s soft grin never wavered. He let Mercer go, his braid bouncing against his bare ass as he made his way over to the cupboards with the cot and bedding. “If my heart stops when I see you shirtless, don’t call the ambulance, just bury me in garlic flowers and write ‘died from looking into the face of God’ on my tombstone.”

Mercer couldn’t help but crack a smile as he turned away to strip out of his shirt. “Well, if my heart stops when you touch my bare chest, call me three different ambulances, please. If Lydia has to visit a tombstone that says ‘died from foreplay’ I will rise from the grave and murder you.”

“Mhh, that assumes I haven’t dispatched myself on your grave in a fit of passion.”

“I heard you say dispatched, but I think what you meant is debauched.” He pulled his pants and boxers off at the same time, before his brain could get caught on the fact that he’d be naked afterwards. And then he was naked, and he couldn’t go back.

“You should know better than to kink-shame me,” Rahil teased.

Mercer turned to find him staring down at the bed he’d assembled, mat and pillow and blanket spread neatly in the center of the aisle. He shook as he stepped toward the vampire, one step, then another, until he was so close… “Could you just lean against me, like—ahh.” Mercer’s breath caught as Rahil obliged, settling his back against Mercer’s chest, his ass cheeks gently cupping the bulk of Mercer’s half-hard cock. A shudder ran through Mercer, and he tried not to think of anything but how sweet and perfect Rahil was, letting his body take over as he wrapped his arms around Rahil and pressed his face into Rahil’s neck. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Why are you thanking me?” Rahil’s voice sounded rough, wet with emotion. “This is the best night of my life.”

Mercer held him all the tighter for that, gently nuzzling into his skin. Despite the churning of his stomach, when he kissed the crook of Rahil’s neck, it felt good. Felt right. With Rahil’s gentle, compassionate presence, the alarm bells telling him to flee the intimate vulnerability of it all were just quiet enough that he managed to give Rahil’s ass a little squeeze and a push toward the cot. “When I lie down, will you bite me? I think the venom will help.”

“As though you have to ask for that, babe.” There was a smirk in his voice, and as Mercer awkwardly stepped around him, settling onto the cot with all the grace of a preteen having sex for the first time and not a man who’d conceived a full-ass child, Rahil’s expression turned delirious. “Fuck, you’re just as gorgeous without clothes.”

Mercer gave the chub on his thighs a little wobble. “It’s genetics?”

“Mm, no, it’s magic,” Rahil replied. “Definitely some fairy nonsense.” He ran his hand along Mercer’s knee as he sat down, touching him in such steady, smooth motions that it felt calming.

“And here I thought I was a bear.” Mercer gave the hair on his chest a ruffle as evidence. The way Rahil’s eyes dragged over him made his skin feel like fire.

“You can be everything. Infinite.” Rahil slid his leg over Mercer’s stomach to straddle him, and the weight of him atop Mercer’s hips was a good feeling.

Mercer pressed his fingers beneath Rahil’s chin, admiring him for a moment before sliding his thumb, then his index finger, into Rahil’s mouth, carefully removing the fang caps. He tried to truly focus on his senses this time, to push back the shame and let himself want. And he did want, in a distant, fantastical way—he indulged in the thought of this mouth holding him, sucking harder and faster as his tip drove against the back of Rahil’s throat, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure he did want that at all. He enjoyed the thought of it, the way he’d always enjoyed the thought of Leah’s mouth when her lips quirked from intense concentration, and had, too, enjoyed the sensation of that mouth when she’d taken him in it beneath the sheets, classical music gently playing in the background. But there was a gap in between those joys—a gap he’d always assumed he just hadn’t figured out how to cross. Maybe the truth was that he didn’t need to cross it.

Mercer set the fang caps to the side. With his hands empty, he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Rahil must have seen his indecision, though, because he took them, placing Mercer’s palms on his thigh and ass, before leaning in to stroke back the loose curls around Mercer’s face. He tugged at Mercer’s bandana. “Would it help if I pulled this over your eyes?”

The thought sent a flare of what felt like panic through Mercer, but as it settled in his center, he realized the emotion was something else entirely—a deep, consuming worry that if he asked for this, and it didn’t help, then it would be his fault. But that wasn’t how kink worked. It wasn’t how people worked. And it certainly wasn’t how Rahil would see it.

So, Mercer nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

Rahil’s tiny grin was repayment enough for any risk. He tenderly drew Mercer’s bandana down, and Mercer closed his eyes as the fabric slid across them. His not-panic tried to rear again, but he breathed and let the moment linger, and once his body settled, it felt… nice. Calming. It was just him, lying on a blanket, with the skin of someone he loved pressed gently to his. Whether there was a God watching him didn’t matter. Whether he looked like a fool, whether he reacted right, felt the right things, wanted in the right way—that didn’t matter either.

Rahil’s mouth pressed tenderly to the edge of his, and Mercer focused on the sensation, the softness of it. He found his lips tingling, parting slightly. Rahil caught them in a kiss, just as gentle but not nearly so chaste. Mercer lost himself in the moment as his body took over where his mind had failed him, going back to the thousands of kisses he’d shared with Leah. These were different lips, a different gender, a different soul entirely—each movement a little surprising, Rahil’s technique not quite what Mercer had been used to once upon a time—but somehow, he still managed to fall into it, a thoughtful hum rising in his throat when his tongue grazed Rahil’s.

As he pulled away, Rahil whispered, “Tell me how I’m doing.”

“You’d like to know whether you’re a good boy?” Mercer smiled, his lips still a mess of lighted nerves and curious wonder.

“Fuck you.”

“Not yet,” Mercer teased. “But hopefully next time. For now, just, keep going.”

And Rahil did.

He kissed Mercer again, and again, moving from his mouth to his forehead, to his temple, and his jawline, tugging at his earlobe before shifting down to his neck. Mercer anticipated the bite, was ready for it, but the pressure of lips and the devilish sucking of his skin before fangs even penetrated made him ache for it all the more. He could feel the rising of his dick, and not being able to see it, to judge whether he was reacting appropriately, made the sensation far better, letting him focus on purely enjoying the moment, each little tug of teeth and press of tongue.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “What a lovely boy, with your lovely mouth.”

Rahil made a pleased sound, working on Mercer’s neck all the harder.

Finally his fangs sank in, lighting Mercer up with a dose of venom, and he was a goner. With how far down his hips Rahil was straddling him, he could feel Rahil’s crack against his dick, and his body shifted to accommodate as a second wave of venom rolled through him. He squeezed his fingers into Rahil’s ass and thigh, riding out the moment of bliss in a gasp so long and hard it left him breathless. He fell limp afterward.

Rahil barely managed to lick up the side of his neck as he laughed. “Did you—did you just come?” He seemed to be confirming the question as he spoke it, his fingers finding the slick that now coated his ass and dripped onto Mercer’s balls. He laughed again. “Baby.”

“I was watching you be pleasured for an hour,” Mercer grumbled, pushing back his bandana. “What were you expecting?”

He grinned. “Next time, we’ll have to put you in one of those rings too.”

Mercer glared at him, but he was already trying to decide if anything he currently had would fit. Not that they’d need it tonight. He was already feeling part of his mind slip into the grasp of the post-coital void. “Grab that towel on the bench—yeah, it’s clean enough. And then… would you lie here with me?”

“Isn’t that what we’re already doing?” Rahil asked as he wiped them both down, before snuggling against Mercer’s side. His tongue snaked across Mercer’s skin, and it felt… like a tongue. But the tongue of someone Mercer cared about, and in that, it was lovely.

“As in, through the night,” Mercer clarified.

For a split second, Rahil seemed to stop existing, so frozen in place that Mercer worried even his heart wasn’t beating, but then, quietly, he said, “I’d like that.”

“Good. Because I don’t have the energy to see you home.” Mercer stretched to the counter for his phone, managing not to dislodge Rahil only because his lover clung to him like a parasite. He settled back down, and drowsily found the lights app. He flicked the remaining few off. The darkness that settled was so complete that it felt like slipping out of consciousness. His perception of the world contorted into the feeling of Rahil’s skin on his and the vague sense of a dreamscape somewhere to the left of him.

Rahil’s voice echoed, distant, through the darkness. “Merc?”

“Mhmm.”

“There’s still that thing you should know,” Merc thought he said.

Something he should know? There was a vague tickle in the back of his half-asleep mind, but he felt like he knew everything in that moment—had felt everything, certainly. “Hmm.”

“This is important,” Rahil said.

Ah, yes. Of course.

There was one last, important thing to be said.

“I love you, too, Rahil,” Mercer whispered. He pressed his lips to the side of Rahil’s head, and if Rahil had anything else to say, Mercer didn’t catch it.

He was already sliding thoroughly into sleep.

Bright light rimmed the high window shutters, casting bold lines on the shed’s varnished wood. Dust motes floated between the streams, drifting with the same careless frivolity as Mercer’s sleepy thoughts. He drew his fingers up and down Rahil’s back, soft and slow. Despite the sloppy, sideways position they’d ended up in, the pressure of Rahil’s elbow making Mercer’s side numb, he’d never felt so utterly content—well, perhaps not never. But not for a good long time.

Rahil groaned and shifted, nuzzling against Mercer’s neck. Mercer stilled as he felt the press of fangs. “Baby?”

Rahil only groaned again. It was such an unconscious sound, yet so obviously trusting, that it made Mercer’s heart warm.

He stretched his neck a little longer. “You can feed, if you’d like.”

“Mhmm,” Rahil replied, and Mercer thought for a moment that he was still too deep asleep to understand, but then he tipped his head enough to nip at Mercer’s neck.

The venom was muted compared to last night, but the pleasure of knowing Rahil was waking to this comfort made up for it, the gentle glide of Rahil’s tongue over the punctured skin so soothing that Mercer found himself drifting back into a half-dream.

He startled awake at a knock on the shed door.

Adrenaline pounded through his body, ridding his mind of the last traces of sleep as he instinctively shoved himself into a sitting position, dislodging Rahil in the process. Mercer could feel blood still dripping down the side of his neck, but the second set of rapping on the shed door had the potential to be infinitely more dangerous than a simple pair of pinpricks. After an awkward moment of flopping off the cot and tangling in the blanket, Rahil seemed to come to the same conclusion.

Mercer was already standing, hopping into his boxers and pants, which were still conveniently paired from being removed together last night. He didn’t bother with the shirt. Instead, he reached for the pointiest of his nearby tools. For once he couldn’t hear the echo of that knock ten years ago, too engaged in the very entirely probable threat of the one now.

The knock repeated, a little louder. “Mercer, are you here? I hope I’m not intruding.”

The war drum in Mercer’s ribcage stuttered. That was—

“Dr. Hilker?” Mercer cracked the shed door. With the panic still coursing through his body, he was half-expecting to find William Douglas holding the scientist at knifepoint, but it was truly just Anthony, tired circles under his eyes and his hair in a sloppy bun. His undercut looked overgrown. “Good—good morning.”

“Am I early?” Anthony asked, lifting a brow. “Your email last night said nine-forty-five and it’s nearly ten now.”

Oh goddamn, was it already—

Fuck.

Mercer shook his head. “No, no, I just lost track of time. Why don’t you…” He glanced behind him, hoping to gauge Rahil’s feelings on the situation, but Anthony seemed to take it as permission to enter, shoving the shed door open another six inches to slip past Mercer. He stilled as his gaze landed on Rahil. His brow tightened.

At least Rahil was now mostly back in his clothes, some of his shirt buttons even finished. He held the third from the bottom as he stared right back at Anthony.

“Rahil, was it?” Anthony asked.

“Yes, um,” Rahil said, swallowing instead of acknowledging Anthony’s name in return.

“How do you know… ah.” The lightbulb flicked on in Mercer’s head and he really wished it hadn’t because he could not unsee that pairing now that his imagination had grabbed onto it. “Well, this is…”

“No, no, I understand,” Anthony smiled. “A vampire needs to feed, after all. Besides, you must like someone on which to try out all these very specific toys you create.”

Rahil said something to the effect of, “That’s not,” and “We’re technically,” but then he was staring at Mercer like Mercer was meant to continue the explanation, and all Mercer’s brain could do was fix on the idea that Anthony was envisioning him with Rahil and sink into ever deeper circles of dismay.

Anthony broke the awkward silence by clearing his throat. “Unholy gold then, you’re calling it?”

“Yes,” Mercer responded on instinct. His brain clicked into customer service mode. “It’s a 22 karat base with all the same attribute-reduction properties of holy silver, but it produces none of the damage.”

He lifted his lockbox onto the bench and opened it mechanically, ignoring its other contents as he retrieved the little case with the unholy gold. As he lifted it out of the container though, Rahil took hold of his arm, his grip shaky.

“Can I speak with you in private?” he hissed, his tight smile clearly forced.

Mercer blinked. His gaze shot to Anthony, who seemed too preoccupied with his curiosity about the unholy gold to be curious about this too.

But—shit—Anthony.

As the dots connected, Mercer cursed himself for not stepping in when Anthony had made assumptions about their relationship. Of course Rahil wasn’t just any old vampire Mercer had picked up for a good time. He’d been a great time, truth be told, and more than that, Mercer hoped they were moving in the direction of a heartfelt forever. And he was proud of that. Rahil deserved to see that pride.

Slowly, Mercer nodded.

“Sure, babe,” he said, choosing the pet name on purpose.

It only seemed to make Rahil more uncomfortable, though.

But why? What was—did Rahil have more feelings for Anthony than—but no, no he’d said all his previous dates had been primarily quid pro quo. He’d talked about the loneliest whale. There had to be something else going on… Mercer just couldn’t figure out what.

His mind tumbled through options, pulling in one after another, each worse than the last, and as he walked Rahil out of the shed and around the side to a more private space near the forest, the swelling of his heart collapsed slowly into confusion and dread.

31

RAHIL

Mercer loved him, too.

Rahil swore he’d whispered it last night in the darkness—and yet the gap in Rahil’s heart that had been waiting, aching, for those four words had rejected them so long as Mercer didn’t know the truth. It wasn’t this truth, either, but somehow this was the truth that seemed to loom larger, more intrusive and leering. If they couldn’t work this out, what hope did they have anyway?

As he watched Mercer fight off the stony pinch of his usual solemn mask, his anxiety clearly bubbling beneath it, doubt nudged at the back of Rahil’s mind. What if this wasn’t the right choice? Pushing this topic now, telling Mercer about the circumstances around Leah’s death later—or not having told him last night, damn whatever joyful oblivion Mercer had asked for. What if this was the moment that sparked the end of their momentary relationship, and he was setting light to the fuse without even knowing it?

The fear brought with it a feeling he’d managed to push back, shove down, talk himself out of: he’d never had any hope for a thriving relationship, even if the other person in it was as kind and stable as Mercer. Even if Mercer accepted this and forgave him for his part in Leah’s death, Rahil would fuck something else up. He’d push Mercer off the deep end or fail to pull him back from it. He’d corrupt his relationship with his daughter or corrupt Lydia herself.

Someone would end up dead, his darkest thoughts whispered.

But he had a terrible, awful feeling someone would end up dead now too, if he didn’t stop this transaction from going through.

“We can’t give that man our unholy gold.” Rahil cringed as he said it, already regretting everything he’d ever done in his life and knowing that now that the words were out, he was trapped in them.

“What?” Mercer’s brow tightened, a pained look crossing his face. “But we’ve made it. It’s ready. He’s here. I thought you were on board with this?”

“I thought I was too.” Rahil couldn’t tell if that was a lie or not. He had originally decided this was a good idea, but maybe he’d been, at least in part, blinded by the idea of being in Mercer’s shed and feeling his touch, day in and day out as they worked on it. He shook his head. “But this particular scientist—I don’t trust him with it. I wouldn’t give him access to something that could be this devastating to vampires.”

“Because you slept with him?”

He didn’t think Mercer meant it as a low blow, but that was how it hit, between the ribs and into the gut. “No—yes. Because of the way he was when we were together.” Rahil found himself baring his fangs without meaning to, lips pulled back and jaw wide. “I know when someone’s fetishizing me. I know when they don’t have my welfare in mind—I see it all the time, in most of the men I sleep with.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t do good science with it,” Mercer protested. “He’s not always the most pleasant person, but he has done charity work like this before.” He sighed, rubbing at the front of his face. It only seemed to make his brow more knotted. “Dr. Hilker helped Lydia when no one else could or would. He spent months of his free time producing something that would keep her from dying, and worked for years after that perfecting it until she could live a mostly normal life. He may be a bastard, but he’s a bastard who helps people.”

As though summoned by their hissed conversation, Lydia’s voice rang across the backyard. “Daddyo?”

Mercer groaned under his breath. He lifted his head in time for Anthony to call from within the shed, “Why, hello again, punk.”

“God, not you,” Lydia said, but there was laughter in her voice.

Anthony gave a dramatic sigh. “Alas, the evil scientist has come for you again.”

“You look tired.”

“I feel tired.” Anthony’s voice faded back into the shed. “Perhaps we’re fated to save everyone but ourselves…”

Rahil tried to step after them, dread tightening his eyes, but Mercer grabbed his arm. “He’s the only reason she’s alive. She’s safe with him.”

Rahil wasn’t sure he believed that, but Lydia wasn’t his to care for—and his track record of taking care of people he loved wasn’t great anyway. Their unholy gold was a different story, though. This had ramifications far beyond anyone in Rahil’s tiny bubble of affection. “It doesn’t matter how much you trust him with your own kid, I don’t trust what he’ll use that metal for in other kids. He could do anything with it.”

“It’s a single chunk of gold, Rahil. One piece. And you have no proof he’ll do anything with it but that which he’s already promised to, which is to help vampires.” He was sounding frustrated now, low and dark in a way Rahil had never seen before—at least not since their first meeting when he’d literally invaded Mercer’s home.

It made Rahil feel drawn taut, his every muscle ready for a fight. “So, we let him walk away with it, with nothing but his word that he has good intentions? Do you know who he works with? What else he’s done when he’s not offering you his charity? What he’s using that altruism to make up for?”

Mercer flinched somewhere between the first question and the last, but his jaw remained as stiff as his stance. “And if he is all that you suspect—what then? He holds my daughter’s life in his hands. Either I can trust him to take this unholy gold and do good with it, or I can trust him to let my own kid die if I refuse.”

Now it was Rahil’s turn to flinch. He could understand that, understand it in a way that he doubted Mercer was intending, in the deep, dark parts of his heart where the wounds of Jonah and Matthew’s deaths still felt as fresh as the days he’d lost them, whether it was months or years ago. But this did not feel so simple as that. Mercer was a good dad. There had to be other options. “Merc—”

“No,” Mercer cut him off, pressing past him, back toward the shed. “You agreed to help me create the gold for Dr. Hilker. This conversation is finished.”

Rahil could do nothing but stare after him. His heart pounded in his throat, his ears, his fingertips. He could go. He could take the unholy gold and run with it. But what if he was wrong? And worse yet, what if Mercer was right? What if Lydia truly did suffer because Rahil made the wrong decision?

If this took her away from Mercer the way Rahil’s choices had already taken Leah…

He wavered—between one option and the other, between staying and leaving entirely, between life and death—and in the end, his heart took the first step for him.

Rahil sped after Mercer, arriving at the shed just in time to hear Lydia say, “Yo, Dad, why does the mold in your lockbox look kind of like Rahil’s fangs?”

And Rahil knew—he knew.

His blood chilled, a shudder like the start of a sun-poisoning running through him, followed by a crash of dread, a panic like the flight instead of the fight. He should have told Mercer earlier. Should have told him back when they’d tested the unholy gold on Natalie, when they’d sat beside the boardwalk, when they’d lain together in the darkness. When they weren’t already fighting. When this wasn’t doomed to crumble at the slightest shove.

Now there was one option, and it was, as ever, the one that hurt.

32

MERCER

It should not have hurt like this.

Rahil was just looking out for his community, just trying to protect those he cared about—but his people were vague and huge, and Mercer’s was his own goddamned daughter. The only person he had left in the world. The only person he’d had before Rahil had come barging into his life, at least.

That thought made him cringe, his mind replaying the harshness of his own words, reactive where he’d meant to be logical. This was exactly how he felt at the end of every argument with Lydia—like he’d said all the wrong things, despite walking into the conversation convinced that this time, finally, he’d explain his feelings calmly and have the serenity to listen in return. But instead he’d been scared and the fear had made him snappy, probably even cruel, though as he thought it, he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, just how it had felt: like he’d been trying to quickly throw up a protective wall and accidently lobbed bricks straight at Rahil in the process.

His mind was still reeling hard enough to ache behind his eyes, deep into the space between his temples, and he barely noticed Lydia hovering over his still-open lockbox when he first reentered the shed. He might have walked right past her if she didn’t call for him directly.

“Yo, Dad, why does the mold in your lockbox look kind of like Rahil’s fangs?” She snorted, rolling her eyes in the way he was always only seventy percent sure was teasing. “Like, I want to ship you, but that’s so creepy.”

He braced himself, hoping to see the cast he’d taken of Rahil’s fangs and not the finished fang caps—he’d explained the basic concept of kink to her recently, but he was not prepared to get into these kinds of specifics, not now and hopefully not ever; that was what fanfiction was for. But the mold she casually held up to the light, squinting at it as she made a dramatic face, was neither of those. It was a silver metal, its weathered box discarded on the counter: long, lean fangs Mercer had spent years staring at, then even more years trying to forget. But even if he could forget their specifics, he knew he could never forget the day he’d crafted them, the blackened blood he’d cleaned off their edges after pulling them, so gently, from the cast of his wife’s corpse.

Mercer froze.

The floor seemed to cave out from under him, leaving his head floating in a haze of panic. That was—but it couldn’t have been. Rahil’s fangs looked similar, certainly, but Mercer would know if they were the same—and Rahil wouldn’t have—he couldn’t be. This just—

Wasn’t.

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’t know.

He remembered, like a memory of a dream, that Rahil had been prepared to tell him something about Leah’s death last night, but not this—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 to this? 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 to me.” Rahil said it like it was an explanation. But it made no sense. None of this made any damn sense.

“And you… killed her.” Killed didn’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 of Rahil.

“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—

“You said you’d seen her pass out? Spontaneously?” Rahil’s hands tried to hold him up, but Mercer shoved him off, shoved himself up, stumbling, catching his body on the central counter. The notebook nearly slipped from his arms, but he held to it.

“That was nothing!” Mercer choked. “She said it was nothing. They ran tests, and it was—it was some autonomic nervous system issue. She was going to be fine.”

Rahil didn’t know. Who the hell did he think he was? He hadn’t known her.

Even if he’d killed her. Even if he’d—

He’d—

Mercer shoved himself toward the shed door. “I have to check on Lydia.”

“Mercer—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t mean to shout it, but it was what came out, sharp as the stake he’d dreamed of stabbing into Leah’s murderer. Leah was murdered. Leah was— “Leave.” He couldn’t see that vampire, any vampire right now, even behind the blurry sheen of his vision and the memory of Leah’s cooling body regurgitating through his mind like an undead thing. His heart screamed, and from his lungs came the short, snapped demand: “Get out!”

33

RAHIL

Rahil left, into the sun, into the open ocean. Like always, Rahil left.

34

MERCER

Mercer wasn’t sure what had happened, afterward.

He stood in the shed, holding Leah’s old notebook and staring at the space Rahil had been, as slowly his fear hollowed out. The shed had been this empty before. It had been this empty for most of his time here. But never had it felt like this: this shell of a place, haunted and shadowy. It made Mercer want to look over his shoulder. To reach for someone.

For Leah?

But Leah was…

Mercer made himself walk, out the front of the shed and across the yard. He instinctively pet Kat as she bounded up to him at the back door. His hand didn’t visibly shake, so perhaps only he could feel the trembling beneath his skin. There still seemed to be too little oxygen in the air, but he was breathing. Though everything echoed back out of his head as soon as it came, he could still hear Anthony and Lydia chatting in the kitchen.

Anthony had just finished wrapping Lydia’s arm, two fresh vials of blood in a tiny rack on the table beside her. She snorted at whatever he’d said last.

“And I thought scientists were smart or something.”

“Even the most genius mind requires sleep.” Anthony smiled as he tucked the samples into his bag, and it reminded Mercer uncomfortably of the way Natalie had looked at his unholy gold—not joyless, but darker than simple happiness, thoughtful in a way that made Mercer question himself.

Rahil had said—

And he couldn’t think about Rahil right now, about any of the nonsense or truth he’d spouted, but Mercer could think about that metal, and very quickly his mind began churning through all the reasons this might truly be a mistake. He recalled what Anthony had asked when Mercer questioned him on his involvement with Vitalis-Barron: “Would it make a difference?”

Mercer had agreed to this knowing full well that as good as Anthony was to some people, there were surely others whom he’d hurt in the process of reaching his goals. He had been a saint to Lydia, but Rahil was right—that didn’t make him trustworthy. Not for this.

And Mercer feared that Anthony’s actions outside of his home hadn’t concerned him nearly enough—not until one of the people those actions could harm had held Mercer’s hand and told him that he wasn’t alone anymore. What was the least he could do for someone he loved?

Someone he loved. Someone who’d killed someone he’d loved.

Mercer breathed in and out and told himself it didn’t matter yet. He put one foot in front of the other, and made sure to only shake in his soul, where Anthony couldn’t see. As the scientist finished gathering his things and said farewell to Lydia, Mercer settled a hand on his arm, guiding him toward the door.

He lowered his voice in the hopes of keeping eavesdropping preteens at bay. “How do I know I can trust you with this metal?”

Anthony lifted a single brow, his mouth a grim line. “I thought we were in agreement about this.”

“I’m in agreement that it should be used to help the vampires,” Mercer said. “You haven’t given me any proof of that.”

He leaned closer to Mercer, uncomfortably close. “Here is all the proof you will receive, Mr. Bloncourt. I give you my word that the revolutionary science I am attempting will return vampires to their normal livelihoods.”

Their normal livelihoods. That sounded a little less like the sunscreen and blood supplements that Mercer had originally understood his research to be, and a little more like… But no. It couldn’t be. That wasn’t possible…

Anthony must have seen a flash of his horror, because though his words were soft, the way his gaze shifted to Lydia was anything but. “And you can be assured that I will not see that work torn down by your cowardice. You can trust me, or you can trust that.”

A chill ran through Mercer. He let go of Anthony’s arm. He stepped back. He wasn’t sure he made the decision, but his body chose for him: chose Lydia’s medication, her life, her future. The selfish choice—the wrong one, possibly—and yet the only one that had ever been an option.

So he watched Anthony walk out the front door with his unholy gold. Mercer swore he could feel every step the man took, and he thought of Rahil.

Rahil, oh God.

Mercer pressed his palms to his face and forced himself not to scream into them or melt to the floor. His body was truly shaking now, his legs weak and his lungs catching in a brand-new way, one that felt less like suffocating and more like his body wished that were the case, as though if only he wracked his chest enough then he could convince himself to pass out and leave the pain behind. And it was pain. This hurt.

He took one small step backwards. Then another.

The notebook—he’d had it—yes, there it was, on the floor by the back door. He must have set it down when he’d pet Kat, and just hadn’t realized it.

Mercer wanted to rip it in two or hurl it across the room, but somehow, despite the rage and pain and fear coursing through him, he merely picked it up. Something slid out of the back—an envelope. He couldn’t remember opening it, but suddenly there they were in his fingers: a dozen pages of brain scans and doctor’s notes. They couldn’t be Leah’s—he wanted to believe that—but somehow he knew they were, knew it like he knew, logically, so far back behind his coursing emotions, that Rahil wouldn’t have brought this to him if it wasn’t absolutely true. Which meant Leah had…

Cancer, his brain supplied, but his heart fixated elsewhere. Leah had lied to him.

The idea caught so soundly in Mercer’s throat that he couldn’t breathe again. He closed his eyes, feeling the air rattle inside him, large and painful.

Lydia’s small hand circled around his arm, fingers squeezing. “Hey, Dad…?”

He had to pull it together; had to, for her. “Yes, Puck?”

She looked concerned—conflicted, even—her brow tight and her question soft. “What were you and Ray fighting over?”

Mercer’s instinct told him to bury it. She didn’t need to know this. He wasn’t ready to tell her. He hadn’t been ready to know himself, and he’d barely accepted it, much less processed the information. But he did have to tell her, didn’t he? Someday, somehow.

Before he could spiral into all the potential future dilemmas of it, Lydia added, “That mold—that was from Mom’s vampire, right?”

A shock of cold ran across Mercer’s skin. “How do you know that?”

“You wouldn’t have, like, looked so distressed, otherwise.” She fiddled with the edge of her beanie, blinking and staring toward the silhouette of her fingers like she was trying not to let the sheen develop over her eyes. “You have a sad about Mom face.”

“Oh.” For all that he’d tried to hide it, she’d still noticed.

“Does that mean Ray…?” She looked so very confused, and hurt, and lost, and it made Mercer’s broken heart fly back together, if only to provide her a softer landing.

There was so much of him still in pieces, so much he didn’t understand—didn’t want to—but he had to be whole for her. He wrapped his arms around Lydia, sinking to his knees. Kat immediately snuggled between them. And as he held Lydia, felt the life he and Leah had made together beating within her, Mercer realized he was not so shattered as he’d thought. He was like Lydia, confused, and hurt, and lost, but this wasn’t another police officer knocking on his door. They were all safe: him and Lydia and Kat and… Rahil.

Rahil. God, Mercer had been awful to him, hadn’t he?

That was a problem for after, though.

Lydia was still watching him, her brow tight and her lips bunched.

Mercer sighed. “It’s… complicated. But what I know is that your mom’s death was not Ray’s fault, and it’s not your mom’s fault either. They both made decisions that were probably a little selfish and ended up causing more than a little pain for other people, but we also make selfish decisions, you and me, and everyone else. Sometimes those decisions turn out fine, and sometimes they turn out… like this.”

Lydia wiped her nose. “What did they do? I’m not a kid. I want to know.”

She was a kid, Mercer’s heart protested. But she was a kid who deserved to know. So, Mercer drove back into his memories of that time, and tried to be honest, for both of them. “I was selfish too,” he admitted. “There was a period where I knew something was wrong. Your mother had fainting spells, then fatigue and brain fog. I was terrified for her, but she went to the doctors, and she told me her results were fine.” Mercer could feel the weight of the envelope of brain scans, and decided that was more than Lydia needed for this. “She wasn’t fine, though.”

He still didn’t want to believe it, even as he said it. She’d told him she was fine. She really had lied, and lied about something so huge—about seeking out a potentially deadly cure for it.

Had Leah always been like that? She’d rarely seemed to get sick, hardly complained during her pregnancy, laughed off bruises and cuts when Mercer tried to worry over them. Had she always been protecting him, quietly hiding the little things until it felt reasonable to hide the big ones too?

“She told Rahil she had cancer.” Mercer could see it play out: Rahil agonizing over Shefali’s death after she’d refused to use his venom to try to save herself, and along came a purposeful young woman with a similar diagnosis, asking for that very thing he’d failed his ex-wife in.

And then she’d died, too.

“The coin only flips to heads so many times,” Rahil had said. “I got lucky, so someone else…”

Mercer had assumed he was speaking in generalizations, but the someone else had been Leah.

He felt the burn of his eyes before the tears sprang, and quickly wiped them back, sucking in his sob as best he could—there could be time for that later, when he wouldn’t risk drowning Lydia in his tears. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry, Puck.”

She hugged him. She wrapped her arms around him, tighter than she had in years—maybe tighter than she ever had, and whispered back, “I’m sorry, too.”

He squeezed her, holding on for dear life. “She should have told us.” The words bubbled out of him, not in anger but fear. All that anxiety she’d tried to keep him from, churning up in one fell swoop. “If she’d told us, we would have been there for her.” He didn’t know who that we entailed when Lydia had been a toddler, but together, as a family, they could have at least held her hands. Could have given her hope. Could have said goodbye.

He noticed too late that Lydia had gone stiff in his arms. She sniffled. “Then would you have helped Ray turn her?”

The question felt like a punch to the chest, and he didn’t know why, except that it had come from her—had occurred to her. Had Leah come to him first, Mercer wouldn’t have even considered vampirism as a solution, much less supported her in attempting something with such a high risk and low reward. But then, he supported Rahil’s choice to turn, didn’t he? Because it had worked. Rahil was here, because he’d made that hard choice.

And for the same reason, Leah was not.

Mercer closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was the best possible version of himself, and knowing how sorely he’d fallen short of that over and over. “If she truly was dying—if we had tried everything else—then yes. I’d have done whatever she asked.”

Lydia shifted, pulling back her arms to wrap around her stomach. She didn’t look at him as she muttered, “What if Mom wasn’t dying yet, but she just didn’t want to be sick anymore?”

Mercer started, “No one wants to risk that just to stop being sick…” But the more he looked at her, the farther his heart sank, his stomach knotting. He forced himself to draw in breath. “Lydia?”

She continued to avoid his gaze, her expression growing stonier by the moment.

She had gone to a vampire—had gone over and over—to a vampire she didn’t know, whose moral compass might have been anything from impeccable to outright decimated. And Mercer had thought she was just being a child. Just ignoring the risks or failing to see them.

But Lydia was smart. Confounding, rebellious, stubborn, and, it seemed, as willing a liar as her mother in the right situation, but she was smart.

“Lydia,” Mercer snapped when she still refused to look at him. “Why were you friends with Rahil?”

“Because he’s cool. Duh.”

She was lying. He knew her well enough—had seen her tics since she was a toddler. And normally, he could let it go. But not this. The thought of what could have happened to her with anyone other than Rahil—even with Rahil himself, ten years ago, before he’d watched his venom kill the last person he’d given it to and held it against himself. Mercer could hear the knock already. He could see the blood seeping out of Lydia’s eyes. Could feel her growing cold.

Darkness clogged the edges of his vision, his world narrowing to the space where his daughter sat, somehow alive. Still alive. For how much longer? How long until she tried again—

“Lydia.” Mercer tried to grab her, but she was out of his reach. “What were you doing at his house?” He leaned toward her, was moving toward her, like pulling her into his arms could pull her into safety as he had with the dangers of the busy street and the hot stove and the monsters under the bed. “Lydia!”

“Why does it matter?” Lydia shot back, scowling at him. “I’m not a child. I know what I want!”

“And you want to be a vampire?” Mercer could barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears. Lydia was going to die. Lydia was going to die. Lydia was going to— “Do you want to die, Lydia? Because that’s what happens!”

“It’s not just what happens!” She stood, her arms swinging at her sides and her face red with the cherry flush of anger she’d inherited from her mother. “There’s statistics—”

“I don’t care what smaller percentage you think doesn’t matter. It mattered to your mom.” Mercer was on his feet now too, the world spinning around him. “You are not going to endanger yourself, God help me—”

“This is why Mom didn’t tell you shit!” Lydia cut him off, finishing with one final glower before wheeling around and storming toward the back door.

Mercer wanted to run after her, but his legs wobbled, his arm going to the wall for support, so instead he just shouted, “Lydia!”

“I’m going to find Ray,” she screamed back. “At least he fucking listens.”

Mercer couldn’t see her by the time the door slammed.

Somehow he was on the floor again, his breath coming in gasps and sobs. He leaned his head back and stared into the darkness that kept trying to spin down, feeling as sick as with any migraine. God damn. “God help me,” he muttered.

Maybe God listened, or maybe they didn’t, but as he sat there breathing some of the panic resided—enough at least, to register Lydia’s last reply. She was going to Rahil. She’d be safe there. He seemed to know what to do with her in a way that Mercer wasn’t managing.

Goddamn. How had he fucked everything up again, this soon?

What had he done? What had he said?

He was supposed to be better than this—he was trying to be better than this—and yet every time, this still happened. Maybe there was no God real enough or powerful enough to fix whatever the hell was wrong in his head that he kept letting his panic transform into something that scared off the people he wanted to keep closest.

Kat pressed her head into his lap, whimpering softly, and Mercer flinched from the sudden touch. She scooted back, looking concerned.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered, and it came out more of a blubber. Carefully, he pulled the stubby dog into his lap and rubbed her head.

His phone chimed.

Despite everything he’d done and said, he half-hoped for a message from Lydia or Rahil, but what he got instead made everything else feel small in comparison.

Bloncourt,

I know what you’re doing.

Meet me in the park in five minutes, or we can settle this the hard way.

William

35

LYDIA

Lydia was nearly to the trees, beanie pulled low and palms wiping her cheeks, when she heard noise from within the shed.

Ray had been in there earlier, hadn’t he? If her dad was still in the house, then it had to be him.

She didn’t want to admit how relieved it made her to think she wouldn’t have to walk all the way to his home. Her limbs hurt with the small, muscle-numbing pain that meant something worse was coming, and she hadn’t taken her med pack with her, and she was so stupid tired in the way that her body got after big emotions, and she didn’t want to be near her dad but she also didn’t want to be away from him either.

What she wanted, most of all, was for Ray to tell her it was okay that it sucked, and then to curl up on her floor with a pillow and watch videos until she forgot to be worried about Dad panicking himself into a migraine. Maybe Ray would stay with her dad for a bit. Maybe he could help.

Lydia gave her face one last rub with her beanie, sliding it back on and taking a good, deep breath to get the sobs out of her lungs, before stepping into the shed. “Hey, Ray—”

She froze four steps in.

The man hovering over her dad’s work bench, sliding his phone into his pocket as his eyes locked on her, wasn’t Ray at all. He smiled. “You must be Lydia. I’ve been waiting for you.”

36

RAHIL

He could not have stayed.

Rahil kept telling himself that as he paced through the trees neighboring the Bloncourt’s lot, little sun-shakes wracking through his limbs. The prickling pain of each step felt good. Like he was still alive. Like he could still do something.

He couldn’t though. Mercer had told him to leave, and after he’d invaded the man’s space so many times in the past, Rahil couldn’t do it this time.

It still felt like the wrong choice, but so did every other choice.

So did every choice he’d ever made.

Rahil ran his hands through the pieces of hair that had fallen from his braid. It had been so tight when he’d put it in, what was it now, twenty-four, thirty-six hours ago? He’d lost track of the time. No, that was a lie—he’d found out that he wasn’t the only whale left in the sea, and time had stopped having meaning. And now he was alone again.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, hoping for guidance, even if it was in the form of condemnation. The text bubble icon made his heart leap and flutter, but he opened it to find a string of messages from his nieces as they planned the next family get-together: a collection of food and games, which they’d decided had to include one of the two Bollywood films they’d clearly been arguing over in a different thread, though how that fit into the ‘games’ category, Rahil wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t what he wanted, and he almost—almost—clicked it aside.

But then he didn’t.

As he watched, fresh messages arrived from his cousin, then his nephew. Opinions on dessert, agreements to be there. Auntie Fatima complained that her television was having problems—no Bollywood if she hosted—and Adam told her to give it a good kick. Nora asked if anyone had invited Rahil.

His head felt light, but once he started moving again, it wasn’t as hard as he’d thought. His finger slipped over the send button automatically.

Rahil

I’ll have to find a ride, but I’ll be there <3

He had to close the text thread immediately, pressing his phone to his chest and shutting his eyes. It was done. And maybe, maybe it would mean nothing. Maybe he was still the only 52hz whale in the sea. But his song had come from somewhere—from people he’d once loved, who still loved him, even after he’d pulled so far away that he’d been able to lock that love up in his heart’s dungeon and toss the key into the abyss.

He might hurt them, the little voice in the back of his mind whispered. He’d pulled away for a reason.

But if he’d truly done so many things that had turned out to be wrong, what were the chances that pulling away from his family wasn’t just another mistake?

At least this way, he’d have a front-row seat to whatever happened, for better or worse.

With his hands free of his phone, it was clear just how much he was shaking now, even the shade of the thick pine growth not enough to block out the cloudless summer sun. He had to get moving, one way or the other. Pick a wrong choice and stick with it.

He tried to settle the fluttering anxiety in his stomach, tamp down on the aching between his ribs, and look at the situation logically. He wanted to hope that Mercer had just needed space, but it seemed that Rahil’s involvement in Leah’s death was too much after all—fuck, that thought hurt. Even as a distant thing, numbed and rationalized, it made him want to tear into his own chest and rip through the muscle that bled within. He tried to steady himself with something factual: that regardless of his future with Mercer, they had come together for a job. Before Mercer invited him on a date, Rahil had already been preparing for this outcome.

Their quest for unholy gold may have been over, for better or for worse, but the mysterious protective device Rahil had agreed to finish for Lydia was still not quite functional—it turned on, certainly, but every way he’d tried to initiate a defensive outcome with it had failed. He’d consulted what programing notes Leah had written in her book and read every line of code a dozen times, but there was something wrong still. Something he was missing.

He could identify the complex coding for how Mercer’s robotic arms were meant to move, which seemed perfectly functional, and had finished parts of the coding for the sensor inputs—touch, visual, audio, movement—so it had to be something in the section that combined both, predicting what the cord’s output should have been based on the sensory data.

There were detections for whether something was a ‘person’ or whether it was a ‘threat’. In that threat category, there were fall threats, seize threats, hold threats, and more, all of which worked in tandem with a variety of monitors that seemed like coding for a wearable medical device—indicators of stress, Rahil figured—and a peculiar line of coding for if person, disable. But none of it seemed to actually do anything. So there had to be something wrong. Something to fix.

If he could get it working, at least when he was gone, he would know Lydia was safe, and Mercer less anxious for it. That was right; that was good—it would make leaving them more manageable. Less horrible.

Rahil nodded to himself, ignoring the slicing pain in his heart. He could do this. For them. In a sea of wrong choices, it was perhaps the only one that was positively right.

He’d go back to his original plan: he wouldn’t see Mercer, just grab Leah’s project and quietly return it when he’d finished, and that would be that. Then, at least—at least—Mercer would have gotten something nice out of their relationship. Not something that could make up for the pain, but still.

Shaking and aching, Rahil set back off through the little forest. He dodged the fence to the yard that bordered Mercer’s and slipped out of the woods. Everything seemed quiet, no sign of Mercer, thankfully. Rahil sprinted through the sunlit space between the shed and the trees, his chin lowered and his hood bouncing against his forehead. Kat barked at him excitedly from inside the glass backdoor, her tail wagging. He waved at her as he turned into the shed. The sliding door was closed, but as he grabbed it to yank it open, it rolled on its own.

Rahil ran into the shed’s current occupant: a man, a little shorter than Rahil. Anthony? But no—

Rahil’s scrambled thoughts got no further as the man’s knee collided with Rahil’s gut. The rush of pain seemed to trigger a fresh cascade of sun-shakes, and he stumbled, unable to dodge as the stranger jerked around him, fist crashing into the back of Rahil’s head.

Darkness flared. The world spun. Rahil’s shoulder slammed into the bench, a sharp ache pounding from his kneecaps a moment later. He tried to blink away the pain clouding his vision, but the blurry shadow of the man grabbed one of his arms and yanked it to the side. Agony speared from the center of his palm, a blade pinning his hand to the side of the workbench behind him. He could not move—could not think.

The thrum of holy silver tingled through Rahil, weakening him. A whimpering sound echoed in his ears.

He followed the source of the noise to—Lydia.

Rahil’s heart crashed into his ribcage, adrenaline shooting through his body at the sight of Lydia lying on the floor, her wrists and ankles bound and a gag shoved in her mouth. The edges of her eyes were red, but behind them was nothing but fire. It brought Rahil back to life.

He thrashed, only resulting in a fresh burst of pain from his hand. Instead, he opened his mouth. “Merc—”

The man shoved him against the bench, one hand slamming down on Rahil’s mouth. He pressed the holy silver to Rahil’s neck, and Rahil could feel the way it tore through his usual strength, worsened by the sun-poisoning already working its way through his body.

“Ah ah ah,” the man hissed. “No courageous human is coming to rescue you.”

A chill ran through Rahil.

He knew this man—by purpose if not by face—the subtle cruelty, the disrespect for property, the disregard for life. But now that he had William Douglas standing in front of him, he recognized his face too: the full head of silvering hair, the sharp eyes and thin smile. He’d swiped right on him a few months earlier. It had only taken a few messages back and forth to unmatch. Nothing specific had stuck in his memory, but he recalled being unable to shake the uncomfortable gut instinct that any meeting with the man would be his last.

There was a reason vampires who advertised themselves like he did went missing from time to time, and Rahil feared a perpetrator of the problem was standing in front of him. And now that problem had Lydia.

Ignoring the holy silver pressed to his skin was far easier for Rahil than most vampires, but the metal-work blade spearing his palm to the table had him trapped. Still, he used the last of his energy to twist away from the hand clamped to his mouth, shoving William back just enough to—

“Mercer!” The name came out more gurgle than shout as William hit him again. Rahil’s vision wavered, but he didn’t fall, both of William’s fists and his pinned arm holding him up.

“You won’t be a good bat and die quietly, huh?” William grumbled. He grabbed Rahil’s other arm.

Fear shot through Rahil, and he jerked away on instinct, but he was too weak and trapped to stop William as he forced the back of Rahil’s other hand to the workbench. Rahil managed a whimper, the sound turning to a hiss when William pressed the tip of one of Mercer’s metal working blades to his skin. William pushed.

This agony was worse than the first time, amped by terror and a sharp rush of something like claustrophobia.

Willaim pushed Rahil into the counter, leaving him slumped there in his pain as he wandered through the black spots in Rahil’s vision to the box of Mercer’s holy silver.

William bounced a little charm in his palm as he returned. “I think I can waste a piece of this if I have the maker’s daughter, huh.” He grabbed Rahil by the shirt, forcing him up. Rahil swore that the closer the charm came, the worse his shakes got, the sun-poisoning reacting to the presence of the silver like a flock of vultures to a kill. William’s grin flickered dastardly in his eyes. “Let Vitalis-Barron see what happens when a vamp swallows the sun.”

He grabbed Rahil’s chin, and Rahil tried to scream again, but it came out a yowl as William shoved the charm into his mouth, wedging it toward the back of his throat. Rahil gagged, twisting away from the terrible metal and the man assaulting him with it. William clapped his hand over Rahil’s mouth.

“Don’t disappoint me,” William hissed. His finger and thumb closed around Rahil’s nostrils.

The sudden lack of air hit him like a ton of bricks, his chest swelling and shaking as nothing came in. Each useless gasp made his throat tighten. His lungs burned and his palms seared as he tried to struggle, the holy silver charm resting at the back of his throat like a weight.

What more could it possibly do to him? The metal didn’t hurt. He was weak already, shaking, aching, bleeding from the blades in both his hands, not strong enough to push William off for a single breath of air. But who knew what holy silver did when ingested, when circulated through a vampire’s bloodstream? Whatever that was, Rahil guessed it wouldn’t be quick. All he needed, though, was long enough to help Lydia.

But as Rahil tried to focus his attention beyond William, he realized Lydia didn’t need his help any longer.

She crashed into William, a smithing tool in each hand as she slashed them into his back. William stumbled, the handle of something sticking out of his shoulder-blade. He thrust Rahil away as he did.

Rahil’s body swallowed despite his efforts to stop it, the press of the metal forcing the motion. He gasped, feeling the fresh air plunge down his throat after the holy silver charm, but it was too late. His gut twisted, and he didn’t know whether it was dread or the charm, but he felt instantly sick.

He could think about that later, though—if there was a later.

He had to ensure there was a later for Lydia, at least.

She must have freed herself with one of the tools she’d stabbed into William, but she still seemed off-kilter, leaning half her weight on Rahil as she grabbed at the blade in his left hand. To her credit, she didn’t hesitate. A fresh wave of pain rolled over Rahil as she pulled it free, but her presence—her freedom—gave Rahil the strength to awkwardly help her remove the other.

Rahil ignored the pain that screamed through his palms and bones and churned in his stomach as he burst up, one arm already looped around Lydia. He grabbed Leah’s nearly finished protective device with his other, forcing himself to move through the agony. Blood oozed from his palms onto the project. William looked more shocked than hurt, and Rahil took the only chance they were likely to get, charging past him for the shed entrance. They burst into the sunlight, the cords from Leah’s protective device flailing after them.

The house—they just needed to get to the house.

He could already hear William behind them, huffing under his breath. Rahil pulled Lydia faster. They crashed into the backdoor, Lydia banging as Rahil dragged at the handle, leaving dark red smudges in his wake. Nothing—locked. Kat whimpered on the other side, uselessly jumping against the glass.

“The front,” Rahil gasped, and yanked Lydia onward.

Every window was locked, every light turned off, blinds closed and house silent, but Rahil banged on the glass as he passed, hollering for Mercer. His car was gone from its usual place in the driveway.

“Goddamn,” Rahil hissed, trying to be angry instead of afraid. His hood bounced against his back, but his hands shook too much to pull it up. He knew what he’d find at the front door before he even tried the knob. Locked, again.

Mercer had left.

Rahil’s legs trembled. His stomach gave an uncomfortable twist.

“Your place!” Lydia shouted, dragging him along.

He wanted to protest—there had to be somewhere she could go if she wasn’t with him, a neighbor who’d let her in or call the cops—but she just kept pulling, guiding him down the street and back into the nearest spotty patch of woods, angling toward Rahil’s house. As the trees closed behind them, he risked a look back. He caught the angry form of William’s silhouette and a putrid whiff of his blood.

Rahil shifted his grip on Leah’s protective device, its cords now tucked against his chest. If they slowed enough, maybe… but he hadn’t been able to figure out why it wasn’t working earlier, not with all the time he’d had so far. What use would he be, stumbling between the forest and the sun, his pained hands shaking and bleeding and his mind frazzled?

Lydia seemed to be gaining strength as they ran, and it took him nearly a minute of scrambling after her to realize it was the opposite—he was growing weaker. Each step was a collision of muscle against bone, nothing but willpower pulling him forward. They would lose William soon, he told himself—they knew where they were going, charging through the trees, across neighborhood streets, around micro-cemeteries, and back into the shadows, dense brush at their heels—at some point, they’d turn the right corner, round the right trunk. But every time they slowed, tripped, redirected a little too suddenly, Rahil could hear William’s steady jogging behind them: a predator who already knew he had his prey cornered, even if they hadn’t realized it yet.

They had to do something. And soon—preferably before Rahil’s legs stopped functioning.

He clung to Lydia’s arm, and through the asthmatic wheeze his holy silver-corrupted body had developed for the first time since his turning, he whispered, “You have to… go alone.”

“No!”

“I’ll come… after. I can’t keep…” He made the ploy up as he went, searching for something—anything—that would convince her to keep moving. “If we both hide, he’ll look for us. But if he hears you running—”

Her eyes widened. “He’ll come after me.”

A stabbing pain ran through Rahil’s heart at the thought—he didn’t want to direct William at her, he wanted to stay behind to stop him—but Lydia was already letting go of him, not merely letting go, but pushing him behind a dense patch of brush. “Lydi—”

He stumbled, crashing onto his back in the prickly tangle of branches and weeds. She shoved the leaves back over him, taking off with a holler before the brush had even settled. The sound of William’s arrival proceeded not a moment later.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Rahil had anticipated attacking William as he passed, but flat on his back with his limbs trembling and his head spinning, there was little he could do but lie there, little use he could be but perhaps a sitting duck. Would that save Lydia? If only he knew. If he just knew which choices were the best, what actions would actually work out in the end, he’d sacrifice anything, go any distance—if he just fucking knew.

William seemed to hesitate, his footsteps pausing. Rahil didn’t know.

He held his breath. As the forest went silent, the distant sound of Lydia’s hollering echoed back. William set off again.

Fuck.

Rahil dragged himself to his feet, still cradling the protector device. What could he do, what could he do?

He forced one foot in front of the other.

If he’d just sent Lydia onward to be captured, or worse—

He’d been responsible for the loss of Shefali, Jonah, Matthew, Leah, and now—

No.

He really hadn’t known, was the truth, not with any of them. It sounded like Mercer’s voice, deep and stern, solid as a mountain face and soft as velvet. Maybe, just maybe, all he could do right now was take his best bet and hope life didn’t fuck him over yet again. He’d have plenty of time to feel guilty in the future; now he had to act.

Rahil clutched Leah’s device tighter, his palms screaming and his fingers shaking as he jogged after William, and he repeated Mercer’s encouragements in his mind: Genius, brilliant, smarter than that. Good boy. He’d been enough for someone, if only for a moment. There was someone he hadn’t failed—not yet; not until he lost Lydia.

His own blood, dark and thick, dripped across Leah’s device as he tried to think back over all the code he’d been searching through, nearly losing control of his own body as he stumbled out of the trees onto his street. He could see the front of his house, three down. A figure stepped under the porch, too tall for Lydia or Avery, too broad for Jim. Rahil’s chest tried to cave in. His body wanted nothing more than to collapse then and there, be done with life and love and succumb to the end, but he pushed. One step, then the next.

What would Leah do, he thought, and then, quieter, what would I do?

If this had been his project. If he had been working on a piece for the protection of the small child in the crib beside his bed, he would not have cared about force, would not have wanted that child to be witness to blood, much less feel they were the cause of it—to take responsibility of the lives of those around them, simply by existing.

This device was for Lydia. Not for Mercer, not for a random child, but for this beautiful, brilliant, courageous little fae girl, with a mother who was feeling her own body reject itself and had to know that was a possibility for her child as well—who was perhaps already seeing the first symptoms emerge.

Rahil had been looking at this all wrong. He’d been trying to force the device to react to his attacks. But what if that wasn’t its purpose at all?

What if it was something to catch Lydia if she fainted, turn her body if she seized, help her hold herself up when she felt weak—let her experience the world without the fear that one accident might end it all? What if Leah’s device was the same thing that Mercer had eventually found for their daughter in the form of pills?

What if it wasn’t a weapon, but an aid?

What if that aid… already worked?

Rahil didn’t have time to test that theory though. He was nearly to the front door, the activated device clutched to his chest, but he could hear William’s deep bellows from inside, echoing through the tired structure so thunderously that it felt his voice alone might tear it down. “You can’t hide from me!”

Given how few furnishings filled the space, Rahil knew it was the truth.

He scrambled through the front, down the hallway, gasping as he forced his agonized body forward. He nearly tripped over Nat, curled on the entryway floor. A blistering holy silver burn smeared across her neck, jaw, and cheek, like William had slammed a chunk of the metal into her face. She shuddered from its effects, but as Rahil reached for her, blood dripping through the gaps in his fingers, she hissed at him through gritted teeth.

“He’s upstairs!”

Rahil forced himself to keep going. As he reached the stairs, his body protested. It was too far, up too many stairs, and he couldn’t—not fast enough—

Where was Lydia leading William? The answer was as obvious as the stars that had stretched above them and the fearless wonder in her eyes. Rahil charged out the back door.

He didn’t quite feel the motion, just the pain and the weakness and the abysmal twisting of his gut as he stumbled out into the sunlight to stare up at the roof. Sure enough, Lydia was halfway out the attic window. She caught his gaze and her brow furrowed. She took the last step.

Before she could close the glass and hide, William came barreling out behind her. He grabbed for her shoulders, just as she shoved, sending them both into a tumble on the sloped roof.

All three of them screamed.

Rahil swore he could feel Lydia as clearly as the device alive in his hands, like each frantic, fruitless grasp of her fingers against the tiles were a swipe of nails across his heart. His breath caught. His vision tunneled.

“Lydia!” Rahil screamed as she tumbled over the side.

And he threw Leah’s protection at her.

37

MERCER

The park was empty.

Of course it was empty. It was midday, late summer, the heat pouring down and Mercer’s response to William’s text unread. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place—had almost chosen to ignore it and hope for the best—but with Lydia running off, the anxious storm inside him had been convinced that somehow, William had taken her. That he’d be at the park, a knife to her throat, and Mercer would—Mercer would—

He didn’t know. The cold, endless panic that hit him was too overwhelming to contemplate, though, and he’d ended up in the car without hardly a thought, the engine on and the house locked tight. He couldn’t turn back then. He couldn’t leave the figment of her trapped with him.

But William didn’t have Lydia bound and gagged on a park bench, and Mercer was left to panic in the parking lot instead, the sweat of his fear blistering cold against the car’s blaring AC. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he hadn’t wanted to ask Rahil for help without being able to properly apologize for the way he’d treated him back at the shed, but Mercer could barely forge the text he did send without his vision tunneling completely to black, the whoosh of his heart the only sound in his ears.

Mercer

I lost Lydia

William is making a play, but I don’t know what it is

Is she with you

That made sense. Did that make sense? It was already sent.

He couldn’t just wait for a response.

Mercer’s stomach boiled, and he leaned against the steering wheel, trying not to throw up. Think—just think. Lydia was going to find Rahil. Which meant going to Rahil’s house. Right? Right.

Dark, Victorian. Enough room for everyone who needed it. An attic and a big porch.

He started driving.

He stopped driving.

Did Mercer know a house like that?—Within a few miles of his, Rahil had implied. No. No? No.

No.

Because he did know a house in their neighborhood that fit that description, one he hadn’t even considered until that moment, because it was barely worth calling a home at all. It was the kind of place that people always theorized that junkies lived. Or ghosts. Or… vampires.

Fuck.

Mercer hit the gas, nearly careening onto the sidewalk as he made a hasty U-turn. Sorry, sorry, sorry, he whispered to every house he sped past, the jostling ride and his tunneled vision making his nausea all the worse. He blacked out whole streets, and when a slow car pulled out in front of him, his panic attack was so crushing that he nearly lost control of his own vehicle before they immediately turned into a driveway. But then he was there—he was around the corner, that threatening attic jutting into the sky and a lonely person racing through the front door.

His heart connected the dots before his mind could, the sudden rush of safety he felt only followed a few seconds later with his brain going, Shit, was that Rahil?

Mercer was going too fast though, the house’s gravel driveway coming up at blinding speed. The sidewalk bumped under his tires. He didn’t have time to make a choice before his body reacted on instinct, swerving him around the side of the house and careening into the brush. He skidded to a stop, gasping and shaking. His nails had left gashes in the steering wheel leather.

His feet hit the door before he remembered he had to open it, then the seatbelt yanked him back—when had he put that on?—but somehow he managed to tumble out of the driver’s seat. He could hear commotion from around the back, and he didn’t think, just ran, one foot in front of the other, his heart pounding in his ears.

Mercer shoved through the final line of unruly bushes and stumbled into the yard: barren, dead grass surrounded by dense trees on three sides with an awkward trail of stray rocks and a half-dug flower bed pit. Rahil stood beneath the overhang, his gaze on the roof as two figures rolled chaotically down it. Lydia.

“Puck,” Mercer whispered, because he couldn’t shout, couldn’t move, couldn’t save her as she toppled off the edge of the second story.

Rahil threw something at her.

It took Mercer a moment to process the gleaming device as it sailed through the air, another to understand what it was, and by then he could tell its trajectory was off: a little too high and to the left. Leah’s brilliance didn’t seem to think so, though. As the device sailed past Lydia, the cords shot out, most of them cradling Lydia’s body as the rest caught hold of the roof, gently halting her descent.

Four feet closer, William fell from the same height, grabbing for anything he could reach—the tiles, the gutter, the girl he’d threatened. He caught the edge of the roof with one hand. He dangled there, the toes of his shoes still eight feet above the ground. Lydia kicked him in the side.

William cursed her as he fell again. His legs gave out as he hit the dirt, sending him sprawling onto his side into the shallow flower-bed trench.

Mercer was moving before he’d even set his mind to it, stumbling past William’s body and shoving aside a shocked Rahil to reach for his daughter with both arms. The only piece of the world that felt real was the solidity of her arms and the little bubbled sob-laugh she gave as Leah’s device slowly lowered her down the rest of the way, letting her fall gently into Mercer’s embrace. He held her close, crying her name into her shoulder with what must have been very un-parental desperation, but he didn’t care. He had her. She was safe, and alive, and he had her.

Lydia’s fists balled into his clothing, and for a moment it was just the two of them—the only family Mercer had known in so long. Then Lydia’s body stiffened suddenly, her head coming up. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “William, he’s still—”

Mercer spun in time to watch William stumble out of the shallow pit with one of Mercer’s own holy silver knives raised, throwing his body weight toward Mercer.

Rahil slammed into him. Mercer caught the flash of fangs, the tear of flesh, blood splattering against the side of the house as the two struggled. Rahil dislodged the knife from William’s hand just as the man threw him backward, tossing Rahil’s gangly body across the ground. William stood there after, gripping the gash in his neck while he held himself up with the side of the house, one foot twisted at a hideous angle. Despite all the pain he had to be in, his mouth still warped into a sneer.

Maybe it was that look which launched Mercer into motion or maybe it was a hundred other little things—the vision of William’s hands on Lydia, William’s blades tearing into Rahil’s bloody palms, his will turning Mercer’s holy silver into a weapon—but all Mercer knew was the cascade of fear and pain that slammed through his body, his vision blackening at the edges and his lungs catching tight in his throat, and suddenly he was moving, steady steps that felt so slow to him. But no one else reacted, no one told him to stop as he shoved William against the side of the house and slammed his knee into the man’s gut.

The blubbering groan that came out of William was as horrific as it was terrifying, and his struggles turned desperate and delirious as he fought to push Mercer off without letting go of the deep, ragged gash in his neck. Mercer could see himself in it, could feel that same fear entrenched in his own chest, his own life. And it scared him—scared him, not enough to let go, but to hold on.

“Fight me, I dare you,” he whispered, slamming William against the wall once more. “The first time you laid a hand on my family, you were already dead.”

William did abandon his neck wound then, his fists aimed at Mercer’s face, but Mercer grabbed him by the wrist, pinning William’s hand to the wall. William snarled again, struggling to hit Mercer with everything he could as blood poured freely down his chest. He went limp so fast, so suddenly, that Mercer was left staring at him, slowly taking in the weight of his flesh and the stream still pouring from the veins in his neck. Mercer’s arms shook, deep from the bones. He let go.

His lungs heaved open, then closed again.

Oh God.

Oh God.

He’d just—

Oh.

He took a step back, then another, watching William’s corpse slump to the ground, dead as the bat in the box. Mercer should have felt better—relief, something—but there was no change, his fear simply morphing its target. There were other threats still, other horrors. And he was one of them—he was—

A hand closed around his, smaller fingers tucking around his palm. He looked down to find Lydia, her expression solemn. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed hers back, and the world settled just a little.

Fuck though, he was going to be paying for her therapy bills for this for the rest of her life, wasn’t he?

Well, they’d cross that bridge tomorrow.

As some semblance of logic finally crept back into Mercer’s mind, he recalled the way that William had tossed Rahil to the side, and his whole world recracked for the moment it took to find Rahil, struggling to his feet so near that Mercer could reach out and touch him, grab him, if he wanted. Kiss him.

Rahil seemed to have wrapped strips torn from his own shirt around the wounds in his palms, and blood dripped from his mouth, but his lips quirked up, an awkward laugh coming under his breath. “Is it weird that I found that hot?” He dropped his gaze after, looking like he was scared of Mercer after all—scared of something entirely different: of rejection.

The uncertainty in his stance hurt, all the more because Mercer knew he’d put it there; not from violently ensuring the death of a man, ironically, but from refusing to listen. He had let his fear hurt the people around him. Wrapping one arm around Lydia, he held out his other toward Rahil. “Come here, babe.”

A smile lit up Rahil’s face. Then his whole body went as limp as William’s.

Mercer dove to catch him, a wave of sickening terror rushing back through his already wrung out nerves. No—no. Not this, not now. Not him—

Mercer’s legs carried them both into the house, under the deep shade of the unlit kitchen, hoping, praying as he set Rahil down—

Rahil drew in a weak breath, his eyes pinching in pain.

Alive. Okay.

Then what?

He wanted both to call an ambulance and to run for help, and even more to hold the second love of his life too close for the Grim Reaper to pull from his fingers, to descend into hell to bring him back, but he remembered Rahil’s reassuring hand on his shoulder when he’d found Kat much the same way and—

On impulse, Mercer reached out with his spark.

“William made him swallow something,” Lydia said, crouching on Rahil’s other side.

“Was it silver?” Mercer asked, feeling, feeling—

“Yes, I think.”

There. A tiny bundle of matter that Mercer recognized like his own hand, pulsing with an energy he’d instilled there himself nearly ten years before. As he broadened his senses, he could find the places where the holy silver had begun working itself into Rahil’s cells. If he was any other vampire, he’d already have been dead. Without the burning to eat him alive, though, Mercer could feel there was more going on inside him—something transformative.

But Rahil had not asked for this something, and the longer Mercer lingered, the more he could sense a simultaneous destruction—the sun-poison, he thought, though he had no way to be sure. Everywhere the holy silver pressed in, the poison followed, unraveling bonds in its wake. He’d have no chance of recovery so long as it remained.

The metal was inside him, scattered throughout him. There were a thousand things that could go wrong, even when the holy silver was in Mercer’s hands. A thousand ways he could kill Rahil. A thousand ways Rahil could—

Mercer cradled Rahil into his arms, forehead pressed to his lover’s—his boyfriend’s—he, Mercer Bloncourt, had his first boyfriend—and fought past the fear into the present. He pressed his spark harder. Gentle as a surgeon, the force in his mind a scalpel, he tugged at the holy silver’s energy, thinking of nothing but the slow and steady reversion of the metal, cutting back all the power he had instilled in it, and guiding its pieces out of Rahil’s body. It seemed to all come forth in a gentle flow, chalky lines of the stuff flaking along Rahil’s skin. The change within was immediate, chaos settling, regular patterns returning, all things Mercer didn’t quite understand but gave him peace nonetheless. And God, did he need peace.

Rahil groaned, his eyes opening to cracks as he muttered, “If I die, it’s not your fault.”

“You’re too late, babe.” Mercer sobbed. “I already saved you.” He buried his face in Rahil’s hair, kissing him everywhere his lips landed: his forehead, his nose, his eyelids, his mouth, finally, soft and perfect.

Rahil laughed, so weak it could have been anything—but Mercer knew. He knew. “I was sure you would.”

“Liar,” Mercer grumbled. In this life, they were sure of nothing. He still wasn’t even sure how to deal with that fact, but perhaps the acceptance was half the battle. “You still look like a corpse.”

Rahil groaned. “I think I might actually sleep, for once.” He looked at Mercer, his eyes bleary and his hair a mess, and Rahil was still the most handsome thing Mercer had ever seen. “Will you be here—”

“You could not be rid of me if you tried,” Mercer replied, thinking of the days he’d walked into his shed to find a beautiful nuisance hanging from the ceiling, and wondering how he’d been so blind as to not recognize his own future. “Sleep, babe.”

“I love you,” Rahil muttered.

“I love you, too,” Mercer said, but he was fairly sure Rahil was already unconscious.

For what felt like an age, all Mercer could do was watch him, reminding himself with each rise and fall of Rahil’s chest that he was, in fact, alive. He was alive. Mercer was alive. Lydia was alive—her hand had appeared on his shoulder at some point, and he was pretty sure she was using it to keep herself upright just as much as she was offering him comfort. He wished she didn’t have to offer him anything at all. He squeezed her hand.

They both flinched as a female vampire limped into the kitchen. Blisters marred parts of her neck and cheek.

Rahil’s friend from the night before—Natalie, was it? She must have been one of the people Rahil lived with; Mercer realized he hadn’t actually asked. There was so much he still didn’t know about Rahil. So much he wanted to learn. Mercer could barely put together the thought in a coherent way in his mind, but his mouth still managed to ask, “Are you hurt?”

“I’m healing.” Natalie grimaced. “That fucking asshole with the holy silver, is he…?”

Oh. Right. A cold chill ran through Mercer. He managed to tip his head toward the backdoor.

Without leaving the shade of the building, Natalie glanced outside. She grimaced again. “For the best.”

Mercer knew she was right. Realistically, logically, so long as their justice system was built to protect certain members of society over others, this was the only way to ensure that William stopped causing harm to Mercer’s family or the vampiric community. But that didn’t mean he liked it. Didn’t make this moral.

And now—fuck.

Natalie watched him with a tight brow, and she must have been thinking further down the path that Mercer was desperately trying to avoid because she nodded toward the backyard. “Collect his holy silver and I’ll help.”

Right. Fuck. But he still had Lydia’s hand in his, her mouth grim and her gaze distant.

“Watch over Rahil for me,” Mercer told her. He would have begged if it came to that.

She nodded in a way that he tried to read as calm and contained instead of drowning in the depths of shock. There was nothing he could do about that now though, he told himself. And the way his body seemed willing to accept it, he figured he, too, was probably still in shock.

It was terrible work.

Mercer could barely remember the moment he’d moved toward William, just the weight of the man’s body going limp under his grasp, and that weight lingered, growing with each scoop of the shovel, digging himself farther and farther into the grave. And he thought maybe that was the way it was supposed to be.

If he had participated in William’s death, and that didn’t sicken him, it would imply something far worse than this.

Under the shade of the house’s gothic roof peak, Natalie rolled William’s body into the pit, sprawling him there, limp and unseeing, blood thick along the torn creases of his neck bite, and Mercer hurled up what little bile was left in his stomach. Then, he returned to work.

By the time he took his place back at Rahil’s side, he hurt in more ways than one, but he was alive, and Lydia was alive, and Rahil was alive, and so they would all remain. That, he decided, was enough. Enough, to let go.

38

RAHIL

Mercer was there when Rahil awoke, just as he’d promised.

He had dirt on his hands and blood under his fingernails and a plastic bag of ice on his head, but he was there, cradling Rahil’s feet in his lap and breathing in low, slow inhales. The mere sight of him made Rahil feel bathed in warmth, safe and loved and content despite the lingering ache in his bones. Somehow, regardless of all the sleep he’d managed to catch in the last day, he still didn’t feel properly rested. Such was his curse, it seemed. At least the wounds in his palms weren’t screaming in agony anymore.

“Migraine?” Rahil asked, groggily.

“Just a headache,” Mercer replied, lifting the edge of the ice-baggy to squint at Rahil. Then he smiled. “You?”

He grinned right back. “Sore and tired, but good.” Then his brain snapped on enough to come to his senses. “Is William—Lydia—my roommates—”

“Avery and Jim took her out for ice cream with my card.” He looked like he wasn’t sure whether that was a mistake or not. A financial one, probably, but only insofar as the amount of ice cream the three of them were likely to buy with their momentarily unlimited funds. “I don’t know about William, but I thought your backyard could use a little finishing, starting with that flowerbed—it seemed in need of some fertilizer so I threw that down beneath a couple rose bushes—dug it deeper first to fit it all.”

Fertilizer, huh… well, Rahil had been meaning to start composting.

“I used some of those broken slabs against the side wall to make a kind of patio at the end of your pathway and I might throw the deck chairs from my garage on it,” Mercer continued. “I was thinking about a pond, too? I never got around to doing anything interesting with my yard because of the shed, so this could be nice.”

Whether Mercer was sidestepping William’s burial out loud for misplaced security reasons or for the sake of his own conscience, Rahil decided not to push. He’d participated in the ending of another human’s life—bravely, and for good reason—but Rahil loved him because he was the kind of person who’d regret that. It made him think, sadly, of Matt’s death. Maybe Rahil would meet the vamp who’d done it someday, and then he would tell them that the tragedy they’d committed was painful and horrible, and that he hadn’t held it against them for one single moment and he never would.

Death could be senseless, and unnecessary, and still the only possible outcome.

And maybe… maybe sometimes that meant it was no one’s fault.

Slowly, Rahil pulled his legs out of Mercer’s lap, curling them in front of his chest as he shifted to lean against the thick bulk of Mercer’s shoulder. He gingerly slipped his fingers through Merc’s dirty ones, trying not to stretch the wound in his palm lest it resume bleeding. “I think we still have something to talk about… from before all this.”

Mercer squeezed his hand so tenderly he seemed worried he might break more than just the scab. “The unholy gold… I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me?”

“You gave it to the scientist.” He tried not to let it sound like an accusation. It wasn’t meant to be one.

“I nearly didn’t, but I had to choose Lydia.”

“I understand. I hate it, but what’s done is done.” Rahil gave a weary sigh. “You’re hardly the only one of us who needs a little forgiveness, though. I was thinking more on the lines of Leah.”

Mercer’s eyes closed. “You were trying to tell me about her, and I was the one who stopped you.”

“I’d wanted to so many times already that night,” Rahil answered. “I just… I had tried to wait for a moment that wouldn’t break your heart, so when you gave me the option to bail for a little longer, I took it.”

“You could have denied it altogether, even after Lydia pulled out your fangs—I was ready to believe anything that would have made this simple.” Mercer’s voice was thick, but somehow stable despite the emotion, like he’d thought this through a thousand times already, and his decision was long since made. “But you didn’t. And I respect that.”

Rahil tried to crack a little grin through the ache in his chest. “Babe, you really shouldn’t respect me for doing the bare minimum. But I’ll take it.”

“Rahil.” Mercer chuckled. “That’s the least of the reasons I respect you.” He leaned the side of his head against Rahil’s, and softer, he added, “I wonder if Leah went to you because she could sense something from you. That you were like her: brilliant, persistent, nurturing, stupidly brave—willing to take that risk in the first place. That like her, you’d be important to me.”

The beauty in that—that Leah hadn’t been cursed to die because Rahil had killed her, but that she’d been blessed to have her death include Rahil instead of another vampire—lessened some of the pain. It was beginning, finally, to sink in that he had known Leah, if only for a very short time. He’d seen all the traits that Mercer had listed in her. Perhaps that meant that even when he didn’t see them in himself, he could trust that others could.

That he could be good for the people around him.

The thought felt brittle still, like one defiant refusal from his heart would shatter it. Before that could happen, he closed his eyes and let the fear out.

“I’ve always assumed that it was my fault: Leah, Jonah, Matt, Shefali. If I hadn’t pushed Jonah to get help, if I had been better at showing Matt the danger in the lies he was believing, if I had been there more for Shefali when she was trying to quit smoking, and Leah…”

Mercer stiffened a little at his late wife’s name, but then he seemed to break through the emotion. He let his ice-baggy fall to the side to wrap one arm around Rahil. His fingers trailed up and down Rahil’s arm, leaving fresh lines of backyard soil across Rahil’s already dirt-streaked white top.

It was perfect.

Perfect, and soft, and exactly the stability he needed in order to finally hear Mercer as he said: “There’s only so much we can do. We try with our best intentions, and that isn’t always enough. That’s on life. Sometimes the people we love hurt, and sometimes they hurt themselves and we—we can only do so much to take that pain away.”

Rahil forced himself not to shut down, shut out, shut off.

Mercer continued, weak but solid all at once. “I—I’ve had to learn this too, from Lydia, and from you. You clearly already know it, when it applies to other people.” Mercer slid his fingers around Rahil’s chin, and Rahil let his face be lifted, let his heart be open and his pain settle into the cracks, leaving room for something more. “You are too hard on yourself, Rahil,” Mercer whispered, and kissed him.

Rahil succumbed to the kiss like a vampire to the night, parting his lips, letting Mercer in. Maybe he was too hard on himself, if this was softness; if this was forgiveness. Because this was good. He let himself have it, first because Mercer wanted it, but then because he did too. It caught in his throat and burned in the back of his jaw, and yet he kissed back, tugging Mercer’s lips between his teeth and pressing a little dose of venom into the soft skin there. He was rewarded with a moan.

Mercer’s breath trembled as he let his mouth just rest against Rahil’s, their noses touching, tight brows wrinkled into one.

Rahil whispered, “If I have to be kinder to myself, then so do you. You’ve done so much to try to make the best life for Lydia…”

Mercer sucked in a breath like a sob, pressing his face against Rahil’s. “I won’t do less. I can’t.”

“I know.” Rahil ran a hand over his lover’s curls, grasping the back of his head gently. “But you can be kind to yourself when the things you do don’t always work.” Something wet and rough rose behind his lungs. “I tried my best, with Jonah and Matt, I tried—” The release bubbled forth with a dark thought, one he’d always kept buried beneath the weight of his guilt; it felt like betraying them. Like weakness. But he asked it anyway, soft and tight and pleading. “What else was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to do, Merc? I tried, and I still lost them.”

Mercer just held him for a moment, and Rahil could almost hear the spin of his thoughts, not on Jonah or Matt, but on Lydia. On a living kid, who still had years, decades, for life to snuff her out. Mercer’s chest rose and fell in a deep, trembling breath, before he said, “Maybe there was something that could have saved them, or maybe there wasn’t, but you couldn’t have known. We don’t get to go back. We don’t get to try again. We forgive ourselves and we move forward, and we… we listen. We learn. You listened to Lydia. You saved her when I couldn’t.”

Saved her.

Rahil had done that, perhaps. And he didn’t think Mercer meant the device he’d hurled at Lydia, or the way he’d stumbled into the shed when William had her bound and gagged. He’d saved Lydia on the roof, staring up at the stars, and in the cemetery as she cried, and that might not have ultimately saved Jonah, nor Matt, but it had helped one lonely child feel a little less lonely for a moment, and that was a kind of salvation.

He had saved her.

The thought caught like a bug in a web, tangling between his vocal cords, and for a time Rahil just leaned against Mercer, shaking softly as his emotions rose and then settled again. Mercer rubbed his back, and Rahil could see the same flux of grief and joy pulsing through him beneath the stoic exterior. It felt far more alive than his fear. And far more at peace.

Rahil sighed into Mercer’s neck, letting that peace become his own. The floor creaked as he shifted his legs back into Mercer’s lap. His gaze traveled slowly around the dusky room, empty and decrepit. He’d been so ashamed to share this place with Mercer, but now that his lover was here, it felt no less natural than being with him in the shed, or in his bedroom, or on the boardwalk. His presence gave the home a new life. A new future.

Mercer seemed to be taking in their surroundings too, and Rahil broke the silence with a nudge to his side. “Was this what you were expecting?”

“Not exactly.” Mercer looked embarrassed as he admitted it. “But it is beautiful, in its own way.”

“Like me,” Rahil teased, “Worn and well-used but still able to fit oh-so-much inside.” He winked.

Mercer stared at him so sternly that it was all Rahil could do not to burst out laughing, but when the fae slid a hand up Rahil’s thigh and squeezed, the chuckle turned to a whimper. “I’ll be testing that, I assure you. You’ll be far more worn than this house when I finish.”

“So, you’re the one finishing, then?” Rahil smirked. “Noted.”

That seemed to break Mercer. His stoic expression cracked, and he shoved Rahil’s legs off his lap, shouting, “Get out.”

Rahil laughed. He rolled away from Mercer only to be caught from behind and pulled entirely into his lap. Merc’s legs wrapped around him, his arms bound beneath thick, hairy warmth, and he basked in the little array of kisses Mercer gave to the back of his neck before finally wiggling lightly. “All right, all right, it’s too hot for this.”

With a grumble, Mercer let him go.

Rahil barely scooted forward, tipping his head back to still lean on Mercer, with just enough space between them so the sweat forming along his lower back could dry.

Mercer tugged at the loose pieces of Rahil’s hair. “May I fix this?”

“Oh, yes. Please.” He relaxed into the feeling of Mercer’s fingers in his hair.

As the strands of Rahil’s half-destroyed braid fell apart, Mercer asked, “Who did you get this old place from? Was it just decrepit enough that they agreed to sell to a vampire?”

“I bought it from the Starlight Club, actually—the vampire kink club Diego Figueroa runs with their husbands. Do you know—?”

“I take commissions from them on occasion, along with some of their club’s customers. They tip well. They take care of each other, so they always have a little left over after.”

Rahil nodded. It sounded a bit like his own family, only his came together because of blood, and this one… well, they came together for a different kind of blood, he supposed. “They had hosted meets here on and off over the years. When I bought it, they offered to help me turn it around, too, but they’d already given me such a discount and my family all chipped in to help me pay it off, and I didn’t want to ask for more.” He groaned. “I might have actually been rather rude to them, now that I’m looking back on it. Them, and my family. Everyone wanted to help, but Shefali had just received her diagnosis, and she deserved that love far more than I did—”

“Did she?” Mercer asked, and Rahil looked up in time to hear him repeat, “Did she deserve that love more than you? Is love even a thing that can be deserved less?”

The protest caught in Rahil’s throat, because as he dwelt on it, he realized he hadn’t even thought about his own phrasing. He tried to substitute the word out—not love, but support, assistance, attention not deserved but required, earned, expected. But that all seemed just as hollow while staring at a man who’d been willing to kill for his family—for a family that included Rahil.

He gave a sniffly little laugh. “Well, I’m happy to accept whatever love you want to bestow upon me in the future, deserving or not.”

“Good.” Mercer must have finished the final plait because he let Rahil’s hair go, rubbing both his shoulders. “Because I think between the two of us, we can fix this place up rather nicely. At least, once we’ve started working on things we can sell together. I’m only an unending fountain of funds when it comes to apologies-for-traumatizing-you ice cream.”

Rahil turned enough to meet Merc’s gaze. “You really want to do that with me?”

“I want to do everything with you, babe.” Mercer swallowed, an awkward little quirk to his lips. “I know this is jumping the gun, but since we both had spouses before…”

Rahil raised a brow, trying not to reveal what that statement had just done to his heart rate. Please, please, please, please, it seemed to be singing. “Do you want to have a spouse again someday?”

“Only if they’re you.” Mercer looked so adorably embarrassed for such a large, strong man. “But I would be happy simply to—”

“Yes,” Rahil said, and he doubted there was a grin wide enough to convey whatever nonsensical dance of joy was going on in his chest. “That is, if you don’t worry we’d be rushing this?”

“We both know what we want, and we’re aware of what marriage entails,” Mercer said. “I’m not saying we run to the courthouse after this, but… why delay? Lydia loves you, and I love you, and, well, Kat loves everyone who’s granted access to her treat jar. And the rings will take time to forge—a month, at least. I’ll need quite a few hours in the shed, especially if you help me.”

Rahil lifted his brow. “You’re going to teach me for this? Oh, that’ll result in weeks’ worth of distractions, surely.”

“Surely.” Mercer wove his fingers into Rahil’s. Enough of the dirt had smeared onto Rahul that the blood beneath Mercer’s nails was obvious now. On the other side of the house, the door banged open to the sound of Lydia’s snorted laughter, Avery shouting joyously while Jim protested.

“And we’ll both have to figure out how to coparent again,” Rahil said.

Mercer groaned but one edge of his mouth tipped up as Lydia burst through from the hall. He muttered, “If either of us figure out anything about parenting, I’ll be amazed by us.”

Rahil nodded toward his daughter. “You did something right today, at least.”

“We both did,” Mercer said.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Rahil could accept it was the truth.

39

MERCER

The blood had come out from beneath Mercer’s nails, and while he wasn’t sure it would ever stop staining his soul, at least he could hear Rahil climbing into the shower, Kat barking at the backyard squirrels, and Lydia tapping on her phone from down the hall. His family was safe. That was enough.

And if, someday, his best couldn’t buy them that, then it would still have to be enough then too.

That was someday though, and today was today. He still had one more challenge to confront, one more before he could try to find some semblance of rest for himself.

Mercer tapped on Lydia’s open door, poking his head in slowly.

She looked up at him from the floor beside her bed.

“Can I… come in?” He didn’t mean it as a trick question, but somehow, he knew it was.

Miraculously though, she just shrugged and patted the floor at her side.

Every single one of Mercer’s bones ached as he sat down. Maybe committing a kinda-murder aged a person. The dark humor of the thought made him feel nearly as sick as the memory of the thing itself—but he had the rest of his life to drown in that misery. Right now, he was sitting on a floor, carpet beneath him, wearing a clean, blue shirt the same color as the dusk sky outside Lydia’s window. He was here. He had something to do, something, specifically, to do for his daughter, of all people.

She looked as tired as Mercer felt, her chin on her knees and her beanie pulled nearly over her eyes as she cradled her phone between her thighs.

Mercer nudged his shoulder into hers, and as much as it hurt to even think the question, he forced himself to ask, soft and sympathetic, “Puck, why did you want to be a vampire?”

She shrugged, staring at her feet. “Sometimes it just sucks being sick. It hurts and I’m scared, and you’re scared, and that makes me more scared, and you keep saying everything will be okay as long as I take my meds and be careful and do everything right, but sometimes things just aren’t okay.”

Mercer thought he understood part of that, because he could feel her pain—was feeling it now, deep in his chest as his heart wailed to do something, anything. All that tension and fear told him to contradict her. He could make things better for her, if he hid his fear deeper down, and they stockpiled her meds and—

But no. That only felt rational, felt like if he fretted and pushed then they had to make some kind of progress. And occasionally fretting and pushing did work out—but mostly it didn’t. Lydia was right. Sometimes things just weren’t okay.

Despite Mercer’s heart still beating like a panicked rabbit’s, he kissed the side of her head and gently asked, “Do you still want to go through with it?”

Lydia hesitated, but then she shrugged again. “No? Maybe. It would be really cool. And I’d be strong, and wouldn’t have to worry about seizures or nerve damage. I’m awake most nights anyways, and I don’t care about the sun or garlic that much. Maybe it’s not the best, but you wouldn’t have to be afraid my meds will run out because all I’d need is blood, which you have all the time.”

One phrase caught in his chest, encircling his heart like a cord from one of Leah’s traps: you wouldn’t have to be afraid.

He wouldn’t have to be afraid.

Mercer sucked back a sob. He leaned forward, trying to catch her gaze. “Puck, were you thinking of doing this for me?”

“It would make you less stressed out.”

“You don’t…” Mercer forced himself to breathe, absorb her words and feel without reacting for one, two, three beats, until he finally managed with a steady voice, “My stress and my fear are my own, Puck. I wouldn’t trade them away for a different version of you. I don’t always know what to do with you, and I’m afraid of making decisions that will hurt you by accident. And you’re right, too much of that isn’t good for either of us. But that’s something I need to fix, not you.”

Though, perhaps not alone, he thought. There were people whose jobs were to help with the extremes of human emotions. Medications, too, if he could get them without being poked and prodded too much for it. Maybe they wouldn’t solve everything. Maybe sometimes things just weren’t okay. But he could try it, at least. And having Rahil to lean on would help.

Wait. “Did you think Rahil was going to turn you? That’s why you kept going back?”

“No, duh.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “He gave me stupid tasks saying he was testing me, but he was never gonna do it. He thinks I don’t know, but I’m not stupid.” She fiddled with the edge of her beanie. “I wanted to do his stupid tasks, though. I like him; he’s cool and he listens, and he doesn’t tell me it’ll all be okay.”

“I listen,” Mercer protested, feeling irrationally defensive despite his sudden rush of pride for both Rahil and Lydia.

Lydia snorted. “You listen for what makes you scared. That’s different.”

His instinct was to fight the accusation, but he had a guilty suspicion it was true. “You know, you’re very smart for a chaos fairy.”

She grinned, tiny but fierce. Chaos fairy indeed. “Am I not grounded forever, then?”

Mercer sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. “You’re not grounded at all. But if you ever get hooked on a boneheaded idea like vampirism again, you tell me before you go demanding strangers turn you. And there’s something you can do for me that’s not becoming a vampire, okay? You talk, and I’ll try to listen better. I might still be scared, and I might have scared dad ideas, but I promise I want to know your scared daughter ideas too. Maybe we can make this less scary, together?”

“I’m not, like, that scared,” she grumbled. “But sure.”

“And we’re seeing a movie next weekend. You and me. Even if everything else is not okay, we get to be okay for a couple of hours of popcorn.”

“Yeah, fine.”

“What was that?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Dude? Who’s dude here?” Mercer probed his fingertips into her sides, cackling as she squirmed against the tickles.

“Duuuuude, stoooop,” she laughed.

He knew her laugh, though, and this one was too shallow, too short. She held herself awkwardly, too, now that he was looking for it, pain in the curl of her back and the stiffness of her jaw. Mercer transitioned his assault into a massage, rubbing her back instead. “I’m not trying to be scared dad here, but when did you take your meds last?”

“This morning.” She grimaced. “I took half, like Anthony said. It’s not enough.”

“I know it’s not, Puck.” Mercer’s voice was thick as he pulled her close, pushing back her beanie to brush his hand over her head. “Is it okay if I hope things will be better soon?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Yeah. I think that’s the point.” She sniffled. “You can’t have hope if you don’t admit it might not work out. But it can’t work out either, if you don’t have hope. You ne—nu—”

Mercer caught the signs a moment before it happened, but his heart still stopped as her eyes rolled back, a shudder running through her body. It cascaded into the next, and Mercer began moving automatically to position her onto her side the way he’d had to over so many of her younger years, but before he could drag his body into the motions, the device he hadn’t even noticed now fitted on her beltline jumped to life to help. Its silver cords did the work for him, letting him simply hold her and watch her seizing body go through the motions, hoping and praying that she came through the same as she always had—worse for wear, but alive and alert. When it stopped, the aid retracted. Mercer scooped her into his arms, cradling her as she forced her medication down, and as she sobbed after.

He did not tell her that he’d fix it, or that everything would be okay—though with the aid now tucked into her belt, he thought, at least, everything might be a little better—but he did tell her the truth. “I’m here, Puck. Your dad’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.”

Mercer’s heartbeat barely rocketed when the doorbell rang, and he resisted the urge to retrieve a knife from the kitchen before checking the peephole. There was no one on the stoop, but he could make out the gentle rumble of a retreating sports car. That, though, was signal enough.

He sighed, and retrieved the package left on the mat.

The note had been sharpied into the top of the box, but unlike William’s present from weeks back, this one brought Mercer only relief.

I have to run, but figured you’d prefer these as quickly as possible.

He opened the package delicately, retrieving the bottle of familiar pills from within. The sight of them eased such a weight from his chest that it confirmed everything Lydia had shared with him earlier. His fear was normal, but perhaps it wasn’t entirely healthy. There were pills for that too. Pills, and people. He’d have to look into both.

As he went to break the box down for recycling, a paper wedged against the side caught his attention.

Don’t trust anything new Vitalis-Barron makes. PS. There is a vampire by the name of Dr. Clementine Hughes who runs the Ala Santa blood charity. Bring him a sample of your unholy gold. He is a good scientist and a better man.

Mercer’s heart clenched at the reminder of the unholy gold, but as he read and reread the note, his dread turned to curiosity. A scientist with a PhD who was part of the vampiric community. He’d heard of the Ala Santa blood charity—it was one of the hot vampire stories that ran between the Wesley Smith-Garcia trial and the continuous speculation about Vitalis-Barron’s work—but only that it was owned by a human from Ala Santa who the local people often referred to as the community’s guardian angel. Perhaps this Clementine Hughes wasn’t interested in the spotlight, or, more likely, the spotlight wasn’t interested in featuring a vampire as the savior of other vampires.

If humans were needed to lift the vampires out of their desperate situation, then humans could, after all, lower them right back into it if they changed their mind.

The shower shut off—he was going to have one hell of a hot water bill this month, but Rahil was worth it—and Mercer worked his way into his room, taking off his slippers and settling onto the bed with the note to conduct some rudimentary research. It seemed Dr. Clementine Hughes did exist, and had been, of all things, a scientist at Vitalis-Barron—though he wasn’t in their directory any longer. That must have been how Anthony knew him. Coworkers? Rivals? Hm.

Mercer didn’t look up as Rahil exited the bathroom, but he caught his partner stretching sleepily out of the corner of his eye, the oversized fabric of his borrowed bathrobe parting to reveal the lean length of his chest. His palms were freshly bandaged with the supplies Mercer had left him.

“Be a good boy and grab my water from the dresser.”

“Oh, we’re preying on my weakness now, are we?” Rahil teased, collecting the water and handing it to Mercer. He slipped onto the bed with him, nuzzling against Mercer’s neck. “Do I get a reward?”

Mercer took his anti-migraine pills and drained his glass after despite not feeling the least bit thirsty. With all the stress of the day, he could already feel the migraine fighting to take hold. For now though, it was subtle enough that he could ignore it. He smiled at the tickling sensation of Rahil’s fangs gently tracing along his skin, and tipped his chin a little. “I suppose you deserve a drink too.”

The slide of those fangs into his neck made Mercer sigh, overcome momentarily by the dose of venom that flooded his system. Sex was just sex, but this was bliss. He ran his hands up and down Rahil’s spine as his vampire cuddled against him, taking slow, long drags that sent fresh waves of pleasure through Mercer. As the venom built in his system, he slowly relaxed backward onto the bed, letting Rahil climb atop him. The tingling thrill running through his veins gave him the inexplicable urge to touch himself, and after a flash of unwarranted shame, he gave in. Mercer lingered there, caught between the pleasure of Rahil’s bite and the aching delight of his cock until Rahil’s tongue finally began closing over the fang-marks, and Mercer finished himself off into a tissue.

“You’re perfect,” Rahil whispered as he snuggled against Mercer.

And Mercer replied with the only three words his mind could form. “I love you.”

Rahil made the softest, happiest noise Mercer swore he’d ever heard, and, for a moment, every fear and pain Mercer had ever felt vanished.

They lay like that for a few minutes, and Mercer fiddled with the edge of Anthony’s note before realizing that if he didn’t broach the question soon, he might interrupt a rare moment of sleep for Rahil, which was the last thing he wanted. Gently, he kissed the top of Rahil’s head.

“Hey, babe, what do you think of this?”

Rahil lifted his head groggily, but as he took in the note, his eyes widened. “He’s the vampire who runs the blood charity?”

Mercer played with the skin on the back of Rahil’s neck. “We’ll get confirmation, of course. If you don’t trust him, then I don’t trust him.”

After a moment, Rahil nodded. “I’d like to meet him.” He looked at his own hand, experimentally giving the slightest flex and tightening of his fingers. He only cringed a little. “Maybe we both have something we can offer.”

Mercer thought of the feeling he’d gotten as he’d sensed the holy silver breaking through Rahil’s cells, initiating a change that was both terrifying and intriguing, and wondered if perhaps he had more to offer as well. A shiver ran through him. That was a question for another day, one where, hopefully, his world hadn’t been torn asunder and pieced back together multiple times in a twenty-four-hour span. Right now, Lydia had enough meds to last her the month, Rahil was curled up beside him, and the threat they’d been facing these past weeks was buried beneath a fresh bed of flowers. Things would certainly fall apart again, but for now, he would take what he had and run with it. Or, in this case, nap with it.

As Mercer snuggled into a relaxing position, Rahil moved to set the note off to the side, but he paused, flipping it again, then fiddling with the edges. Carefully, he pushed what Mercer had taken to be one thick paper into two; a perfectly folded note, stuck tight by sweat and the summer heat. As Rahil opened it, he revealed a complex doodle of rings and lines and molecular nomenclature. Beneath it were the words: If something happens to me, show this to Clementine; and then: Lydia’s medication.

From the place where all his fear had hollowed out, Mercer sobbed.

And for the first time in a decade, he was not alone for it.

40

RAHIL

Rahil had not expected to spend today alone.

He tried not to wiggle from inside the massive, whirring machine that seemed to be threatening to tighten in and crush him at any moment, and awkwardly shouted over the noise, “Are we almost finished?”

“Two more minutes, Rahil,” came over the machine’s com system. The soft lilt in Dr. Clementine’s voice always made Rahil think of poshness and privilege, but he supposed when that privilege meant the vampire had an MRI machine in the personal laboratory behind his charity blood donation center, Rahil could forgive him. It helped that he was a genuinely kind person, as he promptly demonstrated with a quiet, “Please. And thank you. This will be the last set, I promise.”

Rahil swore it was approximately two hours later when he finally slipped back into his clothes, his leather pants and billowing shirt far more appropriate for their current early fall weather than it had been during the heat of late summer, if still not quite right for the century. He found Clementine in the office, examining the new piece of metal Mercer had crafted for him. Rahil had suggested they call it Righteous Titanium, to which Mercer, very seriously, said he was going to hell.

So long as that’s where Mercer was, Rahil had replied, then he’d be happy.

Right now though, the love of his life had long since abandoned the area, leaving Clementine and Rahil alone amongst the books and the overcrowded whiteboards. Rahil knew at least three of the chemical formula equations sprawled across them were for his work on Lydia’s medication, and while he still claimed to be a long way from determining exactly how to produce it with the tools and ingredients available to him, after seeing the work he’d done to slowly combat the chronic pain in his boyfriend’s life until he was—mostly—back to climbing his neighborhood’s rooftops and, weirdly, the shoulder of the statue in the micro-cemetery across the street from the blood bank, Rahil had faith that the vampire scientist would pull it off eventually.

And while they hadn’t personally seen Anthony since his pickup of the unholy gold nearly a month ago, he had recently sent a second shipment of Lydia’s medication, so they could only assume that things were as well as they could be.

Laughter spilled from down the hall, a dry cackle, then Lydia’s tell-tale snort. It was followed by a soft snicker that Rahil had come to associate with Vincent Barnes, the young vampire whose boyfriend was still all over the news as his trial was accepted and lost in the California Supreme Court, and his lawyer swore to appeal again, this time to the federal Supreme Court itself—it seemed he’d found Dr. Clementine after Clementine’s sister had taken his case, or maybe it was the other way around. Rahil fingered the ring in his pocket, but he didn’t hear Mercer’s deep voice in the mix.

Clementine finally glanced up at him, blinking a few times. “Hm? Oh, hello, come in.”

Rahil grinned. “Make any groundbreaking discoveries while I was preoccupied?”

“Just more data.” He waggled his head uncertainly. “I feel like we’re close, though…”

“But probably not so close it’ll happen tonight,” Rahil reminded him. “You should rest, kiddo.”

“I still cannot believe that you are old enough to call me that,” Clementine grumbled as he stood, rearranging the silky scarf he’d knotted loosely over his polo shirt.

Rahil patted him on the shoulder. “In forty years, you’ll look like this too, my child.”

Clementine gave him an expression so like a toddler that Rahil laughed the rest of the way out of the laboratory hallway.

In the back of the blood bank, Vincent, Justin, and Lydia all sat at a folding table playing something that looked a lot like poker, the news running aimlessly in the background. Vincent had picked through one of the fraying edges of his fingerless gloves, unraveling the material to the center of his palm, and Clementine’s boyfriend, Justin, gnawed a pencil between his teeth like it was a cigarette. Based on the chips, Lydia seemed to be winning. All three of them smiled when Rahil and Clementine appeared, Vincent’s expression timid and tired, and Justin’s sharp as a blade.

Rahil wasn’t sure about anything, but he hoped that this was what Lydia would need moving forward: a pair of mentors who’d survived the worst that life could throw at them, and found a way to thrive despite it all. However hard he and Mercer worked to give Lydia a smooth take-off into an easy life, nothing would ever be perfect, and sometimes far from it. At least she’d always have people to love her along that path though, and they’d just have to hope that it was enough.

Clementine didn’t seem to be paying attention to any of the three, his gaze fixed on the television. “Turn that up.”

Vincent glanced up at it too, and his expression paled. He visibly shrank into his seat as Justin hit the unmute button, and the announcer proclaimed, “Vitalis-Barron has just announced their new line of what they’re calling Better Than Vampirism. It includes anti-aging cream that can remove wrinkles in days, strength tablets and dexterity augmenters so potent you’ll feel super-human, and an ointment proven to increase wound healing by fivefold. Doctors are questioning the speed of the FDA approval for these groundbreaking medical achievements as the Olympic Committee are already rushing to figure out what this will mean for the future of sports…”

“Fuck,” Vincent muttered, and Rahil was pretty sure he spoke for them all.

“It’s on every news site, social media, all of it,” Mercer said, pushing past the privacy curtains from the public front of the center.

He looked no happier than the rest of them, but his somber presence was a reassurance to Rahil, somehow, his bulk a physical shield and his dedication an emotional one. He was not the only human to support the vampiric community, either. Justin had been their advocate for years, and since starting work with Dr. Clementine, Rahil had met the vampire’s unwavering sister, and the journalist who’d first broken the Vitalis-Barron story, and even met back up with the human husband of the vampires who ran the Starlight Club. For every human who was tearing vampires down to create products like Vitalis-Barron’s new line, there was another offering support. Or, more realistically, for every ten.

Despite their aid, though, there were still vampires vanishing—Justin’s own best friend had disappeared four months ago, dropping off the grid so suddenly that his little Ala Santa community feared there was only one reason for it. They were preparing a tombstone for an empty grave next week. Vampires and their humans alike had to stay vigilant. Stake out a livable ground between nihilistic terror and unrealistic positivity. There was no way to know what was to come, only do what they could in the moment.

Mercer’s hand slid into Rahil’s, tugging him back to the present as someone shut off the television. His thumb traced the fresh scar on the back of Rahil’s hand, the mirror to the three that now marked his other hand and both palms. With his vampiric healing capacity, they’d likely fade, but for now they served as a reminder that his new family had survived, and they’d keep doing so.

Rahil tried to smile at Mercer, and though it was weak, just having him there made life seem a little more hopeful.

“I think we could use something joyful after that, hmm?” Mercer asked. “How do you feel about going out with me? Tonight, I mean. As in, right now. The guys already agreed to keep an eye on Lydia for a while.”

“Is that even a question?” Rahil smiled for real this time.

“Of course not.” Mercer lowered his voice, his lips brushing Rahil’s earlobe. “You be a good boy and do as you’re told.”

The shudder that sent through him thrust everything else into the back of his mind. He grinned. “Yes, Daddy.”

The look Mercer gave him was worth more than gold, unholy or not. “See, what did I say about going to hell?”

Rahil broke into laughter, and he pulled Mercer out of the building into the pleasant early fall evening, only slowing as Mercer directed him toward the car. They drove to the sound of the radio, the windows cracked and their hands intertwined between them, and when Mercer parked at the edge of the boardwalk and tossed the blindfold at him, Rahil only grew more ecstatic.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” he asked, and nearly tripped on a step.

Mercer caught him, both arms sweeping him up until he was held bridal-style, feeling the rumble of Merc’s chuckle and the gentle shake of his head. Mercer’s feet made a hollow clunk across what had to be wood. Mixed with Mercer’s rich smell of earth and bread, Rahil could smell the musk of lake water.

Mercer descended again, giving a soft, “easy now” as he set Rahil onto… stone?

Rahil pushed back the blindfold to find the very spot beyond the boardwalk where they’d sat together the night they’d both admitted they wanted this. Now though, the water level was a little lower, a little farther away from the rains of spring, and the hard stone had been cloaked with a blanket, a scattering of electric candles on either side and a vase of metal and wood-carved flowers. Avery whistled from the boardwalk above, and Jim scolded them, shooing them along.

Mercer winced. “Sorry. I let them set it up for me. They were supposed to be subtle.”

“It’s all perfect,” Rahil reassured him. He could feel the ring in his pocket like it had a kind of magic in it, stealing his breath away and making his heart thrum, his nerves hypersensitive.

Mercer smiled. “Happy anniversary, babe.”

Rahil laughed and settled onto the blanket. He dangled his feet off the side, feeling the very tip of his shoe brush the water. “Anniversary of what?”

“You being a fool,” Mercer replied, sitting beside him.

“You’re not narrowing it down.”

“Me being a fool?”

“Oh, yes, two months since the day we met.” Rahil smirked. “You were a fool for not kicking me right the fuck out.”

Mercer snorted. “I was a fool for not marrying you on the spot.”

All the butterflies in Rahil’s chest seemed to congregate beneath his sternum, their wings thudding in time. He leaned in. “Well, you’re going to fix that, aren’t you?”

His boyfriend leaned right back. “I’m considering it.”

Rahil’s giddiness couldn’t wait any longer. He slipped the ring out of his pocket, presenting it to Mercer delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m aware this isn’t a surprise, since you were the one who designed it, and then created most of it, but—here.”

“Well, you were the one who helped, so…” Mercer withdrew a small case from his own pocket, opening it the more traditional way, though he barely bothered to wait for Rahil to move, much less ask the question. They both had known the answer like it was signed on their soul, perhaps had known it deep down since that first swipe right.

Together, they helped each other slip the circles of metal into place—Rahil’s thin gold twining recklessly around a set of small pearls and Mercer’s thick and simple, its only ornamentation the two long fangs that Mercer had carefully removed from the mold he’d cast in Leah’s corpse. When he’d started the project, Rahil had asked, gently, whether that was healthy, but Mercer had only smiled and said it’s a piece of the only two people I’ve ever loved, in the romantic sense anyway, and the knowledge that even when they were strangers, they came together in the hopes of something good. Whatever happens, we will be good, too. And Rahil could not deny that.

Besides, he knew that both rings would attach flawlessly to the wedding additions Mercer was already working on. That would take more than two months, though. Perhaps two years, if the planning process for the week-long event went anything like it had for his last marriage—and now there was a kid’s opinion to incorporate into the mix.

“Lydia’s going to kill us if we don’t take a picture.” Rahil groaned. “So will my family, god.”

“Your family is going to kill us for not inviting them to watch us propose.”

“That’s not our fault.” Rahil pointed out, trying to mean it. He was getting better, little by little, motivated by seeing Mercer attend regular therapy appointments and slowly attempt anxiety medications. He groaned. “If they make us trade the rings again, though…”

Mercer only smiled at that, the soft quirk of his lips echoed across his face in a thousand little happy wrinkles and gentlings. He squeezed Rahil’s hand. Their rings overlapped. “I would propose to you a hundred more times, or a thousand, or ten thousand—every day until we have no more days.” As he spoke, he closed most of the space between them, his free hand gliding down the side of Rahil’s face, leaving fireworks in his wake. “My lonely whale,” he whispered.

“Not so lonely anymore.” Rahil leaned the rest of the way, and kissed him, soft, solid, perfect.

With the way time worked, it was likely that someday, one of them would be lonely again, but even with the worst that life could bring, Rahil found solace in the knowledge that through everything, they would never have to be truly alone. That was what family was for, after all.

And between the two of them, they had an entire family of 52hz whales.

At Jose’s Blood Bank, Clementine was the only one not sitting at the poker table, running back to his lab after hearing his phone ring for the fourth time. He cursed at the name on the screen.

But when he answered it, ending his opening tirade long enough for the person on the other end to speak, what he heard was so unexpected that the phone nearly slipped from his fingers.

“Hey, Clem. It’s—it’s Isaiah. I need help.”

For more of Rahil and Mercer, check out their exclusive post-book bonus stories of family chaos and sexy bondage (NOT at the same time) only available through my newsletter!

 THE STORY CONTINUES FOR ONE LAST NOVEL… But first…

Don’t miss Isaiah’s upcoming novella, where we see what he’s been up to since he vanished from San Salud, and get a peek at what Anthony is planning for his unholy gold.

HAVE YOU read BOOKS ONE, TWO, and THREE?

Find out how Wesley and his now fiancé fall in love in their cute, steamy, and heart-tugging friends-to-lovers romance, Bite Your Neighbor, followed by the slowburn push-and-pull romance of Clementine and the human who first agrees to sell him blood in Sell Your Blood, and the thrilling cat-and-mouse romance of Natalie’s cousin and his human in Bare Your Neck.

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OUR BLOODY PEARL

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D.N. Bryn is part of The Kraken Collective—an indie author alliance of queer speculative fiction committed to building an inclusive publishing space. If you’re interested in more queer vampires, check out..

STAKE SAUCE ARC 1: THE SECRET INGREDIENT IS LOVE. NO, REALLY.

by RoAnna Sylver

Once a firefighter, now a mall cop, Jude is obsessed with the incident that cost him his leg and his friend, five years ago. He is convinced a terrifying vampire was involved, and that they haunt Portland’s streets. Every night he searches for proof and is about ready to give up… until he runs into one—a fuzzy, pink-haired vampire named Pixie. Cuddly, not-at-all scary, Pixie needs his help against his much deadlier kin. Stake Sauce is a perfect blend of dark and amusing, while giving a wide space to trauma healing and found families.

This book features:

A human and a pet both experiencing seizures (no death).

Grief over the traumatic deaths of family members, including those lost due to cancer, homicide, and suicide.

Short term memory issues due to heightened chronic anxiety during arguments.

Blackmail, including the killing of a small wild animal (NOT a pet).

General fantasy violence and death.

Copyright © 2025 by D. N. Bryn

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2025

Print (paperback) 978-1-967620-00-5

Print (hardcover) 978-1-967620-01-2

Ebook 978-1-967620-02-9

For information about purchasing and permissions, contact D.N. Bryn at dnbryn@gmail.com

www.DNBryn.com

Cover design by ThistleArts.

Cover and spine typography by Houda Belgharbi.

Page Breaks by [FINISH ME] on vecteezy.com.

Published with The Kraken Collective.

This work is fictitious and any resemblance to real life persons or places is purely coincidental. No vampires were harmed in the making of this story.