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The unhealed slit in her neck was visible now, showing bloody meat and bone gristle through the skin. I’d done a number on her when I pinned her to the tree.
Now we had one last hurdle to cross.
“Can you get me a box, please? There should be one in the supply shed next door.”
“I don’t think your grandmother has enough sheds,” he observed sarcastically.
“There used to be six. She consolidated.” I wasn’t really paying attention to our conversation. I was too busy staring into my mother’s vacant eyes.
“I’ll be right back.”
Once he was gone, I crouched beside Mercy and lowered the sword, keeping her head up by gripping her hair.
“It didn’t have to end like this, you know.” I half-expected her to jolt back to life and rip my throat out. She just sat there though, all her dead weight tugging on my hand. “I wanted to leave you be. I never wanted to kill you, but you couldn’t let it go, could you?”
I released her head and sat back against the riding mower so I mirrored her pose. “You bitch,” I spat. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Why did you make me do this?” Kicking her in the leg, I wanted to take out all my frustration on her. I thought killing her would pull back the darkness and shed some light into my world. Instead I just had a bleak pit inside me that felt like guilt.
I didn’t want to regret killing her.
The guilt probably had more to do with the danger my loved ones had been put in because of my need to kill her, or the deep-seated belief I had that Grandmere was more torn up about this than she let on. But another part of me did feel bad for murdering Mercy.
How could I not feel bad?
I’d killed my own mother.
This was the shit Shakespearean tragedies were made of, if Willy had written about vampires and werewolves. But the elements were all there. A throne in contention, a pretender to the crown, a violent clash between parent and child. Add a crazy chick drowning in a river and my life might as well be called Were-Hamlet.
I wanted to go home.
I needed to sleep in my own bed, and with two of the biggest demons exiled from my messy mental closet, maybe I could get through the whole night without a nightmare.
But I should know better than anyone that killing the source didn’t necessarily stop the bad dreams from sneaking up on you.
I got back to my feet, kicking her one more time for good measure. My bitterness at her doubled back on myself because I felt worse for the extra burden of guilt I was feeling. She was dead and I should rejoice. Yet I’d learned at this point there was no joy to be found in murder.
The Doctor. Alexandre Peyton. Now Mercy McQueen.
They’d all died at my hand, and I didn’t feel happy about a single one.
I just felt tired.
Angling Mercy’s body so she leaned forward, I took a mighty swing at her neck and watched her head fall into her lap.
Then I cried.
I cried so hard my body shook and I struggled to catch my breath. When Desmond found me, I couldn’t stop. I gasped, trying to speak, but only sobbing hiccups came out.
Finally he took me back into the house where Grandmere led me to my basement bedroom.
I wept until my pillowcases were stained pink with my tears.
And when I was sure there was nothing left for me to cry out, the sun rose and I was lost to sleep at last.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Not for the first time, I was grateful I didn’t have to fly commercial.
Between two caged werewolves, a cache of weapons and a boxed head, I didn’t think we’d fare too well in a traditional airport. The idea of a full cavity search at the hands of a TSA agent held no appeal, so when I settled into the plush leather seat on the jet, I thanked my lucky stars.
