14   a smile made for war

Mercy made herself at home in the passenger seat of the BMW. St. Agnes looms in the distance, an unwelcome opening of arms. She digs her elbows into the seat material, headphones pressing against the skin of her neck. Mercy is restless. She still feels as if vines are wrapping around her legs, a phantom touch. Ronan glances at her, one hand on the wheel and the other on his gearshift. She sighs, nose inching out the open window and her hair whipping against the wind. Ronan presses a button, it closes slowly, forcing Mercy to pull her head away. She scowls. They haven't talked about it yet: the vines or the Gray Man.

          "I've never done that before." Mercy says. "I didn't know I could."

Ronan tightens his hand on the steering wheel. "Where did they go?"

Mercy shrugs. "I don't think they were real."

          "Felt like it," Ronan remarks snidely.

          "I think they're like our dream things." Mercy says, ignoring his comment. "But they don't last. Like maybe I can hold it for small periods of time. But it costs a lot."

          "Of Cabeswater?"

Shaking her head, Mercy replies. "No. Of me. At least I think so."

           "How do we test it?" Ronan questions.

          "We don't." Mercy says. Her nose presses against the window, fogging the glass. She thinks, fingers on her sternum and vines still crawling around her Achilles Heel. Lips pursing, Mercy focuses on the weight on her chest where her locket should be. The string pulls so taut it snaps. Flashes of silk and long contorting limbs play like a movie on the glass of the window. She intakes a sharp breath. Calla. Come back when you're ready, Little Spider. And bring the locket. "But I think I know how we can find out."

Ronan nods, and he pulls into the church's parking lot. St Agnes looms above them. Stepping out the BMW, Mercy's Doc Martens hit the ground with a thud. She isn't dressed for church: black t-shirt tucked into checkerboard pants. Mercy looks more ready for a skatepark than she does a Fourth of July service, but it's never bothered her. The redhead's pinched expression hides behind dark sunglasses. The only sign of her discomfort is the wringing of her hands as she studies the cracked flooring. Mercy can feel the ley line in her stomach, a sharp kick as power thrums beneath her skin. She touches her nose. It's dry. Earlier, she'd been sitting on her air mattress with a tissue plugging her nose and a mildly concerned Gansey standing over her. Mercy had waved him off to follow Ronan to church but she still feels ivy around her ankles.

Looking up, Mercy notices the black eye decorating the priest's face. She frowns at Ronan, who noticed a second before her. The second thing that Mercy notices is a severe lack of golden locks between where Ronan is meant to sit and Declan Lynch. She slides into the space on Ronan's other side, leaving the gap between him and his older brother. The third thing that Mercy notices is Illusion reclining on a seat near where the priest is doing his service. Her frown deepens. The first time she saw Illusion, it's like the camera was grainy. Pixels softened at the edges against each other; Illusion's smile fuzzy but it has never lost its sharpness. It has always been otherworldly; it has always been everything and nothing all all at once. But today, they've never been more clear. Red catches her vision: it's Circe King in the front pews.

Her thought train is interrupted by Declan's sharp hiss, "Where's Matthew?"

Mercy slides her sunglasses from her face, tucking them into her shirt's neckline. Her expression is confused.

          "You tell me." Ronan replies.

          "You weren't here on Sunday," Declan's tone is accusatory and Mercy's hackles rise along with her and Ronan's shared guilt. "And Matthew says you didn't ever explain."

          "Oh, please," Ronan whispers. "He's not that clever."

Mercy's lips purse.

          "Have you called him?" Ronan asks.

Thumbing her own phone screen in her pocket, Mercy's headphones press tightly against her neck as she leans against the pews. She feels intrusive, interrupting a family conversation. But Ronan wouldn't let her be here if he didn't want her to be. The middle Lynch brother isn't a liar after all.

          "Not picking up." Declan's eyes narrow, like this is somehow Ronan's fault.

          "You saw him this morning?"

Declan makes a noise of affirmation, and Ronan shrugs at him.

          "He doesn't skip." Declan says. There's an underlying statement: unlike you.

          "Until he does." Ronan states.

          "This is all your fault," Declan says, hushed. His gaze flicks between Ronan and the empty pew beside him, landing on the priest. "I told you to keep your mouth shut. I told you to keep your head down. Why can't you just do what you're told for once?"

Mercy scowls. "Accusing Ronan isn't going to help find Matthew, Mr. fucking High Ground. Why don't you go ask the priest about your matching black-eyes? That isn't keeping your head down, it's a red fucking flag."

          "Who invited you?" Declan snaps.

          "I'm here every Sunday, you bastard." Mercy seethes, half tempted to reach across Ronan and grip his neck in her fingers, and shake him till he has some sense. Or at least better manners. "I pay more attention than you do, whispering to your brothers like you have any ground to stand on. Shut the fuck up."

Declan sneers, turning to Ronan. "Ronan."

Ronan simply raises a brow. "Stop acting like you know everything."

          "Oh, I know enough." Declan says, half a choked laugh. "I know what you are. What she is. Pray tell, Miss King, what did you do last summer?"

The only thing that stops Mercy from pressing her knee into Declan's gut is a flicker. Illusion grins in the spot where Matthew should be. She settles her metaphorical hackles, grinning from ear to ear, a smile of teeth and ugly promises.

          "You don't know what you're talking about." She says slowly, deep and sharp. "People who play with webs are bound to get caught, Declan Lynch."

Illusion's lip quirks. "That's my girl."

Mercy shivers, ignoring the shadow, following as Ronan rises from the pew. His patience is running low. Without his only reason to stay, Matthew, there's no point in remaining in the same stagnant place.

          "Ronan," Declan whispers, furious. "Where are you going?"

Ronan turns on his heel. He presses a single finger to his lips, a Cheshire cat smile exposed at each side. It's ferocious, snake-like and the remnants of a fracturing mirror. He says nothing, simply walking out and pushing through the heavy doors to the outside world.

Mercy pauses whilst opening the BMW's passenger seat door. "Are we looking for him?"

Ronan nods, tossing her his phone silently. She slips into the passenger seat as Ronan revs the engine. The BMW takes off, nosing out the parking lot as Mercy's door swings closed. She slides on her seatbelt quickly before ringing Matthew's phone. It goes to voicemail. Worriedly, Mercy spares a glance to Ronan, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He drives towards Monmouth. She calls again, anxiety flitting in the pit of her stomach like a roaring fire. Voicemail. It only worsens as Mercy looks in the rear-view mirror, a picture-perfect Illusion waving from the backseat with a snake-like smile and lazing razor eyes. She's uneasy, fingers shaking slightly to dial Matthew's number again. Another voicemail. They're breaking away from downtown now, the idea of Monmouth is barely in the distance.

Mercy thinks: slow and steady as the BMW cruises. Matthew wouldn't ever abandon church when it's the one place that he can gather his pair of brothers. Not once in her life of church-going has she ever seen him skip, not without reason. His home is between his brothers on the hard wood of the back pew. This only leads to a simple conclusion: he didn't choose to skip. There's very few people in the world that would dare to evoke the wrath of Ronan Lynch by swiping his baby brother. The Gray Man has sworn off giving Ronan over. This leaves Kavinsky, and there's no lengths that he wouldn't consider to win his prize. She hears the familiar chime of Matthew's voicemail for the fourth time and angrily smashes her finger into the end button.

          "There isn't a length Kavinsky wouldn't go to," Mercy says slowly, voicing her thoughts.

Ronan's grip tightens and he parks outside Monmouth. His phone buzzes before he can reply. Mercy looks down, her shoulders slumping at Matthew's contact flashing on the screen. Pressing the message, her nose furrows.

MATTHEW: what's up mofo

Another text flashes.

KAVINSKY: what's up mofo
KAVINSKY: bring something fun to fourth of july or we'll see which pill works the best on your brother

Mercy grimaces, tossing Ronan the phone. He doesn't waste a moment, dialling Kavinsky's number with a deadly expression. It's on speaker for Mercy to hear. Kavinsky immediately picks up, not wasting a single ring.

          "Lynch," he says, "fancy hearing from you."

          "Where is he?" Ronan demands, sharpened and radiating with single-minded anger.

          "You know, I asked nice the first few times. Are you coming to Fourth? Are you coming? Are you coming? Here, have a motherfucking car. Are you coming? You made it ugly. Bring something impressive tonight."

          "I'm not doing this," Ronan says.

          "Matthew has nothing to do with this, Kavinsky." Mercy snaps. "He's just a kid."

          "When has that stopped us before?" Mercy can hear his smile as Kavinsky continues. "I think you are coming tonight. Or I'll keep trying different things on him. He can be my finale tonight. Boom! You want to see something explode... "

Ronan turns his key in the ignition, the door to Monmouth opening as he does. Mercy wildly waves a hand, signalling for him to get in the car. Gansey places a hand on the door handle.

          "You won't get away with this."

          "I got away with dear old dad," Kavinsky observes. "And Prokopenko. And no offence to your brother, but they were a lot more complicated."

          "You didn't..." Mercy croaks out, heart in her throat. The feeling, panic and grief combined, is so visceral that she chokes on it. It climbs her throat, tears burning her eyes. "Tell me you didn't."

          "Oh," Kavinsky says slowly, "but I did."

          "This was the wrong play." Ronan snarls, a fellow wild thing. "I will destroy you."

          "Don't let me down, Lynch."

The call ends, it's beeping mutilating in the silence. Mercy presses her face into her knees, rubbing the scars against her face. Gansey slips into the car, and Ronan rips out of the parking lot with roaring vengeance.

Pandora didn't choose to be a weapon. She was created: Hermes carefully crafted her with his god hands and gifted her with the ability of speech; Athena dressed her, fabric of silver and taught her to weave; Hephaestus crowned her in gold, a diadem of creatures both land and sea alike; Aphrodite let grace melt into her skin, pouring it over her head like a rain shower. She didn't ask for the gifts, nor her own existence but she had no choice. There was no choice but to be a monster. Because for her to speak is to lie; to have a mind is to choose treachery; to have grace is to be led by desire; to be beautiful is to be lethal. The insatiable curiosity gifted to Pandora was what lifted the lid, not a conscious decision of her own making. It was influence, revenge and the will of the gods. You can never alter fate. It's out of your hands. Sickness, death and the myriad of other evils were always going to be released on her earth. What will be is meant to be.

Mercy feels like Pandora's Jar has been left open at her feet—despair hanging over her head like a diadem, hope left behind. It's those ills that put people like Kavinsky on podiums, the world at their fingertips. It's those ills that put Matthew Lynch, an innocent soul, in the crossfire. But it's those ills, revenge and anger, that fuel her. Matthew Lynch is the hope in the jar and Mercy is determined to save this sliver of something beautiful in the world.

Like thunder from the approaching storm, Gansey bangs through the door of 300 Fox Way while Blue is unlacing her shoes. He doesn't knock, or even pause in the doorway.

          "Jane?" He calls out, wildly looking around the corners of her house. "Blue!"

If Blue couldn't already tell that something is seriously wrong, Ronan and Mercy barging through the door on a stampede would have solidified the thought process.

Mercy knocks her fist heavily on the doorframe. It echoes throughout Fox Way. "Sargent! Come on, get your tiny ass out here we have to go!"

Blue appears in the room, surveying her gasping friends with wide eyes. Gansey wastes no time before explaining, the words spilling out like a flood as the panic seeps in. Mercy's cheeks are smudged red, untethered tear tracks tracing the lines of her freckles like connect-the-dots, and Ronan is radiating. His fists clench and unclench, trying to hold himself in but a light behind his eyes flickers, deadly and dangerous. It doesn't take long for them to pile out the door and into the BMW. The Fourth of July parade bustles around them but there's no luck finding Maura or Calla. As a last resort Mercy directs them to the Henrietta drag strip: the yearly location of Kavinsky's Fourth of July party. Anxiety pinches her stomach, and with every movement in the crowd shadows fade in and out. She bites her lip, it's been a long time since she's set foot on these grounds.

The drag strip feels like a punch to the stomach, despair shifting to memories as the BMW's shark-nose pulls into the area. Dusty and long, the drag strip is packed, lit with the bright headlights of teenager's cars. The familiar beat of Kavinsky's chosen music genre shakes the ground beneath the BMW's tires and the smell of Barbecue lathers the hair thickly. Ripping through the dust, an old Mustang and a Pontiac are the current entertainment, facing each other off with rubber flying through the air.

Mercy's eyes sweep to a little girl, a blue balloon in one of her hands and the other clutched in her mother's. She's seen them at church before. The redhead always found herself here just as Kavinsky was making his entrance, hanging off Mallory's warm body and mind already foggy from his pills. It's like a dream. A nightmare. The world was slow, a roller coaster road into blasphemy. Mercy's on the edge, balancing on a knife.

Gansey, hauling himself out the BMW, looks around. "Are you sure this is Kavinsky's?"

          "It is," Mercy says without looking. Her eyes are glued to the Mustang and Pontiac, fingers pulling at the leather band she's kept around her wrist since swiping it from the Nino's table. "Just wait, he'll make his entrance."

          "It's early." Blue adds.

          "He can't be here," Ronan says, restlessly fiddling with his car keys. "You have to be wrong."

          "He'll be here," Mercy snaps. "Are you really questioning me on this, Lynch? Who is going to know better than me?"

Ronan closes his mouth, grinding teeth against teeth.

          "Let's do a study," Gansey says.

Mercy turns on her heel, pushing through the crowd as the afternoon shadows grow and the sun begins to die out. She doesn't need to elbow, the crowd parting around her at the familiar face. Once you run with Kavinsky's crew, it's hard to lose your reputation at these events. Even with the amount of people that disappear before the night is over. Moon rising, the children are the first to disappear from the crowd, then the adults. Mercy can no longer see the little girl with her blue balloon or her mother. Familiar college kids and seniors begin to appear, a few calling out to Mercy with a wave of a hand. Her glare turns on them and they disappear into the crowd without argument. The world around them gets darker, ugly with filthy promises and manufactured experiences.

Beside Mercy, a girl offers Blue a pill. "I've got extras."

Nervously, Blue shakes her head. "No thanks."

The girl asks Mercy and she stares, tempted. Sucking in a breath, Mercy feels too painfully sober to be dealing with this. But she takes too long. Ronan flicks the blue pill from the girl's hand. Huffing, she spits at his feet and stomps away. Mercy's lips press into a thin line, half-tempted to pick it up off the ground and let it dissolve on her tongue. She spares a glance at Ronan's fracturing patience and grabs his hand, pulling him towards the front of the drag stripe. Floodlights snap on, illuminating the stripe in full light. Mercy stops in her tracks, Ronan smacking into her back from the suddenness. White Mitsubishis, all identical with their sneering mouths and knives carved into the sides of their sides, roll into the dust. One pulls in front of the others, dramatic as it tears down the strip with a vengeance only known to one driver. It jerks to the side, skidding to a stop in a mushroom cloud of dust. Around them, the crowd goes wild and Mercy's chest soars, longing and aching.

Paling, Mercy is silent, paler than any of them have ever seen her and strangely silent. She's looking at one of the identical Mitsubishis, eyes locked onto the driver's seat. Golden hair spills over pale shoulders, covering prominent collar bones and smooth skin. Navy lace straps flashing underneath her tank top and black sunglasses tucked into the safety of their hair, she's familiar. Achingly so. Mercy chokes, the locket Kavinsky had left her hot in her pocket. She'd taken it knowing it isn't the real one, finding security in its minor presence, but that disappeared as the Mitsubishi slows.

Mallory Weaver isn't the enigma as Mercy remembers. The spark in her eye that drew Mercy to her in the first place is lacking, a complacent blue replacing the stars. She doesn't look like the girl who fought for her place amongst the boys, known and feared. There's something missing, a soulless sinking feeling settling into Mercy's skin. This isn't the same girl that she remembers. Underneath Mercy's fingers she can feel the ghost of the knobs of Mallory's spine; on her stomach a blonde head licking a stripe of salt with a grin and lime wedges between the white of her teeth; her mouth soft against hers; her feet hitting the ground, stumbling to get her checkered flag from the backseat of the blonde's car. This isn't even the same girl whose body was broken, fractured and splintered in the aftermath. She's vacant, uninterested with her hand on the wheel.

          "That's him."

Mercy snaps out of her stupor, unable to form any words. Ronan is already shoving his way through the crowd before Mercy can hook her fingers around his arm. She fights to catch up with him, refusing to let him face Kavinsky alone. Mercy isn't smooth, she trips over her own feet and the shoes of others, grasping onto the back of Ronan's tank top to keep up. Gansey and Blue trail behind in their broken path. She feels woozy, untethered and floating above solid ground.

          "Lynch," Gansey calls. "Ronan! Hold up!"

He has no hope of stopping Ronan. The dust around the main Mitsubishi clears, revealing a crowing Kavinsky on its roof.

          "Let's burn something!" He howls, snapping his finger and pointing.

A familiar low hiss hovers in the air, hanging until it's culprit, the first firework of the night, takes off and booms against the black sky. His laughter is lost to the music, clouded by over-exaggerated bass and indiscernible lyrics. Kavinsky's eyes lock with Mercy's. He smiles. Jumping down, another cloud of dust erupts as he lands by the open door of the Mitsubishi.

          "Oh, hey," Kavinsky sneers. His eyes brush over the group. "It's Daddy. Dick, that's a strangely hetero partner you have there. Lynch having performance issues."

Ronan's arm snakes through the air, latching around Kavinsky's throat. For once, nobody protests. Another fireworks sets the sky alight and lightning strikes, a clash of heaven and hell. Faintly, around them car doors open and close.

"Where is he?" Ronan snarls, more animal than dreamer.

Unconcerned, Kavinsky gestures vaguely. "In that car. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. You know these things. They all look alike."

He knees Ronan in the stomach. Ronan stumbles backwards, reeling as he drops Kavinsky and Mercy catches his body with an oomph.

          "Here's the thing, Lynch," Kavinsky says. He looks at Mercy and Ronan with a broken grin. "When I said with me or against me, I didn't really think you'd pick against me."

A white Mitsubishi tears up the ground behind Ronan and Mercy. The latter's head snaps around, catching blonde hair and a glittering grin. It skids to a stop behind Kavinsky's car.

          "But in a way," Kavinsky says, pulling Mercy's eyes away, "it's better this way. You know how I like things to explode."

Ronan growls. "I want my brother."

          "First," Kavinsky says, opening his palm and revealing a green pill, "save your life. I'll be right back, sweetie."

He drops it on his tongue. Mercy forgot how quick his pills set in, Kavinsky's body crumpling to the ground without a second to spare. His veins pump, raising above his skin and muscles visibly straining, pulse beating to the music. Mercy swears viciously and violently, pushing Ronan off her.

          "Shit," Ronan curses. He stumbles, diving into the car and digging another pill from the centre console. "Shit, shit."

          "Ronan," Mercy says. He isn't listening. "Ronan!"

          "What's happening?" Blue demands.

          "He's dreaming," Ronan says. "Who knows what he's gone to get. Nothing good. Shit, Kavinsky!"

          "I'm coming." Mercy insists. She launches herself forward, shifting through the centre console but comes up empty. "Fuck."

          "Can we stop him?" Gansey asks.

Mercy keeps shifting through the front seat. "Only if you kill him."

Ronan stuffs his green pill into his mouth. "Get Matthew. And get the hell out of here."

          "Shit!" Mercy's tone becomes more shrill as Ronan drops. There's nothing in Kavinsky's car. She looks around wildly, turning to Blue and Gansey. "Go! Go get Matthew—"

          "Mercy."

Mercy's face drains, ears straining to hear the familiar voice. It's a melody, light and easy against her tired mind. She almost falls into it, turning around with a broken expression. Mallory's sunglasses are missing from her hair and her tank top is askew, but she's still just as beautiful as the day she died.

          "Mal," Mercy's voice cracks.

          "Who?" Blue's faint in the background.

Mallory steps close to Mercy, fingers hooking in the belt loops of her pants. She leans in close, warm mouth to Mercy's ears. Her lips stretch, a ghostly smile gracing her pink lips. Mallory's hand raises and Mercy's eyes flick down to her fingers. They hold a green pill. Everything in Mercy screams, she knows that only Kavinsky could've made Mallory approach her, but still she takes it from the blonde's fingers.

          "Just like old times." Mallory says, soft and low against Mercy's neck.

          "Just like old times," Mercy echoes.

She slips the pill into her mouth and drops, pulling herself into Pandora's Jar.