Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
04 there is no god here, girl
Mercy stands in front of the doors of St. Agnes, late and a devil hanging over her shoulder.
"You're late," Illusion croons. "The man upstairs isn't going to like that."
They trail a finger across the white collar of her dress and down, pressing their nail into the black fabric stretched across her body.
"Fuck off." Mercy flinches. Prying the hand from her shoulder, she steps towards the door. "You have no clout with Him either. He doesn't care about either of us."
Illusion's laugh is haunting. Mercy ignores them.
St Agnes is a crawling presence in her life. It's a reminder: of the broken, the lost and the confused. For some it's a sanctuary, for others a cage—a deadly trap where. There's nothing more constricting to Mercy than the stone walls and wooden pews, cold against her fingertips. It's like a noose around her neck. Mercy King has never believed in a God. That's not possible with the shadow of a devil hanging over your shoulder with every move you make. Spiteful and violently jagged, Mercy is wholly unhuman. The ghost of her potential; the ichor of Illusion's vines. She has no room for Gods. And yet every Sunday she walks through those doors. Her fingertips brush against the metal handle, and she pulls her sunglasses over her eyes. Mercy doesn't push the door open quietly, it's the collateral damage to her rampage—swinging against the metal hinges with a vengeance.
The Lynch brothers sit in the back pews, a space forward from the back row: Ronan's tattoo curled against the skin of his neck, flashing in the morning sunlight that pours from the stained windows. He doesn't look as Mercy's Doc Martens echo against the flooring, but she settles her sights on him immediately. With grace, she slides into the pew behind the brothers. Illusion falls into their place beside her, poking at the fabric of her tote bag. Noah flickers. It's the youngest Lynch that turns to look at her—a halo of blond curls and a golden grin teasing the bunching of his youthful cheeks and the caving of his dimples. Matthew Lynch has always been the best of their kind. The smile that flickers on Mercy's lips is soft. She slides her sunglasses from her nose and tunes into the muttering between Matthew's two brothers.
