A few days earlier...
I felt strangely light without my armor. I'd grown so used to wearing it day in and day out that going somewhere without it made me feel like a balloon, ready to float off the ground. I was also as easy to puncture as said balloon. Without one of Mom's defensive jackets or any real armor to speak of, it would only take one well-placed bullet to kill me. I didn't look like myself, which was the only reason I could walk the streets of Chicago without attracting the attention of a Servitor or two. Anyone with enough magical sensitivity would be able to sense the illusion, even if they couldn't see through it entirely. Thankfully, there wasn't a human in Chicago with that much juice. Small comfort, but I'd take what I could get.
I plunged my hand into my purse, running my fingers over the contents inside to soothe my anxiety. My wands, a useless phone to throw any observers off track, a Glock 17 that Murphy had gifted me during the last BFS meeting, and, most importantly, a clay doll. Bob had taught me how to tie an illusion to it that, once activated, would last around eight hours. It was less taxing than trying to hold an illusion or veil long-term and had the added benefit of not drawing enemy attention to my family. I had about ten of these lined up, but had to use them sparingly. It exhausted me and the little folk who'd helped fuel them. I'd make five more in the next few months, just to be safe.
The dolls worked best when trying to mimic the appearance of the person who'd made them, but that would have defeated the whole purpose of creating them. So I'd drawn on a face that was almost as familiar to me as my own. Wildly curling copper hair, a riot of freckles over a cute, upturned nose, and large blue eyes set into a sweet, heart-shaped face. I'd been forced to make her taller to suit my frame, but the illusion looked otherwise the same. I hadn't told anyone exactly who I was trying to mimic. It would raise eyebrows if I revealed that I'd drawn on Lasciel for inspiration. To anyone watching, I was just a girl wearing a tight gray sweater and a pair of skinny jeans tucked into boots. I'd turned up the collar of a borrowed bomber jacket to keep the brisk wind off my face.
There was an unfamiliar car parked on the curb outside my parents' house. I hesitated before the white picket fence, trying to decide if it was a good time to go in. There was a stranger in the house, someone projecting grief and confusion so potent that it managed to reach me before I'd even stepped inside. Now probably wasn't a good time to go in but...damn it, Mom had been set on having me here for an early Thanksgiving dinner. I'd agreed to come for holidays at least and I didn't want to break my promises to her. I approached the door carefully and knocked. If it wasn't a good time, I could wait upstairs or in Dad's shop while they talked to the stranger.
The door swung open a minute later and Mom appeared in the gap. She was wearing a stained apron over a t-shirt and jeans. She'd pulled her hair into a loose tail at the base of her neck, and she looked tired. Blotchy patches hadn't entirely faded from her cheeks, and my stomach dropped into my toes. She'd been crying. Something bad had happened. Was it one of the Jawas? Dad? A family friend? Were they dead, or just horribly maimed?
"Mom," I whispered. "I'm so sorry to butt in. I can just go-"
"Of course not," she said, brushing flour off her apron in a businesslike fashion. Her voice was steady, even in the hushed undertone she'd adopted. "I invited you to dinner, and I'm not going to turn you away now. Your father and the children have gone out to grab more supplies, but they should be back in an hour. Come in."
She stepped aside and all but pulled me inside after. The house was warm and comfortably lived in as ever. My eyes were drawn almost immediately to a new pile of toys in one corner. They were suited to a young child. Probably Maggie's. I was a little disappointed that I'd missed meeting her upon arrival.
"You look cold. Why don't you head into the kitchen? I made coffee."
I darted an anxious glance at the kitchen. The misery wafting off the stranger was making me feel ill. I wasn't sure I could be near it for very long.
"Are you sure? If you're talking to someone..."
"I think you should talk with him. You deserve to know."
Dread ran a cool finger down my spine. The longer I stayed here, the less I liked it. But she was giving me an expectant look, urging me onward. I didn't think she'd do anything to intentionally hurt me, and she sincerely believed I should meet the guy, so I trudged forward, throwing up a shield against his feelings. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do for now.
A man around my age sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee. His face was also blotchy, and tear tracks had dried on his skin. His dark hair was tousled, as though he'd run his fingers through it until it stuck that way. He raised his eyes to look at me as I entered, and I sucked in a deep breath. His face was a little thinner, and a few lines had started to form on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. He was older but still unmistakable. He wasn't a total stranger, but I'd left Chicago before my powers had grown enough to read him. Not that I'd have wanted to, even then. The last time I'd seen him, I'd been burning a hole in his forehead with my stare, unspeakably angry with him.
"Nelson?" I blurted before I could stop myself.
Nelson Lenhardt frowned at me. "Do I know you?"
I scrambled for an explanation and finally settled on, "I'm Mercy Carpenter. Aunt Charity invited me to an early Thanksgiving dinner. I'm pretty sure that went to school together. I was a few years behind you, so you probably wouldn't have talked to me much. Molly used to talk about you, though."
It felt bizarre talking about myself in the third person, but it was necessary. Only a select few people knew I was alive. To anyone outside that small circle, I'd been abducted and brutally murdered by a serial killer when I was fifteen years old. I had a headstone in Graceland Cemetary. I visited occasionally when I was feeling pensive. Nelson's face twisted with remorse and he nodded, not questioning it further.
"I don't imagine it was pleasant. I was a crappy boyfriend, and things ended on a bad note." His gaze dropped to his coffee and fresh tears dewed on his lashes. "You can't imagine how much I regret that now. There were so many things I didn't get to say to her."
I wanted to hug him to me, tell him the truth, and dry his tears. But I couldn't. It was too dangerous for him to know. Fomor Servitors would torture him to get the information, then kill him shortly after. My voice came out thick as I offered the only comfort I could.
"It wasn't bad," I said. "Frustrated, maybe, but she liked you a lot. You were a good friend. A good boyfriend."
"Thanks for saying that," he said. But I could feel he didn't believe a word.
"She would say it if she were here."
"Molly was...she was good. Too good for me. When Rosanna and I found out she'd died it was sort of a turning point. We got clean. It was hard after Ken died, but we managed to stay sober." The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Your Aunt and Uncle helped a lot. They started supporting us after we started going to church. They even threw a bridal shower for Rosana and I. We were supposed to get married next week but..."
He choked on the words he was about to say, but I didn't need him to finish. Grief punched me in the gut, and hazed my vision as the implication sank in. Rosanna was dead, passing on just a week before what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. And the worst part? I hadn't thought of her in a long time. When I did, it was usually with a sense of hurt. If she hadn't tossed me out, things might have been different. Maybe I could have held Lasciel off for a little longer.
Now she was gone, and I didn't have a chance to tell her how grateful I'd been for her help in the beginning. We'd never kiss and make up. The relationship was frozen forever in the place I'd left it. My last words to her had been cruel.
"I am so sorry," I whispered. "How did it happen? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to but I..."
I wanted to know. I needed to know. What had happened to my former best friend?
"She climbed to the top of the Tribune Tower and jumped. I just can't understand why. Yes, the hormones from the baby were making her moody but I couldn't have imagined she'd do this. If she was feeling suicidal, she should have told someone. We could have gotten her to a hospital, talked her down or..."
Words failed him and he started crying again. Tears dripped into his mug. I crossed to his side, shoving my own grief down, and placed a hand on his shoulder. I wasn't as good at projecting as I was at receiving, but I could do this at least. I pushed a sense of calm, nudging his thoughts toward a more peaceful place. He was so close to cracking, the desire to shoot up gnawing at his thoughts. He needed my help more than I needed to cry.
After a few minutes the tears stopped. He leaned into me almost unconsciously. He shook his head ruefully.
"I'm sorry to go to pieces on you like that."
"Don't be," I said fiercely. "You're entitled to your tears, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
He took the kleenex that Mom offered him with a grateful nod. Then he drew in a shuddering breath and stood.
"I'll let you get back to cooking, Mrs. Carpenter. I'm sorry I took up so much of your time."
"You're welcome here anytime, Nelson. You know that."
"The service is in a few days. You're invited of course." He glanced at me. "You can come if you want."
I nodded, unsure of what to say. Nelson left, shutting the front door harder than necessary, leaving me in the cloud of his grief. When he was safely away, I allowed myself to cry. Mom held me, smoothing a hand over my hair, murmuring soft words of comfort until I finally calmed.
"I'll dine and dash, if you don't mind," I said quietly. "I don't think I can be here for long."
"Too painful?"
"Yes."
"In that case, I'll box up some leftovers for you."
"Thanks, Mom."
I sat at the table while she bustled around the kitchen, checking the oven and stirring various sauces. My mind was fixed firmly on the Cook County Morgue. I needed to see her, to know what had driven Rosie to the brink. When I was clear of the house, I'd call Butters.
I could only hope I'd keep dinner down when I saw what was left of her body.
