Mercy spent the next few days training her Talent with Reaper, and following doctor’s orders. That meant when she wasn’t training, she was resting, eating a strictly directed diet, and a visit from Wolfgang to make sure that’s exactly what she was doing. When she opened the door to her quarters for him on the fourth day, she caught a glimpse of Zion leaning against the opposite wall. He flashed her one of his too-charming smiles, and she had to resist the urge to scowl back.

She wasn’t surprised Reaper had followed through on having his dogs shadow her when he wasn’t around. She just wished he’d chosen someone else to do it. Now, even with the door closed again, she was uneasily aware of Zion’s presence right outside.

Which she’d have already known if she’d bothered to do the most cursory mental sweep. Damn. She could almost hear Reaper’s voice admonishing her lack of attention. Training had been going well; her old lessons with her mother had, according to Reaper, laid an excellent foundation. But Mercy struggled most with using her Talent as a normal routine. She’d spent her entire life practicing not to use it.

“What’s this about?” Wolfgang gestured to her face, and she realized she must be scowling after all.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Trust issues, I guess.” She swept him with her gaze, but he appeared fit and whole. No evidence of his injuries in how he held himself or moved.

“You look good,” he said. Some of the tension eased from his face, and she realized he’d been taking a similar inventory of her.

The two of them stood awkwardly for a moment, until Mercy decided what the hell, threw awkwardness aside, and gave the old Wolf a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as his arms squeezed her. Her voice wobbled a bit, and she cleared her throat, stepping away. No way was she going to cry again.

He frowned at her. “What are you sorry about?”

To give herself something to do, Mercy crossed to the tiny kitchen area and poured them both glasses of whiskey. Wolfgang liked coffee, but after the day they’d had, she figured something stronger was called for. It surprised her at first to find her kitchen fully stocked with not only food, but nearly a full bar of alcohol. Then she remembered these were pirates, probably even more given to vice than smugglers.

“This,” she said. “All of it. I’ve dragged you and Atrea into my mess.” She crossed the room and handed him a glass. She had to work to keep her voice steady. “I have to tell you something, and it isn’t going to be easy for either of us.”

“Let me stop you right there,” said Wolfgang as he accepted the glass. “One, no one has ever ‘dragged’ Atrea into anything that girl didn’t want to be a part of. Me included. Two, if you’re going to tell me Atrea’s in that stasis cocoon because of you, I’m going to be angry.”

Mercy took a deep breath. “But she is in that stasis field because of me.”

“No, she isn’t. The people who kidnapped you put her there.” Wolfgang set his drink aside. He had his serious face on, the one that usually made Mercy’ stomach drop into her boots. Still, he didn’t know everything that had happened, and she couldn’t let him continue in ignorance. Her own fingers were pressed so hard against her glass, she was surprised it didn’t shatter.

“You don’t understand. Yes, we were kidnapped by Frain and his people. But I’m the one who hurt Atrea.” It burned her to say those words, guilt eating her from the inside out.

Wolfgang regarded her for a long moment. He didn’t say anything, so Mercy soldiered forward.

“Willem forced me to use my Talent on her, to…” She still struggled with this part. “To unlock the latent Talent in her genes, somehow.” She couldn’t look at him, and stared down into her glass. “It hurt her.”

Wolfgang could move silently when he chose to. Mercy didn’t realize he’d crossed the room to stand right in front of her until he was gently prying the glass from her fingers and setting it down. When she still didn’t look up at him, he put a hand under her chin and forced it up. His blue-gray eyes were flat. Implacable, but not condemning.

“Did you put that poison inside her mind?”

“No, but—”

“It’s a yes or no question, Mercy. I’ve spent a lot of time in the infirmary. I’ve talked to Doc and Nayla. What’s killing my girl is a poison, an agent that will, according to Doc, attack her brain and consume it until nothing is left. That stasis field is the only thing keeping it from happening. Did you poison her?”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper.

“Then I’ll hear no more of how this is all your fault. I think you have enough to worry about without shouldering responsibilities that aren’t yours.”

The sick feeling in her gut slowly evaporated, but Mercy didn’t feel the relief she expected. Because no matter what Wolfgang said, she couldn’t absolve herself of Atrea’s fate. She swallowed, and forced herself to nod, knowing if she didn’t agree the old Wolf would just keep at her about it.

He gave a wry grin and shook his head. “You think I don’t know you’re only agreeing to shut me up? I’ve known you for half your life, girl. I can read you almost as well as Atrea.”

“I can’t change how I feel.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can. At least, not until we find a way to help Atrea. Once that happens, maybe you can let this go.” He picked up his whiskey glass. “Just know that I don’t blame you. I may not be able to stop you from blaming yourself, but I sure as hell don’t need to pile on any more guilt.” He drained the glass in one long drink, dragging a reluctant smile from Mercy.

She’d forgotten. Wolfgang never could sit around for long, not even to play a hand of cards or sip a glass of something nice.

He grabbed her shoulder in a gruff half-hug. “Why don’t you come and have some dinner with me?”

“I wish I could, but I have plans.”

“Do you, now?” The look he gave her was far too perceptive. “With Reaper?”

Mercy fought to keep embarrassment from flushing her cheeks. Wolfgang had never judged her for any of the connections or liaisons she’d had in various spaceports. Her life hadn’t been conducive to anything long term, and the old Wolf never seemed to have any illusions about what two young women might get up to when most of the people around them were smugglers, thieves and mercenaries. He gave them one lecture about being safe and careful, showed them the contraceptive and health treatments stowed with the rest of the medical supplies, and never asked any more questions. Mercy had always been grateful for that.

And truly, the one time she’d tried for something more had ended in disaster. She forced her thoughts away from that and gave a casual shrug.

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“With his family. His brother’s the head of security on this ship. Reaper wants me to talk to him about the bombing.”

“Yes, I’ve met Dem a few times now. He seems competent.” Wolfgang crossed his arms. “Be careful, Mercy.” This was said so softly, Mercy knew it had nothing to do with Dem or security.

She glanced at him. “I am. I will.”

He said nothing else, just brushed his lips across her forehead in farewell, and showed himself out. Mercy heard Zion greet him before the door slid shut.

With the upcoming dinner on her mind, Mercy made quick use of the shower, taking a little longer than necessary as she reveled in using the water option. Her room actually had a full size tub, something she’d never seen aboard a ship outside of expensive luxury liners only the wealthy elite could afford. She hadn’t noticed it on her first inspection as it was hidden behind a clever panel that made the bathing room look smaller than it really was.

A bath sounded like heaven, but she didn’t have time now. She looked at the nano-graph tub fashioned to look like pale grey marble shot with gold, and ran a mournful finger along one edge. Later, she promised herself.

Turning one wall into a mirror again, Mercy did the best she could with her hair. It was longer now, not quite brushing her shoulders so not long enough to tie back. Unfortunately, Nayla’s growing spells didn’t mean it looked nice. The hair fell in uneven dark waves, ending up with tufts that stuck out funny and didn’t lay nicely. Still, it was much preferable to the shaved look Willem Frain had left her with. She’d have to get some nano-bots and clean it up. For now, though, she combed it as best she could and divided it into two sections, twisting them into braids and using a sealer she found in one of the drawers to tuck the ends in. She looked like a grown woman wearing the hairstyle of a five-year-old, but it was something.

Mercy decided wearing armored clothing to dinner might not set the right tone. Especially given Dem’s title. She had just finished pulling on a casual cotton shirt – the real stuff, so soft beneath her fingers she lost a few moments playing with it before she pulled it on – when a chime at her door sounded. She stood up, hastily tugging the deep purple shirt straight, and did a mental sweep to see who it was. She was expecting Reaper.

But it wasn’t him.

She was so shocked she opened the door to verify with her eyes what her mind was telling her. Sure enough, Max and Kator stood side by side outside her door, neither one looking comfortable.

Both boys were dressed in plain, serviceable synth-fabric clothes. Their bruises were still spectacular, even a few days later. Apparently, no one had treated their minor injuries, probably as a deliberate lesson. Half of Max’s face was covered in a mottled purple bruise beginning to yellow in places, that started at his left eye, extending down to his jaw. It looked painful. Kator’s nose was still a little swollen, and thin red scratches extended down one side of his neck. He kept giving Zion nervous looks over his shoulder, and that one wasn’t helping with the grim look he wore. He stood up straight, looming over them with silent menace like he’d as soon pound them into the deck as allow them to see Mercy.

She glared at him. Do you have a problem?

Nope.

She gritted her teeth.

“S-sorry to bother you, Your Majesty.” Max stuttered out the words, looking ready to bolt at any second.

“Don’t call me that.” The words came out sharper than she intended, thanks to her irritation with Zion. Max’s face went white beneath the bruising. To her utter mortification, both boys dropped to the floor, heads bowed like she was some kind of idol. Or tyrannical monarch.

“Please forgive me, Your—I mean ma’am.”

Seriously?

But Mercy could see Max’s whole body quake as he knelt before her. He was definitely, ridiculously, serious. If anything, Kator was worse. He huddled in as small a mass as he could bend his large frame into, like he hoped to disappear into the deck.

Mercy looked at Zion. What the hell is wrong with them?

He shrugged. They might be too young to remember Lilith, but they’ve grown up hearing the stories.

She looked down at the boys again. So they’re terrified of me.

Pretty much.

She sighed. “It’s Mercy. You can just call me Mercy.”

Neither boy moved, and she got the feeling her words did little to reassure them.

By the Mother. “Would you stop that? Get up.” She reached down and took each boy by an arm, hauling them up until they scrambled to their feet. “I’m just Mercy. You don’t need to be afraid of me, and you don’t need to bow or call me anything but my given name. Got it?”

“As you wish, M-Mercy.” Max stuttered over saying her name, and it was everything Mercy could do not to roll her eyes.

“Let’s get straight to the point.” Better to get this conversation over with and put everyone out of this misery. “Why are you here?”

The boys exchanged a look. Mercy found it interesting that these two had come here together. There was no sign of Kator’s group of friends anywhere in the corridor. Folding her arms across her chest, she leaned against the door frame and waited.

“We came to apologize,” said Max. He was staring down at his toes.

“For what?”

“For what happened at the arena. F-for making you personally intervene in our disagreement.”

Mercy raised an eyebrow. “Is that what happened?”

Kator had crossed his arms in a defensive posture. He was twisting the material of one sleeve so hard she was surprised the fabric didn’t rip. Max kept staring at the deck. Mercy eyed them for another long minute.

“Bullshit,” she said, and both boys flinched. “Why are you really here?”

“I—I—”

“The apology might be part of your strategy, but it isn’t why you came to see me.” She was sure of that. Spending half her life dealing with swindlers and thieves had given her a healthy meter for falsehoods. “The two of you are the opposite of friends, yet something made you come here together.”

“We want to swear ourselves to your service,” Kator blurted out, the words so fast they almost ran into one another.

Mercy felt her jaw drop. “What?” She looked at Zion. They want to what?

He smiled, and for the first time it felt genuine. It means they’re declaring their loyalty. They might want to be trained as future dogs, or you could assign them specialized training and tasks. For example, you might want to give one of them command of a ship that answers directly to you. He eyed both boys with a speculative look. When they’ve proven themselves, of course. In the meantime, their focus of study would change to what you direct, and they’d do odd jobs for you when required.

So, what? They’d be servants?

Zion gave her a disapproving look. No. It means you would become responsible for their training, for…mentoring them. And they would gain the advantage of having that mentorship. And your favor.

She stared at both boys, who fidgeted and waited. They almost seemed to be holding their breath. The very last thing Mercy wanted was to be responsible for anyone else. What the hell was she supposed to do with two teenagers?

It would crush them if you refused, Zion said. The bastard’s eyes were twinkling. They won’t be the last, either. You’d better decide now if you plan to refuse everyone who asks.

Mercy thought a lot of colorful swear words. She could hear Zion chuckle mentally, and gave him one last glare. She could also hear the thoughts of both boys, they were thinking so hard. They badly wanted her to say yes.

What happens if I tell them no?

Zion sobered.

This is the first thing I have ever seen the two of them united on. Your refusal could very well send them back to being at odds.

Are you just saying that to manipulate me?

Now he gave her a flat, cool look. Do you think I don’t give a shit about their lives? Don’t think you know me, lady.

“Fine,” Mercy said the word aloud. Both to him, and to the boys. “I guess I accept.” She held up a hand to forestall the tumble of words she knew was coming. “But I’m still learning all of this. You’re going to need to be patient while I figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

“No problem, You—I mean Mercy.” Max bobbed his head in something between a nod and a bow. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“No more fights. Especially to the death. If I hear about it, you’re both out –got it?”

“Absolutely.” Kator was nodding like a fool.

“But if you have to fight to protect yourselves, I mean, definitely do that.” Mercy wanted to rake a hand through her hair, but couldn’t because she’d braided the stuff. Damn, she was already messing this up. “If anyone is giving you trouble, I expect to hear about it. Hopefully before it becomes physical.”

They both continued their vigorous nodding. Exasperated, she waved a hand. “Unless there’s something else, I have a dinner to get to.”

“Yes, I mean no. Mercy.” Max gave her a fervent grin as the boys backed away. “We’ll report to you first thing in the morning.”

She winced. “Let’s go for a couple of days from now.”

She could tell from their expressions that the delay was disappointing, but neither boy argued. Apparently they knew the value of not pushing their luck. The two of them ran down the corridor, jubilant in their body language and smiles. They passed Reaper on the way, who gave them a long look as they hurried by.

“You mean I only have a few days to figure out what to do with them?” she asked Zion.

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

Mercy sighed, watching Reaper approach. “That’s a matter of opinion.”