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  Save Me in the End:

  The Mercer Sisters Book One

  A LESBIAN VIGILANTE ROMANCE

  REA WINTERS

  SAVE ME IN THE END Copyright © 2020 by REA WINTERS. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Welcome to Orelancia, my fellow sapphites!

  Please enjoy your stay.

  Orelancian Terminology & Slang:

  Ladda (n.), fella (n.) – a female with an overtly masculine physique and/or preferred style.

  Ancesti (n.) – ancestors.

  Boi (n.) – young masculine females; a rambunctious, tough, and/or unruly child regardless of sex; can also be used toward an adult who still has a rambunctious, tough, or unruly personality.

  Boyo (n.) – an affectionate or informal version of ‘boy.’

  Aobe, -aobe (n.) – boss, leader, superior, master; a formal respectful addressment primarily used by servants and laborers toward their employers or people of a higher financial status than themselves. Example: An executive at a company would address the CEO as Sir or Madam, while a janitor in the building would use ‘aobe’ either as a single word or a suffix attached to the CEO’s surname.

  Indo – Native Americans, i.e. Indigenous people of the Americas.

  Zhu – people of Chinese and Southeast Asian descent.

  Afrikan – descendants of people from parts of West Africa.

  Euromutt – people of mixed European-heritage from two or more of the European nations that first conquered the Americas.

  Contents

  00.

  01.

  02.

  03.

  04.

  05.

  06.

  07.

  08.

  09.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  Epilogue

  Rea’s World

  00.

  Country: Orelancia, The United Regions

  Region: Oreshire (NW)

  State: Ashington

  Province: Wenna

  City: Selas

  Date: Februari 2017 LR

  Fireworks abound.

  Triumphant marching band instrumentals score the rhythmic war chants of a drunk and merry crowd. It’s Independence Day in the Land of Ore. Officially named The United Regions of Orelancia, the country was born anew after Europe’s claim of The Americas perished under a fifty-year rain of blood and fire hailed by escaped prisoners and rebel slaves. Every year for the past four hundred years, the night their liberation solidified across the world has been a time of raucous celebration. Citizens crowded the city streets dressed in an array of traditional garb and costume armor of the Indo, Zhu, Afrikan, and Euromutt warriors from which they descend – the ancestors who freed the land and themselves from Europure rule.

  In the pacific northwestern state famously built from the ashes of the war’s toughest battleground, an emcee – muscular, dark brown, and dressed head to toe as an Indo Chieftain – stood tall at the top of an iron hammer-themed float and yelled into a microphone.

  “Let’s hear it for the Ancesti, yah!”

  The crowd dancing behind the float roar with cheer.

  “Down with Ta Ehku!”

  “No Ta Ehku!”

  “Down with Ta Nofu!”

  “No Ta Nofu!”

  “Down with Ta Kátu, yah?”

  “No Ta Kátu!”

  The Rats, The Lazy, The Cowards. In today’s age, this chant is less about the literal overlords from centuries ago – the masters who had used the persecuted, tricked, and enslaved to toil for their riches on plantations and penal colonies until the day the chains found their necks and broke them. Instead, it’s more so about mentality. About not being the ones who get their necks snapped. About core values molded from their ancestors’ methods of thwarting their dark circumstances and achieving greatness.

  The grand union of their lion hearts and iron fists had given birth to a new nation, a new future for the Land of Ore. One that their descendants generally consider themselves forever blessed to know and help flourish under every sunrise. Though, humans being human, not everyone possesses enough gratitude to live decently, to be good and better themselves without dragging others down.

  “To the Land of Ore! To the people of Ore!”

  The band music swells again and the people dance and march behind the floats, singing a merry anthem first written as a bard’s tale about the UR’s most famous rebels and their victories. Not only in defeating the enemy but also forging extraordinary bonds between the forgotten people of faraway lands and creating a new people made of strength and savvy. They hadn’t lived without inner conflicts, but remained tethered by one constant desire: to rise above. A sentiment on which the pride and honor of Orelancians anchors.

  But to rise above is sometimes easier said than done. Sometimes to sink lower is the only way to right a wrong. To win. Either or both.

  The Order is an underground network of contract killers dedicated to this alternative. A nomadic organization with roots tied to The Blood Knights – a clan of secret assassins who had aided the ancestors in tipping the scales in their favor against forces who sought to dismantle their new society after the Fifty-Year War was won. The clan had been officially dismantled and outlawed by the government before the turn of the 20th Century. But the practice of putting the law of life and death in the people’s hands hadn’t quite ended. It dissolved, then spread, and molded to the ever-changing times.

  Instead of flashy displays of dismembered heads and warnings written on the walls in blood as a sanctioned act of patriotism, those who inflict harm on the proven innocent and evade legal consequence now face a private justice that anyone from all walks of life can purchase.

  As the parade carries on, a burly man in a sweat stained dress shirt sits alone in a booth in the corner of a crowded pub. He rolls up his sleeves over thick hairy arms and shakes the gold watch down his wrist a couple inches, preparing to dig into a basket of steaming buffalo wings. About half way through his meal of chicken and three tall glasses of beer, he continues to go unnoticed by the rowdy crowd as he suddenly becomes too lightheaded to focus. His body too heavy to move. A minute later, his head slowly slumps into that basket of half-eaten wings and a trail of thin foam trickles from the corners of his mouth.

  About ten minutes pass before a server on his way to the restroom checks on the big man. Once the young man calls over another server and the cellphones are pulled out, a tall and broad figure dressed as a black-armored red caped knight stands up from a barstool at the front of the room. The masked patron only bought one drink, but leaves a big tip for the overwhelmed bartender along with a note folded underneath.

  The young man running the bar – petite, pouty lipped, and green eyed with dark blonde hair flowing down his back – notices the vacant seat and hurries over. He collects the empty glass, pockets the generous tip in his hip-hugging jeans, and unfolds the note with a huff, thinking it’s some lame flirty one-liner with a phone number underneath.

  You’re safe now, the note reads. And the number underneath is his father’s.
He looks up, scanning the crowd for the black knight, who’s already lost to the undulating crowd outside.

  “Max, take over for a minute.”

  “Got it, G.”

  Georgie Haim rushes to the back office of the bar and closes the door behind him, muffling half the noise. He pulls his phone from his back pocket and calls home.

  “Daddy!”

  “Whoa, sweet pea, what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. I just got this weird note from some stranger at the bar.”

  “A note?”

  “Yeah, it says ‘you’re safe now’ and your number is written under it. I don’t know, I just got really scared all of a sudden. Do you know anything about this? Was that a friend of yours? I don’t understand this.”

  Georgie’s father draws a breath, but remains silent. Outside of the office, police arrive and clear the bar of its patrons. A girl pops into the room and tells Georgie that the bar’s owner is in trouble.

  “They think he had a stroke or seizure or something. Looks like he’s dead.”

  Georgie’s heart drops. “O-okay. I’ll be out in a second.” Once alone again, he stumbles back against the desk, his breath turning shallow as he lifts the phone back to his ear. “Daddy…did you…did you do something?”

  “I’ll see you when you get home, pea.”

  Georgie’s father ends the call. In a couple of hours, he will meet a darkly dressed stranger under a bridge, hand over an envelope of cash and then return home; able to sleep through the night knowing the sleazeball who hurt his son would never rise again.

  Though it thrives only in the shadows, openly praised by none, righteous vengeance remains as strong a virtue as any other. And in today’s age, it pays well, too.

  01.

  Country: Orelancia, The United Regions

  Region: Oreshire (NW)

  State: Ashington

  Province: Wenna

  City: Selas

  Date: April 2017 LR

  If you could see me now, would you be proud, Papa?

  I hide my pain the way you showed me.

  Wearing a gentle smile while humming songs of somber.

  I miss you less on days like this.

  Melancholy music scored the mundane goings on of servants below. In an expansive room of peach and rosy pink walls, dark red carpeting, and over a million dollars’ worth of musical instruments poised in every corner, a black and gold trimmed grand piano adorned the very center of it. Above the music shelf, in place of sheet music, a pale hologram of a ballerina danced in tandem with the melody, bringing a light smile to the player’s face.

  This room was the crown of the Hayden mansion and the girl at its key the jewel – Roselyn Alejandra Hayden. She was the only child of a tycoon who recently passed, making her the sole heiress of anything and everything with her father’s name attached. But not without conditions.

  “Rose?” A fair-skinned woman of above average height and a thin fit build entered the piano room. She was classically handsome on the outside with her diamond-shaped face, slick blonde faux hawk, and stark blue eyes. But she hid an ugliness behind the ensemble of a dark tailored pinstripe suit, shiny accessories, and a little black box tucked into the fist behind her back.

  Her name? Perry Pryce, otherwise known as, the condition.

  The girl at the piano took pause without pausing in the stroke of the keys. She became more alert, stiffened on the cushioned bench and kept her glazed eyes glued to the tiny faceless dancer.

  Perry swiped away a layer of wavy black hair from her fiancé’s shoulder, revealing her rich olive-tone neck.

  “It’s rude not to say hello.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered and on her exposed neck, Perry planted a kiss. Rosie withheld a wince at the burn of her cold lips and bit back protest as her late mother’s birthstone was unfastened and taken away, replaced with a sparkling apology. A dark emerald stone hugged by little diamonds dangled from a silver chain across her collarbone.

  “Matches your eyes. Do you love it? I wanted to get you something to apologize for the other night. I’m sorry you had to see me like that, princess.”

  Rosie remained silent, content to let the music speak for her.

  Perry sighed long and loudly as her hold of Rosie’s shoulders turned into a gradual squeeze just painful enough to stop her swift hands from moving, cutting the music abruptly. The tiny dancer glitched and disappeared in a blink, the beam of light from which she projected growing dim.

  “I think it’s best we just move on, don’t you? I can get beside myself when I’m frustrated, you know that. But I never mean anything by it, all right?”

  Rosie swallowed, then let out the breath she was holding to brace through the pinching pain of her touch.

  “I know.”

  “I love you.”

  “And I you.”

  At last, she released her. Patted her arms and kissed the top of her head, the final act of her performance.

  “So, you’ll stop with the spacy silent treatment now and let Nani help you pick out something pretty for the event. Agreed?”

  Rosie nodded. Satisfied, Perry stepped out into the hall. “She’s all yours, Nani.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Nani, a stout Greek woman and the family’s oldest servant, emerged from the walk-in closet with a fourth dress draped over her arms. It was another sleek and shiny number, something darkly sexy and modern compared to Rosie’s usual retro pastel attire. She laid the dress out on Rosie’s bed next to three other outfits, while the lady of the house laid at the top of the bed, curled up under the covers and utterly disinterested. The old woman sighed, shaking her head.

  “I am certain your father had good intentions, engaging you to a woman like our Pryce-aobe.” She came around the head of the bed and pet Rosie’s head, causing held back tears to finally roll onto her pillow.

  “Trouble is,” she continued. “Our Pryce-aobe has a tone that is sometimes more firm than fair, hm? Seems she forgets how delicate you are. You know what is best revenge? A vacation! Ha! We should pack you a bag and walk right out the door for a week of sunrays and cabana parties, no?” With a hand on her hip, Nani performed a little ‘ooh-la-la’ shimmy, making Rosie snort with amusement. “Let her feel what it is like not to have you by her side for a while. Then she will get her act together. Worked on all three of my husbands. Eh, for a time anyway.”

  “And to where would I walk, Nani?” Rosie asked with a bitterly amused scoff. “There’s nowhere she wouldn’t find me.”

  Worse yet, she wouldn’t have a clue where to go nor what to do once she got there. She’d lived her entire life in Selas, but didn’t know a thing about the sparkling city. She hardly knew a thing about the neighborhood around her own estate what with the expansive yard and its columns of fully-grown trees hiding the streets from view. With a hand against her chest, she idly traced her heart transplant scar. A childhood spent in dimly lit hospital rooms and teen years going no further than the garden hadn’t equipped her with the skill, let alone the confidence, to navigate the world outside of someone else’s control.

  Nani’s watch beeped and she clicked her tongue in mild annoyance. Works hours had come to an end, so she had to leave along with everyone else on the grounds. “You have a good night’s rest, child. Think about tomorrow’s problems tomorrow, ey?”

  The lady of the house managed a nod that satisfied the woman enough for her to leave with something of a smile on her face.

  Perry hadn’t found live-in staff to be necessary after Mr. Hayden’s passing. Rosie’s attempt to protest had been met with a cold and swift chiding. “You’re not a child anymore, you don’t need to be taken care of,” she’d said without even sparing a glance from the tablet in her lap. That had been the end of the negotiation. To at least push for Nani’s stay would’ve only gotten the woman fired, so Rosie found solace in having the grandmother-like figure in her life some of the time as opposed to never again.

  With everyone gon
e, silence closed in on the heiress and the shadows turned the room cold. Despite how tightly she curled under the covers, a shiver ran down her spine, triggering a hollow ache deep within the pit of her.

  02.

  “Champagne, miss?”

  “Ah, no, thank you.”

  Soft classical music played from speakers above. The fitting room of the boutique was a cozy space of plush white carpeting and dark walls warmly lit by golden lamplight. A young employee dressed in a little black skirt and a ruffle beige blouse held a tray of champagne flutes out in front of her and exited the room.

  Rosie stood on a round platform before a wall of full-length mirrors tilted in a semi-circle, trying to be as still as possible for the seamstresses taking her measurements. A mix of thinly veiled anxiousness with a dash of lightheadedness from the sharp and fruity scents swimming in the air didn’t make the task easy, but she did her best to maintain composure. A shiver jolted down her spine, both from the AC’s unrelenting chill and a seamstress’ knuckles brushing against the small bruises hidden beneath the silk slip hugging her slender pear-shaped figure.

  For the making of her wedding gown, she had opted for a private fitting at a downtown boutique to minimize the chances of someone noticing the patterns of aggression etched to her skin. Though she could rationalize to herself that she did no wrong, the embarrassment would still be her burden to bear and so she worked hard to avoid it.

  Rosie looked to her reflection and then quickly cut away - startled by the designer in the back of the room, who stared at her through a sharp squint.

  “Leave us,” the older woman suddenly ordered.

  The seamstresses quietly gathered their instruments, scraps of cloth and thread, and left the room.

  “Uh—is something wrong, Mags?”

  Maggie “Mags” Dothler was a fashion designer with over twenty years of expertise under her belt who had also been a good friend of Rosie’s late mother. She was a tall, rail thin woman who wore her shiny salt and pepper hair in a curly bob, her lips painted maroon, and her eye makeup smokey and winged. She dressed in all black, from tight pants to a fitted long sleeve shirt, accessorized with simple silver jewelry and a red scarf tied around her waist – a style almost casual in its simplicity despite every item on her body being worth thousands of dollars.