Selfish Myths 2

by Natalia Jaster

  “I was not dropped like a—”

  “Mate? Yes, you were.”

  “I know corruption when I hear it. You think I’m that bitter over Love? So petty that I’d look for someone else to punish? So wound up that I’d break one, merely to spite the other?”

  “I never said that,” Malice preens in sing-song voice. “You did.” He carries an exceptional tune despite its gruffness, as though he’s some type of hybrid, like the spawn of some one-night stand between a nightingale and a raven.

  This hardly makes his point digestible. And so, Anger’s outrage is complete. He chokes the arrow’s shaft, then jams it into his quiver, making the contents rattle.

  The window offers a sliver of nightlight. Someplace beyond, where he can’t see from this lair, there’s a star that refuses to shine, unnoticed and stubborn. It’s the star that Love had been born from, the vessel that brought her to life.

  Anger tastes the vinegar of his own contempt. It assaults his palate, clashing with the tartness of anguish.

  Why deny it? Of course, he’s bitter. She’d broken his heart without effort, because he’d allowed it. He’d never told her how he felt until it was too late, until she’d already fallen for a puny, magic-less subordinate.

  Anger had been gutted, concealing that pathetic inclination beneath a veneer of indifference. Sentimentality in deities is weak. Love may have been easy prey—go figure—but thinking himself susceptible had packed Anger’s chest with humiliation.

  When she lost her head over that mortal peon and became his equal, she’d ceded all memory of her ancient life. It was the price she’d paid for such an infraction, such a second-rate future.

  Likewise, the boy named Andrew had surrendered his memory of her being a deity. All they’d retained had been their feelings for each other.

  And that had been enough.

  As a result, Anger had been swept from Love’s recollection as though he’d never existed. As though he’d never sat with her in a mineral cave when they were younger. As though he’d never confessed his fear of snowstorms to her. As though they’d never shared a thing.

  Anger had monitored Andrew’s ability to keep Love happy. And that blemished inferior had done so. He’d filled her days with joy.

  After wasting the first three years of his banishment auditing the quality of Love’s life without her being aware of it, Anger’s agony had corroded into a grudge. Witnessing her with someone else while he lurked in the shadows, invisible to her, forgotten to her…the grief had compounded, its hue darkening.

  So yes, he’s bitter. And yes, he wants to punch something. And yes, he blames Love. And yes, he would enjoy ridding her from his system. And yes, if he can’t retaliate toward her, he might use someone else to placate himself.

  And yes, he resents the Fate Court as well.

  And yes, he dreams of home, of the Peaks. The morning mist. The blooming cliffs. The drone of dragonflies. The stars hovering so close, much closer than in the mortal realm.

  And yes, trumping the Fate Court’s decision, the prospect of reclaiming his place, rinses the brackishness from his tongue. He samples the temptation, as thick as syrup and laced with a salty pinch of selfishness.

  Selfishness. Like a true deity.

  And validation. He senses himself leaning, teetering on a precipice. But this time, he doesn’t conceal it, because if there is any kind of archer like him, it’s this demon god. It’s the emotions they’d been taught to regulate, which have the same textures, the same reeks, the same boiling points.

  Anger demands, “Give me proof.”

  Malice demurs, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  “And I wasn’t fibbing.” Malice is ahead of him, having retrieved a scroll from the crate of sepia envelopes on the floor. He flicks the rim, and the brittle parchment uncoils into a leaflet, a relic of ancient times.

  Anger reads the script. He’s acquainted with the pamphlet’s chiffon material, the stardust ink, and the bespangled emblem at the bottom.

  It’s not a forgery. It’s from the Peaks. It proves the legend is true.

  How had Malice obtained this legendary loophole?

  The rage god flashes his canines. “I like knowing things as much as I like hurting things. Before I was exiled, I prowled the Archives, particularly the Hollow Chamber. For a dumping ground of outdated and useless publications, have you ever puzzled over why it’s got a restricted section?”

  No, because Anger already knows the reason.

  “Not a bad place to stash inconspicuous secrets, eh? With its reputation for worthless subjects?” Malice continues. “Who would suspect anything of value in the Chamber, even in a barred area? Trespassing into a banned domain is excellent for rooting out information that the Fate Court doesn’t want advertised. Consider this scroll a consolation prize for my troubles. In other words, I stole it. Why? Because I could.”

  “I’d wager you craved a talisman,” Anger disputes. “And it’s the only proof you have that there’s a way to restore yourself.”

  “Sure. Give or take.”

  “What’s your age?”

  “One-hundred and fifty-five. Why do you ask?”

  Five decades younger than Anger and his classmates. Deities come of age at fifty, so he and his peers had just been sent to the mortal realm when Malice was born. During his upbringing, they would have seen him only upon return visits home every ten years. In those brief intermissions, any member of his class could have gotten a glimpse of Malice. If they’d been in the right place, at the right time.

  Anger knows another goddess who frequents the Archives. “Have you ever crossed paths with Wonder?”

  “The voluptuous wildflower?” Malice contemplates. “I saw her once or twice. She was too busy being an elite goddess and doing her own research in the Archives to notice me. Again, why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  Every reason. While growing up in the Peaks, Anger’s bygone peer had uncovered a controversial scroll of her own in the Chamber. To their class—exclusively to their class—Wonder had later exposed the restricted section as a deception, a melting pot of unobtrusive secrets.

  Malice is too young to have somehow unmasked her actions. And if he’s telling the truth, he never bothered to shadow her.

  He saw through the Chamber’s camouflage on his own.

  Malice visibly dissects Anger’s response and then disregards it. He reiterates that he was banished when he came of age, never getting to serve the human realm. “I was a consistent miscreant and often called solitary confinement my home. That demoted me quite a bit until the Court stopped finding it funny. I’ve been an exile for just over a century. Not enough time to rot, but plenty of time to brood.”

  “You’re so generous, you’d offer me this chance to reclaim my place, with no benefit of your own.”

  “There you go again, putting words into my mouth.”

  “Again, I was being sarcastic.”

  “Again, I wasn’t. My price is elementary, maybe a little mutinous,” the delinquent says. “Once you’ve restored yourself in the Peaks, do what’s needed to reinstate me. Why would you do that?” Malice uses two fingers to make a clipping scissor motion. “Two reasons. Empathy, of course. In banishment, we’ve both had our choices taken away, one rage god to another. Secondly, once you have me reinstated, I’ll make it worth the stress. How, you ponder?” He licks his lips. “Picture Love seeing you once more, even if it’s just for a moment. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Anger’s ribcage clenches, but he doesn’t care. The quiver knocks against him, but he doesn’t care. He would maim this demon god, but he doesn’t care.

  He can’t move. Is what Malice says possible?

  The misfit breaks down the rest of his proposition. His time in the Hollow Chamber has yielded more than one star-written legend. Because of that, he knows a way to remove the veil from Love, if only for a short spell, so that if Anger makes an appearance, s
he’ll be able to see him. Not in perfect detail but enough to feel her eyes on him once more. Remaining marginally concealed means it won’t be a threat to the Fates. No harm done.

  Love won’t recognize Anger, but she will catch glimmers of him. He’ll feel the weight of her eyes, the press of her gaze on his skin. And perhaps he’ll be familiar to her. A little familiar.

  All he has to do is break a heart.

  A heart that’s already hopping like a bunny in his direction, that’s already begun to want him. Merry will recover, won’t she? Deities aren’t fragile like humans. He can do this without the effect being permanent.

  And once Anger recoups himself in the Peaks, he’ll have the opportunity to reestablish Malice. And if he does that, Malice will lavish him with a gratuity.

  A moment with Love. Just a moment.

  True, deities aren’t capable of feeling love. Yet Anger has experienced something close to it, has known its preciousness, has despised its poisonous effect. It’s a pitiful condition, which needs to stop.

  If Love sees him one final time, he’ll feel that bliss. Then he’ll be healed. And then he’ll be able to let go.

  How much is it worth?

  “Hooked, aren’t you?” Malice beams. “Oh, I forgot to mention one detail: Magic has its cost. If you take up this challenge and don’t succeed, you lose all the power you have left. You’ll remain a deity but shrivel like a mortal—and so will Merry. If you do succeed, well, I’m not going to rehash.”

  Anger gets back what he’s lost. And Merry’s heart will be broken.

  Either way, she loses.

  Which is the lesser of the two evils? Does it matter, for someone he barely knows?

  The recollection of that stubborn and shine-less star causes the shift. It cements his indecision, bridging the gap between should and could.

  From across the city, Anger hears the wail of carnival rides—imitations of the real things. His request takes aim. “Tell me more.”

  Target hit. That’s when Malice gives him a genuine smile of camaraderie and admiration, treasures that have been foreign to Anger for a handful of years, which is forever and no time at all.

  Anger doesn’t repress himself or even hesitate. He welcomes the onslaught, the domino effect, and remembers this sensation. Companionship.

  He’s consorting with an immortal who possesses a creepily gifted tenor that could start its own cult. Yet Anger’s stomach pools, filling the gulf inside him because at least he’s no longer alone. He doesn’t care how desperate that makes him.

  And so Malice tells him more.

  The Fate Court will accept Anger’s reappearance because they’ll have no choice. But since controlling love is such a valued commodity, they’ll see his ability to manipulate an immortal’s heart as power, as something to be respected. It will be a novelty, appeasing them somewhat.

  Even better, Anger can credit the Fate Court for reinvesting in him, spoon-feeding their pride by claiming they’ve reformed him. If they wish, they can save face by spreading that narrative throughout the Peaks.

  He’ll offer that in exchange for Malice’s reinstatement, the cost of having a moment with Love. A price, for a price, for price.

  Why hadn’t Love won this same power when she broke Anger’s heart? Because Love had won another’s heart prior to that infliction. She’d fallen for that boy before permanently injuring Anger, losing the opportunity for immunity.

  By sunrise, Anger has made his choice.

  By sunset, he’s acting on it.

  He strides from the library, having borrowed contemporary attire from Malice, who has the same lean, athletic frame. The demon god had badgered Anger about his antiqued fitted hose and tunic, implying that he’d win Merry quicker by modernizing himself, bringing himself down to earth rather than wearing intimidation on his shoulders.

  Needless to say, Anger has never been keen to mimic human fashion, not like his peers have. Removing the fingerless gloves had been a deal breaker, but he’d relented about the fitted dark jeans and snug Henley. The cotton shifts as he moves, stalking the sidewalk beneath a freckling night sky, his longbow and quiver harnessed to his back.

  The Carnival of Stars has opened its gate for another evening, a tableau of jubilant shrieks and fluorescent nonsense. The Ferris wheel spins like a disc, its diameter burdened with trolleys that dangle like big and little dippers.

  He passes the site that had triggered this chain of events—the Constellation Carousel. He doesn’t know Merry. He doesn’t want to know her, especially not if she’d once been a love goddess.

  He doesn’t want to be near her again, to see her magnetic hands.

  He doesn’t want to see any of it. The gap in her front teeth. Those confections that pass for articles of clothing. Another view of her dancing, accompanied by the musical jutting of her buttocks. The dainty lace strapped around her hips.

  The selfless smile. That bewitched look—the cramped quarters of it.

  Even Love had never rendered him speechless. Fatigued, yes, but never nonplussed.

  In the span of minutes, Merry had succeeded on both accounts.

  She’d made him uncomfortable. She’d rankled him.

  He doesn’t want to go near her. But he will.

  Still, he’s not heinous. She’s done nothing to deserve an everlasting ache, so he’ll be careful, as altruistic as possible. He’ll deceive Merry, but he won’t destroy her.

  It’s only love, only heartbreak. How damaging or chaotic can that be?

  Anger curses. A goddess steering his destiny. It seems history is about to repeat itself.

  Only this time, he’ll stay in control. He won’t let another female nullify him. Not again.

  6

  Merry

  He’d been in her bed. He’d slept under her blanket.

  The God of Anger had seen her practically naked. It was all so sudden, so explicit, so scrumptious. And so very terribly—

  “—humiliating,” Merry says, dropping her face into the basket of her crossed arms atop the counter. Beside her, the stuffed Cassiopeias say nothing, and she glances up at their vacant expressions. These Greek queens of mythology are too vain to care, but they just don’t understand.

  “You don’t understand,” she says. “Neon words will never do him justice. But oh, he’s a veritable hurricane. That windswept hair and perpetual scowl. Those strong archer’s hands. I will never love like this again.”

  Still nothing. This is what immortal quarantine has reduced her to. She’s talking to dolls, preferring this therapy to the company of kindred exiles like Surprise or Kindness.

  Sigh. The renowned God of Anger. The archer who’d been banished from the Peaks. Outcasts have called his skill unrivaled, his temper deliciously feral.

  She reminiscences. He’d been sprawled comatose in her boudoir, his body awakening in her linens, his waist shifting as he rose and strode toward her, while she stood in a crochet of black lingerie.

  Presently, impure thoughts writhe in her mind. Merry wants to rewrite history, to give that moment an alternative ending, fanfiction wherein she never puts her clothes back on. The scene flashing before her turns into a bodice ripper comprised of mattress thrashing and bosom groping.

  After he’d left, she traced his signature on the double doors. Anger hadn’t been impressed by her, having departed swifter than a dream. And here she’d deemed his arrival serendipitous. She’d believed him to be the one.

  Her true love. The one whose heart she’d been preordained to win.

  If a deity wins another deity’s heart, that winner becomes immune to the Fates, retaining the power he or she was born with. It’s a legend carried amidst the stars, or so she’s been told by another goddess who’d paid an unexpected visit to Merry recently. Other than the two of them, no other deity knows about this legend.

  If she ever wins the heart of another immortal, she’ll become a legitimate goddess again, an active archeress. She’ll be blessed with the very magic that she’d
lacked, reaping it tenfold. She’ll win back her place in the Peaks, a failed star no more, and the Court won’t have a say about it. For once, they’ll have their own power and influence taken from them.

  And Merry can bring her soul mate back to the Peaks with her, renewing them both. And finally, she’ll have a stage on which to lobby for free will, to campaign on humanity’s behalf, to crusade for a balance of destiny and choice, something she fiercely believes in.

  Why would the Court entertain Merry’s wish? The Fates might have no choice whether she reclaims her place, but harvesting a love goddess is an endowment. It took them millennia to create one, yet they’d lost their first success anyway. If they get such a goddess back—one who’s not a dud any longer—it will soften the blow, the insult of Merry revoking her own banishment.

  More than any of that, she’d thought her time had come. With Anger, she’d seen a chance at passion, a chance to finally have a partner. At last, someone might actually want her.

  But here she is, a woman rejected, a jilted heroine. She must bear the wound and move on. Hence, she pries herself from the countertop, straightens her corset dress, and lifts her chin.

  She is Woman. She is Goddess.

  At one of the Ethereal Arcade booths, a counter encircles a modular platform and its virtual splendor, a swirling nebula where players choose their game. Merry had long-ago claimed the role of invisible hostess, a title that she fancies. A teenage couple runs an obstacle course, racing along the circumference of Saturn’s ring and then hopping between moon craters while Merry shouts a play-by-play. She pretends the crowd is listening, her lungs striking the air.

  “It’s close, ladies and gentlemen,” she boasts.

  “They’re neck and neck,” she pipes.

  “It’s a fight to the finish,” she belts. “It’s destiny!”

  They don’t find out who wins because halfway through the round, the couple doubles over and cackles as if they’ve heard her.