Reaching her neighborhood, she escorts him toward a random apartment building with cornerstones, climbing vines, and overflowing plant boxes jutting from the mullioned windows. It’s a few blocks from her residence, if he recalls correctly.
Merry cranes her head at the structure’s edifice. “Which would you choose? A sensational entrance? Or a secretive entrance?”
There’s that light.
She’s reverted back to the Merry he’s spent the past eight hours with. Her headphones clamp around her throat. Her dress splays like a crinoline under the denim vest. Her scuffed high-top sneakers are juvenile for a goddess.
It’s a complete departure from Love, who used to walk barefoot and drive him mad by sporting the skimpiest white dress in history. Love had been foolishly defiant and mischievous, yet immortally conventional in her attire, draped in a garment alluding to the myth of Eros. She’d blended into the frosty mountain town where she’d been matchmaking, so well-camouflaged in the wintery forest.
An impossible thing to catch. To grab and hold on to.
Merry is a spectrum, flinging color into the world. She glitters, standing out from the murkiness of nights.
In answer to her question, all he currently needs is the brightest entrance, the one guided by her.
How maudlin of him. How incredibly demeaning to a deity.
Nevertheless, he should say all of that and more. He should be doing damage control. If he needs to break her heart, he’s got to refill it with hope, the possibility that he might slowly shift his affections.
Who is he fooling? He’s not a courtly god. While Envy has skill in sweeping both sexes off their feet, Anger is terrible at it. He’s been floundering all evening.
And his mouth has a mind of its own, because it’s impossible to pretend around her.
“Do I look like an impressionable human to you?” he sneers. “I don’t care how we get there, you confounding female. Just pick one.”
“Okay, but the question was rhetorical.”
Fates almighty. This woman.
Inside the building, stairs corkscrew up the middle. Anger and Merry hike to the roof, surrounded by a cluster of gables and architectural summits dipping and rising from one dwelling to the next.
Beneath a skyline drizzled in the same color as Merry’s hair, the archers cavort from precipice to precipice. She drives her skateboard, gaining momentum and then soaring, executing a series of impulsive—and impressive—spins and flips. And beside her, Anger runs, leaping from ledge to ledge.
At one point, she’s laughing, and he’s…what? What is he doing?
“Is that a smile?” Merry baits.
“Mind your business,” he says.
What’s wrong with him? He needs to charm better, or this heartbreaking business will never work.
She drives the board across one more rift, landing with him on a rooftop fringed in hedges and potted trees. It’s the top of the observatory, with the planetarium at its hip.
Kicking the board to the side, Merry grabs Anger’s weapons—will she stop doing that?!—and stashes them in a high basket. Taking his hand, she drags him onto a lane of ferns and bushes, beyond which he sees a trickle of light.
They navigate the gravel paths, little nooks emerging here and there.
Illumination in every corner. Candles and votives. Twinkling garlands bouncing off the sunrise, the residences, and Malice’s library on the west side.
The same colors of the carnival. Gentle hues of blue, purple, and pink.
The lane opens to the deck’s hub. A makeshift lawn, where a pair of heavily cushioned lounge chairs rest side by side. A mobile of globes hangs from a trellis. Beyond that, a hammock loops across one of the shrouded alcoves.
Above the double doors to Merry’s garret, a neon sign reads Home.
He hadn’t noticed the details before. He can’t stop staring at the sign.
Not until Merry skips ahead of him, her dress swirling. The sight draws his gaze as she folds her hands into a rosebud. “How’s this for our very own Peaks?”
As dawn bleeds around them, the skyline glints from a million windows, and flames blossom from the votives. Merry disappears and returns with a tray of steaming mugs, wafting with the scent of herbal tea. When she offers the first one to Anger, unworthiness flits through him. The ceramic fills his palms, replacing the emptiness there.
They convene on the lounge chairs, where he cradles the tea hard. Possessively hard.
Merry kicks off her sneakers. She stretches along the chair, wraps herself in a throw blanket, and stares at the heavens. “At this hour, it looks like sherbet up there. I could scoop the sky with a spoon.”
As she admires the sky’s yawning colors, he follows the tendril of pink licking her profile. Her nose is too piggish. She dresses gaudily, like a wedding cake, and there are split ends in her hair, which is too thin and mussed. There’s that gap in her teeth. And when she talks, she sounds like a shrill whistle.
She’s far from flawless. So why is he gawking?
Anger matches her position, crossing his arms under his head. “What would you do with a scoop of the sky?”
“Eat it,” she replies. “Or no, I’d feed it to someone who needs it.”
He chuckles. “That’s too generous for a deity.”
Her face slumps toward his. “We’re not those kinds of deities anymore, Anger.”
It’s difficult to hold her gaze, but he can’t say why. It’s even more detrimental to hear his name caught between her lips.
“What are we?” he asks, stunned at the huskiness invading his tone.
What the Fates is the matter with him lately?
Merry nibbles on her lower lip. “We’re kindred, and we’re tragic, and we’re still here. And because of that, we’re stronger.”
He closes his eyes, struggling to smooth out the ripples in his thoughts. Hasn’t he always been strong? Or has he only ever been strong because of the Fates? Have they always conducted his might?
“Why did they come after us?” Merry asks, more to herself than him.
“You don’t have an idea?” Anger inquires, just in case.
She tucks into her mug. “Nope. You?”
“No,” he says, the lie repelling him. “I’ve been a recluse for the last four years. I can’t figure out why they’d show up, since I don’t know them anymore. I wonder if they ever knew me.”
On the other hand, he’s forgotten which parts of the reply are fact and which are fiction. He wishes that neither of them had spoken, nor shared a thing with each other. And yet he wishes they would share more.
A universe more.
Honesty slides precariously across the flat of his tongue. He clenches his teeth before it’s too late.
Merry sets her cup on the ground and wiggles under the throw, a socked foot sticking out. “Then we’ll do reconnaissance.”
“And find out,” Anger agrees.
Except how? How can he do that without revealing his plan?
Anger deflates into the cushions. Right now, he simply concentrates on the sound of that blanket shifting over Merry’s body.
10
Anger
It’s the snoring that snaps Anger out of it. He’s been festering—festering with dignity, fuming in silence—for the past three minutes. Apparently that’s how little time it has taken for Merry to fall asleep.
She cannot possibly be tired. Even mortals last longer than this.
But then, they’d just survived a breakneck chase, and he can’t account for how long it’s been since her last slumber. Her nostrils flap, and she rests with an open mouth, a wishing well emitting tiny ruffles of noise. It’s the perkiest, percolating snore that he’s ever heard.
Pigmented hair slumps over her dark brows. Her hands bunch under her chin as if she’s a damsel praying. All right, she’s somewhat cute—in a greeting card type of way.
Anger studies her. Strangely, the vision comforts him, loosening the kinks in his muscles.
Which is why he launches to his feet. This sort of repose is likely fleeting, definitely foreign. He doesn’t plan on getting acquainted with it, getting used to it. When people get used to things, it’s harder to let them go. It’s disorientating.
Merry’s throw blanket falls from around her waist, landing in a puddle of cashmere on the floor.
Anger takes a step to the roof’s edge, but then he stops. “Dammit.”
He stalks back to Merry, picks up the blanket, and drapes it over her. He makes sure to tuck the material around her legs, swaddling her feet.
This is a practical move, nothing more. She doesn’t need the warmth, because their kind is impervious to cold. But it will give her something to hold on to while sleeping, since she’s the snuggly type.
A whiff of vanilla swirls from her mishmash of clothing. He is careful not to touch any exposed skin, such as her cheek or her fingers. In this respect, he pulls away without a fuss, without effort.
Fates. He’d almost left his weapons behind. Grunting, Anger collects his longbow and quiver from the basket.
All day, he wanders the tops of residential buildings, as he used to before meeting his doom in the form of a popsicle-haired god-groupie. It’s much easier to stew from this elevation, much easier to delude himself into feeling robust.
Much more imperial.
Up here, he can scream and curse without worrying he’ll be heard by other outcasts. He can kick things and hurl things. He can dent pipes, mow his feet through terrace shrubbery, and exasperate pigeons. He can have a sufficient temper tantrum.
His teeth clench because he’d once accused Love of this same deplorable behavior. The difference? Rage is his foundation; therefore, he’s trained to manage it.
He hasn’t been managing it for days.
On a garden parapet six stories high, Anger aims his bow at the congestion of people below, a constant flux of insects slipping around one another. They’re running on fumes, on stress, on automatic. Neglecting to restore themselves, they operate without nourishment or a sense of where they’re truly headed. Some of them have their faces plastered to phones, one rock away—or one rift in the pavement—from tripping and breaking a bone. Or from smashing into another person.
The collision might cause strangers to bark at one another—or to fall in love. It hinges on the couple and which deity is present to steer the outcome. Anger or Love.
But Love doesn’t exist anymore. Not until she’s replaced.
And Anger doesn’t exist anymore. Not until he’s replaced.
Or until he reacquires that privilege. Until he smashes an innocent heart, in order to get it.
In the meantime, he surmises that the Fates are still scrambling to recoup their losses and recreate the missing archers. Even though Anger’s plot to salvage his identity will spare them the trouble, it will also deem him insubordinate and immune. Not encouraging, since their feelings on the matter had been palpable when charging at him and Merry in the carnival.
How had they found out?
Anger misses the art of targeting and shooting, righting the wrongs in humanity. He misses being necessary. But he lowers his weapon, because if he fires, he’ll accomplish nothing but injuries. These arrows don’t stir emotions any longer, lately only capable of fractures or shoving people off balance.
That’s the thing about the arrows. The magic is highly complex and not always in the Fates’ favor.
Like the stars. They can be allies or not. They can serve the Fates or not.
From this distance, he studies the Carnival of Stars, where the cable cars droop in the air. Someplace below that is the carousel where Merry had claimed Sagittarius, asked him too many questions, and shared too many intimacies.
On the streets, tires squeal and mopeds rev. One soul shouts, another raps on a door. There’s a faint echo of footfalls, but it’s not coming from down there.
Anger tenses, sliding his fingers over the arrow.
A set of palms slap his back, propelling him forward. “Don’t fall!”
The world jolts. Anger tips over the rim, then rights himself. In a flash, he spins into a crouch, the arrow pointed at Malice’s chest. The outcast god doubles over and breaks into a raucous laugh, those nails of his slicing at nothing and everything. How the Fates does he anchor a bow with those pincers?
Anger straightens. “Very funny, you bastard.”
Malice hoots. “Your senses require a tune-up. You didn’t hear me coming—”
Anger has Malice pressed against a brick wall before he’s finished, Anger’s forearm digging into the knave’s larynx. “Did you sense that coming?”
Malice flashes chiseled teeth.
The sky pivots. In an instant, Anger’s on his ass with the deity leaning over him. “Apologies, mate.”
Anger rolls him over, mashing the god’s frame into a patch of herbs, crushing a few biennials. He rises, helping Malice up as they call it a draw, smacking away clumps of soil.
The demon archer whistles, harnessing the hickory bow. “You’re wound up. Too bad our skirmish didn’t help release the tension, since I’m not about to fuck it out of you. I draw the line at being a whore.”
“Either you’re bored, or you’ve heard what happened.”
“Even better. I watched it happen. I made it happen.”
An uprising. A riot of blood that has him nocking the bow again. “What trick are you playing?”
Malice bats the arrow out of his way. “It’s called tactics. I used the stars to send a message to the Fates. For what purpose, you ask? Think about it.”
“Trust me.” Anger shifts his weapon toward Malice’s dick. “I don’t have to think about it.”
“I might have improvised, made Merry seem a little…,” Malice wiggles his taloned digits, “…mutinous. I might have told the Fate Court that she’s planning to communicate with mortals, betray the true secrets of our mythology to society, recruit fellow outcasts who adore her, and spark a revolution for free will—on a grand scale. It’s rather kamikaze of her, but she has a fixation with the topic, if you haven’t noticed.”
Anger has noticed. They’d bickered about it before the attack.
“And why would I tell them that?” Malice prompts. “Because tipping off the Court about anything hazardous makes our side look credible. It gives us brownie points, which throws them off our scent. Think of it as a safety net. The less they sniff our treasonous plans, the better. They’ll focus on Merry.”
“And me,” Anger bites out. “Since I shot back at them, which negates your whole scheme.”
“Au contraire,” Malice says. “Protecting Merry inspires her to trust you. She has a flare for the dramatic, which’ll influence her to worship you even more. As to the rest, the Court is astute enough to know you were acting on self-defense, playing bodyguard because you had no choice. You’re a loyalist, Anger. That makes you vulnerable when your loyalty is divided, but you weren’t looking to disable your superiors—just to block them. After everything that’s happened in your past, they’ve surmised this. Am I right? I like being right.”
Anger relaxes the bow, twirls the arrow, and stabs it into the quiver.
Malice had designed a mind game. He’d concocted propaganda, convincing the Court that Merry means their people rebellious harm, intending to expose their existence in the name of free will against destiny. Mortals have a false vision of mythology; that very falsehood gives the Fates anonymity.
And that anonymity—the invisibility, the mystery—keeps deities alive.
Exposure to humanity is a death sentence to immortals.
In the carnival, Merry had advocated for free will. She’d done it vehemently, thus they’d gotten into an argument. Who’s to say the Court wasn’t already there, witnessing the quarrel? Why wouldn’t they assess the situation, confirming Malice’s tip before charging?
If so, they’d heard Merry’s hyper recitation. They’d heard Anger’s inflamed protest. That would have proven Merry radical and Anger
guiltless, which would have trigged the ambush.
In retrospect, his superiors hadn’t been aiming at Anger. They’d been aiming at Merry.
He shakes off the guilt, evicting it from his conscience. It has to be this way if he wants his home back. If he wants that singular moment with Love.
Not to mention the consequences if he fails. The plot has been set into motion, past the point of no return. If Anger aborts, or if he doesn’t meet with success, he’ll lose the remnants of his powers. As will Merry.
Surely, she’ll recover her heart. The same cannot be said about magic.
“You took an extreme gamble,” Anger judges.
“A necessary move,” Malice testifies. “The Court doesn’t suspect us, they’re preoccupied with Merry, and she trusts you implicitly. I keep tabs on mine, and you weren’t doing the best job charming her at the carnival. The courtship needed a turning point. You needed a wing man.”
“You’ve placed her life at risk!”
“Ahh, that’s true. I forgot how much you value life.” Malice genuflects. “I guess you’ll have to keep protecting her. When the time is right, you can always tell the Court that you persuaded Merry out of her mercenary, sacrificial plot. Problem solved. You see? First rule of manipulation: The simplest answer is always the most effective.”
And the most believable. That edict applies to magic as well.
The demon god is cunning. He’s so cunning that whenever he opens his trap, his sentences end with audible ellipses, as if there’s more to his agenda and why he’s bent on returning to the Peaks.
More he isn’t saying.
Malice spreads his arms and offers a crooked smile. “What do you think? Would I make a killing as a chess player? I like to think so.”
“Just leave Merry to me,” Anger says.
He hates that his evening with Merry hadn’t been private. That Malice had spied on them. That the Court had joined in.
His night with her had been…memorable. It should have been theirs, alone.
Malice cants his head, the patina of unruly curls slanting sideways. He grazes a long fingernail across his chest, a muddiness leaking into his eyes. “For Christ’s sake,” he groans, because evidently he has a penchant for mortal blasphemy. “Has she given you a toothache? Do you need a fucking root canal? Tell me you’re not about to get all hackneyed over a female.”
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