She’s chosen bitter chocolate for Anger, which he’s devouring either because he’s ravenous or in a hurry, his teeth crunching through the sugar funnel.
“Feel better?” she quips once they’re finished. “Because I certainly do. I might even go crazy and have another. What do you suppose gelato on Pluto tastes like? I’m thinking coconut, since Pluto is so far away, like a remote island.”
Sadly, no chuckle. “We have this delicacy on the Peaks, except it’s glassy and tastes of pickles.”
Merry says behind a muffled laugh, “That sounds like punishment.”
At last, Anger smiles. “You’re not missing anything.”
“Maybe, except for the Eros part of me.”
When Anger notices her gazing at his weapons, he asks if she’s ever tried learning archery aside from their practice session on the roof. She has, but unlike other exiles, she was snubbed before forging a bow of her own. That’s why her skateboard became an alternative weapon.
“So if the Goddess of Love is likened to Eros, then who is everyone else?” he asks, his mood visibly improving.
“Sorrow is perhaps Oizys. Envy is certainly Narcissus,” Merry declares to Anger’s bemused expression. “And Wonder? Persephone because she’s adaptable, though that makes her vulnerable to temptation. She seems trapped between two worlds, between the land above and below, like she’s encompassed by grief as well as love.”
Anger contemplates the inky horizon. “Yes, she is.”
If that’s true, it’s appalling. Merry’s soul bleeds for the goddess, because whatever happened to her friend, it might have to do with the scars stamped into Wonder’s hands.
Merry dares Anger to ride on her skateboard. He sizes up the proposition, then steps onto the platform like he did in the carnival, his palm settling on her hips. “You don’t need to be Eros in order to be strong. Just be Merry.”
She swallows. The universe doesn’t seem to agree with him, but relief cascades through her, accompanied by a wan and despondent letdown. Either he thinks Eros is beneath her, and that she can be somebody more, or that she’ll never measure up to a love divinity.
He asks, “And who am I?”
She answers, “That’s up to you, Icarus.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“What? Why are you grouchy? His is a monumental story.”
“It’s an asinine one. He’s not a god, and he flew too close to the sun with a pair of do-it-yourself wings, which melted and sent him plummeting to the ocean. What do I have to do with that?”
“Gracious, calm down.”
“Why not Zeus? He’s a divinity of the sky and thunder.”
“He’s also an asshole. You strike me as someone who once fled reason and got too close to a perilous desire, blinded by its allure, for which you’ve paid dearly. You’re not the light, but you strive for it. You strive for the wrong reasons.”
Anger’s quiet. “And who represents the light?” he murmurs, the inquiry coasting up her nape.
Merry twists to meet his countenance. “Let’s find out.”
And then they’re off, gliding down the streets, the city a puddle on either side of them, outlines and colors swirling. Reflective blue, musing purple, and ardent pink. They melt together, tender tints that defy the hour and its brooding shadows.
Stars freckle the sky. Someplace up there is the Milky Way, and legends and myths, the real and unreal.
Merry’s hair flutters behind her, but Anger doesn’t bat away the strands. He only squeezes her waist and, after a few minutes, rests his chin on her shoulder. Two profound weights work in tandem, dissolving the rest of her thoughts.
On impulse, she skates them through a quad, catching the fragrance of foxglove. Bell florals rise and sway as the board skims by. She could have brought her player and shared earbuds with Anger, but she’d rather listen to his breath near to her own.
The plate of his chest bumps against her as they vault off a sidewalk and veer around a corner. The wheels crank up the momentum as they plunge down a hill, the wind swatting his shirt and turning her skirt into a sail. She tilts her head back and feels him do the same, his hold tightening.
Merry can achieve kinetics with this board that humans cannot. However, she can’t show off and flip them upside with this much density. Everything has its limit. And the simple act of speeding up, up, up and going down, down, down is enough.
She lifts her arms, as if riding the Pegasus Rollercoaster, an attraction that she’s ascended with her board, inverting and diving with the tracks at midnight. Anger mimics the action, like she’d hoped he would. Taking it further, their fingers intertwine as velocity and gravity snatch them.
Their hands link while they accelerate and then let go.
This is what it’s like to be a shooting star.
Rolling to the street level, their arms lower, but their hands remain clasped, fingerless gloves plaiting over her midriff. Merry can’t tell who’s made the choice, or if it’s mutual. It should render the trip cumbersome and wonky, but it doesn’t.
The wheels sigh, the board soaring and then slowing in front of the observatory. The breeze stops, bringing them back to earth, their chests pumping. Other than his guttural exhalations and her roused inhalations, there’s no competing noise, nothing piquing their attention.
Maybe they’ve gotten used to moving in unison, because after a frightening and climatic moment, Merry twists. At the same time, Anger lowers his head, angling it toward her.
His eyes consume her. An invisible thickness lingers in the space between her lips and his. It’s a static restlessness, an intoxicating and magnetic buzz that pulls them closer.
Anger’s strong gaze sinks to her mouth.
Oh, Fates. Oh gracious Fates.
There’s a drum ramming from his body into hers, and there’s a tick in his cheek that she feels along her jaw. She doesn’t know what heat feels like, but his gaze is nevertheless hot, smoldering as if he wants a taste of her.
Merry’s blood rockets into her throat, and her lungs hyperventilate, and her lips feel so antsy, so achy. And her brain fills with helium because she’s a second away from fainting or impersonating a mortal in the throes of a full-throttle coronary.
He inches closer, and she meets him halfway, and they pause. One drawn breath away from more.
Then his eyes flap, the heat leaking out of him.
Anger tears himself from Merry’s arms.
And then he’s gone.
14
Merry
It’s been one day. A whole day since that precious production on the skateboard, that crucial almost-first-kiss.
He hasn’t returned, but Merry’s not worried about that. Anger takes responsibility for his actions, once he calms down.
For her part, Merry deals with the separation by trekking through the observatory and processing. She listens to her player. She lets the neon words in her sanctuary—Tragic, Beautiful, Magic—hypnotize her. She peers into the planetarium’s telescope. She sketches her tingling lips with her fingers until she gets callouses.
Then she gets her head out of the stars and distracts herself with heroine tasks, composing lists of potential reasons why the Court attacked them, recalling everything she knows about the Peaks and the legend. She considers calling out to Wonder for emotional and tactical backup.
But Wonder is busy doing Wonder things. Plus, she’d promised to show up when she knows more, along with Envy and Sorrow.
Merry would visit a bookshop in her turf and do research, if mortals had the mythology correct to begin with. The Archive in the Peaks would yield the essentials, but that’s inaccessible to exiles. Wonder is the only one who can effectively breach that place.
Okay, there is one other person besides the elite archeress who reportedly has experience with the Archives. A foul, insane outcast from the underworld.
Merry can approach Malice on neutral ground. But hasn’t Anger already done that, as he said he would? Maybe she’ll nudg
e Anger to press the rage god further, since Malice hardly reveals all his cards at once.
However, that scoundrel isn’t to be trifled with. More than any other outcast, he knows how to extort information from the sky. What if he does, in some way, hear about the legend? How much else might he discover?
Would he tell Anger?
Merry experiences a belated, unforgivable epiphany. Just like that, a toxic blend of shame and trepidation cracks like a shell. The contents ooze through her, from the almighty danger, to the near love scene yesterday, to the fact that she’s lying to Anger, omitting the legend and what she intends to do about it.
She’s been as selfish as any deity in existence.
Oh, it had seemed harmless at the onset. Her feelings had been true, and every second since has been true, without masquerades or fake declarations of ardor. She’s been herself.
She’s not striving to take his choices away. In the end, either he’ll love her back, or he won’t.
So it hasn’t felt like a lie. It’s felt like a secret, which in hindsight, is stupid. Lies and secrets can mean the same thing, in the right or very wrong context. If Merry and Anger are to bond authentically, he must know everything.
She gnaws on her polished fingernails, which being to chip. A fault line ricochets up the center of her heart, liable to rupture if she doesn’t regain her honor, atone for her misguidedness. She needs to tell him and then hope he’ll forgive her.
She has a daft idea while reminiscing about what Anger had said in the hammock, what he’d said about having a dwelling of his own.
With that in mind, Merry sets to work.
Hours later, she’s finished. Having changed into overalls decorated with patches of rocket ships, layered over what mortals call a spandex sports bra, Merry wipes her brow and appraises the alcove. After beseeching the stars for supplies, the magic had filtered through her, and she’d taken it from there, assembling and situating everything herself. Now she surveys the result, too nervous to smile or congratulate herself on a job well done.
“What happened?” a discordant voice asks.
She spins while dropping the last iron shelf, which thwacks against the floor.
So much Anger fills the entrance to the alcove, his frame silhouetted by a nighttime sheen. From this angle, the planks of his shoulders and the ramps of his hips resemble the blueprint of a body rather than an actual one.
When he looks at her, she feels a monsoon approaching. He’s a zephyr, with his longish hair scattered around his face, even where it’s tied back. Strands rebel, surging over his forehead and the hedges of his brows.
When he walks, the earth is a percussion section. If this outcast god were an instrument, he’d be a drum.
Anger models industrious attire, mixing the modern with the archaic, dark jeans with a snug tunic the color of a downpour, the material worn and fitted against a slab of torso. The lack of sleeves exposes a bedrock of biceps and his fingerless gloves.
He scans the sequined kerchief strapped around her head and knotted into a bow at her hairline. He proceeds to the fishnet gloves, the baggy overalls, and the sports bra cupping her bust, leaving a ream of stomach flesh exposed. There’d been a time when he would have grimaced at the ensemble. It’s a new era, because he looks mildly distressed.
Either that, or his sour puss has to do with the alcove.
“What happened?” he repeats. “The hammock is gone.”
That’s not the only thing. Merry has replaced the hammock with a bed that she’d erected herself, which had required grunting and a series of yoga positions. The stars had been in a jesting mood, presenting her with an unassembled frame.
Instead of the previous pink linens, nebulous blue blankets and pillows conceal a mattress, situated beneath a canopy that can be opened or closed, whenever he wants to see that pure and natural skylight.
Lanterns outfit the space, filled with taper candles sinking into minerals that emit a foiled glint. She’d spent quite a while rearranging the casements until the effect felt right.
On the ground, a rectangular basin holds placid water, a makeshift pond with more minerals clustered at the bottom. And there’s a case of iron shelves for Anger to place tokens that matter to him, relics of his life, of his past and future.
Everything is sleek, cleared of fripperies. It’s safe from storms, too. Streamlined glass-sliding doors wrap around the makeshift room, to protect him from rowdy weather.
She twiddles her thumbs, then stops when his eyes lurch toward the motion. A hive of bees circumnavigates her stomach. She had expected the heady thrum of excitement, but all she feels inside is anarchy.
It could be a side effect of love, turning a person into an unpredictable version of themselves, to the point where they do and say things out of character.
“Ta-dah!” she squeaks. “You said you wanted a room of stillness and memory.”
Anger’s face slackens, his lips parting. Unable to stand it, Merry pulls him into the alcove. “I wasn’t sure about thread-counts, but the bed was a no-brainer. It fits your size, so you can toss and turn all you like. And I improvised on your request for iron and minerals and placid waters, but if you want everything back to the way it was, that’s fine. It’s just that you’re a guest, and guests should feel at home, and when you told me about never really feeling at home anywhere—that’s as tragic as never having gelato or attending a concert or…Anger?”
He brushes past her and stalks around the space. He traces each item, careful not to break anything.
His gait is no longer stormy. It’s cautious. A lump forms in Merry’s throat, and she doesn’t know if it’s his timidity, or the hesitant pace of his limbs, or six-thousand other possibilities.
Maybe he likes it. Maybe he hates it.
Maybe she has upset or confused him. For sure, she hears one question radiating from Anger: Why did she do this?
The answer is simple.
“I did this because I wanted to. That’s all,” she says, and then she makes it complicated by prattling, a conga line of words fluttering out. “Like I said, I can change it back, put things back the way they were. It’s up to you, it’s your choice, since I didn’t ask what you’d like, but I wanted to surprise you—and boy, do you ever look surprised. I wanted you to be comfortable here at Casa Merry, and I thought it might ease the angst after last night.
“By the way, I’ve been kissed before. Not that we actually kissed, but I think you should know. It’s impossible to go this long without a smooch, and I do have kindreds in this city. It happened twice, with Courage and then with Trust, so don’t worry. You didn’t scare or offend me by coming so close, although I’m a super fan of your mouth. I would’ve loved to kiss you, Anger. But…”
She deflates. Her voice wobbles, so she musters a smile, more for her sake than his. “If you feel only friendship, that’s okay. Friends is a start, except I’m currently experiencing a bout of queasiness?” she adds questioningly. “So I’m going to leave you now, since I’ve been talking too much, and you need…whatever it is you need.”
She gestures clumsily, invitingly, to the alcove. Then she dashes off, and the moment she turns, her face crumbles in mortification. Padding to the chaise lounge at the rooftop’s center, she flops onto the seat beneath the globe mobile, her skin awash in mood lighting. Properly quarantined like a lovesick virus, she dumps her face into her palms, feeling silly and scatterbrained.
And resolute. Because what happens, happens. What doesn’t happen, doesn’t happen. Honesty between them is more important than love.
“Gracious,” her mashed lips slur into her hands, the words muffled. “Some goddess you are.”
“Merry.”
Her head flips up to see Anger striding toward her, his features inscrutable. But his pace no longer wavers. It’s direct, aiming toward her like she’s a target.
She’s about to speak when he grabs her elbows and hauls her off the chair. Merry gasps. Gaining her feet, her overalls press a
gainst his tunic, the scent of vanilla and sandalwood clashing.
Anger looms, his fingers denting her arms, the pressure resurrecting the bees again. The gust of his breath rushes against her neck as he dips his head, those eyes blasting her with the force of a gale.
“Friends,” he agrees.
And then his turbulent mouth seizes hers.
Merry yelps as his lips slant, suctioning the air from her lungs. The contact is fierce, the angle of his jaw strong, the momentum reckless. Her knees buckle, and the world tilts—or that’s merely her skull as it cants with his.
Anger’s fingers spear through her hair, destroying the bun and pulling off the sequined kerchief, which falls from her head. Merry’s arms fling around him, clasping his nape, because it’s either that or crash to the ground. Her breasts flail against his chest, their hearts thrumming.
Oh, my Fates. Oh, my Fates. Oh, my Fates.
It takes a moment for Merry to do anything else. Is this happening? Is it really?
And then she’s sighing, and she’s kissing him back. Her mouth quivers as he pries her open, his tongue swooping between her lips and lashing at hers, slick and possessive.
If Merry’s eyes were open, they’d roll back in ecstasy. Instead, she moans as the wet flat of him whisks at her tongue, plunging and then retreating, over and over.
Sweet Fates, he tastes of rain and bitter chocolate, reminiscent of the gelato he’d consumed yesterday. The pull and tug of the kiss escalates. It deepens, the effect of which scrambles her brain and swells between her legs, causing the tender area flanked by her thighs to constrict. Arousal spurs madness, and she greedily, boisterously, latches onto his tongue and sucks.
A shudder treks up Anger’s body. He groans, the sound thrashing from him and throbbing into her. Encouraged, Merry sucks harder, and he practically hoists her off the ground.
She’s wrecked. She’s never been so enchanted by a tongue, never been so famished in her life. She wants to bite him, chomp on his jaw, snack on his teeth like kettle corn.
Her body can’t get close enough to his. She wants to crawl up his torso and make a nest there.
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