Wonder jots forward, then stops herself.
“Indeed, not all of us,” the man agrees. “Which is why you’ve been placed here.”
Malice speaks around a mouthful of blood. “You can dump as many of us as you want for being imperfect or unwieldy. It doesn’t make our kind pristine. It only means you’re too fucking scared to look in the mirror.”
“Why don’t you stuff his mouth with cloth?” the braided god suggests to Anger.
“I’d have to disagree with him first,” Anger says.
“Then you’ve changed.”
“It’s my choice to change. We have minds of our own. We have voices of our own. Those prerogatives are power—the power to make our own destinies. If I’m not mistaken, humans have the same power. That makes us equal.”
“You would spurn fate.”
“I would redefine fate.”
Merry and Wonder step closer, aligning themselves with him. They will prove to the Court that a balance can be struck. Somehow, they will prove it.
As Anger and his classmates have said, the subject has been gaining momentum ever since Love’s story. It has spread from the Peaks to this realm, to misfits like Merry.
“We’re at an impasse, it seems,” the gossamer goddess says. “You will have to disarm us first, in order to secure that sort of influence over mortals. You will have to recruit a great many of our kin to your side, to stand a chance. If you wish to continue this, so be it. Enjoy your banishments and your extracurricular conflicts.” For emphasis, she directs a mildly amused, mildly repulsed look at Malice. “If you manage to tame your own wild beasts, we’ll see what your crusade accomplishes while outnumbered, out-armed, and outsourced.”
Like wisps of smoke, they disappear. Their departure sucks a portion of moonlight with them.
“That was classy,” Malice comments.
“That was tradition,” Wonder corrects.
“That was the Court,” Anger summarizes.
“And that’s why they’ll lose,” Merry declares.
Her kindreds, and Malice, all swerve their heads toward her. The rage god is the first one to protest. “And you call me delusional.”
“We call you a prisoner,” Wonder snaps.
He ignores her, favoring Merry and Anger instead. “Planning to combat the Fates, even though you can barely juggle your own quixotic tangle. You failed to unlock a legend.”
Merry clenches Anger’s hand. “Who says we failed?” she counters as it dawns on her, blazing like a neon sign.
Wonder stares. Malice scoots upright, tilting his head.
Merry swivels toward Anger. Her eyes find his, and when they do, his brows furrow. And then…then realization rises to the forefront. A soft shock unravels into understanding, smoothing out the planes of his face.
They grab one another, holding fast as their foreheads press together. Suddenly, she feels it, a rift in her chest, the cusp of change waiting to be accepted. Sparks ignite, vitality crackling along her bones.
Anger feels the same thing. She can tell from the lift of his physique and a subtle sheen gracing his weapons, restoring them to their former glory. He’s less staggered, more attuned than she, having known this sensation for centuries: the power to wield emotions, to be who he once was.
“Merry,” he says.
“Anger,” she says. “They left without even asking.”
“Without even noticing,” he agrees.
She nods, bundles their hands together, and presses them to her chest. “They have magic, but they don’t have this.”
They’d sought out one another’s hearts. Merry, to claim his. Anger, to shatter hers. Instead they’d succeeded at both, simultaneously.
They’d broken one another’s hearts. And they’d won them.
27
Merry
Love. It’s the single emotion their trio has felt unanimously. Merry has felt it, Anger has felt it, Wonder has felt it. It’s the one thing they know better than the Fate Court—that’s why the rulers hadn’t recognized the change. It’s why they hadn’t realized Anger and Merry’s triumph. They cannot see a blind spot or notice what they don’t understand.
Anger traces his fingers over her face, and Merry mimics the gesture. Under her touch, the contours of him are different yet the same. She’s happy for him, for the restored and empowered parts of him. But he has to know, needs to know.
“You were always Anger,” she says.
“You were always Merry,” he says.
“I was.” She thinks about that, another epiphany cresting. “I am.”
They’ve been ostracized, and stripped, and demoted. But they’ve never lost themselves fully, never lost their hearts, never lost their souls. Gracious, they’ve discovered themselves even more.
Neither the stars, nor the Court, nor magic can tell them who they are.
She’d meant what she said, that she doesn’t want to be a love goddess anymore. She wants to promote free will, but she doesn’t need to be Love for that. She can decide what other kind of goddess to be.
Merry licks her lips. “Kindred Wonder? Can magic be given away?”
The goddess veers from the crate of sepia envelopes that she’d been studying. “Who are you thinking of, dearest?”
“Someone who never got the choice.”
Someone who fell in love with a mortal and then became one, transcending into a fate that she’d had no say in. Someone who’d had her memory taken from her. Someone who’d never deserved that.
Anger and Wonder stare at her. Malice’s expression pinches.
Anger’s features smooth out in understanding. “Merry,” he begins, “there’s a reason why Love and Andrew can’t see us or remember.”
Because if a mortal has the power to see deities, it puts them all in jeopardy. As the rulers had said, the elusive myth of the Fates protects her kind from extinction. If the truth of that myth gets exposed, made plain for mortals to see, the spell will be broken. It will mark the eradication of their race—and the eventual demise of humanity.
“But it won’t be,” Merry says, the facts dawning on her. “She’d be immortal again, so it wouldn’t matter if she sees us then. She needs to be human, in order to be a threat.”
“Andrew—,” Anger contests.
“No,” Wonder interjects, comprehension brightening her voice. “Their love binds them to each other, which would render him immortal, too. Not a deity or an archer, but immortal, nonetheless. No longer human if they’re offered that power by Merry, and if they choose to accept it.”
“They’ll remember without harming the Fates’ existence.” Merry links her gaze to Wonder’s, her words gaining momentum. “They’ll be together, the way they deserve to be.”
“Yes!” The goddess bounces, clapping her palms, the petals of her corsage flapping.
“This is merely hypothesis,” Anger grumbles, his gaze swatting between them.
“That Merry can transfer her magic to Love? It’s utterly true,” Wonder argues pertly.
“You can’t bounce back and forth between mortality and immortality.”
“Can’t you?” Malice nags from his prostrate position on the floor, then takes note of Wonder. “Go ahead. Shut me up. Stuff my mouth with your corsage.”
With a huff, Wonder swerves her gaze back to her peer. “Oh, honestly, Anger. As class leader, did you never pay attention during our lessons? Did you never once pick up a book in the Archives?”
“I’m aware of the fundamentals,” he bites out.
Merry is as well. It’s rudimentary knowledge that she’s gleaned from fellow outcasts, and it’s a rule not to break.
Not that any deity would grant his or her power to another.
Well, almost none would. The notion has Merry smiling.
“You heard the Fate Court,” Anger reminds them. “They have eyes on Love. They’ll know.”
“Her name is Lily,” Malice remarks. “Get your facts straight, mate.”
“If she wants, she�
��ll be the Goddess of Love, restored,” Wonder says. “She’ll be even more valuable than she was when birthed. The Fate Court won’t strike her down if there’s a possibility of getting her back, especially if they’re expecting our crusade to lose—which it just might not. But we have an emotional link to humans; they don’t. We’ve felt the most complex emotion; they haven’t.”
“And just when did you have time to feel love?” Malice inquires.
She balls her hands together, the scars straining across her skin. It takes restraint, but she disregards the rage god and speaks through her teeth to Anger. “You have your powers back fully. If we have Love back, too, we’ll have a better chance of succeeding. She’ll want to be part of this. She’s invested, as is Andrew, as are the rest of us. Perhaps with our combined abilities, we can map a balance of fate and free will without bloodshed, without waging a battle against our people. We can search for the symmetry to convince them. For that, we need her.”
Merry gazes to the horizon. “With all of us, we shall overcome.”
“Not without me.”
Malice again. He’s sprawled, blood crusting his Lucifer lips, the twist of which reminds Merry of a wrung-out cloth.
Is he addressing all of them? Or just Wonder?
He’s the only person capable of drawing a colossal reaction from the goddess, and it seems the feeling is mutual. She exhales, then slowly cants her head toward that grim reaper, leveling him with a direct expression.
That’s how she achieves something Merry has never imagined possible: Malice flushes. It’s not bashfulness, but it’s more like chagrin, like he’s translucent.
His eyes blaze, creating apostrophes of confusion between his brows. He suffers for a brutal moment under her gaze, then resumes that fatally silken exterior. “You’re deficient without me. Need I say why?”
No, he needn’t. He’s shrewd and calculating, which makes him valuable.
Alas, he’s also insane, which makes him untrustworthy.
Anger breaks from their circle and kneels before Malice. “We’re going to find a way without your help.”
“Try keeping me tied up like a filthy secret, mate. Consider this a public service announcement: I have allies in the city who won’t stand for it.”
“Let them come. We can handle them.”
Malice’s mouth curls, his eyes tracking to Wonder. “But can you handle me?”
“You swine. You’re not fit to be—,” she cuts herself off, her voice frayed at the edge.
“Not fit to be what? Don’t stop on my account.” Malice sounds thirstier for the answer than he visibly lets on.
To which, furious moisture beads in Wonder’s eyes.
Anger jerks Malice’s chin away from her. “You overestimate your ability.”
Merry takes the goddess’s hand and receives a grateful smile. It buoys Wonder, who assures Anger, “Leave our prisoner to me, dearest.”
“You’ll stay the fuck away from me,” Malice riots, actually looking nervous.
Sigh. The problem is, he may be right. Wonder isn’t the only one who knows how to peel back enigmas. The putrid contents of Malice’s brain might hold puzzle pieces that they’ll need in the future. If that’s true, he’ll only relinquish them for a price.
From the cautious look Anger shares with Merry, he draws the same conclusion.
He focuses on her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Why wait? Merry closes her eyes, makes her choice, and feels it ripple across her body like a breeze. Temporarily wonderful while it lasts, it leaves her shaken afterward. Her tulle skirt ruffles around her limbs, and her hair tickles her shoulder, and a weight evaporates. All that’s left is Anger’s touch on her wrist, which is every power she’s ever needed.
When she opens her eyes, he fills her view with graphite and twilight.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says. “I’m here.”
Merry bites her lip, keeps a straight face. “Good because…”
Footsteps stalk down the stairs, reverberations coursing through the cavernous underworld. The approaching noise culminates in the forms of Andrew’s disheveled white hair and Love’s windswept black tresses.
The couple descends into the vault, taking measured steps. With the quiver harnessed to her back, Love has her bow nocked. She’s aiming into the room while her valiant boyfriend stands guard beside her. The soul mates are a sight to behold, defensive but determined, baffled but intrigued.
His silver irises and her dark ones flit across the space, then lock on to the archers. Two pairs of eyes flash with astonishment. In this immunity of time, in this pocket of minutes between possibility and choice, they see.
Gracious, they see!
“Oh, my stars,” Wonder whispers.
Anger tenses beside Merry, disbelief stretching his features taut. It’s not a gale of longing, but a gust of caring. Merry’s heart eases, bolts falling from her chest and allowing it to beat normally.
Love—or Lily?—falters. Her hold on the longbow eases, and she has to juggle the weapon to keep it from dropping. Her pupils expand, skipping from one deity to the next.
Andrew’s mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be shitting me…”
Love blinks, shakes her head. Her voice quivers, cracks like she’s never heard herself speak before. “What’s happening?” she asks. “Who—who are you people?”
Anger and Wonder are immobile. They’re speechless, as if a single motion will destroy the spell.
Merry steps forward and grins. “We’re your people.”
It takes them a mountainous moment to process, gazing at her in speculation—and interest. Andrew strikes her as the inquisitive sort, countless question marks leaping from his expression, from irises of infinite platinum. Merry inhales a selfless, minty fragrance and the soft texture of worn storybook pages, plus the tireless lilt of tenacity.
Love is the impulsive sort, the female’s attention as true and direct as an arrow, with the kind of piercing stare that won’t miss its target. She possesses a mischievous chin and a wily set to her mouth. Harnessed within that diminutive frame, she carries so much rebellion and restlessness.
The pair also strikes Merry as the visceral kind, willing to accept the fantastical, so long as they can intuit it for themselves. Together, Andrew and Love crank their heads sideways, a synchronized boldness as they examine the group anew.
It reminds Merry of fairytales, the way characters in those tales simply believe the magic they see. It may be a sign of Andrew’s inherent, magic-realism personality, and it may be a shadow of Love’s past prompting her not to flee. Wisps of recognition surface and spread, hints of their past expanding like a galaxy.
This couple makes it easy to identify the moment when the truth dawns on them. The fog evaporates, and a solar system of memories resurrect, their faces slackening with lucidity.
This time, Love really drops the bow and arrow. They smack the ground, the weapons convulsing and dissolving into nothing. In the formers’ wake, a mythical replacement manifests itself: iron archery glazed in magic.
Rumor has it, the Court had reclaimed Love’s weapons before she forsook her old life. Hopefully the rulers had stashed the relics somewhere unfrequented, then forgotten about them. With luck, the Court won’t notice the archery’s absence any time soon.
But they just might. And if they do, they’ll know.
In any event, these must be Love’s originals. Bound to the goddess heart and soul, they’ve returned to her at last. She checks the weapons on the floor, then twists to glimpse the quiver strapped to her person.
After that, she glances at her hands, verifying that this is real.
She whips toward Andrew, who’s gaping at her. Mesmerized, their hands begin to roam, seeking confirmation. Fingers sketch, and palms trace, and there’s just so many loving touches coming out of them.
Their chests leap and sink into shallow pants, tenderness radiating from them. That, and recognition as missing years flood t
he room.
“Andrew,” she whispers, as if saying it for the first time.
“Love,” he says, as if spotting an invisible star.
They lunge, wrapping themselves in one another. Trembling, they hug fiercely, their mouths fusing, their nostrils flaring. Sounds of grief and happiness spill from them as they kiss, their lips slanting and folding over one another.
This goes on for a beautiful while, neither of them caring about their audience. The sight is a privilege to witness. Merry’s stomach flutters, her throat stings, and her eyes mist.
She sighs dreamily. Then she hiccups, feeling someone’s attention on her, a devoted presence stroking her side.
Anger. He’s paying no heed to the soul mates. No, he’s staring at Merry with a hectic sort of passion, a gentle sort of worship.
The couple inches apart, pulling back to gawk at one another—and they begin to laugh. Uproarious, amazed laughter multiplies through the crypt and dashes out the window, to where the stars glitter, catching the sound.
At last, the pair whirls to face their companions.
The rekindled goddess spots a friend, a smile splitting her face. “Wonder!”
“Love!” A cracked sound breaks from Wonder as they run and collide, hurling their arms around each other, their bodies swinging like a pendulum. Chortles pour out of them, and they squeak over one another, their voices tangling.
What? How? Why?
“I don’t understand,” Love says.
“You will soon,” Wonder promises.
Nostalgic mirth teases the restored goddess’s lips. “Did you write my story yet, like you vowed to?”
With a laugh, Wonder pinches her. “I’ll get to it someday. These are busy times, dearest. As it is, most of your tale has circulated just fine on its own.”
Love ushers her stunned boyfriend and introduces them. “Holy shi…I mean, ‘Hey,’” Andrew says, approaching them with a dazed, ironic smile. “Lemme start over: It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine. It’s an honor to greet the face who brought destiny to its knees.”
Selfish Myths 2 Page 25
