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“Go to hell,” Anger snarls.

“I’ll come to hell with you,” Malice says. “It’ll be fun.”

“Hey,” Wonder carps, elbowing him.

“Oops.” Malice kisses her chin, then swings his gaze to Anger. “Apologies, mate. I’ll have to retract that. Can’t leave my goddess any more than you can leave yours.”

As the pairings cling to one another like plastic wrap, a covetous spike bolts through Sorrow. She peeks through her wet hair, confirming that Envy hasn’t noticed her reaction. That’s one fact to be grateful for.

The stars flicker, chipping away at the violet sky, which will turn into a hydrangea blue come dawn. That’s how Wonder describes the firmament, by using floral terms to the point where it has rubbed off on their group. She has a compulsive tendency to compare things to flowers. That is, when she concentrates on them long enough, or when her nose isn’t wedged into a reference book, or when she isn’t staring off into the cosmos.

Or when she isn’t plastering her mouth to Malice’s. Though currently, they’ve got other plans. Her sizable curves fit snuggly into his side, and while he toys with her marigold curls, she closes her eyes and begins to meditate.

Minutes lapse. The river calms down as the boat passes shrubbery embedded into the cliffside. Although the water’s surface is as slick as grease, their drifting vessel creates quavering creases in the surface that vibrate outward.

Sorrow wants to submerge her pinky and make the liquid dance. Instead, she catches herself absently checking the stock in her quiver. Not that her cache will suddenly change.

She’ll always be one ice arrow short.

When she was a youth, she’d lost it. Precisely where, and when, and how remains a mystery. And since arms aren’t to be taken lightly, deities cannot simply conjure new weapons, not as they can with food or certain inanimate objects. And while Sorrow has accepted the loss, she reassesses her quiver every once in a while, just in case the lost arrow turns up by some miracle.

Right. As if.

A weight caresses the side of her face, its shape as narrow as a finger. Her brow crinkles. She glances over her shoulder, to where Envy has resumed leaning indulgently against the pole. For sure, his star was feeling ambitious when it birthed him. The god is solid, built like a monolith despite his douchey outfits.

The instant she locates him, his head swerves from her toward the bluffs.

“Damn them,” Love says, breaking the intermission with a stomp of her foot. “They’ll tell the Fate Court.”

“They’ll order a hunt,” Anger adds.

“They’ll search high and low, leaving no stone unturned,” Merry sighs.

“They’ll torture us,” Malice says.

“They’ll leave scars,” Wonder predicts, her lids still sealed.

“Or they won’t,” another voice interjects.

Everyone except Wonder glances at Andrew, who’s rubbing his leg. Immortality aside, his physical tolerance isn’t as strong as the others. The same goes for Malice due to his bygone human roots, prior to him being resurrected as a deity.

Tilting his head, Andrew considers his next words. “I’ve read plenty of book series”—this deserves so many eye rolls, but nobody indulges—“and in plenty of them, what happens? A dumbass who’s determined to prove himself decides to take matters into his own hands and catch the prey. In fiction, motivations inform every action a character takes.

“What’s the difference in reality? Probably not much. So who’s to say those archers won’t come after us themselves? Who’s to say they don’t want to impress the Court? Everyone has a story of their own. And everyone considers themselves the heroes of it.”

That’s not a half-baked idea. Chagrin gets the better of Sorrow.

Being a fantasy enthusiast, Andrew possesses knowledge of human-fabricated mythology that surpasses Sorrow and her classmates. Maybe it’s because their kind have been too willfully ignorant and arrogant to take the mortally constructed tales seriously. But these days, so much has happened to change their points of view.

Their band considers Andrew’s theory.

“There’s no telling what their desires are,” Merry summarizes. “What their hopes and dreams are.”

Wonder’s eyes open, bright and blossoming. “It could be a loophole made manifest. If they’re the only ones chasing us, they might buy us time to continue with the plan.”

“Or this could be a different means to the same end,” Anger counters, massaging his shoulder. “The Fate Court will eventually know we’re here.”

“Did anyone leave anything behind?” Envy questions.