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Anything that will confirm who they are? As though those archers don’t already know?

Sorrow had left her clothes at the pond. Since she isn’t famous for her style, that’s neither here nor there.

As for anything else? Nope. The blinking eyes and blank expressions suggest as much. Before the attack, everyone had the presence of mind to grab whatever would identify them, a precaution before arming themselves.

Merry had brought her skateboard. Andrew had brought a notebook. Malice had brought his mouth.

Thus, all possessions are accounted for.

Anger announces that they’ll have to draft a contingency plan, since their original route has been diverted. They’d devised an alternative before arriving in the Peaks, but that’s being second-guessed, too. Meaning, they need a Plan C.

As the boat licks across the sea, their group recedes into thought. Andrew’s fingers twitch. Malice notices and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, fishing out Andrew’s notebook and pen. Malice must have been carrying those items since Andrew’s black, high-collared jacket lacks secure pockets of its own.

Leaning over, Malice chucks the supplies on to Andrew’s lap.

“Thanks,” Andrew says.

“Don’t mention it,” Malice says.

It’s impressive that they’ve become friends. Being humans in their previous lives has forged a sort of bond between them. That, and their respect for the written word.

Andrew jots notes, his face a mask of boyish seriousness. Love interrupts. She grabs the quill and writes a message to him, to which he smiles, plucks the pen from her fingers, and scribbles his reply.

They continue doing this while Wonder and Malice murmur theories to one another, citing research texts under their breaths.

Wrapped around each other, Anger and Merry doze, her skateboard resting beside them.

Their band’s various scrapes and contusions will fade eventually, quicker than a mortal’s wounds. Those arrows hadn’t been able to produce gashes, but they could have been disabling. Consequently, sometimes a blow is vigorous enough to snap a neck or a spine. Sometimes the damage is permanent.

Sorrow inspects the razor cut scars stacked up her arms. Like the scars on Wonder’s hands, the markings will never go away, because they’d been too gravelly delivered.

Envy fusses over his sodden shirt, pouting when he fails to remove a grass stain. What a fucking baby. He could just conjure new clothes, if he’s dissatisfied with imperfection.

“See anything you like but can’t have?” he mutters, the inquiry hitting Sorrow between the eyes.

Checking to make sure their comrades aren’t listening, she shrugs. “I see plenty I’ve had but didn’t like.”

Like a true god, Envy gives an uppity sniff. Disregarding the outfit with a careless sigh, he twists toward the pole and steers the boat through a slit in the cliffs. The edifices glisten with dew and fuchsia vines that crawl up the facades.

Sorrow goes back to blissfully ignoring him, though she has the urge to sink her teeth into something.

She knows this emotion. It’s anger. It has to be.

Because it can’t be sadness. Or worse, pain.

Of all people, she knows the difference.

4

Envy

The God of Envy likes three things, and only three things: males, females, and fucking. The order or combination is irrelevant. He’s done and seen it all.

Or Envy once thought he had, until he’d stumbled into uncharted, indecent, raunchy territory with a goddess trussed up in grim-reaper black, her hair and lips tainted by a melancholy jewel shade.

Envy has never liked the latter color. Condemnation, it’s the hardest one for any soul to pull off well.

Anyway, he hasn’t been able to explain himself since the clutter of Sorrow entered his personal bubble. She may be one-fifth of the most elite class of archers in history—along with Love, Anger, Envy, and Wonder—yet that hardly exonerates her gritty attitude, her ill-considered fashion choices, or her repugnance for the pleasures of life. Stars above, he’s never even seen her savor a glass of bubbly.