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She whacks his digits away. “Just as soon as you get rid of yours,” she retorts, jerking her chin toward the spot between his legs. “Or do you need help locating it?”

“You dare offend the immortal cock?”

“What I do, or don’t do, is no one’s business. Never has been, never will be.”

“Of course, not. That would require you actually mattering to someone.”

Hate stings the rims of her eyes. “So that’s it. We’re back to where we started.”

“Oh, my clueless nymph.” It’s almost apologetic, and remorseful, and yearning when his palm cups her cheek, his thumb stroking her lower lip. “What made you think we’d ever detoured?”

Her teeth are near enough to sever a finger, but she restrains herself. “Even more accurate.”

“Marvelous.”

“Great.”

“Fine.”

“Perfect.” But Sorrow weighs the rustle of leaves behind him, her knuckles bending into fists as she curses the Fates, because destiny hasgotto be kidding, right? “Except not really, since I think we’re about to detour right now.”

“Oh?” he invites. “Why’s that?”

If anything, Sorrow can always say that he hadn’t distracted her as much as she had him. With that in mind, she measures him with an angsty, inconvenienced grin. Matching his condescension with her own, she murmurs, “Because we’re not alone.”

Envy stiffens. Realization tweaks his pristine face into something resembling chagrin. Better yet, shame. But he tamps it down and thankfully gets his crap together, peering into her eyes, evidently searching for a reflection of their surroundings.

They stare at each other. Then they dive, dodging the arrow that shoots toward them.

2

Sorrow

With an aerial twist, Sorrow spirals into the air beside Envy. Mid-flight, she imagines the synchronized arc of their bodies, parallel and springing before she crashes through the surface. On impact, a chaos of liquid dashes out of the way, then swarms her upon descent. She plunges in, the deluge gushing around her like a vortex.

Her lids part, seeking out Envy through the cluster of vines—through which another arrow cuts a path straight for her, its point a flashing asterisk. Sorrow swerves, avoiding the projectile. It torpedoes past her and misses shearing Envy’s torso as he pumps his limbs out of range.

He’s defter at aquatics than Sorrow, despite his monstrous size. Launching ahead, they swim parallel to one another, firing in and out of the water, in a rapid sequence of catapults and dives. When they bolt upward, arrows slice the atmosphere beneath their stomachs, and when they plummet, the attacks skim above their spines.

Geysers of water spew from the surface and drench the foliage. When Sorrow hits the pond’s edge, she twirls and rockets back the way she came. That’s when—crap!—the targets change course, assaulting them from unpredictable angles.

Submerged, she keeps her eyes open, noting the blot of Envy receding to an area shrouded by glowing pentagrams, tiny starfish who’d been minding their business.

The separation brings her friends to mind. Their band trespassed into enemy territory only yesterday. What archer has managed to spot them this quickly? Did he or she already do damage to Sorrow’s friends? Are they safe or hurt?

Vaguely, Sorrow realizes that it would have been a good idea to advance her target practice with underwater training. Learning to wield her longbow while in this predicament would have come in handy.

Then again, her bow is out of reach, abandoned on the grass. If their attacker has seen it, has identified the ice element of her weapon, she’s done for.

Another strike. She pivots around the tip, the movement causing a subterranean tidal wave. At the end of a full rotation, her gaze lands on Envy, who’s stumped as he gawks at her, having managed to close the distance between them. Time slows, pauses, holds its breath. She registers how quiet it is down here, nothing but a comforting sterilization of senses. It’s nice not having to feel anything, especially when faced with this god.

Yet even at this depth, nothing is impenetrable. This ambush proves it.

Envy’s collar flutters in place, in tune with the pulse at his throat. His long hair caresses the water, the black tail floating around his galled expression, as if he’d just caught Sorrow picking her nose.

Whatever. She jabs her thumb. He blinks and takes the hint, darting out of range from another arrow. They’ve got few options, seeing as her weapons are unreachable from here, and who knows where Envy left his archery.

Once in a while, immortal magic needs an old-fashioned solution and commonsense help. Flipping headfirst, Sorrow pushes herself down, down, down and snatches a rock from the soil. Gliding upward, she breaks the surface, and aims, and cranks her arm. Hurling the rock, she watches it smash through the underbrush and hears it crack against a trunk.