Page 5

There’s a small gasp, on the verge of laughter. And okay, that makes no sense.

What predator would chuckle like that? Like this is a game?

Nevertheless, the rock surprises their attacker. At the clatter of a bow dropping, Sorrow dives sideways and catches Envy’s shirt collar. Hoisting the god upward, she shoves him toward the bank, but he wrenches from her grasp.

“Watch the tailoring,” he warns, offended.

“Watch the trees,” she snaps, exasperated.

His eyes slit, telling her exactly what she can do with her orders. His drenched chest heaves beneath the sheer material lining to his torso, emphasizing those insufferable abs and nipples, darker than his skin.

Aww, he got his precious garments wet. Sorrow can’t believe she wants to gloat, while that archer can recover at any moment.

She and Envy glower at one another. After a beat, they surge out of the pond. Racing across the grass, Sorrow swipes her discarded archery off the ground. Belatedly, she remembers her clothes, which she’d draped over a branch.

Oh, well. She can’t go back for them, and she couldn’t care less about conjuring new ones right now. Being naked won’t affect her aim.

On the bright side, she’s running a hell of a lot faster. Sprinting through the woodland, they pound past offshoots and shrubs, then spill into the beech glade where their band of rebels should be—but aren’t.

Sorrow hears a frantic, “Psst.” Following the sound, she catches sight of pink hair tucked behind a tree trunk. And a white dress behind another. And a clenched jaw behind another.

She darts behind her own respective trunk. With her spine braced against the bark, she takes inventory of her friends, each of whom have claimed various points of the sylvan forest.

Beyond the mist, she spots Merry’s frothy dress and high-top sneakers, her shoulder-length hair as rosy as her cheeks. The misfit goddess should have been born gift-wrapped and tied with an enormous ribbon. She gnaws on her lip, an arrow nocked to her neon bow.

Anger stands a few feet away. His nostrils flare as he fluctuates between checking on Merry, his soul mate, and choking his archery. At this rate, he’s going to snap his iron arrow in half.

Across from him, Malice shifts. He’s the approximation of a golden devil, all gilded, wavy hair and bare chest as he bounces in place, his boots peeking beneath low-slung, dark jeans. His fletching-and-quill tattoo constricts across his forearm, and he’s grinning from ear to ear, hankering to jump in plain sight. As psychotic as he is calculating, either Malice has a devious reason for the element of surprise, or he’s in the mood to draw blood.

Meanwhile, Wonder—Malice’s soul mate—dangles upside down, her plump legs hooked over a branch fifteen feet above everyone. Jeez. Only she can balance a longbow and quartz arrow while in that position.

A corsage of wildflowers encircles Wonder’s wrist, her harem pants and off-the-shoulder blouse buffet some invisible current, and marigold-blonde tresses spill around her cherub face.

Directly across from Wonder is Love. The goddess perches atop a bough, a white dress and oversized denim jacket hanging off her petite frame as she kneels, aiming her longbow at an unseen target. The fact that they’re presumably surrounded doesn’t stop Love’s mouth from peeling into a mischievous smile. Casually, she knocks a pebble from the beech tree with her elbow.

It’s a risky jibe, but Love has the most impeccable aim of them all. The pebble lands without a sound, striking exactly where she’d meant it to: the black coat framing her soul mate’s shoulders.

Standing at ground level, Andrew twitches from the impact. In contrast to the layers of black hair springing from Love’s loose bun, tufts of snowy white stick out around Andrew’s head. Glancing above him, he regards Love with a look that promises she’ll pay for that later. Because if they weren’t about to defend themselves, Andrew definitely would have already lobbed his own pebble at her.

A moment ago, his shoulders had been wracked with tension. It’s not every day that a has-been human finds himself in a magical realm of mist and starlight, on a mission to rebel against celestial rulers, and about to engage in combat with immortals.

Apparently, Love’s playful action is an attempt to get him to relax. To her credit, it works. For a former mortal still learning how to aim and shoot, Andrew’s body unlocks. He wields his crossbow and frosted arrow—his preference over bolts—with steady, even breaths.

Since Envy had been barefoot at the pond, he retrieves his lace-up shoes from the camp and scales his own beech tree. Despite his bulk and spiffy clothes, he makes quick work of the climb. The wet shirt and trousers shift in tandem to his movements, stacks of muscle contorting under the filmy material.

At some point during their arrival, he’d also found time to snatch his glass archery from their encampment. Ascending the offshoots, he positions himself and, for the love of freakin’ Fates, combs through his dripping hair before nocking his bow. He puckers his lips, blowing Wonder and Love a kiss.

The females stare at him, unimpressed.

What does make an impression is Sorrow as she waits behind her tree, wearing nothing but her archery. Every head swerves in her direction. The thing is, nudity isn’t sacred to deities, but some in this bunch have prudish sensibilities.

Merry turns away, her cheeks suffused with color, while Anger glares in frustration.

Wonder merely raises her eyebrows but quickly gets distracted by the environment as she assesses the canopy, the woods illuminated in phosphorescent jewel tones, and the amethyst flowers interspersed across the underbrush.

Malice’s eyes trace Sorrow’s body in platonic amusement, his expression the equivalent of a fist bump that congratulates her on being the most creative combatant here. As though everyone else is lame for being dressed at all.

Andrew is on par with Merry, glancing away sans the blush. He might laugh if he weren’t holding a large weapon.