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Aligning herself with the wall beside the door, Sorrow peeks between the crevice and inspects the perimeter. Exhaling, she rounds from the wall and slinks through the door.

And she halts.

Standing beyond the threshold, an archer stares at her. Garbed in a velvet robe and brandishing arrows forged of clovers, he watches Sorrow with a quirk of his head. The difference between life and death comes in a stack of bullet points.

This particular archer observes her with curiosity.

This particular archer boasts painted eyelashes.

This particular archer is one whom she’s seen before.

And that’s why this particular archer was easy to miss when she crept into the house. Because this particular archer stands no taller than her breasts.

This archer is a child.

Craning his head at her, the tyke studies Sorrow. His pupils sweep from her wet clothing, to her bare feet, to the archery. He’s a beautiful, tanned creature, with lively sprigs of onyx hair. His pupils quaver like an abyss, the kind one can dive into.

Upon closer inspection, Sorrow can’t decipher his root emotion, but she can guess, and she can guess well. This youth isn’t a pride god, nor a mirth god, nor a rage god.

Neither is he like Sorrow, or Melancholy, or Despair, or Loss. He’s not a trauma god.

She sets a finger to her mouth, which causes his lilac eyes to brighten with intrigue. Encouraged, she whispers, “Are you a wish god?”

Is he Trust or Hope in the making? That can’t be, unless those archers have already ascended to mentor status. So is he Desire? Anticipation?

The tyke gives a start. He steps forward and opens his mouth.

Someone else shouts. A projectile flies toward Sorrow from the opposite pier, cutting a path across the distance. It’s a clean target, which should hit her square in the chest. The problem with targets is, one can’t predict what bystanders will do.

The child is runty, engulfed by the shadows, so that his presence goes unnoticed by the assailant. Hearing the whistle, the runt turns, inadvertently placing himself in the arrow’s path.

Son of a bitch! Sorrow shoves the youth aside, hurling him into the safety of Love’s house. He yelps and goes flying. She dives sideways, tumbling across the planks as the arrow slams into the house’s facade and vanishes in an illuminated blast.

So it begins. More voices holler, silhouettes hastening into the fray. Somebody blows a necklace horn, alerting the residents. Doors whip open, and boots slam across the peers, and arrows twang.

Dozens of mouths bellow her name. Well, if those conniving archers from the rapids had wanted to catch members of her band covertly, that jig is up.

Sorrow rolls across the walkway, each rotation avoiding a series of strikes. She surges to her feet as another shaft plows in her direction.

Nocking Love’s bow brings Sorrow up short, the iron so unfamiliar that it delays her speed. Crap, she has to be cautious. Because this archery has retained the magic of its root emotion, Sorrow has to render the arrows infirm. And since this isn’t her own weapon, that makes it challenging.

She’ll have to be vigilant. Otherwise, whomever she strikes will turn into a lovesick maniac looking for a mate.

Her fingers spasm. She pauses, arrested by the sight of another arrow slicing past her from behind, intercepting the attack.

A direct block, from a glass arrow.

He’s got to be shitting her!

Sorrow whips around, her gaze darting toward the source. Atop one of the houses, a silver moon inflates around a masculine frame poised on the roof. Long black hair tethered at the nape. Trousers, a V-neck shirt with the sleeves jammed up dark forearms, and a pinstriped vest.

Envy lowers his bow and meets her eyes, looking royally pissed.

How long has he been here? How did he get his archery back? Where did he find it? When did he find it?

What had made Sorrow think that he wouldn’t come after her?

Alarm reflects in his eyes, the shade of which bounces off hers. Awareness jolts through Sorrow. In unison, they vault toward a stream of incoming arrows and begin to fire.