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Wonder

The demon god is wailing again. The sound tears through the library floor, reaching her from the underworld of his lair. It’s a brushfire of noise, which shouldn’t be possible, heat being an intangible thing to deities. Though, nothing concerning him ever makes sense.

Wonder stiffens. Her finger freezes, arrested on a book title, the pad of her digit pressing hard against the embossed letters.

He always manages to stir the attentive parts of her.

Perhaps that’s why she cannot stay away.

She shouldn’t be here at this hour, cloistered between the nonfiction shelves, the repository a midnight tomb.

Starlight trickles in from the high windows, illuminating writing desks and reading chairs and strands of ivy in a metallic, secretive sheen. It gives inanimate objects a trembling quality, as if his screams torment them as well.

The cacophony builds to a guttural howl. By some force of nature, it stings the scars on her wrists.

Her hands fall to her sides. She has never lied to herself before, and she shouldn’t do so now.

She knows why she’s here. Sneaking into the library at this hour has less to do with research and more to do with those shrieks and the wilted feeling in her heart.

Beneath the ferocious calls, there’s grief, confusion, and delirium.

And beneath all of that, there’s madness.

She hates when he does this. She hates why he does this.

Wonder brushes the pulp of wildflower scars running across her skin. Then she draws in a shaky breath, inhaling the blossom corsage cinched around her wrist.

She strides from the bookshelves containing texts about linguistics, the hem of her forest green gown swishing around her bare feet, a delicate sound compared to the riotous one coming from below.

The longbow and quiver of quartz arrows rattle across her back as she vacates the 400s section, steps through a partition at the building’s rear wing, and descends into a pit.

The vault is drafty, a place where rare books should be stored but aren’t. For this part of the library is an immortal dimension, an invisible plane layered under a human building. Only their kind can see it.

Deities, their possessions, and their dwellings are imperceptible to humans. Even if mortals could access this area, they wouldn’t have the capacity to discern the fire pit that produces a curdling funnel of smoke from the fuming logs. Neither would mortals see the resurrected rocking chair.

Although the setting had recently been reduced to rubble, The Stars amended that.

Whether or not the demon deserves this charity—he doesn’t—several members of the crew had refused to leave any section of a library in ruin.

Namely, Andrew, Merry, and Wonder advocated for the repairs.

Not to make their hostage comfortable, but to respect the historic building.

At any rate, this crypt used to be his domain. Now it’s his prison. And he’s her captive.

His howls multiply, the noise lancing through Wonder’s stomach.

In the cavernous space, she halts on the final step and braces herself.

Amid the murk, a nimbus of golden hair glints through the shadows, the messy layers coiled with tension at the ends.

They frame his face, with its taut cheekbones and square jaw.

He sits in the rocking chair, his eyes locked shut, creases burrowing into his countenance. From those twisted lips comes the proof of a nightmare—irritated roars as though he’s annoyed more than traumatized, as though he wants to analyze the nightmare, to unpuzzle rather than recover from it.

The chair joints creak, bearing the weight of his tirade. His fingers clench into fists, the long fingernails resembling talons. The folds of his leather jacket shift, following his movements as he thrashes.

This often happens at midnight. He shouts through his nightmares, and she endures the mutiny.

A screen of bars glow within the room. Conjured by her crewmates, who’d beseeched The Stars for assistance, the grille barricades this vault, preventing an escape.

Like a cage. Like a dungeon.

Like an asylum.

Wonder steels herself, evicting that haunting notion from her mind. If she goes there, she’ll break in half.

While she loathes treating any soul like a beast, the bars are a necessary evil, given his routine attempts to break the shackles. Enhanced by celestial magic, the latter prevents him from evanescing while the former is a backup in case he eventually succeeds in cracking open the restraints.

Still. The sight gnaws on her conscience, chewing on the delicate tissue of her heart.

It’s difficult to say whether she’s coping for herself or this devil, but Wonder had insisted on a bed for the prisoner.

Merry and Sorrow had backed her up on that account.

However, the demon had spat at the offer.

He prefers the rocking chair, though how he stands the lack of comfort, Wonder cannot comprehend.

She swallows, lifts her chin, and steps through the star-dusted divider. In one swift movement, she kneels before him and grasps his arms, vigilant of the inflated muscles flexing beneath her grip. She digs into the leather jacket and gives a shake.

“Malice,” she says, jerking back as he writhes unconsciously.

“Malice,” she tries again, fending off his claws.

“Malice!” she demands, only to be rewarded with a shove.

The force hurls her to the ground, her backside smacking the floor, her archery jostling. It’s no surprise; where he’s bulky, she’s fleshy. Yet Malice is athletic under those clothes, taller and more robust than Wonder. To snap him out of it, he can take a measure of aggression.

Stop blaming yourself. He’s not the same person. You’re imagining things.

Those facts leach the guilt from Wonder. He isn’t who she thinks he is, who she wants him to be. This god is not good, nor kind. Rather, he’s a murderer who would kill her if given the chance.

At Wonder’s request, they removed the straps from around his biceps.

And because he keeps munching through every gag they stuff into his mouth, they’ve also forgone that option.

Not that granting this conniving god leave to speak is a wise idea, but just thinking about the alternative gives Wonder hives.

She had appealed to the crew’s sense of pity, insisting that treating him like a feral creature would make them no better.

Besides, they have enough contingencies in place. The wrist and ankle manacles clatter as he flails, his fingernails cleaving through the seat’s arm, those claws peeling a thin layer of wood from the surface. Any more of this, and he’s going to hurt himself.

Wonder lurches upright. Grappling his elbows, she hoists the demon off the rocking chair and slaps him across the face. The echoing crack of her palm splinters through the vault. His head whips sideways, the contact immobilizing him, so that she dumps his weight back into the seat.

Malice slumps. There, he’s all right now, spared the rest of the nightmare. She should leave him like this, let him segue into an easier dream, whatever that dream may be.

Yes, she should leave. She should leave now.

Squatting to the ground, she waits until his features relax. Lost in slumber, he resembles… he looks like… looks just like…

Pain clots her throat. She plucks an antique book from the floor beside his chair.

Most of his possessions were destroyed during the conflict with her crew several months ago, when Anger had blown through the roof.

However, a handful of items survived, including the prisoner’s weapons.

But while confiscating the archery had been indisputable, the crew showed mercy and permitted him to keep something that posed no threat.

His collection of timeworn books had been vanquished.

All except one. Wonder had found this tome beneath the wreckage, though she hadn’t revealed it for weeks.

To be on the safe side first, she employed her research skills and investigated its contents before deeming it safe to hand over.

It’s nothing but a mortal text written by a human.

And although Wonder possesses the savvy to examine the intricacies of bookbinding, she’s also a goddess trained in the complexities of intuition.

Quite simply, she would know if this book posed a threat.

Dusting off the plain clothbound cover, she tucks the book into his hand. Dormant, he clings to the hardback, his claws curling around the spine. Only then does his breathing fall steady.

If the crew knew about these escapades and how she dares to step through the veil of bars, they would try to stop her. They would do so because they care, and because they’re careful. Plainly, Malice is not her friend.

The demon cradles the old book like a stuffed animal. She watches him sleep, remaining at his side until the hour shifts. Unbidden, her treacherous hand reaches out, succumbing to temptation. One gilded layer of hair brushes her finger, remarkably soft for such a ruthless soul.

Malice would despise Wonder for touching him. He would mock and heckle, spewing insults that toy with her mind. He would indulge in his favorite pastime, pushing her buttons, testing how many he can locate.

Hooking the layer behind his ear, she lets go, because she has to let go .

Repentant, Wonder stands. Padding across the vault, she resists the urge to glance over her shoulder.

The enemy is far more intelligent than anyone would like.

Being weaponless hasn’t made him an obedient captive. Being clever has.

Malice must have drawn the same conclusion by now. He doesn’t need a weapon or brute force to free himself. It’s his diabolical brain and serpentine tongue that she should be wary of. Because it’s only a matter of time before he uses both against her.