Page 13

Malice

Wonder crumbles, her body slumping against his, those long eyelashes welding shut. Her head lolls on Malice’s clavicles, peachy features looking almost serene, as though she’s landed somewhere safe instead of deadly.

As if that’s unusual for her. As if she doesn’t get much peace while awake.

The visual pinches a weird place in his chest, squeezing with the force of pliers. Grunting, he shuts down that visceral reaction before it can make a lasting impact. Like a tick, she’s good at getting under his skin and staying there. The less it happens, the better.

Since he can’t manifest with the goddess in tow, Malice goes through the cumbersome motions. After setting her on the floor, patting her down, and checking the compartment where she’d hidden his stuff, he turns up empty-handed. Sneaky, resourceful goddess.

Alright, then. They’ll do this the Malice Way.

Taking this trip with two sets of archery swinging from one shoulder, and one unconscious female on the other, isn’t exactly handy. But shit happens. There’s no other way to execute a jailbreak, otherwise Malice would have figured that part out days ago.

Meh. He’s juggled more booty than this before. No pun intended.

Being banished tends to equip deities with the skills to pack heavy when traveling. Malice heaves Wonder over his shoulder, her body flopping like a rag doll, a bizarre pressure radiating from her skin and sinking into his pores through the leather jacket.

What the fuck? If Malice didn’t know better, he’d classify the sensation as heat, based on what he’s read in books.

Training himself to sneak in and out of forbidden immortal institutions has taught Malice to move quickly.

He takes the fastest shortcut through this branch and stalks from a back entrance, where employees usually pass through.

From there, it’s a three mile walk through a network of cobblestone alleyways.

Three black rottweilers he’s christened as Cerberus One, Two, and Three—because why not?

—bleed from the shadows, their tails swatting from side to side in greeting.

The females paw Malice’s thigh, bumps their heads against his calf, and sniff Wonder’s cascading hair.

Despite the months that have passed, the hounds don’t give Malice a hard time about his unexplained hiatus.

But ah hell, the dogs are expecting their usual.

“Sorry, mates,” he apologizes. “No treats tonight.” Malice scratches behind their ears, then juts his head to the goddess swinging from his grip. “Only this one. And I’m not sharing.”

The Cerberus trio follows for several blocks, keeping guard until they reach the fringes of a constellation cathedral.

There, the hounds lick Malice’s wrist, accept several additional ear scratches, and disappear down a street.

They’ve never taken to his cult, one of the females extracting a member’s hand when they tried to touch her, but from the way they’d kept nuzzling Wonder’s cheek, there’s a high probability the females would have liked this goddess.

Surprise, surprise. Malice would bet his next kill that Wonder has amassed a contingent of groupies in The Celestial City’s west side.

Probably as many as Merry, both of them ranking high in the likability department.

Except the notion of superfan gods vying for Wonder’s attention rubs Malice the wrong way, which is just stupid.

Cathedral spires prick the sky, telescopes peering through every lookout point, and firelight brims through the star-shaped window looming above the entrance.

This abandoned landmark isn’t an immortal layer, but it might as well be.

Humans don’t come here anymore. Not only is it located in a sketchy part of the city, but it’s considered bad luck to step inside.

Centuries ago, illegal sacrifices to honor astrology signs were a thing in these halls, and now it’s got people spooked.

Given that history, Malice’s creed finds the location entertaining. If not gathering in the alley neighboring Midnight Park, where he first brought Anger, everyone on the east side uses this cathedral as a common area.

He passes through the north portal, crosses the planetary nave, then bears left off the chapel where mortals used to worship the moon cycle. Muffled voices and laughter rumble beyond a set of doors. Punting them open with the toe of his boot, Malice sends the partitions flying open.

Why bother acting humble? He’s overdue for a scene-stealing entrance.

Across an expanse of ornate tombstones, several hundred figures idle at various corners of the cathedral cemetery.

Starlight washes the crowd in cold, harsh shades, accentuating the hard edges.

Chains. Piercings. Leather. Lace. Diamonds.

Their styles range as much as their beauty, from epicene features to elfin cheekbones so angular it’s either cliche or downright monotonous.

Most have deposited their archery against the grave markers, arrow fletchings wrought from assorted elements glinting.

But one thing is unanimous. Every outcast god and goddess shuts up the instant Malice enters the party.

His name circulates with “Malice this” and “Malice that” until it’s nothing but stunned crickets, their attention slicing between his arrival and the seemingly dead weight looped over his shoulder.

Malice cracks a smile. “Remember what I said, mates? Have fun, but never more fun than me!”

Enthusiastic roars follow, the deities raising their arms and cheering. It’s not entirely a shock given he’d called out to them an hour ago, telling his cult to get their asses over here. They move in to swarm him, but he cuts that shit off fast.

Sweeping out his free hand, Malice waves them off. “Soon, children. I’ve got fresh meat to salt first.”

Lugging Wonder’s frame, he saunters past the headstones. They’ll have questions, and he’s got answers prepared. There’s no way and no reason to disguise the Goddess of Wonder, her quartz arrows alone speaking for themselves. But that’s for later.

Hate, Scorn, and Calamity beam from ear to ear, saluting Malice with chalices that originate from the Byzantine era. Their relief to see him is evident. But only one of this trinity is dumb enough not to follow an order.

Ignoring his partners’ warnings, Calamity breaks away and strides toward Malice. The god’s blazer shifts over a loose tank top, he flings out both arms, and his blue pupils glow with several months’ worth of stress.

Starlight glosses his bald head as he falls into step with Malice. “Where the fuck have you been?” But when he gets no response, Calamity takes a closer ganger at Wonder, his eyes popping from their sockets. “Is that—”

“Maybe. Kinda. Sorta,” Malice replies.

“Star’s almighty.” Then comes the bigger error, a leer slanting across his mouth. “Word’s been spreading from The Dark Fates about that infamous crew getting banished, but I didn’t really believe it. Caught yourself a prized piece of trout, have you?”

This cocksucker should be careful. Call Wonder a piece of anything when she wakes up, and the goddess will filet him.

That’s assuming Malice doesn’t whittle Calamity down to a toothpick first. Although Malice treats his cult with respect, there’s a limit to what he’ll tolerate, and the sack of flesh weighing down his shoulder happens to be at the forefront.

Except Calamity is the opposite of careful. As he reaches out to paw Wonder’s cheek, a growl launches from Malice’s throat. The male hisses, his wrist suddenly trapped in Malice’s grasp, the taloned fingernails embedding into Calamity’s vital arteries.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Malice murmurs with fatal calm. “Hands. Off.”

Calamity squints. “Since when?”

Good question. But because the cult has witnessed what Malice can do with his claws, skinning anyone who gets out of line to beef jerky, the god knows better than to go near Wonder again.

Instead the god repeats, “Where were you?” “I told you the first time,” Malice rumbles while stepping over a grave. “I was playing hostage.”

“Yeah. That part came through, but it’s been months.”

“I know. I counted.”

“Oh, cut the shit and level with me. We were preparing to track you down.”

“Rookie mistake, mate. I made myself clear about that. What part of ‘back the fuck off’ didn’t you understand?”

“I repeat. That was a while ago.”

As if a handful of months is a significant amount of time to Dark Gods. But to be fair, Calamity is a doomsday sort of god. He overreacts without regular updates.

Malice had sent Calamity, Hate, and Scorn a message through The Stars soon after his imprisonment. He was fine. He’d gone on sabbatical. He didn’t want any interruptions. He’d return when he’d return. Full stop.

Given Malice would rather snack on dynamite than reveal his vault, they wouldn’t have known where to look for him anyway.

But this cult would have also torn apart the city searching for Malice once his absence inevitably got suspicious.

Then they would have attacked Wonder’s crew, having rightly assumed Malice had been taken.

One, Malice fights his own battles. Two, said battle would have cut short his manipulation time with Wonder and prevented him from abducting her.

No. He handles shit on his own terms, with his own schedule, and by his own devices.

Calamity might be slow to process, but eventually he gets the drift while glancing between Malice and Wonder.

Sometimes he works quickly, other times deception takes a while.

Getting away from the crew meant running a marathon instead of a sprint, especially if he intended to walk away with one of their own in his possession.

“Fine.” Calamity jerks his head toward Wonder. “Can you at least tell me the punch line?”

“She’s got something I want,” Malice answers when they reach an open-air colonnade. “That’s the punch line.”

“Weapons or clout?”

“Knowledge.”

The deity laughs. “Suppose that should have been my first guess.”