Page 15

Wonder

Destiny knows best of all. What goes around, comes around.

With their roles now reversed, Wonder stiffens against the chains while he reclines like a spoiled brat who’s finally gotten his way, bruises from when the crew beat him already healing.

From across the lawn, his eyes glitter in her direction, a shower of ashes floating in those irises, akin to some form of dark alchemy.

Perhaps the supernatural basis of his existence can be attributed to such a source.

If not simple bad luck or a cruel twist of fate.

Either he was created by accident, at the hands of a curious deity who dabbled in uncharted magic, or The Stars have a perverse sense of humor.

Because how else to explain the inexplicable?

Screams carve through their trance. The god beside Malice is hunched over, obscenities flying out of his mouth, blood spritzing from his countenance. Around the chairs, bottle shards litter the ground, creating a puddle of sparkling glass.

Wonder gasps around the gag. Horrified, she watches the gory scene, the deity’s face leaking crimson as several members of the cult guide him inside the structure, likely to administer bandages.

The rest cast her glances that vary from pensive to accusatory.

They blame Wonder for influencing Malice’s behavior, which must be a joke.

She has no hold over their daddy’s actions, and if they have any relationship of substance with the demon, they should be cognizant of how unimpressionable he is.

As the night proceeds, voices and silhouettes filter around them. Gods and goddesses approach their leader, fawning and competing for his attention, many of them plying him with inquiries. Based on their furtive glimpses, they’re asking about her.

Quartz archery aside, these deities know who she is. That none of them approaches her may be out of self-preservation. But while she’d woken up with only minutes to spare, Wonder had faked her unconsciousness for long enough to comprehend Malice’s order of “Hands. Off.”

Presently, his unwavering gaze blunts Wonder’s senses. His indolent posture suits the gravestones arranged in the backdrop, as if he truly is the Lord of the Underworld and has forgotten to mention this pertinent fact.

That cunning stare burdens her with restlessness. The demon god’s unspoken message rings clearly, everything Wonder needs to know scripted across his face, as detailed as an annotated page.

Your move, Wildflower.

Wonder’s teeth clench around the gag, the pomegranate’s immobilizing flavor having dissipated at last. This is how he once kidnapped Love.

Animosity ferments in Wonder’s stomach. Umbrage is a close second, producing a bitter taste on her tongue.

They’re still headed to The Archives. Of that, she’s certain. But while Wonder disdains Malice for this turn of events, she’s madder at herself for letting it come to pass. For not having forecasted this scenario.

Her move.

The manacles are stardusted, therefore evanescing is out of the question.

As for summoning the crew, Malice can’t prevent that.

But this might be part of the demon’s plan.

He’s got his sights on the remaining letter, and the more desperate he becomes, the more people he’ll harm.

If this god is willing to take such lengths, it’s vital to keep him from getting what he wants.

The envelope skims Wonder’s inner thigh. It’s only a matter of time before he expands the search and dips his fingers beneath her skirt.

Prying herself from Malice’s shrewd gaze, Wonder surveys the environment.

Her eyes creep across the headstones, the looming spires and buttresses, and the gargoyles perched along the building’s gutters.

Like most of this city, an ancient patina coats the edifice, and star motifs ornament the corbels.

It’s a celestial cathedral. In the mortal realm, their functions range from zodiac worship to constellation prayer. Everyone in this realm maintains diverse beliefs about what The Stars represent and the purposes they serve.

“Sacrifices,” a voice murmurs. “They used to offer themselves to the moon here.”

Wonder’s head swerves toward the shadowed phantom. Malice squats in front of her, resuming his earlier position, this time spinning one of her arrows between his fingers. Those eyes slide from the small cuts he’d made on her arm to her face.

The weapon’s rotation stops. “Planning to spit on me again?”

Only if she maneuvers him near enough. Otherwise, getting Malice to continue talking means getting him distracted. Because he’ll see through sudden compliance, Wonder makes a show of hesitating, then she nods.

Malice jabs the arrow into the gag, as if he’s poking a marshmallow with a stick.

The wad pops from her lips when he pulls back, and she tactfully remains silent as her abductor embarks on a dissertation.

“Humans thought it would change their family’s luck if they got naked, got fucked, and then got slaughtered under a full moon.

Even more so if it was during an eclipse.

Apparently, you had to be filthy rich on those rare dates.

Only the upper classes could buy those coveted appointments.

” Malice skims the edge of her arrowhead across his lower lip.

“Then again, blood is the same color no matter how deep your pockets are. And sometimes luck never changes.”

Although the cathedral’s gruesome history piques her interest, Wonder doesn’t have time to investigate. Relief soothes her aching jaw as she huffs, “If you wish to be pedantic, find one of your cultish lapdogs to humor you.”

“If you want to pretend you know everything, tell me what I don’t know about this cathedral,” Malice volleys.

Her back straightens. She evaluates the intricate graves, assesses the lore, and makes an educated hypothesis. “The graves aren’t for the sacrificed. They’re for the loved ones those sacrifices left behind.”

Malice’s eyebrows snap together. His disgruntled expression appears at odds with the flicker of pride in his pupils.

“Am I right?” Wonder impersonates, deepening her register. “I like being right.”

Those brows pinch harder. “I don’t fucking sound like that.” But while she gloats openly, he jerks his chin to the deities gathered in clusters across the lawn. “And they’re not my lapdogs.”

The defensive tone strikes her. As does the fact that fewer shackles confine Wonder, compared to what Malice tolerated in the vault.

Make him talk. Get him closer.

Yet by trailing his gaze and observing the outcasts, she’s not entirely falsifying her curiosity. “Who are they?”

Malice gestures to each figure with her arrow.

“Calamity was banished for ‘excessive negativity.’ Scorn’s aim was mediocre by perfectionist standards.

And fine, Hate was a little too eager to target his crewmates.

” Firelight from a nearby torch sketches the sharp angles of Malice’s profile.

“Some were arsonists or abusers of power, but most of them? They just weren’t good enough.

” He swings his gaze to her. “Take your pick of specifics.”

Strength. Agility. Reflexes. Aim.

Beauty. Decorum. Obedience.

Those, among many other prerequisites. Wonder can only imagine how picky their rulers have been, how indifferently they have cast aside exiles without giving them a fair chance. Merry is yet another example of that.

“Then we failed them,” she whispers, only to find Malice studying her as if he hadn’t anticipated that conclusion, the intensity of his gaze causing her to shift. “So why you?”

This god has been vocal about trespassing into The Archives, if not the motivation behind it. That is not what she’s asking.

Why do these outcasts follow him?

Deliberating, Malice taps the arrowhead against his wrist. “I don’t require them to be something they’re not.”

It’s a good answer. And an unsettling one.

She fails to detect anything self-congratulatory or self-important in his tone. Malice behaves as arrogantly as the next deity, but he isn’t their leader purely to give himself an ego boost.

No, it’s something else. He’s fostering his community, similar to a mortal she once knew. Although he doesn’t want to publicize this, the demon gives these castaways a newfound sense of belonging.

The mausoleum’s height blankets Wonder and Malice in darkness. It gives the impression that anything spoken here will remain in these confines.

The words slip out of Wonder like an accident. “You care about them.”

Malice’s head snaps toward hers. Now it’s his turn to look uncomfortable. “Sometimes.”

Yes. Sometimes.

Until they overstep. Then he attacks, such as taking apart a deity’s face with a glass bottle or whatever other heinous acts he’s committed.

Anger had once described his first encounter with Malice, when the demon had slain another outcast and then presented the corpse like a gold medal to his audience.

One second, he’s uniting these exiles. Next, he’s spilling their blood.

Like two different souls fighting for territory. All while living inside a single body.

Wonder shakes off that notion, the next demand shooting faster than a bullet from her lips. “Where is the Asterra Flora?”

The cease-fire ends. Malice feigns ignorance. “What Asterra Flora?”

“Do not start.”

“I take it, that’s passive-aggressive code for ‘When the fuck are we leaving?’”

“Omit the ‘passive’ part and you’ll be right.” But Wonder trails off, fury stalling her words as the demon glides a hand down that taut abdomen.

His fingers disappear beneath the front waistband of his pants, then withdraws a phial of glistening liquid. “Oh! You mean this Asterra Flora?”

“This whole time,” she sputters. “This whole time, you had it tucked with your… with your…”

“It’s called a cock,” he supplies. “That provides the perfect hiding spot, since it’s the only location nobody’s keen to explore.”