Page 23

A turmoiled sensation ripples across her lips. If Wonder drinks, she might taste him instead of the flavors, quenching her thirst in a wholly indecent way.

Repugnant devil. Grinding her molars, Wonder dumps both on the table.

They start in the restricted section, situated in the lowest level. It’s the only area not granted an official name among all other branches, as if the contents don’t warrant such acknowledgement.

Curved walls surround them, reminiscent of a foyer. At the center, a metallic stargazer telescope points toward a painted mural of bookcases. Other than that, the wall bears no doors or grooves.

This branch doesn’t open by conventional means. The stargazer is its key, providing two methods of entry. The first option involves rotating the lens just so, a maneuver that cannot be mastered by anyone but The Fate Court and The Archives residents.

The second option is to break celestial law. That’s how Wonder—and evidently Malice, during his own rebellious sojourns—used to trespass inside.

Rifling through his pocket, Malice retrieves the phial of Asterra Flora and pours a drop onto the lens, causing it to circuit like a kaleidoscope. The mural shimmers, coming to animated life and thinning into a sheer screen of stars.

They cross through the veil. Lanterns highlight motes floating in the air, the specks gleaming. Elated, Wonder inhales the fragrance of ancient ink wafting from a million books.

She and Malice step tentatively. They wander in different directions, slipping around the bends and strolling along the lustrous stacks.

These are the aisles of the forbidden, of the taboo, of the elusive.

This is a cellar of secrets, many stored by the various Fate Courts over the ages, others tucked here by The Stars, secured for visitors destined to find them.

Wonder reacquaints herself with this place, running her digits over the titles and privately reciting instructions. Feel the pulse of each shelf. Bask in the incandescence of every tome. Respect their darkness and seek their light.

Wonder pulls away from a leather spine, shimmering granules clinging to the pads of her fingers. She blows on the flakes and grins, soot bursting into a pixie dust cloud, beyond which Malice appears. As the nebula floats to the ground, they study one another, combativeness itching her flesh.

Malice juts his head toward the volumes. “Shall we get to it?”

She squares her shoulders. “We shall.”

During this month of worship, they have free reign.

True, it’s not foolproof. Wonder’s Guide might resist the possibility that she’d been hallucinating in the forest. In that case, Harmony will insist upon an inspection of the woods and its vicinity.

If she or any other unexpected presence dismisses tradition and comes sniffing here, Wonder and Malice must flee.

Fortunately, she’ll know with enough leeway when they’re no longer alone.

For she has memorized the rattle of every doorknob, the creak of every piece of joinery, the compression of carpet beneath a deity’s stride, the resonant echoes of movement in the halls.

To Malice’s credit, he has trained himself in the same warning signs. Keeping faith in this skill is their only choice.

And so it begins. Drafting a contingency plan comes more seamlessly than she had foreseen, compared to when they broke into The Archives. It strikes Wonder how painless collaborating with Malice turns out to be.

By the time they have methods of defense in place, they move on to investigation. And that’s where things go downhill. Both of them face each other on opposing ends of a long table, their palms flat on the surface.

“Tell me what you’re searching for, and I’ll tell you if I’m going to cooperate,” Wonder states.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready, and you will cooperate,” he drawls.

“In other words, you expect me to research while wearing a blindfold.”

“What’s wrong with that? Blindfolds are fun for many scandalous acts. In any case, if I can’t figure shit out on my own, you’re the backup. Isn’t that same reason you need me? As a last resort? You’re relying on my ingenuity, in case you can’t—gasp!—find the victorious answers all by yourself.”

Asshole. The prospect is a sucker punch to the ego, but fine. They’ll enlist one another’s help if the circumstance arises. Wonder is in no rush to assist him anyway.

Until then, they research separately, bickering over who gets priority over which sector.

The greatest territorial cat fights circulate around branches containing mythical folktales, the topography of The Dark Fates—provided there’s a line, crater, or uncharted portal of entry connecting their homeland to the mortal realm—the history of exiles, and notable case studies, incidents in which The Stars have defied logic.

She and Malice toss trivia at one another to see who’s more deserving of each location.

They fire bullet points as if these areas are exclusive, up for auction to the highest bidder.

“How can you spot a tall fable, from a plagiarized fable, from an authentic fable?” he grills.

“Which ledgers give the most accurate data about weather patterns?” she retorts.

“Which millennium saw the most outcasts?”

“Between illuminated manuscripts or scrolls, which type of narrative chronicles the most accessible lunar phenomena?”

“What’s the most complicated immortal sex position in existence?”

Wonder digs her nails into the table. She will not engage, despite his astute perception. The unproductive bastard is just trying to get a rise out of her.

His lips tilt. “I gather, you’ve read the answer.”

“The question is immaterial,” she clips. “We’re not here for lessons on promiscuity.”

“One, that depends on how deeply our research goes,” he replies, the innuendo not lost on her. “Two, who said anything about promiscuity? It takes only two people to fuck. And when it comes to abducted goddesses, I don’t share.”

Because every study surface has one, Wonder retrieves an inkwell and flings it across the table, splattering Malice’s countenance and clothing with blue liquid. “Fuck!” he growls, jerking back.

Crossing her arms, Wonder gloats, “Sorry.”

And she truly is sorry when the demon’s glare morphs into a sneer, his stained lips curving upward. At which point, he reaches behind and divests himself of the stained shirt, whipcord muscles contorting like boulders.

Toned biceps. Broad pectorals. Firm nipples.

More abs than a titan. A slim trail of hair sneaking into his waistband.

Wiping his face and then flipping the soiled garment over one shoulder, Malice resumes his position. “You were saying?”

Her blood races, a transgression Wonder suppresses an instant later. “What is the oldest legend in existence?”

Score. Malice’s expression flickers, the cogs in his head turning to no avail, those pompous features scrunching into a glare. He’s not going to admit he doesn’t know.

Nor does he have to. Wonder beams with counterfeit sweetness. To answer correctly, he would have needed to discover the legend that united Love and Andrew. But if there’s one thing Malice has never sought, it’s the mystery of that emotion.

When they finally come up for air, they split up. But that’s not all. The demon mocks her color-coded notation system, a process she relies upon lest her mind stray.

In contrast, Malice’s approach involves organized chaos. Rather than pen notes on actual paper, he uses the casket that is his brain, stocking the cache there.

They’re defensive about these practices, defending them with tenacity. Neither wins the round, though neither calls it quits.

The following nights pass in the same erudite manner.

They charge through the complex, rushing down the lanes in a race to see who can do their research faster and come out with the most promising texts for their respective goals.

One time, they power walk down parallel aisles, casting each other glances and then increase their speed while hunting for particular books.

To their astonishment, they end up in the same spot, skidding in front of the same shelf.

Their hands reach for the same volume. When their hands collide, Wonder’s flesh stings like firecrackers. At the same time, Malice yanks his fingers back, knuckles bending as if they have a crick.

Then he swings his arm and gestures to the title. “Wildflowers first.”

As if he’s doing her a favor, throwing her a bone, handing her the victory. But while they may have been looking for the same book, they weren’t looking for the same chapter. Not even the same page, a fact that consoles Wonder’s pride.

On another occasion, Malice annotates her color-coded astronomy notes, writing naughty double entendres into the margins about the Big Dipper, the Milky Way, and black holes.

Later that night, she swaps the analytical texts he scrupulously collected, exchanging them for economy ledgers, since he finds them “boring as fuck.”

Apparently, they’re not above sabotaging one another.

It doesn’t escape Wonder that such petulance negates the trouble and risk they’ve gone through to get here.

Shame washes over her, that she’s lowered herself to this level.

Using this place as a tool to belittle her enemy is disrespectful to The Archives and demeaning to her purpose.

And now she knows what rivalry feels like.

***

And dammit, she cannot find anything remotely helpful for the campaign over free will.

Presently, Wonder slams a book shut and flops backward in her chair, positioned at the head of a study table in the restricted stacks.

Although upholstered, the rigid seat creaks with her motions.

She has set up camp in the Celestial Philosophy region, away from where Malice prowls the Umbra History branch.

The heap of books on the desk mocks her, inadequacy causing her head to ache.

Wonder misses her corsage. Always, it has been her lucky charm.

The chair skids back as Wonder rises. He’s far out of range, lost in his own task. Therefore, she will be quick.

Hiking the tower to his dorm, Wonder glances for the hundredth time over her shoulder and slips through the door.

The atmosphere’s decor mirrors her own, except it smells of Malice, of leather and vellum.

To her surprise, the demon is a tidy soul.

His circular bed is made, the room devoid of clutter, barring the archery leaning against a curved constellation wall.

Wonder hunts through the interior. The wardrobe, embedded concave bookcases, and desk drawers yield nothing of consequence, apart from extra leaflets and castoff books. Because he doesn’t jot down his notes, there’s nothing to memorize, no hint of his undisclosed intentions.

Nor is there a sign of the blossoms. As a last resort, Wonder kneels before his quiver and picks through the arrows.

Then she halts, her fingers stalling against the smooth texture of paper.

At some point, Malice had transferred the letters from his jacket to the archery, a precaution in case Wonder attempted to confiscate them as pawns.

A perceptive move since retrieving the missives had also been on her list of to-dos upon entering this room.

The envelopes rest among the weapons. Pressed together, yellowed with age, folded carefully. And legible.

Here in The Dark Fates, she’ll finally be able to read the contents. However wrong it is to intrude, they share a tumultuous past, and that past had consisted of letters like these. Or if Wonder’s theory is off the mark, the leaflets still might contain information necessary to her crew.

Her fingers shake as she lifts one of the envelopes and tugs on the flap. Swallowing, she withdraws the paper and unfolds it.

Immediately, Wonder wishes she hadn’t. Her heart seizes as a flurry of words materialize. Careless, heedless declarations penned in his script, recognizable from the episodes in which Malice had vandalized her own notes just to spite her.

Yes, it’s his handwriting. But it’s not his prose.

It’s hers.

These are her words from another millennium, from another place. These are the endearments she once wrote to that mortal.

To Malice. Because he is that human. That’s no longer a surprise.

The surprise is this: He remembers her.

In some way, the demon god remembers her, which explains why these missives resemble the ones from their history.

He must have conjured them to look this way, cloning the letters and then transcribing the contents by channeling his nightmares.

It’s the only feasibility, seeing as the originals no longer exist.

Is this why he’s here? To unearth answers about his past life? How much of that time does he recall?

Wonder resists the temptation to dig in and learn more. She tucks the paper into her bodice, then fumbles to place the empty envelope back in the quiver. The vessel sits in her lap, with her guilty palm suspended over his collection.

“Hmm,” a voice creeps in from behind. “Dangerous mistake, Wildflower.”