Page 11

11

Merry

Her motorcycle rockets into the sky, concrete disappearing beneath them. Airborne, her vision swirls. The tapestry of stars distracts her for a second, then Anger’s grip on Merry’s waist jolts her back to attention. Midair, the god heaves Merry off the bike, then she reaches behind and seizes his free wrist.

Their fingers clutch, his grip on her like steel. Limbs flailing, Merry screams, and Anger unleashes a string of obscenities. They crash inside one of the cable cars, causing it to swing on its hinges.

Her molars clatter as they slam into the compartment, the impact wrenching their hands apart. Grasping the rim, Merry bats a curtain of hair from her face and scrambles to peek over the edge.

The motorcycle soars like a raptor, then dives and crashes in an explosion of star-imbued steel. Blue shards splinter across the carnival, the cacophony ear-splitting. When it’s over, her beloved bike is nothing but a pile of glossy, metallic rubble, the sight producing a split down the center of her chest.

To her bereavement, there’s barely time to process the loss. Howls cause Merry to glance over her shoulder as Anger spins an arrow like a baton, nocks it, and fires. In rapid succession, he does this again and again. The ruling goddess buckles beside her comrade, the force of Anger’s attack snapping bones, throwing both ancients off their feet, and blowing the monarchs backward.

The court members seethe with umbrage. Bounding upright, they glower and finally evanesce, dissolving into the atmosphere like mist.

Honestly, Merry hadn’t needed the lever. On her own, she could have conjured the cars to move, but she’d been too frazzled. Likewise, The Court could have used their magic to stall the conveyor belt, however they must have prioritized their injuries.

Merry wheezes, oxygen sawing through her lungs. Anger collapses on the bench, his body siphoning as though attached to a pump. He yanks on the roots of his hair, tugging on the layers.

They’re quiet for half the trip, reckoning with the aftermath. Bulbs glint from the ferris wheel below. Sparklers mark every trail throughout the arena. Yet half of the lights have been extinguished by arrows, blanketing the atmosphere.

Dragging herself to the opposite seat, Merry hunches. Then she gasps as a pair of hands clasp her cheeks, forcing her gaze upward. Anger’s features are a mask of fury, but there’s also fear while he scours her body for injuries.

“Are you hurt?” he hisses.

“Am I hurt?” Merry balks, because as much as she adores his concern, grief and fury win out. She slaps away his hands and shoves him in the chest, ramming Anger backward, the collision pitching the car back and forth. “Why the hell didn’t you use your wings? You had multiple opportunities, including seconds ago! What were you thinking?”

Fuming, he barks while pointing at the spot from which the rulers disappeared, “Because they don’t know about the fucking wings! Because if they find out, my crew will pay a price they don’t deserve!”

Merry falls quiet. Of all deities, outcasts are well-versed in the transgressions of their world. It’s forbidden for Dark Gods to alter themselves to this degree. To forge makeshift wings implies discontent with Anger’s natural physical gifts, tantamount to insulting the makeup of deities, the essence of their conception.

Given his banishment, she had assumed The Court knew about the wings. That they’d found out during the discord with Love. That it had been another reason they expelled Anger. However, this explains why none of the tales about him mention this trait.

As for his peers, immortal crews are responsible for each other’s actions. If one member commits a crime, all of them bear the consequences. So his former circle has no idea about the wings either, which clarifies why he was adamant about Merry not saying anything from the onset. It stands to reason The Court would punish his crew for withholding this secret.

But while Anger’s motivation is understandable, this had been a life-or-death situation. Merry opens her mouth to argue the point, but he defends, “If we had plummeted before reaching the cable car, I would have snatched you and flown us out of there.”

That will have to do. With a dry sob, Merry slumps deeper into the bench. “I’m not hurt. Just in mourning.”

She can’t bear to glance once more at the detritus below. Yet even without a closer look, Merry feels the deprivation as though a ligament has been severed from her body. She will give the motorcycle a proper burial, murmur a few beloved words, and wear funeral-black for however long it takes to recover.

After a moment, a set of thumbs strokes her face. The touch urges her to peek.

Anger’s features soften, his eyes taking her measure. “I’m sorry.”

Merry sniffles, keeping the tears at bay. “Me too.”

To his credit, he doesn’t suggest the obvious. That she can simply beseech The Stars to provide a new bike. Bonds don’t work that way. No one expects it to be painless for a deity to supplant their archery, with which they’ve established an intrinsic link. For Merry and her motorcycle, it’s the same feeling.

An insensitive god might not draw this conclusion. But Anger seems to understand. What’s cherished, and then lost, isn’t easily replaced.

She seeks refuge in his gaze, comforted by the god’s hands on her skin. That is, until he realizes her attention has drifted from the bike to his touch. The instant he moves, so does she, both of them easing backward and retreating to their ends of the conveyance.

Anger’s spine hits the bench, punctuated by a groan. “What the fuck have I done?”

“You saved the day,” Merry says gently. “Or rather, the night. I can testify, since I was there.”

“That was all you. I’m no savior.”

“Actually, that was us . And I’m not looking for a savior. I’m looking for a mate.”

Tension stiffens his muscles. Anger’s expression magnetizes to hers.

Emboldened, Merry scoots closer, the caps of her knees sliding against the solid rocks of his. At the contact, a streak rushes from her inner thighs to the tight seam between her legs, and a sonic boom ruptures in her head.

It’s hypnotic, the fathomless shade of Anger’s pupils. Dark yet lambent, much like black flames. Those eyes brand themselves on her, as if aware of her desires.

For a moment, the graphite irises blaze. Then they cloud over, some manner of rationale dousing the fire, his avid features caving under a strange pressure.

Right. It’s a signal for Merry to get a hold of herself. They battled their enemies and triumphed. And while she can’t be prouder of that, there’s much to review, to speculate, to panic over.

Two members of the illustrious Fate Court had ambushed them. Again, they must have gotten wind of Merry’s plan.

But how? From whom?

Worry for the safety of every kindred in this city ravages her thoughts. But then, she hasn’t confided in her allies about the legend. Only one other soul knows her intentions, and Merry trusts that person implicitly.

There’s a slew of enigmas to figure out. For now, she and her companion need something easier.

She takes his hands in her own. “I promised to tell you the secret behind my name. It used to be Love.” Her voice shakes, but she covers it with a cheery smile. “That’s who I was. It’s the emotion I was supposed to wield. The Court rejected me as a child, sensing a tendency to prioritize romance and sentiment over practical matchmaking.”

Merry gives a brisk nod of conviction. “They’re right because I don’t want to wield love. I want to feel it, and I won’t apologize for that. I’m not interested in wallowing over a lost power I never desired or asked for. I’d rather live a hopeful, bright, thriving life. That’s why I named myself Merry.”

Anger makes no reply, yet her confession appears to seep into his pores. He stares at the weave of their fingers, her knuckles folding over his.

Is it an illusion, or did his thumb skim her wrist? The motion is barely perceptible. Yet Merry is shook, torn from her foundation at the faint brush of his digit.

He watches their hands for the longest time. Then he meets her eyes, his expression murderous. “What did they do to you? Did any of them harm you? Tell me which ones.”

Her palpitations triple. It’s horrible timing, but desire is rarely convenient. The molten streak from seconds ago intensifies, dampening the fabric of her panties.

Not now, Merry’s Pussy. Calm down and go to sleep.

Clinging to what remains of her dignity, Merry answers, “None of them ever hurt me. Not physically.”

“Emotionally is enough,” Anger grits out. “Tell me.”

“And if I answer? What will you do?”

The flash in his eyes reveals enough. “They were fucking wrong. However they injured you, they will be sorry for it.”

Her voice clots. “I’m sorry for you too.”

They haven’t told one another much, yet Anger knows as well as Merry. They have learned the impact of being shunned. That’s what his thumb indicates as it agitates her skin.

Shivers ripple down to Merry’s toes. She musters the bravado to sweep her own thumb over his, covering a millimeter of flesh before Anger reacts.

As if touching a glowing coal, the god yanks his hands away. The violent movement teeters the cable car with the force of a lightning strike, rocking the compartment.

Disappointment pricks Merry’s chest, bringing their talk in her sanctuary into stark relief. Because the first successful Goddess of Love had been in Anger’s crew, that means they grew up together, trained together, and built a history together. Anger had betrayed The Fate Court to protect Love and her soulmate, then gotten banished as a result.

“Love’s the one who hurt you,” Merry realizes. “She’s the one who stole your heart.”

Anger’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t answer.

“But I’m sure she never meant to cause you anguish,” she insists. “And I’m sure she’s grateful for what you did for her.”

“I doubt that,” Anger says. “To the latter, at least. She cannot remember anything I’ve ever felt or done. She lost her memory when she became human. All she knows is that she loves a mortal, and he loves her in return, but the recollection of how they met has been stripped.”

Merry’s hand flies to her chest. “So that part of the infamous story is true.”

“Whatever you do right now, do not get sappy.”

“There’s no need to snap at me.”

“I’m Anger,” he points out, snapping some more.

“Nice to meet you, Anger,” Merry taunts. “You know, when you get like this, your eyes remind me of volcanic glass. Like obsidian.”

“And yours remind me of pink glitter.”

“Glitter can stick to things, especially if mishandled.”

“I guess that would be a problem.” He raises an eyebrow. “If I were clumsy with my possessions.”

Her heart skips a beat. “Unless the shimmer compromises your vision. Of course, we’d have to test this theory, see how you handle something that only appears harmless.”

Anger’s tattooed forearms hang over the planks of his thighs. “Is that a threat?”

Merry pretends to consider it. “I’ve always wanted to experience a moment of romantic tension with a god, a pivotal interlude in which I rebuff him. But it can be an actual threat, if you think it’ll increase the suspense. How very stimulating that would be.”

“Go ahead and tease like a goddess.”

“Go ahead and take it like a god.”

Anger mutters an oath. “What the fuck am I doing? I’m no good at this.”

“You know what I think?” Merry proposes. “You’re not here to reclaim your original strength. You’re here to find a better strength, the one you’re truly destined for.” Blood rushes to her cheeks. “Maybe to find someone who will love you back.”

“You are a cursed optimist, Merry.”

But she detects a thread of fondness in his voice, which makes her woozy. “How I love hearing you say my name.”

Like a snipped cord, Anger flinches. “You want me that much.”

“I want you more than much .”

Yet after a prolonged pause, the god murmurs, “You shouldn’t.”

Because empathy weighs down his features, he doesn’t need to say more. She shouldn’t yearn for him because it’s a lost cause. Because her passion won’t be reciprocated. Because he doesn’t feel the same. Because he yearns for someone else.

Pain lances through Merry. “Oh,” she stammers, digging up another grin from the wreckage that is her soul. “Oh, of course. Of course, I understand.” She stands, raising her index finger. “I’m just… I’m going to go contemplate precisely how to bear this hardship. I’ll be right back.”

Anger’s voice gentles. “We’re in a cable car.”

She sits back down. “I can wait.”

Dangling one hundred feet in the air, which is one hundred feet closer to The Stars, it’s all she can do not to deflate. His rejection plays a line of keys across her chest, a baleful organ resounding in the halls of her body. Later, she’ll choose a suitable record and wallow.

That aside, Merry may be a thwarted heroine, but she’s a dignified one. Eventually, she’ll move on. It’s a skill plenty of outcasts have learned to perfect.

The sun rises, spraying rose gold across the city. The cable car glides along the wire, then descends and tucks into the oaks, bringing them to earth.

“Well then.” Merry smacks her thighs. “We should clean up our mess.”

Shoring herself up, she stands to exit the conveyance.

Anger’s fingers land on the door, blocking her retreat, his shadow looming beside Merry. “Are you… How do you feel?”

She consults the inner workings of her heart. “This is a scar that shall last for an age.” Then she squares her shoulders, because she must. “I’m awash in melancholy, but I’ll persevere.”

When she glances his way, Anger’s brows furrow, a myriad of conflicting reactions cluttering his features. He’d been anticipating her demise. Indeed, he must have assumed Merry’s spirit would shatter, his answering frown the product of concern and guilt.

Well. Everyone may call Merry romantic. But let no one call her brittle.

To ease his conscience and restore her pride, she musters a bright smile. “Don’t worry, Anger. You didn’t break me.”