Page 13

13

Anger

The snoring snaps Anger out of it. He’s been festering in silence for the past three minutes, which is apparently how little time it has taken for Merry to fall asleep.

She rests with her mouth open, lips emitting tiny puffs of noise. Christ, it’s the perkiest snore he’s ever heard. Pigmented hair slumps over her dark brows, and her hands curl into fists under her chin.

All right. It’s somewhat cute. In a greeting card type of way.

Anger grunts. Fine. It’s more than cute.

Although the image of Merry at peace eases the tightness in his muscles, this sort of repose is fleeting. He doesn’t plan on getting acquainted with it, because getting used to things makes it harder to let them go later.

An unconscious moan curls from Merry’s throat, the sound pure but its effect nothing of the fucking sort. Blood swirls to Anger’s groin. As if the universe is testing him, the blanket slips from around Merry’s waist, landing in a puddle of cashmere on the floor.

Whatever. She doesn’t need the comfort anyway.

But then she commits another felony by drawing her knees to her stomach, the movement ushering the skirt ever higher, layers of fabric exposing a pair of toned thighs. Those long limbs would contrast starkly with his olive skin while wrapped around—

Anger launches to his feet. He takes a step to the roof’s edge, then stops and hisses, “Motherfuck.”

Twisting, he stalks back to Merry, picks up the blanket, and drapes it over her form. He makes sure to tuck the material thoroughly, swaddling the goddess from toes to shoulders, the contact sending a buzz of electricity through his fingers.

This is a practical move, nothing more. She hardly requires warmth, since their kind is impervious to temperature—with one notable exception. At any rate, it will give her something to hold onto while sleeping.

Anger collects his longbow and quiver from the basket. All day, he wanders the roofs of every building in this sector, as he’d been doing before meeting his doom in the form of a popsicle-haired goddess. It’s easier to stew from this elevation, to stand closer to the sun, to delude himself into feeling indifferent and imperial.

Up here, he can scream without worrying about being overheard by other outcasts. He can tear shit to shreds and hurl those objects across several summits. He can dent pipes and startle the owls roosting nearby. Indeed, the God of Anger is free to throw an extravagant temper tantrum.

One parapet six stories high houses an herb garden as well as a telescope. There, he nocks and aims his weapon at the congestion of mortals below, an unbroken flux of insects crossing paths. They’re running on fumes, on stress, on automatic. Failing to make their physical and mental wellbeing a priority, these inferiors go about their daily existence without adequate nourishment or a sense of where they’re truly headed. Some of them have their faces plastered to phones, one pothole away from tripping and breaking a crucial bone.

Or from smashing into another person. The collision might cause strangers to glare at one another—or to fall in love. It hinges on the couple and which deity is present to steer the outcome.

Anger or Love.

But Love doesn’t exist anymore. Not until she’s replaced.

And Anger doesn’t exist anymore. Not until he’s replaced.

He misses the art of targeting, misses righting the wrongs in humanity, misses being essential. Still, he lowers his weapon. If he fires, it will accomplish nothing but injuries or death. These arrows don’t stir emotions any longer. These days, they’re only capable of blowing people off their feet, if not to pieces.

That’s the thing about the arrows. The magic is highly complex and not always in a deity’s favor.

As with The Stars. They can be allies or not.

At present, The Dark Gods are likely scrambling to recoup their losses, striving to recreate Love and Anger’s successors. Although the plot to salvage his identity will spare The Court such trouble, it will also render Anger immune to retribution, a goal that might backfire given the rulers’ invasion tonight.

Under normal circumstances, locating Anger shouldn’t have been difficult. That he would watch over Love is predictable. That he would venture to The Celestial City is also foreseeable. Which is why he’d kept a low profile in Evershire, never making his presence known to a single Dark God. Accustomed to keeping secrets, Anger had avoided detection so well, even his crew had second guessed his whereabouts.

With his long-term agenda in mind—reclaiming what he lost and restoring Love’s memory—it would have been foolish to make himself conspicuous. All this time, Anger has managed to evade The Court’s notice.

Until now.

His belated arrival in this metropolis should have spared him such a headache. After departing Evershire, he detoured through the mortal realm, biding his time and waiting long enough prior to questing here. Thus, The Court should have ruled out this location.

This, assuming he gave them reason to monitor his actions in the first place. Anger had been quiet up to this point, so there’s only one motivation for his rulers to attack. This must have to do with the legend and his mission to break an unsuspecting deity’s heart. But how they found out is another crucial matter.

From this distance, the cable cars hover over the carnival arena. Someplace below is the carousel where Merry had straddled the Libra scales, asked him too many questions, and shared too many intimacies.

To say nothing of the illicit acts he had wanted to commit while avoiding the sight of Merry’s legs clinging to her mount. Several times, he’d been one growl away from snatching her off that cursed seat and dropping her onto his lap.

Merciless Stars. He needs to purge himself with another deity before this craving gets out of hand.

Along the streets, tires break and burn rubber. A mortal hollers, and another shouts. There’s a faint echo of footfalls, but it’s not coming from down there.

Anger tenses, his muscles locking. With the longbow still clamped in his grip, he slides his fingers over the arrow.

Before he can pivot and fire, a set of palms slaps his back. “Don’t fall!”

The world spins. Anger vaults forward, teeters over the parapet, then rights himself. In a flash, he spins. His arrow points at Malice’s substantial chest while the demon god doubles over and breaks into a raucous laugh. His hands clap in hysteria, fingernails newly filed.

How the fuck can he wield a bow with those pincers?

Anger bares his teeth. “You cocksucker.”

Malice straightens. He flings back his head and hoots to the sky, then gives Anger a sidelong glance. “Ah, mate. Your senses require a tune-up. With the hissy fit you were about to throw, there’s no way you heard me coming—”

Anger flies across the roof and slams Malice into a brick wall, his forearm digging into the shithead’s larynx before he can finish gloating. “Did you sense that coming?” he seethes.

Pinned like an insect, Malice cackles. He flashes honed canines, then launches into movement.

The sky rotates. In an instant, Anger’s flat on his ass with the strapping deity leaning over him. “Apologies, mate,” Malice drawls, his blond hair glinting like a fake halo.

Anger launches. He capsizes Malice, mashing the god’s frame into a patch of herbs and crushing a few biennials, several feet of concrete splitting from the impact.

Unfortunately, a rage god knows wasting fury is unproductive. After a pause, Anger rises. Offering his hand, he helps Malice up, calling a silent draw.

The demon smacks clumps of soil from his jeans, then harnesses the black poplar longbow he must have set aside before sneaking up on Anger. Hitching the weapon to his back, Malice gives Anger a once-over and whistles. “You’re wound up. Too bad our skirmish didn’t help release the tension, since I’m not about to fuck it out of you. I draw the line at being a whore. Usually.”

“Spit it out,” Anger grates. “Either you’re bored, or you heard what happened.”

“Even better. I watched it happen, albeit from a distance. Though if we’re going into details, I made it happen.”

Heat scalds Anger’s tattoos, prompting him to aim the bow again. “What trick are you playing?”

“Fuck off with that.” Malice bats the arrow out of his way. “It’s called tactics. I used The Stars to send a message to our illustrious five. For what purpose, you ask? Think about it.”

“Trust me.” Anger maneuvers the tip of his weapon toward Malice’s cock. “I don’t have to think about it.”

“I might have improvised, made Merry seem a little…” Malice wiggles his taloned digits, “…mutinous. On that score, someone—who may, or may not, have been me—told The Fate Court she’s planning to recruit allied outcasts, find a way to breach the veil and reenter our homeland, and enact a revolution on behalf of free will. Rather anarchistic and sacrificial of her, but it’s not far from the truth. She has a fixation with the topic, unless you haven’t noticed.”

Anger has noticed. He recalls their quarrel before the attack, how passionately Merry had spoken about humanity’s right to choose its destiny. As for why outcasts would insert themselves into this conflict, Merry had also chopped through those misgivings. Subsisting among humans without manipulating them offers a different impression. A solid viewpoint Anger hadn’t considered prior to meeting her.

Notwithstanding, she would indeed have to somehow breach the veil on a widespread scale. At least, to face the opposition on their turf. But if such an inconceivable revolt prevails, reinstatement in their realm would be a bonus for exiles. No one enjoys being ostracized.

Because Malice gets off on hearing himself talk, he continues bragging. “Why do you think the goddess was trespassing on my turf? Everyone on her side of the city admires Merry and wants to unite. For context, most of those rookies committed meager infractions or got banished for nothing more than failing to live up to The Court’s pristine standards.

“As for my territory of black sheep, there are a select few who fall into the same ‘unfairly condemned’ category. But what we all have in common is a unique perspective about humans compared to the non-banished, plus a general desire to stick it to our rulers. Up until recently, the empathetic, freewheeling goddess was pursuing the handful of virtuous followers left in my sector, hoping to mobilize them to the cause.”

Malice shrugs. “Pretty rude, if you ask me. Though, her endgame is less violent than I made it seem to The Court. She wants to conduct a peaceful campaign within the city or some shit. Whereas I made her plot sound a tad bloodier and invasive, which was stupidly easy to achieve since our rulers make zero effort to learn a damn thing about any of us.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “And why would I give our rulers that privileged information? And why would they believe me? Because I’m a natural charmer, and because tipping off The Court about anything hazardous makes you and me look credible. It gives us brownie points, which throws them off our scent. Think of it as a safety net. The less they know about our treasonous plans, the better. They’ll focus on Merry.”

Days ago, this wouldn’t have provoked Anger’s lethal side, wouldn’t have tempted him to commit acts of carnage on his sovereigns. Yet it does now. Even more so than it had when they targeted Love during the forest battle in Evershire.

It also shouldn’t be a consolation to point out, “Merry wasn’t the only one who fought back. I allied with her, which negates your whole scheme.”

“On the contrary,” Malice says. “The Court might have assumed you became her ally, if you didn’t have a history of dedication to your homeland. Besides that, I might have implied she’s bewitched you. ‘The God of Anger is so starved for attention that he went slumming. He’s strung out for a decent fuck and has no idea what Merry’s planning, no clue she’s using him for pleasure, maybe even stringing him along in case she gets caught and needs a scapegoat. Poor sod,’” Malice quotes. “Banishment has made you vulnerable, desperate, and easy pickings. After millennia of leading our world’s most prominent crew, The Court comprehends the impact this downfall must have on you. Am I right? I like being right. By the way, be a nice bloke and angle your spirit weapon away from my dick. I’m excessively fond of the troublemaker.”

Anger does nothing of the sort. Malice has designed a mind game. He’s concocted propaganda, convincing The Court that Merry means their people destructive harm.

Then again, if she’s planning a peaceful revolution—not the violent one Malice has contrived—why hasn’t she divulged these plans to Anger?

Right. Stupid question. Merry wants him, but that doesn’t mean she’s about to trust Anger with this intelligence. Not when he worked so closely with The Court until recently.

In any case, the events concerning Love and Andrew have triggered The Court’s vigilance, increasing it tenfold. Thus, the penalty for instigating anything riotous has become deadlier.

In the carnival arena, Merry had advocated for free will. Who’s to say The Court wasn’t already there, witnessing the quarrel? Naturally, they would assess the situation, to confirm Malice’s tip before charging.

If so, they also heard Anger’s inflamed objections. That would have proven Merry radical and Anger guiltless, the latter of which would have incited the ambush.

Well. Let them believe what they saw. The plot has been set into motion, past the point of no return.

Another problem sets his teeth on edge. “You took an extreme gamble.”

Malice waves that off. “A necessary move. The Court doesn’t suspect us, they’re preoccupied with Merry, and she’ll trust you implicitly after tonight. I keep tabs on mine. Besides, you were doing a shit job wooing her at the carnival. Good looks aside, your attitude and choice of words has a tendency to ruin things. You needed a wing man.”

“Never make assumptions when I’m two seconds from impaling you.”

“Oh? But why not three seconds?”

“Because regardless of tonight’s outcome,” Anger growls, “you’ve placed Merry’s life at an increased risk.” But since that sounds too protective on its own, he amends with a logical statement to better convince Malice. “That, more than anything, threatens this mission’s success. For this legend to work, she has to be alive. For her heart to break, it must be capable of actually beating.”

“Ah, that’s true. I never said I was a genius. And I forgot how much you value life.” Malice taps his chin as if calculating the solution to an equation. “So I guess you’ll have to work faster and speed things up. And I guess you’ll have to keep protecting her. When the time is right, you can always tell The Court how you came to your senses and turned the deceptive tables by fucking Merry three ways to Sunday, like a fraudulent male slut. And while making her fragile cunt ripple—”

“Say another crude word about her, and this arrow will castrate your tongue.”

“But I like my tongue,” Malice fake-pouts. “Anyway. While railing Merry, you talked her out of this mercenary, sacrificial plot. I’m betting she’s impressionable when moaning off-key. Problem solved. You see? First rule of manipulation: The simplest answer is always the most believable.”

If this is what Malice considers simple, Anger cannot fathom what a complicated plan would look like. His brainstorming notes alone would resemble a conspiracy theory blackboard.

The god spreads his arms and offers a smile that’s downright certifiable. “What do you think? Would I make a killing as a chess player? I like to think so.”

Anger maintains a deadpan expression. “You would make a killing at killing.”

“Been there. Done that.”

Indeed. That is not hard to imagine.

This hellbent god is cunning. So cunning that whenever he opens his trap, every sentence ends with an audible ellipsis. Despite how much he imparts, far more is omitted, left to interpretation.

Anger lowers the bow, windmills the arrow, and jams it into the quiver. He stalks up to Malice, halting when his breath punches against the fucker’s miserable face. “Leave Merry to me, or your dick will end up affixed to my wall.”

“Like a trophy?” Malice taunts. “Now that you mention it, my dick is a coveted specimen. But really, you should go for my brain. Need I say why?”

“I wasn’t done,” Anger rumbles. “Stay away from Merry, or not only will you be singing soprano, but I’ll peel the flesh from your bones until you’re begging to be put out of your misery.”

Malice tilts his head, the patina of unruly waves slanting, and a murky shade darkens his eyes. “For Christ’s sake. Tell me you’re not about to get all clitor-whipped over a goddess.”

“I don’t make the same mistake twice… What now?” Anger demands as Malice begins foraging among the herb garden. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for your balls. Seems you’ve misplaced them.”

Anger closes the distance. Malice goes flying into a bed of rosemary, the impact eviscerating crops and pulverizing the plot’s brick border.

Masonry crumbles. The ground shudders as if a bulldozer has plowed through it.

The diabolical god climbs to his feet. Chuckling, he adjusts his clothing and retrieves his archery, which has skidded across the roof.

Spitting out blood, Malice waves an arrow shaft lazily in Anger’s direction. “Careful, mate. Number one, try not to cramp my nitty-gritty style with your piss-poor timing. Confessing about Love on the cable car? I know you were trying to break Merry quickly, but you have to earn her heart first. Number two, it’s fine to bend her over and sample that pretty little hole if you need a release, but don’t prove me right by going lame. As it is, the world’s overpopulated with enough pussies who’ve been whipped by more pussies.”

Anger snarls, “Someday when I’m finished whittling you down to a skeleton, I’ll bury what’s left of your carcass in Hell.”

“It’s cliched threat after cliched threat with you, isn’t it? By the way, you might want to buy yourself a dictionary. Technically, a skeleton isn’t a carcass. But now that you mention it, I could use a vacation to the afterlife when this is over. I’ve heard the weather’s fantastic in Hell, not to mention the sexual amenities. No one fucks in Heaven anyway. I guarantee it.”

Never mind. This demon god is too far gone. Moreover, he doesn’t merit a warning, should Anger act on the temptation to skewer him.

As for Merry, Anger might have experienced jolts of desire several times in her company, but he’s not a degenerate. He will break the female’s heart without manipulating her into his bed.

Yet is any of this worth it?

He recalls a time when his bow still radiated magic, when he had a home and a purpose. He thinks of his demoted crew, the ridicule they’re facing, a feat that can be reversed if Anger succeeds.

Lastly, he dwells on one special occasion. It took place beside a frozen lake, where a goddess’s lips had brushed his.

His mouth prickles, remembering Love’s goodbye kiss. He replays the second when she lost the final remnants of her memory, when Anger became no more than a blot in her mind. That instant when she glanced in his direction but didn’t see him standing in the forest, unaware he had ever existed.