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Anger

Once everyone deposits their weaponry, Merry ushers her guests to a ring of lounge chairs. One of which Envy drapes himself across like a pampered tiger. Another of which Sorrow rests upon, reclining on her back like a psychiatric patient. Wonder perches upright on a third lounge chair, crossing her limbs as if she’s about to meditate.

Which she is, because she closes her eyes. Which also means they’ve lost her for the next half hour.

Anger sits on the precipice of his own seat while Merry presents a tray of glasses and a bottle dripping with condensation. Sorrow slurps. Envy raises a pinky while lifting the vessel to his lips. Wonder savors the white wine with her eyes shut, inhaling the crisp aroma before each contemplative sip.

Like a sprite, Merry rests on her stomach, her calves bending vertically into the air and crossing at the ankles while she knocks back the alcohol as if it’s water. Her soft lips pucker against the rim, mouth glistening as she draws on the liquid. Swallowing, the goddess licks those lips in a slow-motion drag, the wet flat of her tongue flicking out like a delicacy.

The act is far more illicit than it should be. The effects steamroll through Anger’s veins, producing a traitorous jolt in his dick.

Regrettably, Merry isn’t done with her fucking drink. She clamps her lips onto the glass for another deep gulp, evoking visions of her neck angled back, pulsating against his tongue, and rippling with the broken sounds of her moans.

Heat singes the tattoos branding his forearms. Anger grinds his fingers into the seat’s edge, the furnishing in danger of splitting under his grip. He’s too busy watching Merry’s neck pump to bother quenching his thirst, much less to notice Envy’s leering gaze at first.

A second later, Anger cuts his eyes toward the opportunistic god, issuing a silent warning to either keep his trap shut or say farewell to his meticulously waxed balls. Such foresight is essential, what with Envy’s tendency to speak without a filter. No blabbermouth, button-pushing, shit-stirring motherfucker audibly exposes someone’s weak spot or private thoughts quicker than the God of Envy.

Predictably though, Anger’s threat goes to waste. One, covetousness is Envy’s first language. Two, he’s a walking sex toy, his vast experience attuning the male to the signs of lust. Three—fuck him—the deity relishes his self-proclaimed role as an instigator. So instead of discouraging this asshole, Anger’s ire only spurs the god into action.

Envy fills his chair to capacity. Catching Anger’s death-glare, the god raises his eyebrows in contemplative glee, chews on a straw that Merry has provided upon his request, and grins knowingly around the plastic tube.

Fuck off, Anger mouths.

Fuck no, Envy says with a gleam.

A snarl rolls like a cannonball up Anger’s throat. Despite his intentions toward Merry’s fragile heart, slamming hips with this goddess is the last thing he plans to do. No matter how much his insubordinate cock disagrees, no matter how much easier it would be to break her, bending Merry over a table and flinging up her skirt won’t be part of the scheme.

Anger tunes Envy out. More importantly, he cements his gaze anywhere but on Merry’s mouth. At least until his dick finally deflates and he’s able to concentrate.

In The Dark Fates, refreshment is initially savored in silence. They maintain that tradition by draining the first bottle. It’s a companionable lull, which grates on Anger.

He has missed this. He’s enjoying this.

Like fuck does he intend to get accustomed to this.

Soon enough, Envy encourages Merry’s chatter. “Wonder, our veritable grapevine, has shared a fascinating tidbit. It’s another reason we had to satisfy our curiosity. Is it true you had first dibs on the title of Love?”

In so many words—really, so many words—Merry narrates her existence as a rejected love goddess. In turn, they indulge her questions about The Dark Fates and serving the mortal realm, which Merry bluntly dubs controlling rather than serving . Yet none of Anger’s crewmates balk at the offense, as they once would have.

The archers recount what has happened since life as they’d once known it went to plebeian hell. Ever since The Court demoted their crew from elite deities to pariahs, and ever since Anger’s banishment, word of Love’s rebellion—her attachment to a mortal and demise as a deity—has spread.

A mortal having the power to see deities? An immortal falling in love with that same human?

For a deity to fall in love at all? Implausible.

Deities expel passions the same way they exert power—selfishly and with detachment. In their world, the heart has no place in sex or bacchanals. However, as the first ratified deity of such an intricate emotion, Love was an exception.

It took a while for The Dark Gods to process what happened to her. The remainder of her crew—Anger, Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder—became a laughingstock. The consensus: As Love’s peers, they had become equally as prone to error, since they hadn’t been able to leash her.

Not even Anger, the alpha of this clan, had contained Love. Instead, he let his feelings get the better of him.

Contempt had been the immediate order of the day. And ever since.

But some deities have apparently grown interested in Love’s tale. True to form, the novelty is attractive to deities with double standards. Whispers have been multiplying, whereas Anger’s crew have wisely remained quiet on the subject while attempting to redeem themselves. At the same time, this trio has been debating privately, their points of view expanding.

Across The Dark Fates, a seed of doubt has been planted regarding the capacity to love, the standards of perfection, and the notion of free will. Even as humans, Love and Andrew have become influencers, their names synonymous with one another.

The concept of fate versus free will is what Love strove for prior to losing her memory. That’s what she had asked her crew to consider. That is what she’d hoped for in the future.

Those pipe dreams hadn’t convinced Anger. Love had been unreliable, impressionable, and impaired by passion. Despite the longing in his heart, and the perspectives of his crew, these are isolated cases. After all, they’re the components that created Love in the first place. Why wouldn’t they be susceptible?

As to the rest of their world, Anger hadn’t bought one asinine word Love had spouted. And Merry’s arguments…

Merry’s arguments…

Are the products of being a rejected love goddess. That must be it. While Love and Andrew have sparked The Dark Fates, Merry has sparked The Celestial City.

But however thought-provoking Anger found her beliefs, however noble her message, and however admirable her dedication to this cause, he refuses to be influenced. It would be impetuous to adopt such thoughts after only a handful of days, especially when compared with millennia of doctrine.

Dark Gods have reigned over humanity since the beginning. That’s how it has always been and always will be. Erratic, frail humans cannot be trusted with their emotions, much less their choices. Period.

Sorrow sets her empty glass on the tray. “Forget the pleasantries.” Flinging out one arm, she indicates Anger and Merry. “You two look like trash. Is this what becomes of strays? Because if it is, it’s a dismal sight.”

Never mind how he looks. No one insults Merry and keeps their tongue attached to their face.

Anger opens his mouth just as the object of his budding and inexplicable obsession blurts out, “The Fate Court attacked us.”

Wonder’s eyes pop open, meditation forfeit. Envy spits out the wine, spritzing his trousers. Sorrow groans in distress.

The announcement causes a riot, questions overlapping so that it’s impossible to get a word in. A muscle ticks in Anger’s jaw. He drums his fingers on his belt, quelling his impatience while Merry rehashes the events.

She hesitates before confessing, “I have a plan.”

Finally, it spills from her mouth. Her intentions regarding free will. Her endeavors to enlist outcast allies. Her plan to present a united front on behalf of humanity.

Anger had been hoping she would impart this information. Though, he’s unsure whether he has anything to do with her motivation for broadcasting this now, much less if he deserves such an accolade. His crew’s presence could be the impetus for Merry’s disclosure and have little to do with him. A notion he has trouble digesting.

Fine. Maybe he’s a little jealous.

Merry suggests her campaign could be the catalyst for why the rulers showed up in the carnival arena. Yet her voice betrays a hint—a detail she’s keeping to herself.

Wonder and Merry swap glances, the sight of which Anger files in his mind. Some untold knowledge pulls taut between them. He has an inkling to find out what it is.

As for Anger: No. He does not know why else The Court would attack them.

Yes, he is lying. Because Malice’s propaganda circles around Merry having violent intentions, Anger keeps that part to himself.

And yes, the crew buys it. And yes, he wishes they knew him better—enough to detect the falsehood. And yes, he is relieved they don’t.

Sorrow chews on her lower lip until it bleeds. Without looking her way, Envy withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to her. “It isn’t every day The Court abandons their perch to nock bows, when their minions can do that for them. Someone in our sphere may have heard how they plan to retaliate. It sounds like you need a strapping god to investigate, with the bonus of two goddesses.”

Sorrow dabs her mouth. “Excellent. Mole work.”

Wonder glances at the midmorning sky. “We’re yet not due back in The Dark Fates for an intermission, but we’ll see what we can find out.”

Indeed. While Anger is the only one who knows the full extent of why their rulers went on the prowl, keeping one another updated on The Court’s next move is essential. They hadn’t obliterated Merry, which means they’re devising a contingency plan. If anyone besides Malice can do reconnaissance without being detected, it’s seductive Envy, vapid Sorrow, and pensive Wonder.

“We’ll do the same here,” Merry volunteers, still resting on her stomach with those slippers floating in the air. “I have kindreds who’ll keep their ears perked.” She twists toward Anger, her earlier rancor dissolving. “Maybe we should return to the carnival, retrace our steps and reconsider everything we said there. It might yield a clue. And we can ride the carousel again.”

Three immortals swerve his way, their brows climbing like vines into their foreheads.

“You rode a fucking carousel?” Envy beams. “Like a human date?”

“Give him more alcohol to consume, but add a dose of acid this time,” Anger begs Merry. “It’ll keep his mouth busy.”

“I can think of better ways to keep my mouth busy.” Envy waggles his brows, then grunts when Sorrow smacks him upside the head with his handkerchief. “What? Nymph, I was referring to you, not our hostess.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit,” she denies. “Lust partners, remember?”

Merry watches them dreamily. “I think you’re missing out by settling for a dalliance over passion.”

Envy and Sorrow balk, their noses wrinkling over such heresy. Promptly, the deities glance at each other, their eyes fusing before they turn away with grudging expressions.

Merry grins as if their awkwardness is the cutest reaction she’s ever seen. She shifts, her bodice riding across her breasts and causing the swells to rise. Then she fidgets, and all hell breaks loose as Anger studies her fingers, calculating the distance between his hands and hers.

He imagines grabbing her wrists and hoisting Merry into his chest. The breathy gasp that would push through her lips. The thudding of her pulse against his palms, which would match the throb between her thighs. And if he’s lucky, the vigor with which she’d grab him back, cling to his skin, and dig her nails into his back.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

Anger ejects the fantasy from his brain. Merry is not remotely his type. They’re nothing alike, have nothing in common.

And yet. He had fun at the carnival. She made him laugh, and more than that, Anger had experienced an absurd boost of encouragement whenever he inadvertently got her to smile. Despite their differences of opinion—actually, because of them—he likes sparring with her, debating with her.

When The Court attacked them, his protective instinct had exceeded all prior memories. And when Merry had peered from the cable car at the wreckage of her bike, the goddess’s bereft expression sliced through his chest.

Anger’s physical response to Merry is another enigma. Even while fighting to control himself around Love, his appetites had never been this severe. Yet he cannot stop his gaze from straying, his tattoos from overheating, or his body from reacting.

Envy and Sorrow thank Merry for the wine, then harness their weapons. The rake of a god evidently has a death wish, because he balances Merry’s hand in his own, which is a shade darker than Anger’s olive complexion. “It’s been a pleasure, Merry darling.”

The fucker pecks her knuckles with a gallant farewell kiss, an exchange that Merry devours like butterscotch. He bows, she curtsies to him, and they chuckle.

Sorrow pretends not to care. Meanwhile, something entirely different violates Anger’s being. Red explodes in his vision, the pressure building in his retinas.

He’s contemplating going on a killing spree, starting with Envy and ending with Malice, when Wonder whispers to him, “Envy’s right. She is a darling, and a besotted one at that, but not with him. You have an admirer, dearest. What did you do to deserve that?”

It’s more than a quip. The nosy goddess is fishing for some type of slow-burn drama. In which case, she’s wasting her time.

“She is not my ideal mate,” Anger rebukes.

Wonder does nothing to conceal her amusement. “I never said she was.”

“The vexing female makes me do, say, and feel things that are uncommon for me.”

“Does she, now? I’ve been told there’s a certain, singular emotion that has that effect. It makes us behave in out-of-character ways. Though, we’re not supposed to be capable of that emotion, so perhaps I’m merely projecting.”

“Of course, you would promote sentimentality,” he criticizes.

“Oh, Anger. Wouldn’t we all,” the goddess reprimands.

After Wonder vanishes, and Merry disappears inside, Anger corners Envy and Sorrow. Once they’ve updated him on The Court’s unproductive attempts to create the next God of Anger, the pair departs, leaving him to brood by himself.

The passage of time, and everything that happened with Love, has altered the crew. Envy and Sorrow have been reconsidering their purpose, all the while their usual bickering has progressed to sex. It’s far from devotion, but still.

Whereas in Wonder’s case, she has never needed much convincing about matters of the heart, since Love isn’t the only deity in history to abandon her senses over a human. Wonder had done so once too. Eons ago while still in training, she took liberties by becoming infatuated with a mortal and trying to make contact with him. A grave offense. But instead of banishment as retribution, she was tortured per order of The Fate Court. Hence, the mangled hands.

As a former love goddess, Merry’s perspective stands to reason. Even if The Court stupidly denounced her at birth.

By comparison, Anger’s covetous of every quirk Merry possesses, like a collection of hidden gems he’s tempted to hoard. Exiled gods and goddesses must throw themselves at her, ostensibly to no avail. So what has Anger done to merit this female’s admiration?

In answer to Wonder’s parting question, he doubts anyone will ever deserve Merry’s light. Least of all the fallen god who’s planning to demolish it. And all because Anger lacks the backbone—the conscience—to recycle the indomitable pieces of himself without resorting to backdoor deals and faking a rebound.

If he were a real god, he would stitch together what’s left of his resilience. He would not need to scam Merry, and he wouldn’t need to conspire with Malice, to reinstitute himself.

Too bad he’s already fist-deep in this pile of shit. Too bad he’s a selfish deity, as if any other genus exists apart from a few rare exceptions.

Remorse will not do him good. Not when he’s got a challenge ahead of him, tension to rectify, and a goal to attain. He needs to double his efforts while pacing himself from now on.

Time to get working. Time to break a heart.