Page 18

18

Merry

After Wonder leaves, Merry returns to the outdoor deck, moving across the platform with her hands bundled behind her. In the maze of hedges, Anger gropes the roof’s railing and bows his head, his profile bearing the weight of conflicting emotions. When he turns Merry’s way, worry lines scallop between his brows, and it’s like taking an arrow to the soul.

Had he sensed her approach?

They stare at each other. He waits for her to speak, and she waits for the same thing from him, the interlude going on for so long—that they laugh.

“This morning was the worst argument between us so far,” she admits.

“Deplorable,” he agrees with a rueful expression. “I apologize for—”

“Me too. After such a nice evening—”

“It would be unfortunate to spoil the memory.”

“Utterly,” she says.

“Certainly,” he finishes.

“Soooo,” Merry draws out, stepping nearer. “Everyone’s gone. It’s just us now. You and me.”

Anger stalks forward. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

She extends her hand. “Let’s be reckless and fix this.”

His eyes alight, the pupils simmering like black fire. Merry can’t explain it any clearer, but as he links his fingers with hers, a vigorous sensation shoots up her arm.

Vigorous. One of the words he had used to describe heat. A sensation he’d promised to demonstrate on her, provided she behaves herself.

Ha. Behaving is not Merry’s style. However, this god likes that about her, even if he doesn’t admit it.

From morning until evening, they tour the city, wandering from rooftops, to streets, to parks. Everywhere, there’s starlight. Glittering strands trickle over the architecture like ivy, entwining columns and corbels. Above pavilions, celestial lanterns hang, the illuminations painting the ground in radiant hues.

At first, getting Anger to talk is more laborious than extracting teeth. It’s as if he wants to participate but has no idea how to do so. The aloofness is vexing, yet she gets him to chuckle at himself a few times.

It’s a juxtaposition, a double standard that makes this brooding deity seem more human than he knows. It’s a Study in Angers.

And it’s a Study in Merrys, given how unpredictable her reactions have become. She snaps at him whenever he’s being obstinate and clenches her thighs whenever those dark irises consume her from head to toe.

Over time, his shoulders lose their tension, and his voice loses its gruffness. Their excursions unwind the kinks out of Anger, so that he relaxes and becomes talkative. Impulsive, even.

While they stroll across a bridge lined with telescopes, Merry walks backward in front of him and narrates like a docent. “This city was originally founded by a band of rebel astronomers. They wanted to prove the sky had its own sorcery as well as a system, and while they didn’t find enough evidence to back up those theories, technically they were right. Though, few in their community believed them.”

“The intersection between magic and science,” Anger contributes. “They were not far off the mark.”

“I wouldn’t call it an intersection. I’d call it a marriage.”

“Of course, you would.”

She smacks his shoulder while he tries to dodge, a smirk tipping one side of his mouth. Reclining against the balustrade, Merry turns her gaze to the heavens. “Magic is an enigma. Science is a fact. But their majesty doesn’t exist exclusively; they’re equally dazzling and inspirational. They’re timeless and infinite.” She tosses him a sideways glance. “This place began with exiles, right from the beginning. The astronomers prayed to the galaxy, studied its composition, and measured its light from rooftops.”

She boosts herself atop the ledge. “The Stars are luminous in deserts and mountains, but nothing like in this metropolis. Over the centuries, it’s been the home of theorists and the dreamers who pilgrimage here, many of them hoping to catch samples of lunar and solar light inside specimen jars. Do you know, it’s said that the sun’s rays are also the strongest from this city? Some believe they’re visible even at eventide, that you can reach them quicker from here. In fact, one of the founding astronomers lost his sight from staring at those rays for too long. Allegedly, he knew where to look, regardless of the hour.”

Anger’s wings rustle beneath his skin, keen to test that theory. Except that would require abandoning Merry on this bridge. For some reason, he does not like that idea, so he leans one hip against the rim beside her instead.

Merry glances toward the cupola of a cathedral bell tower, spotlights laminating its facade. “And what do you know? This is the perfect location from which to attempt a glimpse.”

Anger huffs. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Oh, come on!” she whines. “I’ve always wanted to know—”

Anger twists in front Merry, bracketing his hands on either side and fencing her in. The motion splits her thighs, the inner flesh brushing his jeans as he steps in between her legs. Her breathing stalls, the breeze blowing wisps of hair around her face. The air thickens, forming an atmospheric layer where oxygen is limited, making it difficult to exhale.

If he steps any closer, the front seam of his pants will glaze her clit. The position gives her pussy about five seconds warning before a slow-drip of arousal seeps into her panties.

The rage god tips his head down, his voice grittier than sandpaper. “What you’re thinking is dangerous.”

Too late. That is, unless he’s still talking about The Stars and whether gazing at the sun will blind her, despite it being nightfall. Based on that heady timbre, it’s hard to tell what he’s actually referring to.

Merry swallows nervously. Emboldened, she weaves her fingers around his nape, toying with the loose ends of his hair. “Sometimes danger yields the best rewards.”

At her fondling, Anger’s pupils dilate. His eyes drop to her neck, watching the muscles constrict. “Spoken like a fanciful creature.”

“I prefer the term visionary .”

“Try it, and you won’t have any vision left.”

“Huh. Does that mean you believe the story?”

Anger narrows his gaze but takes the bait. Sadly, this obliges him to vacate the gap in her legs and release her digits.

As he turns, they locate the spot where the sun is purported to be hiding after dark, then peer upward until Merry’s eyes water. She laughs aloud, her gaze lowering to find his attention solely on her, shadows cutting through his riveted features.

When did he stop gazing up? And why does he look as if he’s never heard someone laugh before?

***

In The Moonlit Carnival, she challenges him to an arcade match—the one where combatants race across the galaxy. Per tradition, she gives a play-by-play while he sprints in place, a glower stapled to his profile.

“I smell victory! Merry for the win!” she hollers over the pings, which indicate the score. “Wait, we’ve got Anger coming up the rear.”

Anger’s glare intensifies. “Do not use that phrase.”

“What’s that?” She cups her ear and heckles, “Uh-oh, it sounds like the rage god is losing steam. And Merry gains another league. This is unprecedented, my gods and goddesses!”

“Let me remind you,” he pants. “This is just a fucking game.”

Except the deeper his scowl gets, the more fun this becomes. Merry puts on a thick, rolling accent from no origin in particular, spreads her arms, and booms like a titan, “You dare to belittle the Soul of Sport? It is never just a gaaaaame.”

Anger locks his jaw, then surrenders. His mouth twists with barely contained humor. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Nonetheless, the god denies that he’s on the verge of chuckling and demands a rematch. A few rounds later, Merry wins. Like a gleeful antagonist, she relishes Anger’s sore-loser expression.

***

She looks at him, aghast. “You’ve never been to a concert? Where have you been living? On a mythical planet?”

Anger scoffs. “Mortal entertainment.”

Not exclusively. Music exists in The Dark Fates, but the instruments and arrangements are different from what humans compose. The Stars have played those tunes for Merry, and while ethereal and pretty, something is always missing. Namely, an emotion deities refuse to feel, plus the echoes of a short lifespan.

On a mission, she drags Anger to a small venue the next night. In the lobby, she describes the band’s style and gushes over their lyrics, calling them “an extravaganza of emotions.” Through each resonant song and its meaning, she marvels how human lives are filled into such an abbreviated number of years, which is the epitome of courage.

At the sideline of the club’s standing pit, Merry inhales the aromas of dark beer, along with notes of black pepper and bergamot wafting from Anger’s form-fitting shirt. She explains how the best part is when the lights fade, the crowd roars, and the instruments collide in a frenzy of sound.

When the music starts, drums beat through the hall, and wiry guitars hit a zenith. Outfitted in a sequined skirt and hooded sweater, Merry hops around like a pogo stick, shimmying her hips and singing to the rafters.

Twisting Anger’s way, she hollers, “Would deities be as brave, if they were faced with a time limit?”

Beside her, Anger crosses his arms. “Would humans be as idealistic, if they could live forever? Would they be as nostalgically weepy?”

“Keep listening to the music, and you might change your mind.”

“Doubtful.”

“Possible.”

While mortals bounce and shriek, Merry gyrates her body to the rhythm. The chorus soaks into her pores, adrenaline stimulating every nerve. She closes her eyes, twists and spins, and flings her arms into the air. Like a rushing river, mortals stream around her, their energy washing through Merry, invigorating her senses.

She wants to become the instruments, become the melodies, become the lyrics. Scraping her fingernails through her hair, she swings her head from left to right, the cropped layers dashing around her face. With every song, she lives and breathes its essence until it’s impossible to distinguish her respirations from the acoustics, the percussion, and the piano keys. They’re one and the same, each note fueling her blood, her heartbeat syncing with the chords.

The strobe lights. The grinding guitar. The pounding of drums.

This is her link to humanity. This is her superpower. This is how she feels what they feel.

Nothing else exists. Not even The Stars.

Sweat pours down her back. Merry thrashes about, melting into the bodies, into the concert. For hours, years, and centuries, she dances and sings at the tops of her lungs.

Then suddenly, it’s over. Applause and screams tear through her trance. Grinning like wild, she heaves for breath, then feels the weight of someone’s gaze.

Her startled eyes blast open. She must have traveled through the venue without realizing it, a dozen paces separating them now. From his end of the hall, the rage god stands as immobile as a brick wall, yet he’s not watching the cacophony surrounding them.

No. Anger is watching her, those inflammatory eyes tingling every inch of Merry’s flesh.

For who knows how long, she had forgotten his presence. Indeed, she had forgotten his very existence.

***

“It was palatable,” the huffy god says after the concert has ended, and they’re passing through an alley.

“You liked it,” Merry says, elbowing him in the ribs.

Anger denies it. Yet while heading back to the observatory, he steals her hand in a possessive grip. Feigning nonchalance, the god broaches the comfortable silence by asking if she has that particular band on vinyl and whether they can listen to it when they get home.

Home. That’s what he absently calls it.

The following evening, he’s enthusiastic when they attend another concert. This time, Anger stands behind her, and while the bass thuds through Merry’s veins, something miraculous happens. She dares to lean into him, and he dares to settle his palms on her waist. Growing bolder with each song, Anger hovers his mouth near Merry’s temple and tightens his grip on her, the accumulation causing an earthquake across her body, replete with foreshocks and aftershocks.

By the final track, they’re entangled, her spine flush with his torso. She sways in his arms, urging him to match the flow. And when he presses himself harder into her, it’s dynamic.

Merry rests her scalp on his shoulder, arcs her head backward, and tucks her ass against the outline of his cock. His frame tenses, a low sound scraping from his lungs and rushing across the side of her throat. Those hands fasten onto her hips, wrinkling the fabric of her dress, making a mess of it. And never once letting go.

***

Late into the night, they rest on the deck, talking while reclining in the hammock or atop the lounge chairs. To her delight, Anger is an eager participant, if a little cantankerous when they inevitably get into debates.

He asks her questions. And though her answers turn into monologues, the god hoards Merry’s responses like seeds—things that will grow into life forces of their own, providing him with a new source of survival.

Even more to her pleasure, it’s not only Merry who suggests excursions. He takes her to a public theater in the park, the lawn crowded with blankets and mortals feasting on chips while everyone watches a space adventure.

Afterward, Anger and Merry discuss the movie until the crowd disperses. Again, they disagree about the cinematic themes, their discussion running longer than the film itself.

***

Anger surprises her, having done his research and discovering a neon art exhibition. At the entrance, Merry turns to him in astonishment. Her silence prompts Anger to rub the back of his neck. “I thought you would… that is to say… do you…”

“I love it,” she whispers.

Anger blinks, caught between pride, pleasure, and something else. Always, an unseen dilemma pulls this male in opposite directions.

They browse the light installations. Many are intervention pieces, working only when she and Anger interact with the beams of color. Others are stagnant or provocative in design, including an erotic display of a neon woman riding a man’s upright erection.

Anger’s troubled expression prevents Merry from swooning. “This is a lonely piece,” he murmurs.

She glances askance at him. “How do you know?”

“He’s holding her.” He cuts himself off, then skims those graphite eyes toward Merry, as if he doesn’t understand, as if she’ll be able to make sense of it. “He’s holding her,” the god tries once more, “but she is not holding him back.”

After they leave, Anger barely speaks. He utters a minimum of words, the accumulation of which can barely fill a matchbox.

***

One afternoon, Merry contemplates his archery stored in the hammock alcove. The prominent curvature of the longbow, the sharpness of the arrows a glaring contrast.

What is it like to aim and strike? To hit dead center?

She checks the vacant rooftop and approaches the weapons. Picking up the bow and nocking an arrow, she stalks across the gravel, sighting a pouf ottoman like makeshift prey.

I’m a warrior, an archeress defending humanity from evildoers. See my rage!

“Not like that,” rasps a masculine voice.

Merry withholds a gasp. Caught red-handed, she gawks ahead rather than at the source of that baritone.

A shadow falls over her, his outline emitting the heroic scent of spices. Stationing himself behind her, Anger covers Merry’s hands with his palms. He modifies her stance, aligning their hips at the correct degree and kicking her feet into position.

Then he adjusts her fingers. “Like so,” Anger instructs, the husk of his breath stroking her nape.

With Merry’s body fitted into his, the god clears his throat. “Focus first. Then aim.”

Focus. Aim.

Yes, she needs to relax, relax, relax. But he’s rubbing against her ticklish spots, to which she giggles, to which he grumbles in irritation, and she chortles even more.

“Okay, okay.” Merry attempts to smother her mirth. “Okay, sorry.”

But then his chest grazes her back, the sculpted planes of his body fitting to hers, and his outtakes stir against her cheekbone. Her laughter disintegrates, dying a quick death.

Anger’s heart slams between her shoulder blades. “Ready?”

“Mmm-hmm” is all she can muster.

She’s ready all right. Ready for him to press that mouth to the side of her face, to drag his lips down her neck, to sink his teeth into her skin. Ready to sweep her ass backward as she’d done at the concert, grinding against the thick girth of his cock. Ready for him to whip her around and destroy her concentration for the rest of her life.

It’s a smooth release. They loose the arrow, which hits the pouf, feathers exploding like confetti. Merry should find it uproarious, but they’re still intertwined, neither of them lowering the bow.

Anger’s arms bulge as he readies another arrow without asking. He does so with purpose, as if he needs to keep moving.

Another arrow. Another scattering of plumage. And again.

The rage god broadens his stance, flanking her thighs with his. Each time they fire, he moves forward, closer. While she steps backward, nearer, until they’re pressed tightly, adhering to one another like velcro.

His movements become hers, the pattern of motions syncing, growing more natural. Just like their combined, accelerated breathing.

By the end of it, each pouf is destroyed, pierced through like pincushions. Feathers litter the patio and coast off the ground, swept up by the breeze to create a shower of plumes.

Silence descends. Poised with the longbow, they go still, staring at the mess they’ve made. Merry’s heart rate triples, every pulse point coming to life in her chest, in her wrists, in her neck.

He should have pulled away by now, detached himself from her. Except he hasn’t. Instead, a serrated noise skids from Anger’s lungs, his mouth moving an inch toward her earlobe, then another. As one, they inhale and exhale. The soft fabric of her dress rustles over the coarse texture of his jeans, which expands into a bulge.

Merry’s eyelashes flutter, lightheadedness assaulting her balance. His cock stretches higher, pushing into the pleats of her skirt, beneath which her pussy throbs.

Anger goes rigid. He backs off, lowering the weapon. “Not bad.”

Not bad at all. Merry can’t say what she’s prouder of—the targets she hit or his physical reaction to her. Either way, her lips curl into a smile.

She twists, wanting to ask if he’ll keep teaching her. But Anger doesn’t return the victorious expression. Indeed, smiling is not what he does when his eyes latch onto Merry.

***

Time becomes a mixed bag of comfort and tension. It’s confidence and uncertainty, subtle touches and restraint. It’s never just one act, one element, one feeling.

Sometimes it’s natural to wipe a speck of lint from his shirt. Sometimes it’s instinctual when he tucks an errant strand into her low ponytail. Sometimes it’s maddening when inches separate them, the proximity inciting trembles and nausea.

Other times, she feels the hyperawareness of him reaching out, lifting his fingers while her gaze is averted. She does the same when he’s not looking, but neither of them makes it far.

Life is planned and unplanned. Merry often indulges like a common deity, feasting for pleasure rather than occasional fortification. She gets Anger to savor their conjured meals, which include mixed berries, succulent figs, and creamy hunks of cheese.

They tidy the rooftop while contemplating the human idolization of mythology, listing the usual suspects and cliches.

“Togas,” she says.

“Virginal sacrifices,” he drawls.

“Murders. Betrayals. Vengeance,” she dramatizes. “Oh, and ambrosia.”

“Greek choruses,” he mutters.

“Ugh,” she laments, making him smirk. “But at least there’s inventiveness and infallibility. The Gods are flawed in those stories. Humans know how to spin a tale, and I get hooked whenever I read about bravery and passion.”

Anger refuses to mention Love’s mate, who pens such tales. Andrew is reputedly a popular novelist who subverts expectations. In fact, he does so to a degree that Love seems to admire.

“Define bravery and passion,” Anger says while folding a blanket. “What do they mean for you?”

Merry runs a dust cloth over a tabletop. “For a start, I’d rather experience both than merely define them.”

That’s where mortals are privileged. From extreme to simple moments, bravery and passion exist among mortals far more acutely, because they have so little time on this earth.

Routinely, they address the subject of The Fate Court. Every dawn, they swap theories, but Merry hesitates to overexert her mouth, lest a legendary secret should accidentally slip out.

Likewise, Anger appears to have his own boundaries. For unspoken reasons, he’s hiding something. Merry hasn’t overlooked this. Outcast deities have limits about what they’ll share, and she’s been around enough of them to perceive the signs.

Malice, for instance. He isn’t exempt from this fact, no matter how much of a show he puts on. The loudest, most unhinged souls tend to conceal the greatest vulnerabilities. By raging openly against the universe about one grievance, they erect a wall to hide another, a truth that’s quietly corroding inside them.

This doesn’t mean she’s sympathetic. And it certainly doesn’t mean she’s forgotten what that sinister demon is capable of.

While crossing through the city, Merry checks for spies. Militant Anger grips his weapons, also keeping vigil, cognizant of adversaries.

When Anger disappears for hours at a time, Merry investigates on her own. She visits Surprise and Kindness, who maintain a greenhouse a few miles away. It’s an optimal chance to ask her kindreds if they’ve seen or heard anything regarding The Fate Court and what they might know about Merry’s campaign for free will.

Upon learning of Anger, it takes a while for the goddesses to recover from their stupor, particularly Surprise, who squashes one of her prize tomatoes, squirting juice everywhere. Merry tells them about the carnival incident, which elicits fear, then righteousness, and finally umbrage—plus a conciliatory pat from Kindness.

Nothing. No clues or rumors.

Be that as it may, exiles have long since grown tired of subsisting without a purpose. They’ve been meeting in groups with Merry for a while now, their need for vindication intensifying. She makes the rounds in safe territories, advising her peers to keep silent but guarded. Until Merry knows for certain why The Court attacked and what their next move is, she warns every allied soul.

As she had originally suspected, this conflict may be about her long-term intentions. Even if she and her kindreds have been careful, Malice and his cult could have provided the details, what with Merry’s previous attempts to recruit some of the demon god’s followers. And although her agenda is peaceful, The Court doesn’t know that yet.

On the flip side, this still might have to do with the legend. At this point, anything is possible.

She doesn’t have to manage enemy turfs, since Anger had vowed to do his own reconnaissance there. More than her, the rage god will be welcomed among souls like Cruelty and Shame, who live in Malice’s territory.

Merry weighs the connection between Anger and that devil. Surely, it’s not a rapport. Rather, keeping enemies close is a wise idea.

***

The bathroom is a rotunda, the walls painted navy with gold stars. An overgrowth of suds surrounds Merry in the tub. Water drizzles down her steepled legs, and bubbles slide over her skin. She can’t feel the heat—there are licks of steam, so it’s definitely hot instead of cold—but she has an idea based on what Anger said about his tattoos. Moreover, the liquid’s slippery, soapy texture caresses her like silk.

Anger has been gone for an hour, so she takes liberties with a generous soak and a performance review. Tonight, she contemplates her mission for the thousandth time, how the legend requires her to kindle his heart. Surely, this is achievable through companionship and community. As for romance, it would be an obvious route considering he’s broken over Love. It would also be a natural tactic, since Merry has made no secret of her craving for Anger.

Except she doesn’t wish to play second fiddle. The last thing Merry’s about to do is make herself into a consolation prize.

But if Anger’s feelings change organically, that would be sublime. Merry has noticed the way the god looks at her whenever he thinks she’s unaware.

With those delirious thoughts in mind, she lathers herself, enjoying the foam that buds across her flesh. Sitting upright, she cinches the messy bun atop her head. Foam slides over her breasts, and an alleviated noise rolls off her tongue.

The door swings open. “Merry, are you—”

Her eyes whip toward the entrance. Her arms freeze mid hair-primp, her nipples dripping and exposed, which is the exact moment Anger strides into the room.