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Merry

She powers the motorcycle while the comatose god sways in the seat, his body slumping in front of her and making it difficult to steer. Most deities are limited to evanescing and manifesting individually. Because only a rare few are bestowed with the magic to transport others with them, that isn’t an option.

They coast into her neighborhood, the male’s dead weight pulling him down several times. A human wouldn’t have made it this far bearing such a bulky form. Being immortal has its perks, even if certain powers are forfeit for exiles. But thank Stars he’d retracted the enigmatic wings, crimping them someplace inside his back. Otherwise, this voyage would have taken three times as long.

Garlands of light spiral around oak-lined thoroughfares, and vegetation sprouts between the cobblestones. This realm is half mortal city, half mythical dimension, the latter a second layer that exists between the cracks—a magical domain hidden within a human one. Between the narrow spaces resides immortal structures, their opulent facades and columns strewn in twinkling overgrowth. Each ancient building is crowned by conservatories that house telescopes. And irrespective of dimensions, everything resides beneath an endless dome of constellations, the sky a shared entity.

As Merry rolls down the lane, she coos to the unconscious god. “We’re almost there, handsome. In your hour of need, I’ll nurse you back to health, smooth out that stern brow, and sit at your bedside when you awaken. And then you’ll feast your eyes on me, and—”

Her true love groans as if he needs her to stop talking. As she rides through her home territory, the god’s forehead flops against her shoulder. Oh, he smells heroic, like black pepper and bergamot.

They approach a historic edifice threaded in garlands of stardust, its uppermost level crowned by a rooftop observatory. There are numerous immortal observatories in The Celestial City, none of which are visible to humans. But this one is hers alone.

It takes Herculean effort to park in the secluded courtyard and haul the male off the seat. At least they’re nearly the same height, his tall form exceeding Merry’s long limbs by only a few inches. She lugs him into the foyer, where they mount the stairs, the god’s boots sagging across each step, his head dropping forward like a melon, dark hair falling into his face.

Stars, he’s heavy. It must be on account of those whipcord abs and biceps. Intrigued, Merry divides her attention between the god’s heft and her own epiphany.

I’ve fallen in love.

I’ve never been in love.

Do I look any different?

Hiking ten stories to the top level, she hoists the stranger across the floor. One of his pecs rubs against the side of her breast. At the contact, a fluttery sensation passes through her stomach.

Reaching her bedroom in the observatory, Merry bumps open the door with her foot and stumbles inside with her patient. “Okay,” she wheezes. “Here we are—no no no!”

The god topples onto the mattress, taking her down with him. His unconscious face lands between her breasts, one hand slips across her ass cheek, and his legs snare with hers until they resemble tangled octopus.

It takes a few complicated yoga positions to peel herself from the god’s body. Squirming upright, Merry perches on the edge and draws in a much needed breath. Or two. Or three. Then she rolls the archer onto his back and gazes at him with unfiltered awe, her fingertips sketching over the ledge of his coarse jaw, which causes his features to scrunch. It’s the kind of expression that resents sleep and swoonery, as though both are inconvenient.

Even so, this savior knows how to faint beautifully. He’d crashed to the earth, then onto her bed, with fervor. One arm is bent above his head, while the other covers his narrow waist. Merry wants to measure that waist, to gauge how her legs might fit around it, how hard her thighs would need to clamp while his hips snap between them.

Slickness floods the crease of her legs. Stars, they’ve only just met. There will be plenty of time to fantasize later.

First, recovery is paramount. Merry drapes a ruffled blanket over his frame while humming a ditty. Swaddled, he sinks into the pillows, a patchwork of bruises and bloody scrapes marring his profile from where Malice had pounded into him.

The stranger mumbles, a word squeezing past the tight plank of his mouth. “Love…”

Merry’s soul crescendos like a chorus, the climax of an epic ballad. He must have felt that same profound connection with her before falling into a stupor. In The Moonlit Carnival, or maybe when he saw her being chased in Midnight Park, he must have felt those stirrings. That’s why he’d allied himself with Merry, because the mere thought of her suffering had imbued him with rage.

Tropes cycle through her mind. Possession. Protection. Stories in which the dark and brooding hero eagerly burns the world for his soulmate, because no one’s allowed to touch her but him.

Who is this glorious god? Did he come directly from The Dark Fates or a region in the mortal world? Considering his age, his archery, and that he’s never set foot in this city—Merry knows every outcast in residence—likely he’d been serving The Fate Court prior to this night, deployed among mortals for a few millennia. It’s uncommon for banished deities to wander this earth without quickly ending up here, seeking company and a refuge.

Loneliness brims from him in waves. That, along with some type of loss. An unfulfilled yearning.

What offense did he commit to get exiled? What emotion does— did —he wield?

“Love,” he pants again, lost in a vacuum of dreams.

“There, there,” Merry coaxes, brushing aside his tresses. “What’s your name?”

But he just leans into her touch, seeking more of it.

She strives to contain herself. The Stars have shone upon her, granting what she’d never thought she would have.

Destiny among mortals is controlled by Dark Gods, a mythological pantheon that reigns over humanity. There are crews of gods and goddesses, each member representing a definitive human emotion, along with the power to wield that emotion through their archery.

Those archers are mentored by Guides. And everyone answers to the five members of The Fate Court.

At the top of the serendipitous chain, The Stars reign above all. In the order of things, they have the final say.

That cycle is straightforward. Usually.

Each deity is born inside a star. From there, such divinities are bred and educated in The Dark Fates, where Guides train them. Afterward, those deities spend their existence roaming the human world, fulfilling their assignments to keep humanity in order, regulating mortal emotions.

A deity’s path rarely strays, apart from two exceptions. One, if they engage in a crime and disobey the rules. Two, if they’re allegedly born “flawed.” Either of those scenarios gets them banished from their realm.

Supposedly, Merry is the latter. Too bad for her rulers, she doesn’t agree. And soon, they’ll find out just how much her opinion differs.

That is, provided Malice doesn’t get in the way. He’s too smart not to know what Merry was doing on his turf, regardless of how cautious she’s been. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have caught her in the first place, which means he’s been monitoring her trips.

Merry rushes downstairs to collect a damp cloth and a glass of water, then retraces her steps, her soles tapping against the floor. At the landing, she removes her boots and pads the rest of the way in glitter socks.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, she’s overcome with ardor. Sconces ornaments the walls, painting her comatose hero in soft hues of blue.

He’s on her bed.

On. Her. Bed.

By dawn, her sanctuary will smell of him. Maybe she will too.

True love or not, he’s a complication. Now that Malice has noticed this god, the enemy will keep greater tabs on Merry. But what’s done is done. She can’t find it in herself to regret the stranger’s intervention, nor her role in the carnival battle.

He sleeps like a boulder. A freight train could blast its horn, and he’d probably doze through it, which means she can freshen up before rousing him.

This calls for reinforcements. Merry needs to set the mood. Dashing to the console, she plays a record of melancholy noir tracks, a sad yet glamorous type of heartache infusing the lyrics. Perhaps she should have gone with something sexier, but that can be next.

Keeping the music low, Merry bustles to the mirror. So much for looking different when in love. She scrutinizes her chipped nail polish—a navy shade called Kismet—but there’s no time for a touch-up. Instead, she loosens her gnarly ponytail and combs through the snags, then experiments with various hairstyles. Then again, why bother changing what already works?

With a clean ponytail in place, she strips off her halter top and stained tulle skirt. Nudity is the ultimate beauty. Deities aren’t prudes, so there’s no need for undergarments. Yet it’s also a shame when lingerie is just so pretty. Merry likes her dainty black panties and matching bralette enough that she’s willing to thwart custom for them. Standing in her knickers, she considers the rack of wardrobe options in her armoire. When none of the eyelet or taffeta styles inspire her, she migrates to the dresser, yanking out garments and flicking them over her shoulder.

No. No. No. No. No.

Ah. Her t-shirt knotted at the waist should work if paired with a long accordion skirt.

What about tassel earrings? Or just the fishnet gloves? Maybe both?

As she debates the ensemble’s mismatched potential, a ballad resounds through the room, and she sways her hips in front of the mirror. This is a good song for pole dancing, with all its sultry swagger.

While gyrating her lower body, Merry puckers her lips and addresses the mirror. “Hey there, Lord of Darkness. I know we’re enemies, but all this forced proximity is playing havoc with my morals, and I simply can’t decide if I want to impale you with my blade, kiss your lips, or taste your co—”

“Who the fuck are you?” a voice growls behind her.