Page 28

28

Anger

Landing at the library’s threshold, Anger retracts his wings and strides past the circulation desk. Under garlands of ivy, study groups and scholars hunch over textbooks. From inside cubicles, pages crinkle, pencils scratch paper, and fingers tap keys. Dust motes clot the air, and whispers mingle with the aromas of concentration and old hardbacks.

The stale funk of bitterness wafts from farther within. Anger trails the stench, reducing his pace, stepping moderately while his fingers hook around the longbow. In the mythology section, he stalks down a narrow aisle where plastic film clings to books and decimal numbers classify each section. Turning a corner, he stops beside the shelves containing Greek lore.

“Learning how to lie?” a raspy tenor inquires.

A contentious snarl rolls up Anger’s chest. He turns to find Malice leaning one bulky shoulder against the stack. His golden head is bent as he thumbs through a volume chronicling the demise of Icarus, based on what’s visible in the chapter heading. Momentarily, the content strikes Anger. The illustrations in particular, in which the tragic figure falls from the sky, his makeshift wings melting.

An indentation appears in Malice’s cheek, his mouth quirking. “Call me nostalgic. I find humans’ trippy interpretation of us amusing.” The blade of his index fingernail flicks a page. “For instance, they insist on ending this narrative right when it should begin. They’re so fixated on Icarus’s shortsighted flight toward the sun, so riveted by cautionary tales and didactics concerning ambition, they never stop to ask what happened when he hit the sea? Did he actually die? Or did he end up someplace else?”

“Why not drown and find out?” Anger grits out.

“Maybe,” Malice replies, evidently being serious.

He slaps the book closed with one hand, the smack echoing like a death toll. Moreover, he punctuates the motion with an upward swing of his head, which musses the blond waves. His rabid gaze meets Anger’s. Those irises are as gritty as soot, much like the ashes of something charred to a crisp and long since burned out.

“Prompt arrival,” Malice congratulates. “You’d better believe I like that.”

“You’d better believe I don’t give a shit,” Anger bites back.

“Good thinking. Save your energy to care about other things. Speaking of deception porn, you have the afterglow of a god who’s been frisky. Maneuvering Merry into heartbreak position, I see.”

“I’m also getting in position to impale you.”

“Temper, mate. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting attached to her, and not the kind of attached that merely wets your weewee.”

Anger is not getting attached. He’s already there. Indeed, he has been for an obsessive length of time.

He struggles not to let the past twelve hours with Merry surface. If it does, Malice will notice. He will see the residue of Anger’s emotions, the burgeoning devotion that has rapidly taken the place of everything else.

Merry’s legs cradled around his head, the sound of her climax as he tasted the sweet, soaked root of her cunt. Merry, in his arms as they slept. Merry, in the shower, naked and drenched, her hair dripping onto his fingers, her body trembling against his.

In the past, he had only wanted release with other deities, including Wonder. But with Merry, he’d wanted to give more than receive.

To give and give and give. He had wanted to coax every possible orgasm out of her. He’d wanted her to feel what she never felt. Valued. Priceless. Irreplaceable. All the more reason why she deserves better than Anger.

Forcing his attention back to the present, Anger restrains himself, tamping down any discernible passions. If Malice gets a whiff of something that transcends lust, the barest hint of affection…

The demon god is clever, invested, and tenacious. Anger is vigilant enough not to put deviance past this one.

Thankfully, Malice doesn’t seem to notice a shift. He tosses the book over his shoulder, hurling it into the aisle, which any human patron could have witnessed. “Welcome back to my home, away from home, away from home,” he says, his chest strapped in another fitted leather garment that reminds Anger of a straitjacket.

He matches Malice’s pose and drops his shoulder against the bookcase. “You know, it just occurred to me. Why haven’t you tried to break a heart yourself? You’re cunning enough.”

Malice cocks his head. “Who says I haven’t?”

Anger casts him a knowing look, which causes Malice to scoff. “Need I remind you of our first chat in the vault? As a former love goddess, Merry’s the only ideal candidate. And as her crush, you’re the right heartbreaker. Besides, even if other deities could feel that emotion, I’m not a contender for the job. Seems I have a knack for turning our people off, rather than turning them on.”

He’s lying to himself. Malice is on the fiendish end of handsome, with the juxtaposition of his angelically gilded hair. Deities must crave his ferocity in bed, regardless of whether his sanity is intact.

On the flip side, Anger hasn’t forgotten their chat. He just wanted to see how the god would sidestep the question, potentially giving something away.

True, love is not in a deity’s general bloodstream. Only members of Anger’s crew—he’s willing to admit this now—are susceptible. Their elite unit is the marinade for such a complex emotion, having been forged by the essences of anger, sorrow, envy, and wonder.

Foolishly, their people had neglected to include fear into the mixture. If they hadn’t been so misguided instead of seeing that option as a drawback, perhaps Anger and his peers would have recognized this susceptibility sooner, this ability to feel what humans feel.

At any rate, Malice’s diabolism equates to perceptiveness. Despite what he believes about deities lacking the capacity for love, and despite Merry being the optimal target, it’s a surprise the tactical god has not figured out a loophole, concocting a method of seducing a fellow exile’s heart.

Perhaps he’s afraid to try.

Heedful of Malice’s attention, Anger switches off these thoughts with a reflexive click of his head. The demon’s earlier missive had stated he has unexpected news.

Anger will listen. Then he’ll call off their bargain. And then he will pulverize Malice’s cranium to a pulp, which is the only way of ensuring the god doesn’t target Merry by alternate means.

“I take it you’ve called me here because you found something,” Anger assumes.

Malice’s lips slant at a precious angle. “I have.”

But when he fails to elaborate, Anger grunts. “Am I expected to guess?”

“Actually.” The god’s attention strays over Anger’s shoulder, his face alighting as he circles an index finger. “You’re expected to turn around.”

“The last thing I’m going to do is expose my back to you.”

“Oh, why stop there?” Malice exaggerates, his incredulous eyes widening. “I’m the demon who’ll stab you clean through the back, right here in my humble abode. Never mind that I’m not packing fatal alternatives to archery today. And who gives a shit if that would negate my life goals, thus keeping me obsolete for eternity, so long as I get to end you for no unequivocal reason. I’m just that fucking batty.”

Point taken. But allies or not, Anger will never trust this strategic degenerate. He had been insane enough to orchestrate an attack from The Court, momentarily pitting them against Anger and putting Merry in harm’s way, regardless that it ensured her faith in Anger. That Malice had assumed they’d win out against their rulers in a battle had been a reckless game of chance. For endangering Merry alone, this god is fortunate Anger hasn’t already decapitated him.

A euphoric sort of menace fills the devil’s voice, his words fully loaded like a bullet cartridge. “Now if I were you, I’d turn the fuck around. Or else you’re going to miss her.”

Her? Her, who?

Dubious. Unconvinced.

Then suddenly not. Anger checks the anticipation smeared across Malice’s face, as slick as grease. Whomever he’s leering at over Anger’s shoulder, it is someone worth the attention.

His spine prickles, a familiar rush across his skin that he hasn’t endured since cloistering himself—like a glutton for punishment—in a snowy mountain town. Past torments resurrect themselves, the force of which originates from a nearby source. Then it hits him like a bulldozer.

The scent of evergreen needles drifts to Anger like a perfume. The lacerating texture of bereavement follows that sensation. Next comes the sound of her voice, like feathers landing on his chest. Then the impulsive pace of her feet resounds from several paces away.

He knows the speed of her walk, the weight and shape of her presence. He has studied these facets his entire life, with his heart decomposing more and more, with every passing century.

It cannot be. But it is.

She cannot be here. But she is.

The ability to speak dries like a pit in Anger’s throat, because he wants to be right. And he wants so badly to be wrong.

Until two weeks ago, hadn’t he sworn to restore her memory, regardless of the cost? Yes. Except he recently changed his mind about the method; for that reason, he came here to revoke Malice’s offer.

This should have been easy. Out of sight, out of mind.

But now…

Anger is flanked by a pair of bookshelves and two choices. He can turn around and make a grave error. Or he can stalk away without a backward glance and—

“Hi,” that feminine, newly human voice says.

Like a circuit breaker, he shuts down. That voice makes the decision for him.

Anger whips around. The bow falls from his fingers and hits the carpet.

And there she is. The woman is wearing a short, black linen dress and a loose-fitting jacket that hangs to the hem, the ensemble paired with ankle boots. Most notably, an enamel bow-and-arrow pin flashes from her lapel.

Oval face. Stubborn chin.

Her raven hair is twisted into a messy bun while she glances at a book—because she hadn’t been speaking to Anger. Not to him, but to the male librarian assisting her. Pointing at the cover, she inquires about similar titles, and the librarian excuses himself to hunt for whatever text she has requested.

Of course, that’s who she had been greeting. Not Anger. Because she cannot see him.

The female nibbles on her lower lip while slipping the book back into its slot. It’s a shelf containing tomes about the myth of Eros and Psyche.

Anger would laugh, if this were funny. If the sight of her wasn’t feasting on his ribcage.

Like a drop of blood surfacing from a wound, her name squeezes past his lips. “Love.”