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Anger

But her name isn’t Love. Not anymore.

It’s Iris. That is her infernal mortal name, a moniker established between the goddess and her human mate, the man she has elected to spend her limited existence with.

The man who is nowhere in sight.

She’s alone. And not really alone, because Anger is there, so close to her.

As is Malice. The insufferable, calculating cocksucker who has shoved this moment in Anger’s face, splitting open and exposing a scarred wound. His weakness resurfaces, muddying the progress his heart has made.

When Love draws her finger across the book spines, Anger remembers how she used to hold a bow, how she used to strike her targets. He remembers how much she had hated his temper, which ironically matched her own. They’d locked horns on a routine basis, the antagonism second nature.

He swallows. Does she recall anything of her former life? Any image of him?

Malice’s footsteps approach, closing the distance until the demon god shadows his back. Like a devil perching on Anger’s shoulder, Malice whispers in one ear, “To approach.” And then the other ear. “Or not to approach.”

“How did you conjure this?” Anger seethes, unable to peel his eyes from the woman a few feet away.

“I didn’t do shit,” Malice croons. “As much as I’d like to take credit, this goddess showed up in my humble abode by her own devices. That said, I also haven’t dissuaded her from staying. In fact, I might have rearranged the volumes on astronomy and mythology that she’s been hunting through, the better to prolong her visit. Of course, I wasn’t planning on throwing you a long, hard bone until your deeds were accomplished, but I moved up the schedule, seeing as she’s here. Besides, your emotions have become high maintenance and require another nudge.”

Merry. He is referring to Anger’s attachment to Merry.

“I warned you not to spy on us,” he snarls.

“Meh.” The demon god shrugs. “I’m not above surveillance while you’re gallivanting in the city. Dare I say, the authenticity of your affections for Merry are slipping toward the bona fide. If not her pure cunt, it must be those wholesome eyes of hers. They’ve been igniting your cock like a set of spark plugs. I decided this would remind you of what you’ll be losing as a result, in addition to other gratuities.”

Because if Anger doesn’t return to The Dark Fates, he won’t only forsake himself. He’ll also relinquish the chance to find a way of resurrecting Love’s memory. The belief that a key might reside in their world hasn’t abandoned him.

Though, perhaps it’s not all in his hands. From the onset, he’d suspected Love and her mate of preparing for their memory loss. The resourceful pair had likely taken measures to recover those memories—albeit without threatening the lives of Dark Immortals—once Love became fully human.

Considering their present location, Anger puzzles together a theory. Mortality aside, Love’s mythical self lingers inside her, even if she doesn’t remember that time. She feels a confounding pull toward The Stars, an interest in archery and matchmaking, an inexplicable need to climb trees like she used to. As a mortal, she has often expressed feeling deprived of something she cannot name—a power she lost.

Anger had witnessed as much while monitoring Love in Evershire, during her first year as a human. The way she would gaze at The Stars and scan the woods, as if she could see him standing there, could sense him missing her.

Perhaps she and her mate had written hints to themselves, clues about her former life as a goddess. Given Love’s defiant nature, in addition to her bond with a mortal author of fantasy, this is not farfetched. Whatever they did to equip themselves prior to losing their memories of deities, it’s paying off.

In which case, it stands to reason the clues they’d left themselves have directed Love to this library. This institution is renowned for its collection on astronomy and mythology. Moreover, The Celestial City is where the constellations shine brightest, where destiny is most often contemplated. At least, in the mortal realm. Therefore, it’s possible Love traveled here to aid her search for answers, for the missing pieces of her past.

With no shortage of boasting, Malice—fuck him hard—voices the same hunch. The demon had been thrilled to find Love here. This twist of fate has worked to his advantage, providing an incentive to dangle in front of Anger like bait.

And yes, the books have been rearranged out of order. This prompts Love to frown as she scans the tomes, her progress delayed to the point where she will remain in this spot for as long as Malice requires. He might go so far as to communicate with her. Pencil and paper are all it would take, in the hope that her proximity will influence Anger’s actions, which could also place Love in jeopardy if Malice decides to get even more creative.

Anger thinks not only of Love’s history, but of Wonder’s history. “To contact a mortal in any manner is a violation,” he warns while staring at Love.

“And what is The Court going to do? Banish me?” Malice ridicules. “You were charting the same course, mate. How else were you planning to reinstate her? It’s still on your ever-growing wish list, right? Did you think the key wouldn’t involve direct contact? But whatever. I’m not interested in rhetorical questions. And sometimes the solutions are right in front of us.”

The parasite steps nearer. “So here’s another experiment: Talk to her, tell her snippets, enough to trigger her memories. If you provide details that once mattered to the spitfire, it could lift the veil. Or even if it doesn’t, you’d be remiss not to at least try. Exhaust all options. Go through the motions. And maybe, she’ll hear you.” His tone lowers to a scheming murmur. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“What I want is to disembowel you,” Anger growls.

Yet he will not deny it. The pull of her is extravagant and catastrophic.

This moment has renewed the temptation. Hasn’t it?

She will discern Anger in flashes, not in particulars. It will satiate him yet protect their world.

Garlands of ivy stir from the rafters, books crack open, and patrons mumble. The librarian will return soon, but until then, she is here for the taking. There’s a way for Love to register Anger.

If he has the desire. If he has the selfishness.

He takes a reckless step forward.

“Don’t,” a feminine voice snaps, the air oscillating with her appearance.

Speaking of Wonder, she materializes on Anger’s other side. A floor-length dress brushes her bare feet—she has foregone her pants and boots today—and her chestnut mane spills into a mussed braid as though she rushed here. Like an angel to Malice’s devil, she’s the voice of conscience, a morally pure goddess sitting on the opposite mantel of Anger’s shoulder.

Wonder’s green irises brim with empathy and indignation. How she knew to arrive here is beyond him. But then, he rarely underestimates this goddess’s ingenuity. Also, it’s never a shock to find Wonder ensconced in a library, so perhaps she was already here, doing her own reconnaissance. Despite this being a mortal repository, Wonder often reads between the lines, seeing value where others cannot. She isn’t the type to casually dismiss human narratives, however inaccurate they may be regarding mythology.

With haste, Wonder swipes Anger’s bow off the floor and extends it like a life-preserver. “Don’t do it, Anger,” she stresses. “I’d love nothing more than to reunite with Love, but this will only do harm. Please, don’t.”

“Ah, for Christ’s sake. It takes a meddler to know a meddler.” Malice slices his gaze toward the goddess. “What gives you the right to be a killjoy, Wildflower?”

Perturbed, Wonder swings in his direction. “Be quiet, assho—”

She chokes on the barb. Freezing in place, Wonder releases a horrified gasp, Anger’s bow falling from her limp fingers. The reaction is so uncommon from this goddess that Anger slits his eyes, his attention jumping between her and Malice.

The goddess blanches, gaping at the demon with a haunted expression. “You,” she whispers.

To his credit, Malice’s eyebrows furrow. He recognizes her, but presumably not in the way she does him. “Tsk, tsk. It’s rude to stare.” But when the female fails to produce words, the demon squints. “Goddess of Wonder. I saw you once in my heydays, while puttering around in The Archives. Buuuut,” he draws out, “I doubt you ever noticed me. Or am I misdirected?” Bemused, he tilts his head. “Have we met before?”

The question hits like an arrow. It causes Wonder to buckle, her expression stricken as if she’s seen a ghost.

To that end, Anger is doubtful she’s even aware of Love anymore. Much less of anyone else’s presence.

Wonder is not the only one. Perplexed by the way she absently traces the floral scars on her hands, Malice regards the goddess’s fright with resentment. Because he hates not knowing the answers to everything, those ash-colored eyes narrow, vitriol staining them a darker shade.

The pair of deities stare at one another. And they don’t look away.

Anger should intervene, but the greedy side of him decides against it. There’s a lapse in time, an interlude in which nobody’s left but him and Love.

It’s an opportunity. So he takes it, grabs it in his fists, and heads toward her.

With each step, a violent storm erupts somewhere in this world. With each distance bridged, a monsoon wakes from sleep.

Anger halts inches from Love. He stares down at her bent head as she reads the introduction to an anthology of Greek myths. Her finger, which used to crook around her bowstring, glides down the table of contents as she searches for the chapter on Eros.

Once Anger makes a move, he cannot undo it. Bereavement slides across his tongue, then falters at the edges of his lips.

He leans over, because she’s diminutive compared to most deities. Even if she has an uneven skin tone, prickles of hair from an un-tweezed brow line, and irises that have dulled from maroon to reddish brown—the realities of being human—her height hasn’t changed.

As she scans the chapter, with all its pomp and inaccuracy, he blows into her ear, “It’s a lie.”

The effect is immediate. She stiffens, an intake of air slicing past her lips. Although she may not hear him, her spirit feels his words, senses them like a distant hunch. Even mortals express these perceptions, dubbing them as a sixth sense, clairvoyance, and deja vu.

Love’s head pans left, then right to check the library. After a moment, she returns to the page, only half concentrating.

“The myth of Eros is not the truth,” Anger whispers. “Your story is the truth.”

She clasps the book, squeezes its edges. But she isn’t afraid, because she doesn’t scare easily.

Not to mention, she has always been a daring female. That is why she angles her head, trepidation fading, confidence restored.

She’s intrigued. Or perhaps fascinated is the right description. Either way, she wants to know more, whatever this is.

Anger continues to penetrate her like a muse. “You were a star that refused to shine.”

At this, her lips twist in amusement. She likes the notion of being defiant. No surprise there.

She speaks, mumbling so that her mortal peers won’t overhear. “What else?”

Stars help him. They’re talking. She’s talking with him.

Their shared history bleeds from his mouth. “You wore a black dress, as you do now. You possessed hidden wings, yet you climbed evergreens.” His eyes cling to the rapid pulse in her wrist. “You were evasive and disobedient.” His fingers sail across her jaw, passing through her flesh like mist. “And you were everything.”

Her face slants. “Is that true?”

It is.

It was .

Anger had said, “you were everything.” Indeed, the past tense feels accurate. More than that, it feels absolute.

Love slides her chin toward his hand. It might be a consent for more.

Or she is merely inspecting. Or he is projecting.

Compassion creases her forehead, as if she’s guilty and sorry. As if she wants to interrogate her visitor, to know what she did to him, and then to apologize. To oblige Anger, make amends, make him feel better. It’s the most offensive and bittersweet moment he’s ever known with this goddess.

Anger’s mouth brushes a lock of her hair. She sucks in a breath, as though she can see him—see the hazy outline of him. Her gaze trails empty air, possibly envisioning the shape of his hand, his arm, his shoulder. She is almost there, almost to his eyes, almost level with him.

An inquiry stutters from her lips. “Who are you?”

What if Malice is right? What if the antidote is simpler than Anger thinks?

If he answers, it might cause a brushfire, a shift in events. It is a chance to tell her, to have faith that she might believe it, might recall everything.

But what if Malice is wrong? And what if Wonder is right?

It should be obvious whom to trust. This might also disrupt Love’s life and endanger his kind. He’s running the risk of forgetting himself and going too far. Replying might soothe Anger, but it might destroy Love. She might feel the deprivation of her past acutely, and he might rob her of peace. And his people of their existence.

It’s not worth it. It’s not what Anger wants.

This small exchange is enough. This intermission must be enough.

And he is fine with that.

Realization dawns like the sun. A painful pressure lifts. It flakes from his chest like cinders, the sensation akin to relief.

He observes her anew, registering the things she doesn’t have. No pink hair and brilliant irises like sparklers. No stardust freckles on her nose. No lustrous features that so often bring Anger to his knees. No talkative mouth that he hungers to kiss. No voice that sounds like music. No words that bring heat and light to his world.

Who sees you?

Yes, Love had been everything. For a little while. But not anymore.

Anger’s soul yearns for someone else. Just as Love was meant for someone else.

Someone who makes her happy. Someone who gives her what she needs. Someone who truly sees her.

Someone who’s heading this way.

The mortal male called Andrew rounds the corner. He’s handsome, with messy white hair and broad shoulders encased in a dark coat with a standing collar. And when his eyes land on Love, the pewter irises flare with a thousand moments, a million heartbeats. With selfless, unconditional love.

Anger hadn’t understood this feeling before. Yet he does now.

The audible buzz of mischief and devotion radiate from Andrew. Like a troublemaker—actually, very much like Love herself—he sneaks up behind his mate and rests his palms over her eyes.

“Guess who,” he murmurs. “And you’d better be right.”

His presence yanks the ground from beneath Anger and claims Love. The connection snaps like a cord. The jolt makes Anger stumble—one step, two steps, three steps.

Love’s interest in him evaporates, the veil falling back into place. Her attention returns to her lover, an ardent smile splitting her face. “Hmm,” she plays along. “It’s a wordsmith.”

“Who’s caught himself a feline,” Andrew husks.

“Not yet,” she flirts, placing the anthology onto the shelf and whirling toward him, her arms twining around his neck. “I caught you first.”

Their mouths fold into a deep, fervent kiss. Andrew’s arms encircle the crescent of Love’s waist as he whispers something erotic against her mouth, a private desire that makes her flush and moan into his lips.

Anger grips a neighboring shelf for balance. An overhead light spills into the aisle, rinsing him of this daze. As much as he enjoys seeing her well taken care of, remorse grabs him in a chokehold for what he’d just risked.

Love. No, Iris. Her name is Iris now.

Andrew straps his solid arms around Iris’s midriff and cradles her ass. He bites the top of her ear and murmurs, “If we were alone, I’d fuck you against these shelves.”

“When has that stopped us before?” she purrs, her skin pebbling from his touch.

The mortal groans. “Hold that thought for another few minutes.” Swiping his lips over hers, he inquires, “Any luck?”

“None,” Iris says, arching a single eyebrow. “Which is exactly why it feels like a trick.” Tipping her head toward the stacks, she indicates the titles.

Keeping one arm around her waist, Andrew audits the selection, his index finger flipping through the spines. “They’re out of order.”

“Strategically so,” Iris agrees. “Whoever it was, they did it on purpose.”

The man nods, drawing the same conclusion while running his digit along the embossed titles. “In which case—” he speaks into the crown of her head, “—I know where to find what we’re looking for.”

“Excellent. And what about that fuck you promised?”

Andrew’s mouth crooks. He hoists Iris closer and hums against her lips, “Insatiable woman. I might also know a dark and deep aisle for that too.”

“Mmm,” she teases. “We are rather talented at sneaking around.”

Accepting his hand, Iris abandons the aisle with Andrew. But before they leave, she pauses. Glancing over her shoulder, the female searches the empty space, questing for that ephemeral sensation, that silent voice. Then she offers a tentative grin of farewell.

In Anger’s periphery, Malice grunts. “Huh. Clever mortals.”

The god says this with a grudge. Knowing him, he’d rearranged the titles with painstaking attention to detail, making it supremely difficult to decode a pattern and locate the misplaced books in question. It’s further proof that Love and Andrew have been investigating their lost memories for a while. They’re smarter than Malice had given them credit for.

Anger processes the spot where the goddess had been standing. He considers trailing their pair, because he can still help them remember. He has a chance to answer Love’s questions. He can tell her more, if he prefers to be a fool, this being his selfish opportunity.

The rafters dispatch an excess of light. Suddenly, the library’s glow emits a neon tinge, like a bad omen. He inhales the scent of vanilla and suffers a hyperawareness, a presence wrought of anguish and disillusionment.

Beyond any tempest, this combination petrifies him. And just then, he knows. Frantic, Anger vaults around.

Malice is watching him. Wonder is watching him.

Merry is watching him.

She’s wearing a fluffy dress painted in pastel watercolors, with her boots planted on the floor. Her eyes blaze, and her features constrict with pain. The sight lances through Anger, for it doesn’t take scent, sound, or texture to comprehend what she’s going through.

She has been here for a while. She saw him with Love. She heard him with Love.

And he understands. Because he knows exactly what the fuck it feels like for a heart to break.

Then Merry’s face tightens into a chilling expression, a cold mask he’s never encountered before. It is the look of betrayal. Worse, of disenchantment.

Panicked, he strides toward her. “Merry—”

His bow punches against his chest. Strangled in her fist, the weapon’s impact forces him to stumble backward.

Merry glares at him. “You dropped this.”

Then she turns away and charges in the opposite direction. While she flees, he stands there, caught between one choice and another.

Go after Love. Or go after Merry.

Without a shred of hesitation, he bolts from the stacks.