Page 3

3

Anger

He isn’t prepared for her. He isn’t prepared to wake up in a bed that smells of vanilla, nor to discover a heart-shaped, scantily clad ass undulating in his face.

And he sure as shit isn’t prepared for the scream.

She screeches, the shrill lurch of noise equally comical and jarring. And very fucking loud. Her lungs strike the ceiling as she whips around, that same laced-covered ass knocking into a full-length mirror. The fixture quakes. The female drops the shirt she’d been holding, but she swipes it off the floor and holds it aloft like a shield, blotting out the exposed flesh of her body.

She gawks at Anger with eyes like fireworks. Vivid. Brilliant. Based on her reaction, an outside observer would conclude he’s an intruder rather than an unwilling inhabitant, the occupant of a bed covered in ruffles, with no forsaken clue how he got here.

Or there’s another possibility. Given the mussed sheets, the sheer material barely concealing her tits, and the peachy flush of her complexion, one would assume they’d been rutting like deities in heat.

Shit. Anger takes a second to panic. He had been lost in a void, after which he’d resurfaced to the sight of disheveled blankets and a bobbing ass. There are few scenarios in which a god will find himself in an anonymous bed, especially if he’s greeted by a female clad in panties the color of foreplay.

Anger has been intoxicated plenty of times. Though, not recently.

What’s more, he’s never been drunk while fucking someone. In every scenario, Anger has only buried his cock inside the opposite sex while sober. Those empty, meaningless escapades had been desperate attempts to purge certain frustrations from his system, to rid himself of feelings that ultimately cannot be extinguished. But that’s another cursed story.

He’s no fool. It would have taken mass quantities of alcohol to wipe last night from memory. However, a few saving graces prevent Anger from throwing a fit. One, he’s fully garbed. Two, he doesn’t suffer the dregs of a hangover. Three, another shock of color surges up the female’s cheeks as she clutches the shirt to her figure.

No goddess would behave this way if he’d spent hours giving her orgasms. And mated or not, an unclothed deity would hardly behave modestly in his presence.

Yet she’s an immortal. That much is evident, since only deities can see one another. There has only been one human exception in history, which he does not care to dwell on.

A song drifts through the bedroom. The source is a record player, which has begun to skip because of the female’s stunned reaction moment’s ago. Moreover, a dozen accessories swarm around Anger, all of which belong on a parade float. A beaded camisole hooks over his shoulder. A scalloped gown drapes brazenly across his lap. She must have idly tossed them his way while searching for something to wear.

His features taper into a glower. A belated thought lays siege to his mind.

Is this bitch taking advantage of his incapacity? Where is her bow?

Where is his bow?

Anger gets angry. His arm lashes out, swatting the burdens from his proximity. The textiles go flying, making the female jump in place.

He tears out of the bed and strides up to her, his body halting centimeters from the cotton shielding her attributes. The female’s eyes widen. As his shadow collides with hers, the barest hint of a shiver passes through her. Yet this mystifying creature doesn’t appear intimidated or skittish.

“I asked you a question,” he grits out. “Who the fu—”

But before he can finish, Anger’s skull jackhammers. The onslaught cuts off his growl, a landslide of pain invading his cranium.

His hostess snaps out of her trance. “My name is Merry,” she rushes out while urging him back to bed and then hastening to get dressed. “That’s Merry with an e and two r ’s. As to the story, you were hurt—” she drops and crawls across the ground, “—during the carnival skirmish.” She retrieves a skirt and shimmies into it, her motions wormlike on the floor. “That’s when you passed out—” she throws on the t-shirt she’d been carrying, “—and I brought you here.”

At the bed’s footboard, the goddess rises onto her knees and blows a lock of hair from her face. “We met at the Constellation Carousel.”

Anger squints. “Come again?”

“The carousel. You know, it’s a ride that—”

“I know what the fuck a carousel is!”

“It’s constellation-themed, like most things in both dimensions of this city. We met there when you saved me from certain death, and then I rescued you back, and then you fell into my arms. Can you think of no better location to have a first encounter? And during a valiant battle?” Her dreamy voice floats on a cloud while she clutches the footboard. “Far be it from me to stand back and let you do all the badass work, which is why I joined the fray and defended you from Malice. But once he retreated, you were quite done for. Do you like music?”

Anger just stares at her, his mouth open.

She has a thin gap between her front teeth, yet her lips are of average size. For fuck’s sake, how can anyone pack that many words into a compact space?

Merry bounces to her feet and adjusts the record’s needle, then glances at the vacant spot beside him. She hesitates, silently asking permission. The fluted skin between her brows is hopeful and oddly endearing.

Stumped, Anger doesn’t object. Beaming, she drops onto the blanket and scoots closer.

A lot closer.

Anger hedges, unsure whether to interrogate this goddess or evacuate the premises. She’s primping, brushing through her ponytail and smoothing out the layers. Next, she adjusts the cotton shirt, rearranges the pleated skirt, and smooths out her gloves.

Fingerless gloves like his, except hers are woven into black nets. He hadn’t noticed the accessories until now. But once he does, Anger has trouble removing his gaze from them. She has lovely, slender hands.

Those hands reach out, about to make contact with his temple. “You’ve got a tragic bruise there.”

He shifts out of fondling range. Merry winces, her hand jerking back, hurt consuming her expression. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

“What carousel?” he asks. “What carnival? And what fucking skirmish?”

“I have first aid.” She’s relentless, rushing to grab a damp cloth from the nightstand and then returning to his side. She extends her arm, ready to mash the wad against him, but Anger’s had enough.

He jolts away. This Merry creature seems crestfallen by the rejection, and he’s beginning to comprehend why. In the few extraordinary minutes he’s known her, it’s obvious she possesses a saccharine side, which she has no intention of containing. It’s abundantly clear that she likes what she sees. Even more, the female enjoys the sight of him occupying her rumpled bed.

Shit. Infatuation. That’s all he needs.

Yet for some infernal reason, Anger abhors the bereft look on her face, and he loathes himself for being the cause of it. The visual stokes his blood, so that he wants to punch his own reflection for wounding her. Restraining the impulse, he accepts the cloth with a nod of gratitude and sets it against his temple, grimacing as he does so.

The gesture resurrects the color in Merry’s cheeks, a smattering of star-dusted freckles glinting from her upturned nose. She appears to be his age, under a few millennia old.

Her bedroom is ensconced within a glass observatory overlooking the firmament, with double doors leading to a rooftop deck. Mounted to the translucent walls, sconces emit jeweled-toned light.

A theatrical deity with a penchant for chatter. Idealistic, pink hair and matching irises, the latter as animated as a marquee.

This should not lure Anger’s attention. But it does.

Evidently, his gaze possesses a mind of its own, taking a second look. A longer, slower look. His eyes slide over her features, the sweetness of her countenance drawing him in when such expressions never have before from other deities. Certainly not the ones he has bedded.

And yet. He cannot glance away. The blush in her countenance makes her appear recently fucked, which leads to unnerving visions of Merry’s head thrown back, her mouth open in rapture, moans breaking from her bare throat, and—

Fucking Stars. Anger stifles another growl, confounded by the rapid flow of blood to his cock. Fine, she’s pretty.

Very pretty.

But who the devil cares? And who The Fates is she?

Prying his gaze from her lips takes more effort than it warrants. At this rate, he’ll need a crowbar to extract his eyes from the sight. He forces himself to wake the hell up and concentrate, searching for a topic that will bring his senses into focus.

“You have wings.”

Yes. That does the fucking trick.

Anger’s head whips toward Merry. Evidently, she had caught sight of his secret at some point before the attack, prior to him retracting the wings. Stars almighty, thousands of years safeguarding his wings from detection, but in one fell swoop, this female has dismantled those efforts. Still, he’s not about to confirm a damn thing until she elaborates.

Which she has no problem doing. “The wings are iron, right?” And now that she’s rendered him speechless, Merry explains, “I only got a couple of glimpses, but I know my way around assembled things. I built my motorcycle. Well, actually I beseeched The Stars for the parts and then built it myself.”

Only a couple of glimpses. Yet none of his crew had ever discovered the wings; certainly, Anger never told one particular member. And now more than ever, it’s best not to change that fact.

He could insist Merry is mistaken. Though, the confidence in her tone suggests she won’t believe him.

“Whatever conclusion you’ve drawn, you owe me your discretion,” he warns. “In the battle, I came to your aid. I saved you.”

“I saved you back,” she replies blithely.

“Even so. You will say nothing about this to anyone.”

“Why would I do otherwise?” Those luminous eyes brighten, her imagination running rampant. “You’re an outcast, right? Are the wings your crime? In The Dark Fates, I’m told it’s blasphemy to alter yourself, though that seems ridiculous. To have iron wings is a beautiful thing, not a sinful cause for exile. Who wouldn’t wish to fly? Unless you’re afraid of heights, which is also unlikely for our kind. Though, I’m sure immortal iron is heavy to bear every second of your life. Of course, you don’t look like someone who has a problem carrying that wingspan on your shoulders. But then again, I’ve always heard… ”

The bit about blasphemy is accurate. However, the wings are not the impetus for his expulsion. Not that he’s interested in elaborating.

At any rate, Merry does an astounding job of filling the silence to capacity. After promising not to reveal the wings to anyone, she recaps last night’s events, which come back to Anger slowly. The motorcycle chase. The carnival arena. The combat. Briefly, he recalls the events that led him to this city, the memories prior to his arrival here, which leave a sour taste in his mouth.

Merry offers him a glass of water. Anger guzzles the contents, aware of her gaze idling on his Adam’s apple like a piece of candy. For no unearthly reason, her attention is palpable, akin to a brush of fingers against his flesh, the contact racketing up his pulse.

It’s nothing. Merely the effect of being sexually dormant for so long.

With a grunt, Anger sets down the glass. It’s best not to request a refill, since that will encourage her to continue staring.

Reading his features, Merry beams. “It’s coming back to you. Oh, I’m glad. I was beginning to worry our chance encounter would never be relived. That would be gut-wrenching, don’t you think?”

“You have not answered my question,” he grates. “Who are you?”

“I already told you. I’m Merry.”

“And who exactly is Merry?”

“She’s a deity like you.”

He drums his fingers on his knee, instructing himself not to blow a gasket. “Be more specific.”

“I was banished like you. Did you lose your ability to wield emotion? If so, I’d recommend being grateful that outcasts at least get to keep all their other powers. That said, you’re lucky Malice’s fists didn’t drive you into anything sharp, because then you’d really be dead. But anyway, I’ve also heard that living forever might be overrated, especially by the time you reach ten thousand years, which tends to complicate things. Have you heard that?”

A frown slides down Anger’s face. “The only thing I’m hearing at the moment is you.”

Merry settles deeper into the bed. “I’ve been here since I was born, so no archery or assigned emotion for me. Is that enough information to satisfy you? Because you’re not getting anything else until you’ve earned it.”

“Since you were born,” Anger repeats, drawing out the words. “You have been here since you were born.”

“I was banished from The Dark Fates at infancy, but not because I did anything wrong. Immortal newborns don’t hatch with nefarious intentions, as far as I know. Instead, I’m considered a lackluster star. Their words, not mine.” Her dramatic sigh rivals that of an opera singer. “Evidently, I fizzled out before my time. Though I prefer the term unique, perhaps revolutionary, or maybe nonconformist.”

Whatever title she settles on, her fate is worse than being banished for a crime. In the latter case, at least a deity has the opportunity to exist amid their homeland and prove themselves. But their realm had disposed of Merry from the onset, for something having to do with inadequacy, a distinct lack of abilities or promise. Inexplicably, he does not care for this notion, the acid taste of hostility corroding on his tongue.

While he broods, Merry strikes several different poses. If it’s a ploy to entice him, she’s wasting her time. Talkative is not his type, however alluring he finds those shapely hands and brilliant eyes, nor how attractive she had looked straddling that motorcycle, her thighs clinging to the vehicle as it vibrated between her thighs.

Ultimately, someone else occupies Anger’s heart. A goddess whom he’s failed to vanquish from his soul.

“On what grounds were you cast off?” he asks. “What emotion were you supposed to wield?”

“That’s my secret,” Merry says. “I’ll tell you once we’ve grown closer.”

She’s bullshitting. Yes, she will probably tell him soon enough. But the part about it being a secret is a falsehood, because there’s a tang of dishonesty in her reply.

Apart from figures such as Joy, Elation, and Delight, there is no deity who represents “merriness.” So that cannot be the emotion she’d been born to wield.

But despite knowing nothing else about her, there’s a genuineness to this goddess, a raw sincerity that means no harm. Merry had puzzled over why Anger would expect her to broadcast the existence of his wings. Strangely, he trusts her pledge.

“What about you?” Merry inquires. “Tell me your story.”

Anger rations his words. “I grew up in The Dark Fates. I am a god who made a mistake. Now I’m paying for it.”

As predicted, she lobs more questions at him. What crew did he belong to? Why was he banished? What transgression did he commit?

Jumping into her next monologue, she doesn’t spare him a moment to actually respond. Just as well. He’s not in the mood for chit-chat, much less to confide why he ended up here, which would only put his intentions at risk and endanger her.

“The one you called Malice,” Anger inquires. “Who is he?”

“The villain,” Merry replies. “There are two kinds of exiles here. The ones who hug and the ones who stab. The latter is Malice in a jar. He’s a demon god with the soul of a sadist and no regard for compassion, fairness, decency, mercy, benevolence, or neutral territories. Combat is prohibited in The Moonlit Carnival, but he only thinks in terms of bloodshed and deceit, whereas I got swept up in the moment while rescuing you, and you didn’t know any better about the rules.”

“And why was he chasing you?”

“Territory reasons. I was trespassing for secret purposes you also won’t get out of me. At any rate, outcasts each have their turfs, and we each have our homes within those turfs. This is mine.” She smiles, flashing that toothy gap. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

Anger snaps, “Who said I was?”

“I do. You’re invited. Don’t you want to be invited by me?”

“What does my face tell you?”

She takes that literally, her effervescent gaze appraising his features. “It tells me you’re afraid to get close to anyone because… the last time you did, it wounded you gravely.”

“She did not wound me.”

The pronoun just comes out. Too damn late, Anger realizes his error.

“Oh.” Merry pounces. “Are you a man scorned?”

“Fuck almighty. Are you for real?”

“That means yes.” She shackles his fingers, clamping them to her own. “Did you suffer a forbidden romance with another god or goddess, thus forfeiting your status, and that’s why you were banished? How disastrous. You must be world-weary and in need of emotional mending.”

Truthfully, he’s in need of a fire escape. Anger wrenches his hand from hers, thunderstruck by the way her touch electrifies his flesh, so much that he flexes his digits to alleviate the disconcerting effect.

A self-directed spike of rage climbs up his windpipe, a shout building there. What the hell is going on with him? Worse is the magnetic urge to backtrack and reciprocate her touch, to sketch that talkative mouth, to feel her sigh rush across his skin.

Fuck’s sake. He tears out of the bed. “Where is my archery?”

“I don’t know,” she confesses, rising with him. “The last time I saw it, you were targeting Malice, and everything happened so fast. By the time I got you to your feet, I didn’t see the bow or quiver anywhere.”

He nods. “Then we’re done here.”

“No, wait!” She braces her fishnet palms on his chest. “We’ve only just met.”

He ignores that while striding toward the translucent double doors leading to the rooftop deck. Someplace in the arena, they’d left behind the sole relic of his existence. Deprived of the bow, he feels lost, hollow, incomplete.

As Anger yanks open the door, Merry hastens to delay him. “You haven’t told me your name.”