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Merry

Done. She’s absolutely, fatefully, fucking done with him.

Merry storms across the wooden floor, charging past books and cubicles. She blasts through a student—“What the fuck!” the human blusters—then blows around a desk, scattering a tower of paper behind her. The leaflets flutter like feathers, the explosion forcing a study group to scramble after the casualties. She leaves a visible trail, a whirlwind of debris in her wake.

Outside, her bike awaits. Mounting the seat and gunning into motion, Merry tackles a sharp turn. Accelerating down the sidewalk, the wind whips through her hair, and her fingers clench the handlebars with a vengeance.

So these are the side effects of love: envy, sorrow, and anger.

There’s no room for wonder, except to marvel at how stupid she has been. If Merry were a heroine in a novel, she’d be an unreliable one. Rightly so, since she should have been smarter, should have given up on Anger after that first escapade on the motorcycle, after he broke away and soared off like a coward. She shouldn’t have forgiven him, regardless of his tortured-hero status. Certainly, she shouldn’t have let him kiss her, stick his tongue inside, finger her in the shower, and hump her against the tiles one day later. If Merry hadn’t turned to putty in his arms, if she had played the scorned female with a heart of stone instead, he would have groveled to no avail. And she would have been victorious.

Yes, Merry still would have followed Anger, tracking down the evident signs of his frustration all the way to the library. Of course, she would have spied on them from a safe distance. None of that would have changed.

But if Merry had let go of Anger earlier, then maybe it would have hurt less to see him with her—with Love.

Merry hadn’t needed to be told who that human was. Tales of the goddess’s raven features are legendary. Besides, she heard Anger’s every word, having arrived just as he reached the female’s side. Any other time, Merry would have gawked at the former celebrity, the first successfully created Goddess of Love in history, who had chosen her heart instead of her magic. It’s a stance Merry applauds, for Love’s story is the truest of soulmates defying the odds.

Merry would have stood in awe of the female, if Anger’s actions hadn’t capsized her soul, her stomach rotating on its axis. When the sleazeball god discovered he’d been caught, Merry hadn’t recognized her own voice, the snarl of her words.

Stunning him felt incredible. Jilting him had felt satisfying.

At last, she knows what it feels like to be repelled by him. Merry may yearn for Anger, but she draws the line at playing second string. She doesn’t care who he is, what he is, or how he feels. She doesn’t care about the legend. She doesn’t care that she hasn’t revealed that secret to him yet. She’d been amiss, for he’s nothing but an unfaithful alpha asshole with commitment issues and a disrespect for mortals. He’s a two-faced, two-timing, double-crossing, wishy-washy, cake-and-eat-it-too tramp.

She’s not done. He’s a pining, waffling fraud!

Okay, now she’s done.

Larkspurs sway on either side of her. Their petals perfume the atmosphere as she drives past a garden in Midnight Park. Technically, she shouldn’t be here since this is Malice’s turf. But the rage god is lurking in the library and tending to his corrupt agenda, whatever that may be.

And Wonder is there too, though Merry hadn’t paid her much attention. She’d been too inflicted by the one-sided love scene playing out in the aisle—at least until Love’s handsome mate had shown up and stolen her from Anger.

The memory injects Merry with perverse pleasure, fueling her to push the motorcycle harder, the wheels grinding into the asphalt. She’d been a fool—a lovelorn, wanton fool unable to tell fact from fiction.

Well, let this be a lesson. She won’t give up on the legend or her quest, will learn from this mishap, and will grow a thicker hide. To that end, she’ll find someone else to care about, another jaded soul to kindle no matter how long it takes. Good riddance to him.

A sob knots in her throat. Channeling what’s left of her immortal nature, Merry sucks it up like a proper deity. Without slowing down, she yanks a larkspur from its roots and aims it like an arrow, fury sizzling through her like firecrackers. She doesn’t have a weapon other than her motorcycle, so she needs a prop, and this stem is pointy.

After a few blocks, she tosses the flower and vaults toward the Fountain of Aquarius, the landmark where Malice had tried to shoot her. The bike cycles around the geyser’s base—then skids to a halt.

A winged silhouette cuts across the pavement. Then Anger drops in front of her, his boots hitting the ground just as Merry brakes.

At the sight of him, the organ wedged in her chest rams against her breastbone. Her molars gnash so hard, they’re in danger of cracking. She’d been speeding faster than she had realized.

Based on Anger’s heaving torso, disarrayed hair, and massive wingspan, he must have flown across the buildings at lightning speed to reach her. He stands there like a fallen god, the iron plumes flaring on either side, the panels majestic to behold. For once, he shows no interest in whether they capture the attention of roaming outcasts, no intention of hiding them.

The reek of desperation emanates from him, along with remorse, shame, and fear. The distrustful mixture of scents clogs Merry’s nostrils, a thick buildup that offends her. It extinguishes any residual longing.

“This is where I first saw you,” he says in a gentle voice.

Astride the bike, Merry glowers. “I saw you first.”

“That depends on whether we’re speaking literally or figuratively. To the latter, I agree.”

“Get out of my way, God of Anger.”

“Merry—”

“Don’t.” She recoils when his hand steals out to touch her. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Anger’s face crumbles, agony wrenching across his features. “What you saw—it’s not what you think.”

A humorless laugh shears from her lungs. “That’s the best you can do? Soooooo superior to mortals, yet in a moment of weakness, you’re no better than any conventional douchebag in this realm.”

“I was not choosing Love over you. It wouldn’t be possible.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Merry tapers her eyes. In other words, he hadn’t chosen Love only because it wasn’t technically possible. Because the goddess hadn’t seen him. And because she’s taken.

Anger hadn’t betrayed Merry. But he would have.

I will not weep. I will not.

Realizing his error, Anger storms closer, his features stricken. “No,” he rushes out. “No, that is not what I meant.”

But it’s too late. Merry’s voice splinters. “You lying, philandering prick.”

“Please, Merry. Please, let me explain—”

“Oh, but that’ll be a problem. You’ve never been good with words, right? Actions are your strong suit.”

“I did not know she would be there.”

“That doesn’t make a difference!”

“You’re right, it doesn’t!” he yells back. “You cannot blame me for having a history. That does not vanish with the passage of time. But that doesn’t mean I was trying to relive the past, nor does it mean I want it back!”

“Right,” Merry jeers. “Why seek out a lost cause when you’ve got an easier distraction. A starry-eyed outcast goddess who can’t take a hint. Because hey, what’s the harm in letting your cock enjoy what’s offered so freely?”

Anger pales. “It was never like that with you. It was… beyond what I could ever wish for… and beyond what I deserve.”

The words clamp around her gut. It sounds like he’s alluding to whatever he’d hoped to share with Merry prior to leaving the rooftop. Not that she wants to hear more, because she’s endured enough. For mercy’s sake, she’d been attached to him like adhesive. For the first time, remembering all the ways she had flung herself at this male disgraces her.

“Every moment between us has meant more than you know,” Anger implores. “It was real, even if it should not have been.”

With the bike idling between her legs, Merry cups his face. “Would you like to hear what else I know? You were born inside a blazing star. A star too fierce to be shackled. A star that once wanted to break loose from the sky. You’re a god who’s afraid of storms, takes solace in heat and light, and is torn between rage and restraint. You have trouble admitting things; but when you do, it’s all or nothing. You’re not afraid to be wrong, but you hardly ever believe you’re wrong. You find strength in iron more than in yourself. You trust tradition and distrust change. You hate instability, yet you’re the most ungrounded person I’ve ever met. And I’ll bet you forged those wings to escape what scares you, to escape any shred of vulnerability, because what’s the point if you’re not exemplary or distinguished in everyone’s eyes? You’re so determined to flee your own weaknesses that you can’t appreciate your true strengths, too ambitious to value what you already have.”

Anger has never told Merry this next detail. However, she recalls how he watches the sky, particularly when it’s void of clouds. Then she takes a guess. “Also, your favorite color is gold. Like the sunrise.”

He opens his mouth to entreat something, but she presses a finger to his lips. Then her voice cracks. “Does she know all that?”

Pain chips his features to pieces. “Merry, I’m begging you—”

“Goodbye, Anger.”

The engine rumbles, and she shoots past the haggard god, deserting him. She senses Anger vaulting around, watching her leave.

But he doesn’t pursue her. And she’s glad.

The farther she gets, the steadier she feels, the more she cries.