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Anger

Rising three levels high, Midnight Park’s fountain spritzes water from a makeshift jug. Anger stares at the spot where she’d been standing. It’s vacant now, where there had once been radiance. While facing off with him, Merry hadn’t lost that luster.

His chest hollows. It’s a collapsed sort of feeling, everything shattering into jagged pieces. It reminds him of when he was younger, glowering at his reflection in a mirror, wanting to be taller, wanting to grow up, and assuming it would make him accomplished.

That it would make him strong. That it would make him worthy.

His eyes burn to a degree of which he’s unaccustomed. Even when Love had rebuffed him, his ducts stayed dry. But now a liquid pressure pushes against his rims.

He will not let it out. Not with Malice strutting up beside him on the curb.

The fountain hisses, the deluge spraying their clothes with moisture and glazing the vegetation in dew. To Anger’s surprise—though, what should surprise him at this juncture?—the demon god does not speak. He doesn’t gloat or congratulate Anger on steering Merry closer toward heartbreak.

Had Malice known Merry would show up? Had he engineered it that way?

Red sizzles in Anger’s vision. Any second, his fury will take action, and his nemesis will end up losing a kidney.

“Did you orchestrate this part too?” he fumes.

“No, mate,” Malice answers quietly. “This one’s all on you.”

To say the least, the god’s baffled and empathetic tone clashes with his black soul. But for some reason, Anger suspects it has less to do with the scene in the library and more to do with the goddess who had tried to intervene.

On that score, Wonder hasn’t approached Anger yet. That must mean she has vacated the premises, which also means she’s gone after Merry.

This must be a day for the unexpected—and again, when has anything thus far been predictable?—because Malice says with perplexing, preoccupied reluctance that they’re almost there. That Merry’s heart is about to fracture.

All she needs is one final nudge. And when that happens, Anger will know. He’ll feel it in his bones.

Malice spews a bunch of bullshit, the tirade nothing but a drone of white noise as he urges Anger to remember that moment with Love, to remember she’s in the library. Accessible. Penetrable. The outcast god offers to distract Andrew by making a few dictionaries levitate. That will give Anger the chance to finish what he started.

Yet it’s nothing but empty commotion, for which he has no fucks left to give. “I’m done,” Anger snarls, shoving past Malice.

A viselike grip clamps onto his arm. “No, mate. You’re not.”

A thousand glass shards can be plucked from that statement—a tedious and cutting task yielding a thousand implications, which amount to a warning. To be sure, the calmest words often make the deadliest threats.

Anger wrenches back his arm. “Touch me again, and I’ll take your hand with me.” Then he gets nose-to-nose with Malice. “It’s over. If you have a problem with that, I can always spill your intentions to The Fate Court. I may be as exiled as you, I may have disobeyed them like you, and I may have been forced to fire at them because of you. I may have just defied another tenet in that library, but you’ve been with me every step of the way, and I’ll make sure they know that. I don’t give a fuck if you concocted lies that got The Court to place some modicum of faith in you. I’ll take my chances.”

“Is that right?” Malice contests. “And how much does your two cents matter to them?”

“Very little, at this point,” Anger acknowledges. “But you were once an Archive squatter, whereas I was once their most trusted archer, and that counts. I have lost everything, a fact they’re aware of.” He glances up and down Malice’s murky form and patronizes, “But you? I would say you still have something to lose. Are you willing to bet your deviance against my humility? Which one will have a more pungent stink? Of course, if you’re going to be obstinate, there is also the issue of Wonder.”

At the sound, weight, and shape of her name, Malice twitches. An inexplicable reflex, like someone’s holding a syringe to his neck.

“Oh, that one,” he mutters. “It’s a pity about her hands. Scars are so permanent. Though, she probably deserved what she got.” Then he tosses Anger a sideways glance. “Go ahead. Call me an evil motherfucker and a heinous son of a bitch. That way I can say, ‘I fuck no one, and I’m the son of no one.’”

“To the former, not a soul cares. To the latter, Satan comes to mind.”

“Come now, mate. At least think mythical, not biblical. Think, Hades.”

“Sure,” Anger condescends. “Go ahead and identify yourself as a fictional entity crafted by quaint little mortals who believe wearing black and roasting for eternity is sexy. Ultimately, that’s easier to digest than dealing with who you really are.”

For once… for goddamn once… the accusation strikes true. The veneer drops like a mask, stripping Malice’s features raw, bringing them into stark contrast. His facial muscles condense, he shuts the fuck up, and his pupils glow with some type of haunted memory that visibly wreaks havoc in his mind, scrambling his thoughts like eggs on a frying pan.

Anger knows that look. It’s the expression of someone who has lived in forced captivity. Someone who’s been tortured not just physically, but mentally. Malice appears to be remembering every second of it, the sight so chilling it takes another moment to remember with whom Anger’s dealing.

Malice might suffer from a past horror, which might have contributed to his cognitive deterioration. But it has also turned him into a manipulator, a conjurer of smoke and mirrors.

A second later, the delirium clears. Wrath cuts across Malice’s features.

Anger is prepared to stab his way out of here, away from the god’s presence. But the pissant doesn’t move a muscle. Perhaps he understands that in Anger’s state, it’s a losing battle.

Or who the fuck knows why Malice reacts the way he does to anything? One moment he’s maniacally obsessed with his agendas, the next deceptively flippant.

Again, the root of his motivation is debatable, much like his sanity.

Certainly, an exile would slay to reclaim their place in The Dark Fates. But for Malice, there’s more. He might have an axe to grind with The Court, or he might want to prove himself, or he might want entry back into The Archives and its Hollow Chamber for other reasons.

Once there, what additional wisdom would Malice seek?

In any case, this shrewd demon understands Anger’s meaning. Wonder is perceptive, plus a witness to what happened in the library, in which Malice had been an accomplice rather than an opponent.

The demon god cocks his head, storing those facts in the tangled web of his frontal lobe. And shit. On second thought, Anger should have left Wonder out of the equation. Identifying her as a threat will only instigate this male.

Yet the outcast shrugs. “Suit yourself and fuck off,” he spits, swinging his arm toward the street and inviting Anger to leave. “Feel free to gag on your regrets. It’ll save me the trouble of killing you later—”

He growls, interrupted as Anger slams him into the library facade, the length of one arrow impaling Malice’s shoulder. The weapon punctures the demon’s flesh, blood gushing like water from a firehose as Anger pins him. Their respirations clash like steam, Malice grunting while Anger seethes into the fucker’s face.

“Stay away from Merry,” Anger fumes. “Stay away from Wonder. And stay the fuck away from Love and her mate.”

Malice sniggers through his pain, a sloppy grin roping across his mouth. “You could have gone for a vital organ. Intriguing that you didn’t.”

No. It is not.

This is a temporary parley. Because Malice has more secrets buried inside him than a catacomb, extracting them might yield valuable knowledge concerning a dozen enigmas. Until Anger unearths more, he isn’t about to turn the demon into a corpse.

Not yet.

“Whatever, mate.” Malice makes a show of raising his hands, crimson squirting down the leather vestment. “No touching your precious little found family. You’re fair game, though. I said I wouldn’t kill you, but now that your weapon has ruined my favorite jacket, I’ve got a second wind. In other words, I’m not done playing with you.”

Let him try. So long as Anger is the only target, he doesn’t give a shit. The more focused Malice is on him, the better Anger’s chances of uprooting information, hopefully to the crew’s advantage.

“We’ll see,” Anger says, then yanks back the arrow.

Malice grunts, his shoulder oozing. It will heal, though he does nothing to staunch the flow. Instead, he struts backward and throws out his arms despite the agony this must cause.

“See?” the demon quotes. “What makes you think you’ll ever see me coming, mate?”

Then he evanesces like smog. Upon arrival, Anger had detected Malice’s message coming from indoors. Therefore, it had been safe to use the wings. By contrast, it’s unwise to reveal them in the demon’s immediate wake.

This time, Anger stalks away on foot. The fountain’s haze and Midnight Park’s trimmed hedges pass on either side of him. Despite the company he’s been keeping, he does not blame Malice. That outcast dropped this situation in Anger’s lap, but he hadn’t forced him into anything, hadn’t told him what to do. Anger had made those choices of his own free will.

Moss spouts from between the cobblestones. A poignant ray of blue light stains the sidewalk, pouring from the windows of a music venue.

Anger quickens his pace, his boots striking the pavement. His quiver bangs against his spine, the arrows clattering.

Where is he going? Why the fuck can’t he stop himself?

Never mind. The answers to these questions are obvious.

He should backpedal. He should walk it off, from one end of this misbegotten city to the next.

He should give Merry time. He should give her space. He should let her be.

He should not, not, not be self-destructing toward the observatory.

This is why the heart is an unreliable weapon. It does things without his permission, misaligns with reason, goes off on a tangent, and pursues what he has no right to claim.

The tempo of his pulse accelerates, the rhythm punctuated by urgent footsteps. Fear coils like thorns around his ribs, while inadequacy runs a close second.

What will he say?

What can he say?

Loss drills a hole in his chest, because he’s no longer welcome here. The place where she made an outdoor home for him.

He hazards walking through the building’s entrance, trespassing into the foyer where a mosaic of stars decorates the floor. There’s an echoing quiet, in which Anger can hear his own stupidity. Too late, he realizes this is a bad idea.

Whipping around to leave, he achieves one step before a baritone calls from above, the words firing like ammunition. “If you didn’t have such an iconic face, I’d smash it to a pulp.”

Anger glances up at Envy, who’s leaning over a mezzanine railing with his wrists crossed and dangling over the side. Before Anger can respond, charcoal gray hair and a set of irritated eyes emerge.

Sorrow scowls. “Oh, good grief. If mortals are right about one thing, it’s that patience is a virtue. Do you have any idea what the shelf-life of a proper wallow is? Go away, Anger. Come back when Merry’s found her roar and you’ve found your grovel.”

“You heard the nymph,” Envy says, flapping his fingers. “Shoo.”

“Where is she?” Anger growls.

They hurdle over the railing and hit the foyer, the pair of them forming a blockade. They’re usually a mocking, pretentious pair. Not a protective one.

Anger doesn’t know whether to laugh without humor or suffer without dignity. They’re ganging up on him. He remembers the feeling of being ostracized, except he has earned it now more than ever. And if he’s going to lose the respect of his crew, at least they’re supporting Merry. At least he is losing them to her.

A fall of rich brown hair and a silhouette of curves sweeps between the archers. “Come defend yourself before I slap you,” Wonder directs while striding past him on her bare feet, her gown swatting her legs.

Anger is grateful for the offer, repentance and demands about Merry’s wellbeing wrestling for a prime spot on his tongue. They mount stairways and sequester themselves in a windowed hallway overlooking the city. Wonder halts beside the glass and spins, her skirt fanning around her limbs.

The goddess studies him through tired eyes. Leave it to this goddess to be the only one without a bias.

A disappointed sigh unfurls from her lips. “Oh, Anger.”

“I was wrong,” he snaps. “I went about it the wrong way. I know this.”

“But?”

Dammit all to hell. “But Love deserves to remember who she was. As does her mate.”

“Really? You’re advocating for Andrew now?” Unamused, Wonder crosses her arms. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s only that I marvel at who inspired you to this rather impressive change of heart.”

“Passive aggression does not become you, Wonder.”

“And rashness doesn’t look good on you, Anger.”

She’s right. On that account, the statement makes him feel equally chaotic and nostalgic for the times when they had been a full crew instead of a divided one.

“Growing up, you were both so similar,” the goddess reminisces. “The same temperament, the same stubbornness. Defiant, in your respective ways. The main distinction was Love’s curiosity for humans and your ignorance of them, and perhaps a little of her mischief versus your temper. But you were never similar or different in a way that creates balance. So I must ask. Do you still believe she was meant for you?”

His testimony leaves a tang in his mouth like fruit that has lost its ripeness, a crop that cannot be preserved. “No,” he states. “I do not.”

Relief loosens Wonder’s features. “Then what the devil were you thinking? Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“I just told you!”

“No,” Wonder alleges. “That’s not what I’m asking. You want to revive Love’s memory. You say it’s because she deserves to know who she truly is, and I agree with you. We all do. Your hopes might have been different once—”

“They were,” he swears.

“And it appears those hopes have changed—”

“They have.”

Wonder nods, then draws out the inquisition slowly. “But why are you determined to be the one who resurrects her? Why, Anger?”

The muscle in his temple pounds. He does not want to confess this secret to anyone but Merry. But he cannot do that until he admits it to himself.

Wonder expels a satisfied breath. Perhaps his contemplation is all she’d been seeking.

“Your heart has been given a second chance. A real one, this time.” Her eyes shimmer. “Don’t forsake your luck.”

Anger swallows. To shield this reaction, he swerves his head toward the window. It’s going to rain in the coming days, heavy enough to drown The Stars. The goddess’s speech bears resemblance to her past mistakes. It ignites the visual of her and Malice in the library. Wonder’s haunted expression and the way she had traced the wildflower scars.

“Why did you react to Malice the way you did?” he murmurs.

From the sideline, Wonder’s throat constricts as she levels her gaze beyond the panes. “He reminds me of someone I knew.”

“Is that someone a human?”

It’s an improbable question, one that makes zero sense. And when she offers no reply, Anger realizes whom Malice reminds her of—who he resembles. Wonder has never honored Anger with the backstory in its totality, but he knows the major points and what it cost her.

It appears they’ve all had their shocks today.

Anger gauges her inquisitive mind and proceeds with caution. Softening his tone, he says, “Reincarnation is not possible, Wonder.”

She swallows. “A lot of things weren’t supposed to be possible.”

Whether her suspicion is correct, she will find out. She’ll make that her mission, because that’s who she is.

Her face drifts back to Anger. “Today, you walked toward Love. But you ran to Merry.”

And that’s what she leaves him with. That is what Anger carries from the observatory, from the neighborhood, to the carnival. Or at least, the borders of it. He cannot bring himself to breach the arched entrance, much less step into the mass of lollipop-colored strobes.

Settling onto a bench, Anger gets a saccharine whiff of the berry nectar he and Merry had partaken in on that first night. Electronic pings and buzzers resound from the Ethereal Arcade, the place where he saw her playing hostess to humans and then dancing on a countertop.

She had spun like a disco ball, her smile flinging light and warmth all over the forsaken place. Anger hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself back then, but she had hypnotized him.

Somewhere nestled in the arena, the carousel is rotating. That ride is where she got him to communicate things he never had before. For once, he had enjoyed himself. The pleasure had been simple but profound.

Bulbs flare with illumination. Midday deepens into afternoon, then afternoon darkens into evening. The day passes quickly.

How long has he been sitting here?

Long enough to watch the incoming downpour, a gray pallet soaking the atmosphere. From what Anger has learned of the elements, this will grow into a formidable tempest. The wind will howl and uproot debris, soaking the theme park as well as him.

Such storms are the worst outbreaks. Always, they cause his muscles to lock, his palms to sweat, and his aim to falter. That form of turbulence is his greatest terror.

Reluctantly, he had once admitted this to Love.

Willingly, he’d once shared this with Merry.

The promise of incoming thunder is not reassuring, yet he doesn’t move. He cannot abandon this view. Not yet.

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.

Also, your favorite color is gold. Like the sunrise.

Does she know all that?

No, Love does not. She had mere hints but nothing more. For only one person knows that much about him.

Clenching his eyes shut, he channels The Stars and sends a message, hoping they will funnel his words to the only female that matters.

“You were born from a brilliant star,” he begins. “You’re a goddess of hope, who sees beauty in passion and tragedy. You love music, your preferred constellation is Libra, your spirit goddess is Aphrodite, and you have built a motorcycle into a weapon.”

He grins to himself. “You have beautiful hands. You never shut up, but when you’re silent, the world becomes a desolate place. You believe in free will and humanity, and you will risk your life defending both, fighting for the rights of people you have never met. Your greatest wish is not to wield love. Rather, it’s to feel love. Although you fancy electric blue, you do not have a favorite color, because you adore them all, because that’s what light does. It shines on everything.”

He bows his head, clasps his hands. “You have dealt with a stubborn god. You’ve put up with his shit, then put him in his place. You’ve given him solace. You’ve given him a home. You’ve awakened his heart. And all he wants is to cut that heart from his chest and hand it to you. Because it’s yours.”

He waits, and he waits, and he waits. Droplets splash at his feet, pelting the grass and seeping into his clothes. But still, he waits for an answer.

Silence. Yet she hears him. This much, he senses.

But for once, she’s not chatty. Because for once, she has nothing to say.

Three days of rain, hail, rain, hail, rain. Three days of brooding by the carnival, wandering the city, yearning to hear a message from her. Any message.

Until he cannot take it anymore.

Until he understands what he had and lost.

Until he’s utterly, terribly, violently in love.

Now he knows what true rejection feels like.

He kneels on the roof’s edge and gazes at the skyline of this ethereal city. Some of the ancient edifices are veiled in shadows, while others rise like arrowheads into the sky.

Below, immortal outcasts make an unruly racket of noise, noise, noise. Such a loud, clamorous realm. Yet it’s the most heartrending place he has ever known.

Across the distance, beyond the glass doors of a rooftop dwelling, her silhouette appears. She glows as radiant as the sun—a bright, unattainable thing. Yet not once does her luminous face glance his way, no matter how desperate he is for a glimpse.

He misses her. He misses the way they used to clash, her lightness against his darkness. He misses the way she tore him in half.

Fuck it all, he wants to drag his finger across the glass doors. He wants to write a message there—an apology, a plea for forgiveness, and the answer to a question that has plagued his mind since the moment she asked him.

Who sees you?

Remarkable goddess. From the beginning, she had.

Until he broke her. Just as he planned to.