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Anger

He blinks. Did she just say…

Yes. She did.

His entire being reacts. He goes still, an ache grips his throat, and the wings under his flesh shudder. It’s the scariest and most euphoric thing anyone has ever told him.

Anger swallows, at a loss for how to reply, for any mode of expression that will do her words justice. So he just stares, captivated by her panting smile. His shaky fingers trail across one cheekbone, then caress the side of Merry’s face.

She loves him. Somehow, by some miracle, this goddess has found him worthy of that almighty emotion.

This feeling. This is what it means to reach the sun. This is the truest of powers.

Her naked breasts skim his torso, and her heart pounds in tune with his own. As their foreheads land against one another, Anger shuts his eyes, committing the moment to memory: The instant when he becomes loved in return.

More than that, when his soul bonds with another at last.

Yet he would have cherished Merry to the ends of the earth, even if she hadn’t reciprocated. Loving her is far more important than whatever he’s granted in return.

Their faces press together, mouths brushing. Then with a husky growl, he hoists Merry against him and attacks her with his lips, voraciously kissing every part he can reach while she throws back her head and laughs.

By The Stars, let no one take this from him. This path, which they have forged for themselves.

Delirious from the sex, they tease, banter, and whisper additional truths about themselves until the mood changes, shifting to matters of grave concern. Now Anger understands why Merry believes in free will, this equilibrium between choice and fate. At last, he grasps the universal need. If he were mortal, he wouldn’t want to be targeted, to be manipulated by an invisible deity.

Perhaps he might prefer destiny, but not always. There must be a balance.

How to acquire this is the problem. How to reinvent millennia of tradition and myth. How to reinvent this lifecycle between deities and mortals without harming either world.

In hushed tones, they discuss this dilemma. In what universe can they hope to convince The Dark Gods? Their leaders may be stringent, arrogant, and determined to retain their supremacy. They’re unjust when it comes to flawlessness, dismissing those who don’t meet those standards. On that score, Anger would like nothing more than to massacre the rulers for what they did to Merry, for their lack of vision and what they fail to see in her.

They have kept their secrets, burying certain intelligence in The Hollow Chamber’s forbidden section, to prevent others from discovering them. But if Anger puts aside his rage—not an easy feat—perspective sets in. The Court has acted with the best of intentions, to safeguard their pantheon. However censorious, they have made those judgment calls out of protection.

They’re as imperfect as their so-called inferiors. In that regard, they misjudge.

As for Wonder, Anger won’t excuse how they tortured her. He cannot forgive it any more than he can forgive himself. The Fate Court may have given the order, but his crew had carried it out.

Neither side is wholly right and wrong. Perhaps there isn’t a simple answer, for no soul is unblemished. Their rulers admit to errors once they recognize them. They hold themselves accountable rather than point the finger. They believe in inspiration and guidance. They reward bravery. They do not play mind games with their archers. And they don’t assume superiority merely because of age.

What they did to Love when she mated with Andrew, was what they’d had to do. They had believed all Dark Gods were in danger, their existence threatened. By extension, the euthanasia of fate would have meant the demise of humanity. They sought to preserve that, to shield destiny, to protect all.

Likewise, Anger remembers the smaller things. One ruler tells bedtime tales to children who have trouble sleeping. Another documents lessons their kind have learned over history. One monarch hikes mountaintops to combat depression. Another practices cartography in private, wary of being publicly deemed inadequate to the craft. And one sovereign is a volunteer guardian of animals.

As such, they’re more approximate to mortals than they realize, despite their restraint, their denial of sentiment, and their misconceptions of love. But what they have never internalized is that love isn’t a drawback. With its complexities and unpredictability, its controversies and intricacies, it is the ultimate empowerment. Rather than weaken humans, it grants them immeasurable resilience.

Love isn’t the only goddess capable of that emotion. Neither are Anger’s crewmates. Only when deities accept this—when they relate to it—shall a balance be struck.

So again, how can anyone get The Dark Gods to listen? What do The Stars think? Which side do they support? Or will they leave it up to deities and mortals?

Long into the night, Anger and Merry exchange strategies. The crusade for change might not proceed peacefully. At worst and most fatal, it could incite bloodshed.

They cannot fight this alone. Not without the exiled allies Merry has recruited, along with Wonder, Envy, and Sorrow, which is still a paltry number versus a legion of disbelievers. The opposition would win in battle unless Anger and Merry mobilize additional supporters.

She wraps her body around Anger, her thighs splaying on either side of him and the points of her tits flooding his cock with heat. “We’ll get creative,” she says, her breath misting across his neck.

He bands his arms tighter around her waist. “You make it sound easy.”

“I’m making it sound possible. That’s how everything starts.”

She’s right. That is how it began for Love and Andrew. That is how it started for him and Merry. One small shift, one unexpected meeting at a time.

They will make a plan after they have expended themselves. Once they have slept, once Anger has made her come again, and once the sun has risen.

He makes good on this vow, fucking Merry until she has unleashed three more orgasms. His naked body on top of hers, his hips slinging between those shapely thighs, his cock pivoting inside that tight, deep, place that makes her cry out. Her luminous figure riding him while twisted away, facing the constellations. Their bodies hunched over, with Merry on all fours, Anger on his knees, and his waist hammering her open cunt from behind. Only after their vocal cords have drained do they sleep, sated from lovemaking, their arms entwined.

Unfortunately, restlessness claims Anger a scant hour later. Beyond the translucent walls, a gust of wind agitates the light fixtures, and The Stars glitter like chips of glass nicking the sky. In an hour, those celestials will recede into the dawning horizon.

The ominous sight unsettles him. Being intrinsically linked to destiny sometimes attunes a deity to premonitions. Other times, fate paces itself, intervening at the opportune time. This nature is akin to a human calling a family member at the right moment, suspecting that person needs emotional support; a lover walking in on their partner during an act of infidelity; or a mortal sensing approaching danger with the acuteness of a fauna.

Not for the first time, Anger replays Malice’s uncharacteristic composure by the fountain in Midnight Park. Anger had told the demon he was done with the legend, finished with the charade. To which Malice had yielded much too readily, despite the shoulder wound Anger had inflicted.

What makes you think you’ll ever see me coming, mate?

A viable threat. What’s more, another recollection belatedly enters his mind.

No touching your precious little found family.

You’re fair game, though.

In other words, I’m not done playing with you.

At the time, Anger had been so engrossed in Merry’s dismissal, he hadn’t read between the lines, which is the only cursed way to digest what the demon spews. No touching anyone who matters. That is not a gesture of submission. It’s semantics.

Fuck. Anger lurches upright, the sheets puddling around his naked lap. Malice might not touch Wonder, but he can shoot her. And while he’s physically unable to touch Love or Andrew, he can use other means.

Volcanic fury blackens Anger’s vision. Days have since passed, granting that sinister shit plenty of time to switch gears. Meanwhile, Anger’s an idiot for not catching on earlier, because that diabolical god never capitulates on anyone’s terms but his own.

Merry snores through her dreams, her sleeping face a balm to Anger’s soul. He wants to wake the goddess with his lips around her clit, to devour her until she falls into another sated slumber. Then once she has roused again, he’d like to fuck her some more. Anger wants to fill the hours with Merry, making love until her legs give out, making her come until she’s hoarse.

It will have to wait. Anger nudges Merry from sleep.

She stirs in his arms, her eyes flutter open, and her groggy slur fills the chamber. “What—”

“Merry,” he intones. “We must be quick.”

He tells her what he senses, and they pour out of the bed, hastening into fresh clothing. Anger grabs his weapons, then takes one more look at his goddess, softness loosening the kinks. He grasps her face for another kiss, then sets into motion.

While Merry evanesces to her motorcycle, Anger sprints across the rooftop and leaps into the starlit void. Midair, the iron wings tear from his back. The panels flap, the wind slicing through each plume.

They had agreed. Manifesting would be quicker, but the motorcycle and his wings are tactical assets. Both will enable them to see what’s ahead, rather than materializing in the midst of an ambush.

Anger’s hunch escalates. From one end of the city to the other, he flies above Merry, his winged shadow covering her like a shield. Along the way, his eyes skewer the alleys and streets in case Malice or his cult lay siege to his goddess.

On the way, Anger issues a call through The Stars, unwilling to take chances. By the time he lands before the library steps, and Merry parks her bike next to him, Anger knows.

Malice is expecting them.

What makes you think you’ll ever see me coming, mate?

This isn’t the part Anger’s not supposed to see coming. No, that component will surface when they actually find the demon. Again, semantics.

Descending into the coved vault, they find the space unmanned. At first glance, there’s only the empty rocking chair fronting the fire pit. The crate of sepia-aged envelopes, the scroll containing the legend Malice had unearthed, and the moth-chewed book piles. The same rusted telescope pointing upward as if the solid wall actually contains a window. And lastly, the uncanny scent of pomegranates mingling with the pit’s roasting logs.

No other outcasts are present to back up Malice. Anger clenches his longbow, unsure whether to be surprised or not. Indisputably, that’s a default reaction where the demon is concerned.

But one thing is clear. That shadow filling the adjacent corner isn’t just a shadow.

Anger shoves Merry behind him and whips in the figure’s direction while nocking his arrow. “Malice.”

“Are you sure?” a voice asks from a different location.

His eyes click toward the rocking chair, which had been vacant a second ago. Yet Malice’s silhouette now reclines in the seat, its brittle bones creaking under his weight. The flames produce daggers of light, tinting his wavy hair, while darkness cloaks the rest of him.

If the god is relaxing in the chair, then to whom is Anger aiming his bow? And why doesn’t Malice have the guts to rise from his seat and step into view?

The devious cocksucker sighs. “Christ. I knew it would be a while before you RSVP’d, but I didn’t expect your reconciliation fuck to take this long.”

“Show yourself,” Anger snarls.

Based on the lift in his raspy voice, Malice’s lips have twisted upward. “Who, me?” The rage god twirls a finger toward the apparition Anger’s targeting. “Or her?”

Merry’s attention veers. Anger’s eyes flick to the unidentified figure in his bow’s line of sight.

Black hair. Black dress.

Ropes tether her arms to an overhead buttress, and a wad of fabric clogs her mouth. She struggles against the restraints, bucking and growling a string of incomprehensible words. Her eyes—glazed with fury—strike across the vault, passing through all three deities, unable to see them.

Love.

Anger’s arms drop, the archery pivoting downward. What the fuck?

Malice tsks. “You had one job, famous Anger. Break Merry’s cupcake heart.”

Merry lifts her chin, testifying to the fact that she already knows this.

Which only serves to piss off Malice. “More to the point, chew up that extremity and spit it out,” the sick fucker tacks on. “Cupcakes have the consistency for it. But I suppose I’ll have to take your advice and shovel your shit myself. Of course, you still get a choice. Allow me to demonstrate.”

In a flash, Malice stands. With his shoulder newly healed, he’s got two arrows strung in his poplar longbow. And he’s pointing them in two directions.

One, at Love. The other, at Merry.

The demon grins. “Go ahead, mate. Choose.”