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Anger

When Anger was an archer in training, he had difficulty mastering a double shot. Balancing twin arrows had not come easily to him, and his temper had done little to rectify it. Whenever this happened, he would curse to fucking hell, which only served to further impair his skill, his tantrums achieving nothing but a migraine.

Sufficiently vexed, he would cloister himself in his favorite location—the mineral cave, where he’d rant aloud to himself, his voice tearing through the jagged walls. Anger’s grievances would expand, a slew of complaints ricocheting down the cavern’s crusty throat. His incompetence had to do with blocking as much as targeting, achieving a fluency with his weapon, the better to rise in The Court’s esteem.

While serving the mortal realm, there had been necessary incidents when Anger targeted two humans at once. But after decades of practicing, he could finally let a pair of arrows fly with his eyes bonded shut.

Yet in this moment, that old affliction resurfaces. Too many emotions ambush his senses, yet Anger has only seconds to register what the fuck’s happening. Then the moment passes, narrowing to one thing.

One person.

Merry is standing in direct range of an arrow. Merry, in her frothy lavender dress and those fishnet gloves. His goddess, who’s staring at him, her eyes scrolling across his face as they forage for a response. She doesn’t concern herself with Malice’s death shot so much as Anger’s choice.

While pitted against Love, Merry fears his decision. This, despite everything they’ve shared, how deeply he made love to her, and the words he’s spoken to no one but this goddess. Even now, she doubts him.

The notion undoes Anger.

But then something registers. He scans those pink irises, so full of compassion and spirit.

This selfless goddess does not fear he’ll choose Love over her. No, she fears the opposite. That Anger will follow his heart, that he’ll indeed choose Merry.

Thus, he’ll condemn Love to death.

Merry’s more terrified of that. Because although Anger would scorch the world for her, she isn’t a self-absorbed deity who wishes for him to sacrifice innocent beings purely for her sake. The goddess he loves doesn’t want to be the cause of someone else’s death.

In his periphery, Love—no, Iris—thrashes in her restraints. Anger doesn’t have to look to know her maroon eyes are leaping across the subterranean crypt, searching for her captor so she can flay him with her gaze. Despite being scared, she grows hostile. She hasn’t lost that temper, a counterpart to Anger’s, since she refuses to keep quiet.

Yet the tomblike cellar is an immortal space, a layer accessible only to deities. So how is it possible for Love—fuck it all, Iris —to occupy this area?

Merry reads the confusion on Anger’s countenance and marvels, “She’s regaining her memory.”

Stars almighty. That hypothesis tracks because Iris tilts her head as if listening. It’s possible she hears fragments of this conflict, perhaps in the form of vague or muffled whispers. Whatever she and Andrew are doing to restore their memories, it’s working.

Anger regains the presence of mind to whip his bow toward Malice. The demon must have discerned these facts prior to abducting Iris. Either that, or he simply took a gamble by hauling her to his lair. But how the fuck did he succeed in capturing Iris in the first place, when he cannot physically touch her?

Malice’s mouth curls. “I’ve never been a fan of exposition, particularly during the villain’s muahaha moment. Call me prosaic, but now that we’re here, I’m in the mood to toot my horn. Or would you care to guess?”

But he doesn’t let them guess, so it goes like this. Hours ago, Malice had advanced on Iris at the inn where she’d been staying with Andrew. Cornering her alone while her mate stepped out to get them coffee, Malice rendered the female unconscious by waving a sedative in her face, the concoction roofied with mythical pomegranate juice. Overdosing on the fumes, Iris had collapsed onto the bed, the quilt a tangible object in which to encase her.

Not giving a shit if humans witnessed Iris floating in midair across the city, Malice had strutted into his territory. Binding his hostage with ropes had enabled him to hoist Iris off the ground and fasten her to the buttress.

“I do have a knack for abduction,” Malice croons. “Where was I? Ah, yeah—horn tooting. Seriously, I can’t say which part was more hysterical. Kidnapping this legendary has-been—,” he jabs his weapon toward Iris, who’s wearing herself out, “—or the part where I used her to bring the fallen God of Anger to heel. But oh, wait. That part is now.”

A feral noise scrolls from Anger’s throat. He’ll enjoy impaling Malice like a pincushion, using every iron arrow in his arsenal to make the demon scream, the noise so loud it will strip tissue from the motherfucker’s windpipe. After that, Anger will incinerate Malice’s hide down to the bone, inch by inch while the male is still conscious.

Until then, this impasse isn’t about mastery of aim. It has to do with precision, a question of which side lets their arrows fly first.

Anger and Merry exchange furtive glances. The fucker is perceptive and calculating, as well as a lunatic. Often, he’s twelve steps ahead of everyone else. Regardless of Anger’s choice, this mad riddler might have another conniving trick up his sleeve.

Go ahead, mate. Choose.

He won’t miss. Neither will Anger.

Iris’s gaze swings back and forth, squinting between their archery. Potentially, the goddess has deciphered the longbows hovering off the ground, one of the arrows about to stake her through the chest. Or if not the particulars, she has an inkling of the weapons.

But I suppose I’ll have to take your advice and shovel your shit myself.

One more glimpse at Merry, and they come to the same realization. In this scenario, there was a time when Malice would have expected Anger to break Merry by choosing his past desire. However, the era has passed. The shrewd demon has been watching Anger and Merry, gauging the newfound depths of Anger’s feelings, either by watching them kiss or fuck. Likely, both.

Equipped with that information, Malice is aware. Anger will not break Merry’s heart by picking Iris. Rather, he’ll break it by choosing Merry and letting Iris die. A source of guilt that will torment his goddess, snuffing out her light for eternity.

Yet if Anger obliges Merry’s wish, Malice will target her. Either way, she will suffer.

A cruel twist. An ingenious trap.

Anger’s arms shake. Terror drips down his spine.

One false move, and he’ll lose her. One wrong turn, and Merry will die.

It takes an ambitious god to know an ambitious god. Thus, Anger consults every interaction he’s had with Malice, then goes for the emotional jugular. “All this because you want a ticket home?”

“There’s that. But maybe I’m also hankering for a little adventure,” Malice defends. “After thousands of years rotting and plotting in the same city, I deserve a vacation.”

“And when you get there, what will you really look for? What did you lose in The Dark Fates? Or better yet, who did you lose?”

The god’s smirk drops like a stone. Flashes of trauma carve through his features, but the most pivotal chink is that Malice doesn’t justify himself. For once, he seethes quietly, triggered by motives no one has the savvy to expose.

It’s a window of opportunity Anger and Merry will not get back. Grasping his intentions, Merry adds her own brand of distraction, a piece of erudite knowledge Malice won’t be able to resist.

“If you’re intending to search The Dark Fates for the other legend, it’s too late,” she chimes in. “I’ve already tried that legend on Anger. Not that you’d be able to recognize what a heart looks like, much less how to rekindle one.”

Bait taken. Stupefied, Malice darts his gaze between Anger and Merry. “What other fucking legend? Who the fuck told you there was another one?”

“I did,” a female voice carries into the vault.

Swathed in a gown the color of moss, Wonder’s figure manifests into the room. It has taken her longer than Anger anticipated to answer his call.

However, Malice emits the strongest reaction to the goddess’s appearance. His venomous eyes slither toward Wonder, from her bare feet to her brown locks. It’s a rare moment in which action abandons the male. His gaze slithers from the scars on her hands, to the flower corsage hugging her wrist, to the quartz arrow fixed on him.

Wonder’s arm cranks back, her bowstring poised to let the weapon fly. Except Anger registers the tremble in her grip.

She will kill Malice. But she does not want to.

She doesn’t want to hurt him.

Malice’s inertia won’t last. Anger takes advantage and sidesteps closer to Merry without losing sight of their adversary.

Can Anger deflect two arrows with a single one? Yes.

Does he want Malice to have that open shot? No.

Malice recovers from the spell. “I see the research diva has arrived,” he mocks. “Anger forgot his manners and failed to introduce us in the library. But ahhhh, I know all about you. Wildflower Wonder of the elite crew. The face of a cherub, the mind of a scholar, and the unfortunate attention span of a hot air balloon.”

Anger has never seen Wonder address someone with vitriol. Even when his crew tortured her, she didn’t hold a grudge. Yet right then, he witnesses a transformation.

A wrathful muscle ticks in the goddess’s jaw as her fingers clench the bow. “You insufferable swine.”

“If you insist,” Malice drawls. “Pigs are smarter than they’re given credit for. By the way, what happened to your hands? Looks too intricate to come from a domestic brawl. Official abuse, then? What did you do to get tortured? Or better yet, who were you willing to get tortured for?”

“Don’t pretend to know me!”

“I’m not the one who’s gawking as if a skeleton has just waltzed out of my closet. Have you mistaken me for an incubus who once haunted your wet dreams? Maybe fucked you hard without your consent?” His voice thins to a razor’s edge. “That wasn’t rhetorical. I’d very much like a motherfucking answer.”

She doesn’t respond but instead surveys the area with a sallow complexion. The rocking chair, the mountains of worn books, and the antiquated telescope. But most especially, the crate of sepia envelopes. Wonder absorbs the details like a sponge, the sight dampening her eyes.

Her reaction draws an insulted grimace from Malice. “Don’t pretend to know you? Meaning, you’re not the goddess who’s poked her nose into one-too-many Hollow Chambers, sashaying into prohibited areas, looking for clues to nothing and everything. You might’ve never noticed me there, but I noticed you. Uncovered a clause within a classified legend, have you? It seems we share an unhealthy hobby.”

“There’s another legend,” Merry tells her. “Anger tried to enact it.”

Wonder jerks her gaze from the items cluttering the room. “I know, dearest. But I never thought…” She glances at Anger. “I never thought you’d do that.”

Try to break a heart? Of course, she hadn’t. Anger would not have predicted it of himself.

Spiteful, Malice tips his head. “Wildflower Wonder. Maybe if your infamous psyche weren’t prone to drift, you might’ve had more foresight.” Then his bellow hits the ceiling. “I said, what happened to your fucking hands ! Who did that to you?”

“Lower your archery!” she spits. “Or I’ll—”

“Will you?” he taunts. “Will you, really?”

“Yes!” she screams, and it might be at him or herself.

Chaos unravels. Malice growls something to Wonder, and she shouts in outrage. The noise, noise, noise collides. Iris wrestles with the bindings, sensing an explosion of activity.

Anger aims, then dices his attention to Merry. His idol, who likes fast things. His equal, who knows how to move swiftly. His light, who’s a brilliant shooting star. If they do this, they do it together.

Merry’s pupils gleam with understanding. And they fire into motion.

She bolts forward. At the same time, Malice shoots, as does Wonder, as does Anger.

Arrows slice from longbows and rent the air. Anger’s weapon launches, ripping into the projectile heading for Merry and shredding it off course. Next, the momentum flings Anger’s arrow in a second direction, the iron tip spearing through one of Iris’s bindings. A perfect double shot.

That leaves one more. Iris strains with her free hand to loosen the other knot, but it’s too high.

While Merry sprints, intending to assist Iris. Wonder and Anger’s archery pierces through Malice’s attempts. But just before Merry can reach Iris, a form crashes into the vault, the strapping figure barreling across the space and getting there first.

Human silhouette. White hair and broad shoulders. Limbs that barrel forward with a momentum that defies mortality.

Andrew.

With a protective growl, he lunges in front of his mate. Whipping up a rustic longbow of mortal construction, he launches an arrow that intercepts one of Malice’s shots, confirming Andrew and Iris can see the weapons.

Indignant, Malice refocuses on Merry, who twists and dodges his weapons.

At least, the ones that slip past Anger and Wonder’s aim. For the demon is quick to reload, projectiles reappearing in his quiver. Those corrupt lips slant, determination alighting his features.

If a deity breaks another deity’s heart…

Fuck. Anger had once asked why Malice hadn’t tried to enact the legend himself. To which, the demon had provided a solid response. More than once, he identified Merry as the only candidate to have her heart broken, because of her origins as a former love goddess. He’d also listed Anger as the only contender to complete the job, given her desire for him.

This had stood to reason. But it had still been a lie.

Anger had been right to ponder whether Malice ever attempted to find a loophole. That’s why the demon was chasing Merry on the day when Anger met them. It wasn’t because she had trespassed on the demon’s territory, hoping to enlist members of his cult. No, he’d been intending to break Merry’s heart himself, because the legend never explicitly describes how that heart must be broken.

Malice had indeed uncovered a technicality. He’d been targeting her chest. And while he could have simply done this to any deity, likely the demon wanted the perfect target, a goddess with the purest of hearts, the better to execute the task. With the concept of love in question among their kind, this saboteur had sought a guarantee.

Except Anger had gotten in the way at The Moonlit Carnival, which altered Malice’s plan. From there, the demon compelled Anger to do the dirty work instead. Despite Malice’s lust to draw blood, he likes games. What’s more, Anger enacting the legend gave Malice an expendable to scapegoat if anything went wrong. All the while, he appeared innocent.

But now that Malice’s scheme has gone up in flames, he’s resorting to his original option. He draws on his black poplar bow, focusing on Merry’s heart.

And Anger understands. He’s about to know what grief feels like.

A roar erupts from his lungs. “No!”

His feet slam her way. But he won’t make it. He can’t get to her fast enough, can’t shove her out of the way, can’t block it with his own heart.

Malice shoots. At the same time, Merry spins, her bright eyes catching sight as two bladed tips pierce the atmosphere. And one of them finds its target.