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Merry

A final, fatal whistle blows. An arrow lances across the distance, its fletching shaped like pronged scepters.

Her initial response is a proper lamentation. If the vault were as big as a racetrack, she could have avoided becoming a martyr, cheating death with her motorcycle, using her beloved wheels to outpace the death strike. Instead, she’ll miss the vehicle when she’s gone. It’s always been her prized possession.

Prized possession…

In seconds, Merry contemplates the value of relics and mementoes. Being a connoisseur of the sentimental, she glances from Malice’s soaring arrowhead to another object in this room. Something the demon cherishes.

He must if it’s one of the few items he keeps down here, in addition to the legend scroll, which is tucked among those other objects. That placement alone accounts for their importance.

Anger blasts Merry’s way. But as much as she adores his rescue attempt, she can handle this side of Malice.

She might not have the motorcycle with her. But she still has her legs.

With a battle cry, Merry leaps sideways. The vault tilts, shadows wheeling in her vision. Yet she hears the impact before she feels it, a honed tip cutting into matter, breaking through a surface.

Her subsequent response is carnal. Her skin flares, the heat akin to Anger’s tattoos, except painful like a set of fangs.

Blood sprays the air. Her body smacks into the stone floor. The cellar, which had been rife with death-defying conflict, goes silent. Every shout vacuums into her ears and vanishes.

Then the world bursts into a cacophony again. Footsteps thunder her way, followed by a treble of high-pitched noise and the howl of her name.

Crimson leaks from her arm, a gash digging into the flesh. No arrow, though. The enemy had missed her heart.

That’s what Malice had been aiming for. The reason makes sense now. He probably sought to break her long before Anger first showed up, then switched tactics and exploited her soulmate instead.

Nevertheless, an exhilarated grin shears across Malice’s face, as if he’s playing a game with newly raised stakes. Rage kindles through Merry’s veins. The demon wants a tragic heroine? Well, he’s about to remember.

She isn’t just a heroine. She’s a fucking goddess.

Bleeding, Merry hauls herself off the ground and whips toward Love—or rather, Iris—and Andrew. The man has liberated his mate from the second restraint. However, the task has required free hands, his longbow and quiver hanging off his back.

Merry snatches the archery. Andrew and Iris whirl in shock, unable to identify the thief. And although Iris catapults forward to retrieve the bow, her lover slings one strong arm around her midriff and heaves her backward, away from danger.

Good. Merry doesn’t approve of stealing. She’s just borrowing the weapon.

As Anger once taught her, she nocks the bow and fires. Not at Malice. But at the crate of sepia envelopes.

Malice’s demented glee falters. His eyes blast wide, less frantic about preserving the legend scroll, more desperate to protect those letters.

Her arrow blows the crate to the ceiling, leaflets scattering like confetti, some of them floating into the fire pit. The blaze consumes half of the sheets, tongues of flame chewing on the parchment.

The asshole bellows and yanks another arrow from his quiver, hellbent on eviscerating Merry when two things happen. A sharp noise claps through the vault. A set of iron plumes whip into view, one of the panels shoving Merry aside. Wings flaring from his back, Anger places himself in range, the fringes shielding her but exposing him.

In tandem, Wonder bulldozes into Malice. The pair crash to the floor, the demon’s archery clattering across the stones. While the goddess wrestles him into submission, Malice’s eyes gleam over her shoulder.

Confused, Wonder twists as well. Awe and disbelief glaze her irises.

Both deities see what Merry has long-since beheld. Anger, snarling like a beast with his great iron feathers splayed, his seething form blocking Merry from harm. He did it for her, revealing his wings to safeguard her.

But at what cost?

Dread tunnels into Merry’s womb. Iris’s famous wings—the ones she lost upon becoming human—were an exception, since she’d been born with them. Whereas Anger doesn’t have that excuse. This, in addition to his prior rebellion and subsequent banishment. In the eyes of The Fate Court, his defiance will add insult to injury.

Provided they find out. On that front, Malice’s pupils shimmer as if he’s been handed another shiny new toy. He lurches upright, but Merry rushes forward. Together, she and Wonder pound him back down, the goddess tipping a quartz arrow at his trachea.

Nonetheless, the same foreboding that plagues Merry reflects in Anger’s expression, along with Wonder’s. Knowledge is power for Malice. The last thing anyone should do is give him a bone to chew on.

Now that he knows about Anger’s wings, he will use this leverage. Nothing slips past him without being distorted. Whether or not they’ve got him trapped, Malice has a cult, and he’s got a mouth that travels for miles. He’ll find a way to inform The Court, spinning the details to his profit.

He’ll say the wings are a weapon. He’ll imply Anger is defying The Stars, forging makeshift wings for everyone. He’ll suggest the crew is preparing to attack.

Either that, or the demon will conjure a million other lies to rouse the opposition. He will make them believe time is of the essence.

Anger’s devoted features cling to Merry. He isn’t bothered about himself. He fears for her and his crew, who will be implicated long before they can negotiate or train for a war. Those goals will require time and an army. None of which they’ll have a prayer of amassing if The Court retaliates quickly.

“Well, well, well.” Malice licks his chops, the spiked cogs turning in his head. “Way I see it, someone’s got a tragic hero complex.”

As a walking encyclopedia, he’s drawing the same conclusion as Merry had in the beginning. Back when Anger had stood atop that building, watching the motorcycle chase before crashing into The Moonlit Carnival.

Anger’s eyebrows staple together. Maybe he’s recalling when Merry had assigned Greek Gods to members of the crew. Back then, Anger had asked which figure he bears a likeness to, and she had told him to figure it out for himself.

Anger’s gaze latches onto the telescope, its lens aiming toward the wall, to a window that isn’t there. It’s a futile attempt to reach the sky, beyond which lives the sun.

Revelation dawns in his pupils. “Icarus,” he whispers.

Merry wishes she could tease him about taking so long to realize it. But his attention is too fixated on the wall. And not in a way that gives her confidence. Their minds have become so intertwined, she comprehends his thoughts.

The Celestial City is where the stars shine the brightest. And the sun is a star.

Do you know, it’s said that the sun’s rays are also the strongest from this city? Some believe they’re visible even at eventide, that you can reach them quicker from here.

She recalls the bridge. The night when he and Merry had strolled across that landmark, and she mentioned this historic theory.

Next, she thinks back to hours ago after making love. While sharing a thousand confessions in his bed, Anger had confided the full history of his wings, including the only thing that can break down the iron.

The rage god casts Merry an unconditional look. “I love you.”

Her heart freezes. There’s one way to discredit Malice. That, coupled with Anger’s reflexes as a crew leader and his instinct to protect, has Merry powering to her feet.

“Anger!” she screams. “Anger, no!”

But it’s too late. The god flaps his wings, using the momentum to launch through the ceiling.