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Anger

His booted feet stall on the threshold. As his head pivots over his shoulder, the hoop earrings sway from his earlobes.

Anger watches Merry shuffle in that crimped skirt, which emphasizes the flare of her hips, which accomplishes nothing productive for him. Definitely nothing beneficial below the waist.

Again, it’s a dry spell. That’s all. He hasn’t rutted with anyone in a while, tension has been building since, and his sex drive is letting him know it.

But what grips Anger more is the rosy expression on Merry’s face. Hope flickers in those pupils like a pair of suns, their vividness an unwise temptation. She wants him to stay. When has anyone desired that from him? The urge to fulfill the goddess’s wish, to ensure that look of hers doesn’t falter, pinches his chest.

Her lovely hands fidget beneath the ray of a sconce. The fixture casts a shadow on the wall, the shapes akin to letters that spell the word, Love .

Ire stiffens his muscles. Interacting with another living soul and battling beside this goddess had felt invigorating. However, the contact-high has worn off. Also if he doesn’t leave soon, that fucking sconce will be smashed to bits.

Condensation from the late hour accumulates on the double doors. Dragging his finger across the fogged glass, he writes a single word. An emotion he used to wield until his rulers stole that power from him.

Then he departs to the observatory, Merry’s gasp of recognition trailing in his wake. So she’s heard about him, because who hasn’t at this point? The story became widely known and must have reached the exiles as well.

He suspects she’s piecing together the rest of it. That doesn’t stop him from leaving, the breeze whipping through his hair as he strides across the deck. He moves quicker than necessary, overcome with a violent urgency to separate himself from that baffling goddess.

He does not want her company. He’s not even sure he can stand her.

Moreover, his fucking flesh tingles from her touch. Though, the act of holding hands isn’t what had initially caused his gut to clench.

No. It had been when he’d torn himself away.

Throughout the deck, decorative globes hang like planets from an overhead trellis. Every corner is strung with lights, overflowing in greenery, and arranged with cushioned furniture.

Anger’s pace increases across the summit, then he pauses before a panoramic view of The Celestial City. He props a foot against the parapet. The ancient city’s moniker is an homage to destiny, because this is where the constellations burn brightest in the human realm.

Originally, Anger hadn’t intended to leave Evershire, the snow-capped mountain village where he’d been wallowing like a ghost for a year. However, when the agony became too much, he had set on a quest for reasons neither Merry, nor his own crew, need to know about.

Anger had arrived in this city mere hours ago. Intending to assess the layout of this mythical metropolis—which has existed for thousands of years, although he’d never set eyes on this landscape until today—he had been stalking across a tower rooftop. From that vista point, the sunset had consumed him, its light more vibrant than he’d seen before. It hovered like a golden amulet, a destination within unexpected reach.

That’s when a pastel rainbow had materialized in his periphery, and he’d spotted a colorful skirt flapping like a propeller, its owner racing a high-octane vehicle at inhuman speed through an elevated park. And that’s when the second deity emerged, a blond male with a nocked longbow and a demonically gleeful look on his face.

It had not been Anger’s battle. It had not been his business.

Yet the fleeing goddess had puzzled him with her outrageous ensemble and motorcycle chase. More astounding, she’d been escaping danger while listening to music on a set of headphones. The spectacle had magnetized Anger, tilting his rationale on its axis. Seeing another god in pursuit of this female had cracked something open inside him, the predatory instinct setting his teeth on edge.

The iron wings had ripped from his back. Before logic could catch up to him, Anger had taken a nosedive and struck after the pair. He recalls hiding the wings after snatching Merry off the motorcycle and how the female had aided him in combat shortly before the world went black.

Merry’s deck overlooks The Moonlit Carnival, bringing the carousel to mind. It’s fitting that he had met Merry there. Her personality reminds him of a pinwheel, a novelty that spins with light and music.

Peculiar female. Yet there’s something intriguing about the goddess’s lack of artifice and vanity, something infectious about her enthusiasm, something admirable about her honestly.

It’s refreshing. And attractive.

A dry huff of amusement escapes him. Not quite a chuckle but almost.

Catching himself in the act, Anger smashes the inclination to dust. Condemnation, what is wrong with him? He lost his weapons because of Merry. Due to his banished state, The Dark Gods may have stripped Anger of the power to regulate fury, but his longbow is a part of him. He wants it back. Needs it back.

Tonight. Now.

Despite the elevation, it would not be difficult for a deity to spot him, so exercising his wings is out of the question. Backing up and sprinting across the foundation, he leaps from the roof and lands atop the next building.

And the next. And the next.

Between every crevice of this city resides the dimension meant strictly for his kind, visible only to The Dark Gods. Within that mythical plane, telescopes stand vigil upon parapets and roofs.

On a smaller scale, deities live alone in private dwellings wherever they’re assigned the human world. However, The Celestial City is different. It’s the one place among mortals where gods and goddesses—the outcast ones, at least—dwell in vast numbers, living out their demotion among unsuspecting humans.

Anger reaches the ancient arena and crosses into the carnival, its blueprint animated with stratospheric rides. Nowhere near as old as the city itself, this landmark is the mortal world’s attempt to eulogize the constellations, the planets, and the great unknown. Yet it does not compare to the reality of The Dark Fates.

A glower contorts Anger’s face. The more he sees, the more ticked off he becomes. One wrench of a plug, and this place will lose its charm. This is not real magic, just the result of pyrotechnics. And if outcasts have created their own invisible attractions here, none are within eyeshot.

Whatever. He is not interested in exploring.

His right boot takes a step, then stalls as a voice cuts off his progress like the edge of a razor. “Welcome to The Celestial City, former God of Anger.”

What does he react to more? Is it former or God that stops him?

Either way, the proclamation stings like a wasp. He turns, having anticipated this meeting, the chance that he might receive company. The male from earlier leans against a lamppost encasing tongues of blue flame. His eyes flare like furnaces collecting ash, and his mouth twists with diabolical elegance.

Anger takes inventory of the blond waves and talon-like fingernails. So this is the sick fucker called Malice.

The exile raises his hand, brandishing a longbow and quiver containing iron arrows. “Looking for these?”

“Looking to die?” Anger threatens, because it’s sacrilegious to handle another deity’s weapon, not to mention plain stupid.

Malice hardly seems to care. He strides up to Anger, his muscular chest armored in an open leather jacket, the glossy material flexing with his movements. The garment splits apart, exhibiting a smooth torso most deities would envy—including Envy himself—though this creature doesn’t seem to possess a fraction of the vanity. If Anger had to bet, Malice’s attire is as much of an afterthought as taking what doesn’t fucking belong to him.

Anger stalks forward, swiping the bow and quiver from the demon’s grip. He could strike this target down now. If for any reason, to let off steam and avenge Merry.

Except he’d noticed the other deities looming in that park during the chase. Perhaps they’re allies of this god, including the one Malice has massacred for getting in the way. Since that exploit had done nothing to dissuade his followers, it’s best for Anger not to act on his temper. Ending Malice will only stoke public wrath against the goddess.

Malice waits until Anger harnesses the archery. “Well, aren’t I the lucky one. It’s an honor to meet the archer who defied The Fate Court and didn’t get away with it.”

Anger snarls, “Was it an honor stealing my weapons?”

“Ah, that. Apologies, mate. Didn’t realize who you were at first. Not until I took a closer look at the archery. Only two beings in history have forged their arrows from iron; you’re one of them, if I’m correct. I like being correct.”

“You know a lot for an exile.”

“I know more than a lot.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I wasn’t.” Malice juts his chin toward the west side. “Let’s go someplace private and have a cozy talk. I swear, I won’t bite.”

The fuck he won’t. Despite his angelic looks, the motherfucker is less god, more devil.

Malice is also unarmed. On the outside, at least.

Recalling the trio that had observed the chase, Anger laughs without humor. “I’m not in the mood for an ambush. I’ll pass on the invitation.”

“I think not,” the demon god answers. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Is that so? What for?”

“To have a drink with me.” Malice grins. “And then to break Merry.”