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Merry

Love. It’s the one emotion Merry and Anger have an intimate advantage of against The Fate Court. Wonder has it too, given she once experienced that unconditional feeling in her past. It’s the singular power they each know better than their people. That’s why the rulers hadn’t recognized the change. Lacking firsthand experience with love, The Court hadn’t registered Anger and Merry’s reformation.

Her fingers sketch his battered countenance. Although the wings are gone, that had been his decision. As to the restored parts, she’s delighted for her rage god, though one thing is amiss. Merry opens her mouth to voice this thought, but Anger’s gaze delays her. He stares back, unconcerned with his own restoration, the magic that has returned to his bow. Instead, he only sees Merry.

The god drags his thumb over her lips and expresses the same conviction filling her mind. “You were always enough. Just as you are.”

Her eyes mist. “You too.”

Regaining access to The Dark Fates is the only victory. While grateful for the rest, they hadn’t needed to reclaim that magic. Not in order to feel valued.

But then, another epiphany crests like the climax to a song. They have been ostracized and demoted, but they’ve never lost themselves, their hearts, or their souls. On the contrary, they’ve discovered those facets even more. Neither The Stars, The Court, or magic can strictly define who they are.

Merry meant what she said. Being a love goddess was never her dream. She wants to fight for humanity. In this eternal life, she can decide what other kind of goddess to be.

An idea pops into her mind. But before making this proposal, she casts Malice a wary glance. He’s restrained, so there’s no need to fret about an escape. But if they leave the vault, removing themselves from earshot, their crew runs the risk of being overhead in the library by roaming exiles. Although no other outcasts have appeared in response to the destruction, that doesn’t mean they won’t eventually show up in the repository merely by chance. Certainly, stranger things have occurred. Fate is a contradictory force. And in Malice’s territory, having enemy interlopers overhear this discussion is the last thing their crew needs.

Nonetheless, discretion is paramount in Malice’s presence.

“Give me a second,” Merry tells Anger and Wonder, then vanishes before they can protest. Seconds later, she manifests back into the vault, armed with her headphones and standing behind the demon. Without further ado, she jams the instrument atop his head.

“What the fu—,” he barks as Merry turns up the volume to maximum capacity.

Ear-splitting music shrieks through the speakers. The god hisses, belting out a string of curses, the song muffling his ability to discern their conversation.

Wiping her hands, Merry steps around him. As she returns to Anger’s side, the rage god lifts an impressed eyebrow. “Brilliant goddess.”

She winks, then swings toward Wonder. “Now then. Can magic be given away?”

The goddess veers from Malice, whose thrashing has distracted her. After glancing from the god to the scattered sepia envelopes, Wonder regroups. “Who are you thinking of, dearest?”

“Two people who never got the choice.”

Someone who fell in love with a mortal and then became one, transcending into a fate she had no say in. Someone who had her memory taken from her. Someone who never deserved that.

Wonder gasps in understanding. “It could work!”

Anger’s brows furrow, the loophole dawning on him as well. “Is that possible?”

“I think so,” Merry exclaims.

The springboard for Iris and Andrew’s story had been his ability to see deities and the threat that had posed. This power would result in the eradication of their race. So although the couple has been working successfully to regain their memories, whatever methods they originally set in place must have been heedful of such peril. Yet if Merry’s theory is correct, this will no longer be a concern.

“Iris would be immortal again, so it wouldn’t matter if she sees us,” Merry rationalizes. “To be a threat, she would need to be human.”

Anger hesitates. “Andrew—”

“He isn’t a problem,” Wonder interjects, comprehension brightening her voice. “They’re bonded to each other, which would render him immortal too. Not a deity, but nonetheless eternal. That is, if they choose to accept what Merry’s offering.”

“They’ll remember without harming our existence.” Merry’s words gain momentum. “They’ll be together the way they deserve to be.”

“Yes!” Wonder beams, clapping her hands. “It’s foolproof.”

“No,” Anger warns, ever the protector. “It’s speculation.”

“That Merry can transfer her magic to Iris? It’s entirely true.”

“You cannot bounce back and forth between mortality and immortality like a fucking ping-pong ball.”

“Can’t you?” With a vicious jerk of his head, Malice dislodges the headphones, the speakers toppling to the floor. Free of the device, he swings his antagonistic gaze toward Wonder. “Go ahead. Smack me around. Shut me the fuck up.”

Dammit. It was worth a try, but his flailing must have loosened the headphones in time for him to catch parts of the dialogue. And there’s nothing for it. Malice has heard enough details, so they’ll simply have to deal with it.

With a huff, Wonder ignores the demon. “Honestly, Anger. Didn’t you pay attention during our lessons? Did you ever once pick up a book in The Archives?”

“I’m aware of the fundamentals,” the rage god snaps.

Merry is as well. Not only can the power to wield emotions be lost, but it can be regained in one crucial way: if it’s passed on to a natural successor preordained by destiny. That’s how it works between Guides and their pupils.

Forsaken or not, exiled or not, Merry is a born love goddess. That means she can offer Iris what’s been forfeited.

“She’ll be the Goddess of Love restored,” Wonder says. “That power alone comes with immortality, so Andrew will gain eternal life through his mate.”

“Love conquers all,” Merry quotes with a gush.

Wonder smiles wistfully. “Most times, it can.”

“And just when did you have time to feel love, little goddess?” Malice inquires from his shadowy corner.

Wonder balls her hands, the scars stretching across her wrists, and disregards the rage god once more. “With Iris and Andrew joining our side, our influence will increase tenfold,” she maintains. “Together, we stand a better chance of finding a balance between fate and free will, and we’ll put up a tougher fight if it comes to war.”

“Not without me,” the demon’s raspy voice interrupts.

Sprawled like roadkill, with blood crusting his Lucifer-shaped lips, Malice could be addressing all of them or just Wonder. Thus far, he’s been the only person capable of drawing a colossal reaction from the goddess. And it seems the feeling is mutual.

Wonder exhales, summoning her patience. Then she slowly casts her head toward the grim reaper, leveling him with a candid expression. That’s how she achieves something Merry never imagined possible. As the target of her gaze, Malice grimaces as if intimidated, impenetrable to everyone but Wonder.

His eyes sizzle like powder kegs, apostrophes of confusion burrowing between his brows. For a brutal moment, he flounders under the goddess’s scrutiny, then recovers from the impact. His features smooth out like a veil, a barrier that will strangle anyone who gets too close.

“You’re deficient without me,” he intones. “Need I say why?”

No, he needn’t. He’s shrewd, which makes him invaluable. But he’s also calculating, which makes him dangerous.

Anger breaks from their circle, kneels before Malice, and runs the tip of an iron arrow across the demon’s larynx. “One more word, and I’ll sever your fucking vocal cords.”

“Eliminating my strongest asset doesn’t sound like a wise tactic, mate.”

“Perhaps if you were illiterate, or if ink and paper hadn’t been invented, I’d take that under advisement.”

“Try keeping me tied up like a filthy secret,” the demon god baits. “I have a loyal creed in the city who won’t stand for it. Consider this a public service announcement.”

“Is that so?” Anger replies, unfazed. “I would take that seriously if not for two facts. During our first meeting, you checked the perimeter before entering this vault, and you’ve been keeping prized possessions down here, keepsakes I’m dubious you would like discovered.” The god stares Malice down. “Your cult does not know about this place.”

The demon squints. “I never said that.”

“You did not have to.”

Relief filters through Merry. It had been a sound bluff, but Anger is right. Malice isn’t the type to admit others into his private sanctuary, and from her experience, the demon doesn’t care to be rescued by anyone other than himself. He would rather manipulate his way out of this, if only to prove he can.

“You wouldn’t chose your home without diligence,” Merry adds. “Which means it’ll be difficult for anyone to locate you here. But if even they manage that feat, let them come. We can handle your cult.”

Malice grinds his molars, acknowledging the truth. But then his mouth curls like a scythe, and his eyes slide to Wonder. “But can you handle me, Wildflower?”

The goddess’s eyes glitter with acrimony and undisclosed pain. Disbelief, disillusionment, and desolation split her voice into pieces. “You’re not fit to be—”

But she cuts herself off, caging the rest of her words.

However, Malice doesn’t let her off the hook. “Not fit to be what? Don’t stop on my account.”

This unhinged bully sounds thirstier for the answer than he visibly lets on. Furious tears crowd Wonder’s eyes, though she refuses to let them fall while Malice observes with the perverse fascination of a bully. They fall into a staring contest, the tension so thick it would require a chainsaw to break through.

Hissing, Anger jerks Malice’s chin away from Wonder. “You overestimate your importance.”

Merry takes the goddess’s hand, which earns her a grateful smile. It buoys Wonder, who sucks up the unshed tears, hardens her tone, and assures Anger, “Leave our prisoner to me, dearest.”

“You’ll stay the fuck away from me,” Malice riots, actually looking nervous.

The problem is, he may be right. Wonder isn’t the only one who knows how to solve enigmas. The putrid contents of Malice’s brain might hold puzzle pieces they’ll need in the future. If that’s true, he’ll only relinquish them for a price.

From the guarded look Anger swaps with Merry, they reach the same conclusion.

The rage god of her dreams stands and returns to her side, cupping her face with concern. “If you do this, your immunity will be transferred to Love. You won’t have that advantage in The Dark Fates.”

“I don’t need it,” she declares. “If the time comes and we find a way to reopen the veil, I’ll be headed there whether or not I’m exempt from retaliation.”

“Then I’m with you. Whatever your choice.”

Merry kisses the inside of his palm, then closes her eyes. The decision ripples across her flesh like caress, her tulle skirt ruffles around her limbs as a weight evaporates. The effects are short-lived and less theatrical than she foresaw. Yet once the sensation ebbs, she’s left shaken.

When Merry opens her eyes, Anger fills her view. “Still here,” he murmurs tenderly.

Merry grins. “Good because…”

Footsteps stalk down the stairs. Following the noise, Andrew’s disheveled white hair materializes, along with Iris’s windswept black tresses. They descend into Malice’s lair, taking measured steps. This time, the male isn’t the only one armed, for Iris nocks a longbow of her own.

Anger had said that after she became human, The Court confiscated Iris’s original bow. Nevertheless, Anger had witnessed her recapture an interest in archery, retain the aptitude for it, and establish an archery training range for mortals.

Like Andrew, Iris had brought her weapon to the city. Regardless of the reason, the extraordinary pair scans the vault, guarded yet intrigued. Their attention flits across the space, then locks onto the deities, their pupils flashing with shock.

Gracious. They see everyone!

“Oh, my Stars,” Wonder whispers, her voice cracking.

Anger tenses beside Merry, disbelief pulling his features taut.

Iris’s hold on the longbow tightens. Her pupils expand, cutting from one deity to the next.

Neither has Andrew disarmed. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

His mate blinks. “What’s happening? Who are you?”

Anger and Wonder stand speechless.

Merry steps forward with glee. “We’re your people.”

Battling to digest that information, the lovers gaze at her in speculation—and interest. Andrew strikes Merry as perceptive, with his sharp features and interrogative pewter eyes. According to Anger, he’s a storyteller of fantasy and romance, which marks him as a divinity in Merry’s eyes, which also might be why he accepts her statement faster than his mate.

Iris frowns in contemplation. At this range, her reddish brown irises complement the artful chin and wily set to her mouth.

The couple strikes Merry as visceral, intuitive, and willing to accept the impossible. Considering how close they’ve already come to unearthing Iris’s origins, they examine the group anew, fragments of recognition surfacing. They make it easy to identify the moment when the fog clears, giving way to a solar system of resurrected memories.

Then it happens. Merry’s offer takes effect.

Shaken, Iris drops the bow and nocked arrow. The objects smack the ground, where they dissolve into mist. In the formers’ wake, a replacement manifests—archery inlaid with stardust and arrows forged of iron. Bound to the goddess heart and soul, the original weapons return to her, the loaded quiver strapped to her back and the longbow appearing in her grip.

Gasping, Iris twists to glimpse the harnessed objects. Yet she doesn’t make it far. Out of nowhere, the goddess arches, unleashing pained cry as a corona of celestial light spills from her back. Andrew jolts forward to keep Iris from falling while the rest of them squint into the brightness.

When the beam vanishes, Iris stumbles in place. She sags against Andrew’s chest, pants gusting from her lungs.

A coarse sound tears from her mate. Everyone stares in awe at the wings sprouting from Iris’s back, the black plumage spanning the vault’s width, an exquisite vision to behold.

Enchanted, Merry squeezes Anger’s hand. Overcome, Wonder clamps a hand over her mouth.

Of their own accord, the wings curl inward around Iris and Andrew. The stunned goddess carefully reaches out to pat the feathers, verifying that this is real. At the contact, she sucks in a breath.

Her irises change shades, deepening to maroon like the color of bleeding hearts. Unaware of this shift, she gawks at Andrew, who gazes back with reverence.

He remembers. Just as she does.

The goddess swallows and recites, “The shadow of a body. The ghost of a touch.”

Andrew cradles her face, narrating as if they’ve had this exchange before. “Who is this Selfish Little Myth?”

Their hands roam over one another, tracing and sketching, every touch heated. Ardor radiates from them as their past year floods the room.

“Andrew,” she whispers, as if saying it for the first time.

“Love,” he groans, as if spotting a rare star.

Yes. That’s her name.

They lunge, wrapping themselves around one another. Their mouths fuse, nostrils flaring as their lips seal together. Mesmerized sounds of relief and happiness spill from them as they kiss, their ravenous mouths slanting deeply over one another.

This goes on for a beautiful while, neither of them caring about their audience. The sight is a privilege to witness. Merry’s stomach flutters, and she sighs in contentment. Then she stops, someone’s attention brushing her skin, a devoted presence brimming at her side.

Anger. He’s paying no heed to the star-crossed lovers. No, he’s staring at Merry with a hectic type of adoration, a gentle form of passion.

The couple pries themselves apart, pulling back to gawk at one another. And then they laugh, amazement and mirth filtering through the crypt.

Love gives Andrew an impish look. “Your aim was off.”

Although she must be referring to when Andrew had blocked Malice’s death shot, the comment is another private quip between them. That much is clear as a smirk lifts the corner of Andrew’s mouth. “Greedy goddess. You stole my line.”

“I stole more than that,” she teases.

He fastens her against him. “You sure as fuck did.”

Before this scene can expand into either banter or public sex, Wonder clears her throat. At last, the pair whirls to face their companions.

The rekindled goddess spots her friend. “Wonder!”

“Love!” A weepy sound tolls like a bell from Wonder’s chest as they run and collide, hurling their arms around each other, their bodies swaying from side to side. Chortles pour out of them, and they speak over one another, their voices tangling.

What? How? Why?

Are you okay? Are you hurt?

What the hell blew the roof to pieces?

Other than reassurances that the other isn’t fatally injured, neither female provides concrete explanations yet. They let the inquiries go unanswered, with plenty of time to address them later.

For now, Love quips, “Did you write my story yet?”

With delighted humor, Wonder pokes her side. “I’ll get to it someday. These are busy times, dearest. As it is, most of your tale has circulated fine on its own.”

Love ushers her mate and introduces them. “This is Andrew.”

“In the flesh,” he says, approaching them with a sportive grin. “Except my Little Myth is being modest. In truth, I’m the fanatic who can’t stop touching her.”

“I’m never modest,” Love flirts. “And I like you touching me.”

“Which is why we get along so well.” Andrew straps one arm around her from behind, then extends his free hand toward Wonder. “Pleasure to meet another badass female in the midst of a war zone.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she returns. “It’s an honor to greet the face who brought destiny to its knees.”

“I don’t suppose you have answers to a million questions?”

Love nestles into Andrew’s broad chest. “When he says a million, take him literally.”

“I certainly will,” Wonder replies. “So long as you fill in just as many blanks for us.”

At which point, Love’s gaze travels from their huddle, traversing across the demolished vault to where Malice languishes on the ground. Because it’s not difficult to guess who’s to blame for her abduction, the goddess scowls, offering him the same affection she’d offer a cannibal before castrating them.

The demon god merely gives her wings a leering once-over and raises an eyebrow. “Nice rack.”

Andrew’s features twist into a mask of fury. With a hiss, he stalks forward, about to drive one of his arrows through Malice’s skull. Yet it’s Love’s turn to hold him back, her fingers cinching around one bulging bicep while Malice absorbs the spectacle with the detached veneer of a psychotic.

Moving on, Love’s expression softens with fascination toward Merry. Then she pans elsewhere, her mouth parting. “Anger.”

The rage god draws in a shaky breath, then releases it, letting it go. “Love.”

“Not long ago, I saw my name written on an evergreen tree.” She studies him with a cocked head. “You were watching over us.” And when Anger’s silence confirms it, her pupils shimmer with compassion. “Thank you.”

Despite the possessive hold Andrew has on Love, he echoes her gratitude with a nod, the gesture solemn but genuine. To which, Anger inclines his head.

Merry braces, steeling herself as the trio watches one another. But then a naughty grin slits through Love’s face.

Setting both fists on her hips, the goddess ribs, “Here to make sure I behave? Because you know I won’t listen.”

“Actually,” Anger remarks, “you’re on your own.”

Love balks, her eyes jumping from Anger to Merry. Noting their clasped hands, surprise crosses her features, but then she gloats, impressed by the visual.

The love goddess steps forward. She accepts Anger’s extended free hand, balls their fingers together, and covers it with her other palm. They trade tender, unwavering looks. And then they release each other.

Anger tucks Merry close and kisses her head. He opens his mouth, about to make introductions.

But Merry just can’t stand it. “Goddess of Love,” she exclaims. “I’m enthralled. How sublime to meet under excruciating and historic circumstances, for it gives me nothing but revelry to greet the infamous matchmaker. Did you also wear black dresses in your former life? I’ve heard the tales, but one hardly knows what’s true. And you have the blackest hair I’ve ever seen, like a defiant star that refuses to shine.”

“Love,” Anger says with pride. “This is Merry.”