Page 5

5

Anger

A mercenary growl carves a path of Anger’s throat. For what Malice has just proposed, Anger isn’t above reciprocating that concussion the demon god gave him earlier. Except the damage will be irreparable. And bloodier.

Anger’s scarcely a friend of Merry, much less an ally. But the thought of anyone touching her in a destructive way kickstarts a protective impulse the likes of which he has rarely experienced, a mushroom cloud exploding in his vision.

Across his arms, the flame tattoos blaze with heat. His fingers curl, the urge to ram his knuckles into Malice’s skull and eject his lifeless body into the ether all-consuming. This demon seems to think Anger will eviscerate another deity on command, at the behest of someone to whom he isn’t indebted or duty-bound.

Anger sneers, “If I were you, I’d retract that request.”

Malice lifts one shoulder. “It wasn’t a request, but suit yourself. At least hear me out.”

“I would rather wander the earth aimlessly than get in the middle of a petty, territorial war. To say nothing of what I would do to you.”

Anger muscles past him, but the god has the nerve to ensnare his elbow. “Christ, it’s not about territory in this dumping ground,” Malice says. “It’s about getting back what’s ours.”

“How cliché of a nemesis. Getting what back?”

“Our place in The Dark Fates.”

Anger stiffens. That he has been aiming toward the same goal is disturbing enough. But how will breaking Merry accomplish anything?

Yes, his banishment is a torment. His identity has been peeled from him like a layer of flesh, sacrificed because he allowed certain desires to override his sense. Every moment since, the hunger to reclaim his place in The Dark Fates has been chewing a deeper hole in his head.

His place is his power. His power is his worth.

Because this legendary city is where The Stars shine the brightest in the human world, Anger had quested here with the hopes of unearthing answers, a key to returning home.

Home, where his crew needs him. Home, where the magic of his archery will be revived. Home, where he might also find a solution to another plight that’s plaguing him, which is better left unsaid around this maniac.

Malice’s joyfully abrasive expression could strip tar from the pavement. “You’re curious,” he croons.

Anger speaks through his teeth. “Not enough to kill.”

“Why is that? I’ve always thought pain to be gratifying. But fine, since I never said kill . I said break .”

“Funny. They sound the same to me.”

“Yes, they do. But killing is achievable by Yours Truly. Whereas breaking?” The demon god absently lifts a pinky and grazes his clavicles, drawing invisible streaks across his skin. “Now that’s a tender task. After this brief stint as a has-been, to hear there’s a chance of going home? You’re wondering, how is that possible? And how the living fuck did this gorgeous, superior outcast find out before you?” His orbs gleam under the rotating lights of a nearby scrambler ride. “How much would you stake for the answer?”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Anger hisses. “Go look for someone evil.”

Malice waves off that suggestion. “I’m evil enough. That’s not the prerequisite. Imagine winning back what our kind stole from us. Imagine that nifty trick.”

“Imagine my arrow stabbing through your larynx.”

“You’re a tortured hero, is that it? That’s beneath you and not what I expected from a rage god who got his ass kicked to the curb. Fine, a deal. I’ll make this prospect more attractive.” Again, Malice bumps his chin toward the west. “Come join me. What do you have to lose? If anything, you’ll gain insight.”

Anger tightens his fingers on his archery. “How many of you are there?”

Malice knows where this is going. “Just me.”

“There’s never just me .”

The demon god scans the area for eavesdropping exiles. Then he steps closer, his voice reminding Anger of a meat grinder. “I know a way for us to regain our place in The Dark Fates—and our power to wield emotions—with The Fate Court incapable of reversing it. One itty bitty caveat is that it requires a challenge, a gig I’m less qualified for.” He points at Anger. “But you are, mate.”

“Overpowering the will of The Fate Court.” Anger scoffs. “There is no chance. Only The Stars have that divinity.”

“I recall a recent event in which a female deity sealed her fate with help from The Stars, and The Court didn’t have a say about it. I think you were acquainted with her prior to your banishment.” Malice cocks his head. “Tell me. How did she achieve that feat?”

Anger’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t want to talk about the past.

Yet Malice is right. The mysteries of The Stars are infinite for a reason; one can never say what their plan is. Thus, magic isn’t infallible, for it contains multitudes, and multitudes create loopholes. Those technicalities provide risky but effective ways around The Fate Court’s influence. It’s this vulnerability that Anger had been relying on when he came here.

The song that had been skipping on Merry’s record player invades the moment. It drifts from the arcade where mortal children knock comets from the sky with plastic balls. Vaguely, Anger wonders if the spirited goddess would ever indulge in that game and contemplates how many comets she would vanquish.

The Constellation Carousel stands nearby. Capricorn, Libra, and other zodiac figures circle the whirligig’s diameter, swooping up and down, traveling but getting nowhere.

Then there’s Malice, with his carnivorous grin and the carousel’s two-faced Gemini in the background. Never mind an exile’s inability to return to their homeland, for that passage is blocked unless one unearths rare sources of travel. But even if he has acquired the extraordinary means, this fucker does not give the impression he wants to reenter The Dark Fates quietly. That’s the difference between him and Anger. Returning to their world by force would affront The Court, which would swarm them with enemies and incite carnage.

Either that, or such brashness might intrigue their people, enough for them to act magnanimously. Gods and goddesses are fickle that way.

But what possible deal can Malice strike to justify Anger’s participation? And Merry’s suffering?

The latter alone is a dealbreaker. He cannot explain himself there, but neither is he going to dwell on it.

As for Malice’s undisclosed agenda, knowledge is power, and this god is dangerous. If anything, figuring out his weaknesses will secure an upper hand, should Anger need to safeguard Merry from him.

They journey from The Moonlit Carnival to the city’s west end, where Anger witnessed the motorcycle chase. He recalls that absurd skirt Merry had been wearing, a garish knee-length mesh of prismatic pastel. An optimistic article of clothing to wear while riding a six-hundred pound vehicle.

Down one of the alleys, a crowd packs the lane, a sea of outcasts assembling for some type of revel. Each figure carries archery forged from numerous sources, from metals to precious stones. Chains, piercings, ink markings, rippled clothing, and some conservative or formal ensembles adorn the motley crew of deities.

Anger halts at the threshold, a glower ripping across his features. He reaches for an arrow when Malice spins in front of him and sets a finger to his lips. “Hush now.”

Anger seethes, ready to blow through this gathering like a hurricane. “You said it was only you.”

“Yeah. I sort of lied,” Malice remarks, then points out several figures from the park. “Hate. Scorn. Calamity. And…” The god peers at the assembly, then shrugs in resignation. “Huh. Too many names to remember. Besides, what’s with the paranoia? No one is going to fuck with the legendary God of Anger. But if the attention bothers you, and you don’t want to steal my thunder, fine by me. Just keep out of sight. I have a quick errand to run.”

The demon god saunters into the faction while Anger looms in place, neither hiding like a coward nor making himself known. He doesn’t give a shit about making friends, but he also isn’t about to publicize himself. The fewer exiles discover he’s in this city, the better.

Deities roar and hoot, popping bottles and chanting as Malice stalks into the fray like the ringleader of a fucking circus. His cult parts, opening a path for him and revealing a grotesque sight—the god that Malice had slain earlier. The dead form bobs like a cork across a sea of hands, which ferry the corpse to the demon god as he bounds atop a dais.

Accepting the deceased booty, Malice lifts his victim overhead, and the deities fall quiet. “Remember!” he announces. “Have fun, but never more fun than me. Now go play, mates!”

His minions holler with laughter. Malice drops the carcass and steps over it like excrement, his grand speech lasting all of three seconds, which is probably the extent of his attention span.

Anger grimaces. This is no mark of a true leader. On that front, he tastes too many depraved emotions to digest them separately.

The crowd disbands, leaving the slaughtered deity where he lies. While the rest scatter to do whatever they consider amusement in this realm, Malice juts his head toward an adjacent alley. Anger strides in that direction and waits until his adversary arrives several minutes later.

As they fall into step with one another, Anger remarks, “I see why they banished you.”

The jibe works. Malice’s features pinch, and his gritty voice lowers. “No, you don’t.”

Interesting. Anger hadn’t expected to hit a nerve so quickly. But then, a demon god is not so far from a rage god. With this character, Anger will need to pace himself, tread with infinite caution.

Amid dark towers and steps leading to underground halls, a mortal library rises several levels, yokes of light pouring from the cathedral windows. After checking the vicinity for witnesses, Malice guides Anger to a side entrance, then produces a skewer device that jimmies the back door. Physically, he could wrest the partition open with a mere flourish of his wrist. But while Malice doesn’t give the impression of caring about vandalism, nor about obligating mortals to repair the damage, his actions indicate respect for this landmark, an unwillingness to deface the structure.

It’s a cavernous and grand space with corridors of built-in bookshelves. The interior is drafty, smelling of old pages, cleaning agents, and curiosity. If Anger were human, his boots would echo on the polished floor, audible to more figures than just deities.

Down a stairway, they descend and reach a dividing line between human-made walls and mythical ones. It’s one of the layers mortals cannot see, a sunken extension of the library devised by magic.

The coved ceiling arches over a subterranean vault, which would house rare and brittle books if it were mortal. Instead, a pit of kindling occupies the center, fire writhing from the basin’s womb. Standing before an unadorned wall, a rusted telescope cranes its neck upward as if pointing toward a window.

So instead of a residence aboveground, this abominable stray has chosen to squat here. Taking into account his surveillance when they arrived, this demon doesn’t want anyone to know where he resides, including the members of his cult.

Putting it mildly, Malice is an eclectic being if one counts the rocking chair fronting the blaze, the moth-eaten books piled in every corner like skeletons, and the crate of sepia-stained letter envelopes on the floor. The only remaining mystery is where the fuck he’s stashing the taxidermy cobras.

Malice’s archery is mounted on another wall. The quiver, longbow, and arrows are carved from black poplar, the fletchings resembling two-pronged scepters. The result is sophisticated. Nevertheless, of all the materials from which Malice could have forged his weaponry, he has selected the most basic of elements.

The most inherently human option.

Anger grasps his own longbow, hyperaware of the atmosphere. The rank odor of hostility, combined with the barbed texture of spite, permeate his senses. Presumably, Malice has bottled all his grudges down here, storing them for a rainy day.

Stalling at a long table, he fixes Anger a drink, liquid sloshing from a cornucopia-shaped vessel. There’s a charge in the air, something that could power the city. This extremist radiates a strange combination of inquisitiveness and vengeance, effortless to detect.

With his back turned, Malice asks, “What do you think? You fancy my home, away from home, away from home?” Without waiting for a reply, he spins and hands over the drink. “I’ve been told alcohol is good for hydration.”

Anger releases the grip on his bow, takes the glass, and squeezes it. He doesn’t give a shit about hospitality, nor is he about to guzzle a drop of Malice’s concoction, the stench of which has been scooped from a gutter and fermented.

Eerily, it stinks of noxious pomegranates.

Malice settles into the rocking chair, the legs creaking as he tips back, one of his calves propped over the opposite thigh. “Not thirsty?”

“Not stupid,” Anger retorts.

“You’re a stodgy houseguest.”

“And this is not your house.”

The demon examines his lair, though it’s impossible to decipher if the gesture is sarcastic or serious. “Without a bed, it gives that impression, doesn’t it? Maybe I need to go shopping, get some throw pillows, and adopt several rottweilers to guard the place. You know, I’ve always liked dogs. They’re loyal to a fault and forgive so easily. Maybe I had some in a former life.”

Anger was done with this conversation before it began. “What you need is to get to the point.”

“You need to break Merry’s heart.”

At which point, Anger crushes the glass in his fist, the vessel detonating to shards, jagged bits shattering to the floor like translucent daggers. He’s decided. Malice will die at Anger’s hands. This psychotic motherfucker will suffer slowly and over a considerable length of time.

Stalking toward the god like a launched missile, Anger snarls, “Get up.”

But Malice only smiles. “And by that, I mean really break her heart. Make it count.”

“I said, get up. Or I’ll tear you out of that chair.”

“Even if what I’m saying is your ticket back to civilization? Back to The Dark Fates? Or maybe to someone you miss?”

“I’m giving you three seconds to—”

“That’s plenty.” Except it isn’t, because Malice takes his time. “Get her to love you, get her hopes up, and then grind those hopes to cinders.”

He stops rocking and daydreams toward the telescope. After a moment of contemplation, he flicks his fingers, the elongated nails as acute as claws. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? Humans don’t value the moon as much as its counterpart. They can stare at that globe, but they’d prefer to lose their vision admiring the sun—something that doesn’t want to be seen or approached. Not unless you’d like your face melted off. The sun is just so very sunny, very shiny, very scorching.” He taps his chin. “Then again, watching mortals go blind might be fun.”

References to the sun and its melting effect cause Anger’s wings to bristle under his shoulder blades. “You are either morbid or insane.”

“Why choose? Anyway, that’s beside the point.”

“Deities do not have hearts.”

“Literally or metaphorically? Do tell.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Anger blusters. “Or were you banished prior to learning the basics?”

Malice swings his gaze back to Anger. “I was a promising god once, but they discharged me three seconds before I had the chance to perform as one. Instead of being deployed to the human realm, I got my ass kicked out of the club. Why? Because since the dawn of time, The Court has kept our people on leashes, insisting on perfection and subservience without failure.”

“At the request of The Stars,” Anger defends.

The demon god rolls his eyes. “The Stars aren’t biased, and they don’t dictate everything. They spawn flawless figures, but also imperfections. So what? Some of us play hooky from one day of training, or we go for a road trip to the mortal realm without permission, or we dig too deeply in The Archives. Is that a crime? According to The Court, yes. Well, fuck them hard.

“I want my place back. I want my power back, and so do you. As to your point, I think we both know deities have hearts. You’re an example. Every dipshit misfit in this city knows the circulating story. Your defiance on behalf of a famous and rather mutinous member of your crew. You spent your life pledged to The Court, but that one gaffe sent you packing without a second chance.”

“I wasn’t partying past curfew,” Anger censures. “I was endangering our existence by not reporting my peer’s attachment to a mortal. The human’s ability to see us—to see beyond the myth—gave him the latitude to destroy us.”

“Quit the lame exposition,” Malice chides. “You summoned The Court before any of that happened. You did your job. Period.”

“Not perfectly.”

“Did you hear what you just said?”

Anger pauses. He isn’t sure what to make of that challenge, only that it causes his jaw to lock. Belatedly or not, he had indeed carried out his assignment. Then he was degraded, cast aside despite a history of excellence, of mastering fury in the mortal realm.

One deferred report of a goddess’s actions. That’s all it took.

Look where it has gotten him. Look at all he has lost.

His power. His purpose. His home.

And her .

The demon archer rambles on about thwarting The Fate Court’s authority by reinstating himself sans their approval. Incidentally, he’s not the only one hankering for justice.

“You get my drift,” Malice purrs. “I know you do.”

Anger slits his eyes. “Where does Merry’s heart fit into your sermon?”

“There are a few legends, as there usually are among The Stars. What if I told you I’ve done my homework? That if a deity breaks the heart of another deity, the heartbreaker becomes invincible. Not only does the heartbreaker reclaim whichever power of emotion they were born with, but the heartbreaker also claims the victim’s power. What if I told you the added bonus is immunity in The Dark Fates? An all-access pass back home. What if I told you that, hmm?”

“This is assuming all deities have the capacity to love, which they do not. It’s unheard of outside the one famous goddess you mentioned.”

“And yourself.” But when Anger refuses to confirm, Malice just beams. “And there might be one more exception.”

Merry is right. Malice does have a sadistic grin.

Even at this level, the carousel’s music penetrates the library and floods Anger’s ears. That, and the wry tone of Malice’s voice. The demon god finds something entertaining, even ironic about his own statement.

Perhaps Anger has been asking the wrong questions. Perhaps he should have made an alternate inquiry first. Perhaps he needs to rectify that.

Merry had confided about being a so-called lackluster star, allegedly deficient in the estimation of his people. But she never said which emotion she had been conceived to wield.

Anger steels himself. “Before she was exiled, who was she?”

Malice’s fiendish lips tilt into a smirk. “She was Love.”