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Merry

He was in her bed. He slept under her blanket.

The God of Anger saw her practically naked. It was all so sudden, so explicit, so profound. And so terribly—

“—humiliating,” Merry groans to Aphrodite’s constellation, which glitters in the sky like a rope of diamonds. It’s the wrong choice of confidante though. The Greek goddess would never tolerate a female pining over a male, when it should be the other way around.

“You don’t understand,” Merry argues while perched atop the carnival booth counter. “That windswept hair and perpetual scowl. Those strong archer hands. Poetry doesn’t do him justice.”

Still nothing. Not from the goddess, nor any other celestial. Then again, Merry hardly blames The Stars for their silence, for they must have a busy schedule. If Merry wants advice, she’d have better luck seeking the company of exiles like Kindness or Surprise.

Merry takes another moment to reminisce. The controversial God of Anger. The famous deity who was banished from The Dark Fates. Outcasts have called his skill unrivaled, his temper deliciously feral.

He’d been sprawled comatose in her boudoir, then his body had stirred awake among her linens. His waist had shifted as he rose and strode toward her, prowling Merry’s way while she stood in a crochet of black lingerie.

At the memory, impure thoughts sneak into her mind. Merry wants to rewrite history, to give that moment an alternative ending, fanfiction in which she never puts her clothes back on again. The scene flashing before her turns into a bodice ripper consisting of shredded attire and a broken mattress.

His arrival in the city feels serendipitous. If a deity kindles another deity’s heart, the former becomes immune, reclaiming the power they were born with. It’s a legend cultivated amid The Stars. So she has been told by another goddess who paid a recent, unexpected visit to Merry. Apparently, no other deity knows about this legend.

So if Merry kindles the heart of another Dark God, two things will happen. For a start, she’ll become a renewed goddess, restored with the power she lost. Though, that’s not her endgame. She isn’t interested in wielding love to control humans.

No. The important part is she’ll be granted access to The Dark Fates. Returning to her origins will enable Merry to campaign for free will on a broader scale than she has been in The Celestial City.

The Fate Court considers themselves too superior to pay exiles heed once the offenders have been discarded. Because of that, Merry has spent centuries secretly rallying allies to protest, including a handful of rare candidates in Malice’s sector, the few who aren’t celestial criminals, keep to themselves, and don’t follow him. That’s why she’d been trespassing, albeit the endeavor wasn’t successful.

But passage to The Dark Fates would expand her reach.

As far as Merry is aware, the meaning is open to interpretation. It probably depends on the figures involved. And certainly, the task must be a challenge since legends don’t offer rewards blithely.

Given Anger’s history, Anger must be the one Merry must target. By “kindle,” maybe she needs to bring light to his soul, to inspire him. Considering his broody obstinance and refusal to view things from different perspectives, that makes sense. To be sure, it’s a challenge.

After the rage god left Merry’s home, she had traced his signature on the double doors. Tragically, he’d departed swifter than a dream. So here she is, a rejected goddess, a jilted heroine. She must bear the wound and focus solely on his potential as a target. Hence, Merry pries herself from the countertop, adjusts her corset dress, and lifts her chin.

She is Female. She is Goddess.

At the Ethereal Arcade, one booth features a swirling virtual nebula where players choose their game. Malice notwithstanding, outcast deities find The Moonlit Carnival beneath them. Because they only venture into neutral territory to settle disputes or state the terms of a feud, Merry has claimed the role of invisible hostess.

A human couple runs an obstacle course, racing along the circumference of Saturn’s ring and then hopping between moon craters while Merry shouts a play-by-play. Jumping atop the counter, she pretends the crowd is listening, her animated voice filling the air.

“It’s close, ladies and gentlemen,” she announces.

“They’re neck and neck,” she shouts.

“It’s a fight to the finish,” she yells. “It’s destiny!”

They don’t find out who wins because halfway through the competition, the mortal lovers double over and guffaw as if they’ve heard her.

Merry’s chest lightens, then she hops in place when the carnival blasts an energetic, pulsating song through the park. Along the platform, she gyrates and lip-syncs, tapping her boot heels and pumping her hips to the beat. She belts out the words, her tuneless vocal cords amplifying.

Who cares? No one’s staring at her, because no one sees her.

Merry shouts the lyrics—then screams.

From across the avenue, a pair of volatile eyes watch her. The irises are not wholly iron-black, nor gunmetal. They’re graphite and fixed on Merry, catching her mid-chorus.

It’s the second time he’s done this to her. By the way, she hasn’t stopped shrieking. And that’s not all that. While screeching, Merry slips sideways and hits the counter, her backside sliding across the rim before she topples off the edge, the fall sending her rolling across the platform. She tumbles into a cyber landscape, destroying virtual planets and uncharted civilizations along the way before coming to a stop.

Shooting upright, Merry swats the hair from her face and scans the perimeter. The spot from which Anger witnessed her tonsil-deep singalong and subsequent wipeout is vacant.

How insulting. Is Merry so besotted that she’s having visions? Craving a male is one thing, but moping to the point of hallucinations is where she draws the line.

Determined to rise above that notion, she dusts herself off and observes a few more gaming rounds. It’s therapeutic, and by the end of the night, she feels better.

The arena lights snuff out, the rides lock into place, and the patrons depart. The gates have closed, but that’s not a problem. Merry enjoys strolling through the amusement park when it’s quiet. This place is an homage to myth and magic, where rides shimmer as if forged by the celestials, with lush clusters of foliage germinating in the dimly lit pathways. There are lawns and oak trees, lampposts and trails lined with sparklers.

The Stars come out, brighter than when the carnival had been alive, white specks dotting a cobalt umbrella of sky. After an hour, Merry returns to her parked motorcycle and wheels slowly down a vacant path, the breeze rustling her hair. Usually, she beseeches The Stars to play music throughout the arena, which only immortals can hear. But tonight, she travels in silence, the better to detect the male behind her, who’s been stalking Merry for the last five minutes.

It’s déjà vu, the sensation of an otherworldly being on her tail. She can’t help milking the anticipation for all it’s worth, because this pursuer isn’t a killer.

Well. Yes, he’s a killer when it comes to protecting what’s his. But although the figure is stalking Merry, it isn’t for deadly reasons.

Turns out, she hadn’t been imagining things in the arcade. Her mouth wreathes into an amused grin.

He’s close.

She speeds up, not nearly as fast as she can ride, nor as fast as he can move. But it’s enough to incite a chase.

At a fork, Merry curves right—and brakes, her heart launching into her throat.

Anger stands in front of the carousel as if he’d guessed her destination. He has changed his wardrobe, opting for jeans and a sinful t-shirt that outlines the muscles of his chest. The sleeves are pushed up his olive forearms, creating a traffic jam of bunched material, exposing those fingerless gloves and flaming tattoos. His quiver is hooked across his back, and the longbow is fixed in his grip, the weapon nocked with an iron arrow.

“I win,” he murmurs.

“I object,” she declares.

There it is: His lips betray the faintest of quirks.

Though, he seems baffled by the humor in his tone. Even annoyed by it.

Anger flexes his jaw, presumably to curb further impulses. Merry can’t decide if she wants to see his smile return or freeze those chiseled features like a snapshot. Frankly, she wants to take the fantasy further and lick the rim of his mandible. In fact, she might make that her next hobby.

Hadn’t she just made a promise to herself about rising above this one-sided attraction? Yet now, entranced by the high slope of his cheekbones, Merry tumbles once more. She falls in love all over again.

As if aware of her thoughts, his pupils fire on all cylinders, eyes simmering like infernos. With every passing second, Merry becomes acutely aware of the boots cinching her ankles, the corset dress flaring beneath her black denim vest, and the frock’s skirt revealing her upper thighs. Her hair flows freely tonight, puddling to the collarbones. Of all evenings, Merry has decided to experiment and wear more eyeshadow than Cleopatra, which she’d concluded earlier isn’t her vibe.

Showy clothing and simple makeup. That combination would have represented Merry more accurately for this interaction. Although she doesn’t care what he thinks of her style, it’s important to be authentic, to be known.

Even so, Anger’s reaction is elemental. While bracing the arrow, his gaze fuses to her mouth, the impact like an electric storm blitzing a trail up her thighs and wracking havoc between her legs. The private cleft of Merry’s body experiences a power jolt, as if someone has attached jumper cables to her pussy. The intimate folds pulsate, her clit throbbing hard and quick. Another three seconds of this erotic staring contest, and Merry’s panties will be soaked.

Anger seems uninterested in stopping the onslaught. She isn’t shapely, yet his gaze devours her figure as if it possesses a thousand curves, then skims over her long limbs. Merry’s reflection glows in his pupils, which have darkened and eaten up most of his irises. One would think he’s trying to wet her cunt merely with his stare.

Or it might be the motorcycle’s fault, the seat vibrating against her walls. It wouldn’t be the first time she has come while mounted on the vehicle, due to the idling friction.

But then something else snags Anger’s attention. His eyes land on her fingerless gloves, the fishnet stretching across her knuckles. Anger fixates on them, engrossed by the sight.

“You can’t have them,” Merry states. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Anger’s eyes jolt back to hers, his voice lowering to a gruff register. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

That’s simply not playing fair. It sounds as if he’s issuing a warning, a threat that will end with Merry speeding off, him hunting her down, and both of them stripped, entangled, and shouting to the sky when he gets his hands on her.

She certainly hopes her thoughts are on the right track.

Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me now.

That’s what her carnal side yells through a megaphone. Whereas the self-preserving side understands that if she doesn’t change the subject, Merry will soon be standing in a pool of her own arousal.

Flustered, she blurts out, “Why did you come back?”

Anger disarms and strides toward her. On reflex, Merry switches off the ignition and slips off the bike. Meanwhile, he swallows the distance in a handful of steps, the shifting of his clothes louder than they should be. Once he’s in caressing distance, Anger’s torso abrades her breasts, and his shadow wraps around Merry like a dark temptation. The rage god looks motivated—voracious, as though he wants to take something from her and snap it in half.

The stimulation expands from Merry’s pussy to the rest of her. Every inch of flesh brims, and her nipples toughen beneath the corset bodice.

Anger’s respirations stalk across her lips. “Why is your name Merry?”

She blinks. “I already told you. That’s privileged information. We’re not there yet.”

“What will it take?”

“Effort. Tell me something first, like why you were watching the motorcycle chase with Malice.”

“I wasn’t watching the chase. I was watching you . I haven’t stopped since.”

His voice hits low, burrowing deeply inside her. That is, until embarrassment replaces other primal responses. “So earlier, in the arcade… you, um, you saw the…”

Amusement relaxes his features. “It was a graceful landing.”

In abject misery, Merry dumps her face into her palms. “Curse my life.”

Something akin to a chuckle escapes him, but then he stifles the reaction. “I have not heard of a formal emotion with the title of ‘Merry.’ Which means, you’re concealing who you used to be.”

Based on his tone, this god already knows. That makes it clear whose company Anger has been keeping since their last encounter.

Merry lifts her head and narrows her features. “What else did Malice tell you?”

Chagrined, it’s Anger’s turn to wince. “More than I cared to know. Yet not enough.”

“It makes sense that you’ve been with him since leaving my haven. You’re of parallel emotions, so it’s no wonder he sniffed you out. I gather you’ve found a new friend, then.”

“I’m not certain friendship exists anymore.”

“You’re wrong.”

Anger shoots her an offended look. “You do not know me.”

“I have a feeling that’s because you don’t want anyone to know you. And I have another feeling it’s because you’re not certain you even know yourself.”

One would think nobody has ever guessed this before. The rage god is flabbergasted, the harsh line of his mouth parting, his eyebrows punching together.

Merry spins away from him. She hops onto the motorcycle and circles around Anger at a snail’s pace, entertained when he follows the movements through cautious eyes. “You don’t want anyone to know you, but you still want to belong,” she summarizes, blithely circuiting his beautiful glower. “Sorry to break this to you, but you can’t have it both ways.”

“A deity can always have it both ways.”

“Only the saddest ones can.”

The wind billows her skirt. His footfalls stop.

She pauses as well. Anger’s staring with a vulnerable slant to his features, a candid expression he neglects to hide, and there’s something else about his reflexes.

Merry gestures to his hands. “You drum your fingers on your belt buckle whenever things aren’t going as you expect.”

His digits stiffen on the belt. “Do you consider that a flaw?”

“No, I consider it authentic. But I’m struck that your default reaction is to assume a basic observation about your habits implies imperfection.”

Anger swerves his head away, the hoops flashing in his ears. He focuses on the track lighting, the swaying grass, and the diverging paths as if his gaze doesn’t know where to land. As if it hasn’t known for a while.

He mutters, “I cannot decide if your honesty is refreshing or daunting.”

“While you figure that out, I have an idea.” She wheels the bike around him again. “We have the carnival to ourselves, so join me for an escapade. By dawn, I’ll bet I know more about you than you’ve ever told anyone. And if I’m right, I’ll tell you my secrets.”

“Any secret?”

“Cross my helpless heart. I’ll even tell you why I named myself Merry. Come on, God of Anger, it’ll be exhilarating. Just imagine: two strangers exploring a theme park under the cloak of night. At the end of it, we’ll be inseparable.”

“It’s that easy, is it?” He sounds dubious. “Are you incapable of simply walking?”

“I always ride a fast vehicle when I’m about to spend an evening with a tall, dark, and handsome outcast. It helps to psych myself up. You see? You already know one of my secrets.” Merry surges ahead of him and calls back, “Are you coming or not?”

His rough timbre reaches her ears. “You give me very little choice.”