Page 9

9

Merry

The whirligig stops, blasting them out of the trance. Merry hops off, frazzled by his reaction. Anger blinks out of his own stupor and stalks off the dais, his face slack with a conversation hangover.

Down an avenue lined in sparklers, they lapse into quiet reflection, then become engrossed in dialogue as the hours tick by. Initially, he’d been unimpressed with The Moonlit Carnival, but while they tour the place, Merry annotates the history of each ride. As she tells him stories about events she has witnessed here—a marriage proposal, a hasty breakup, and a child’s birthday—he judges it less and makes more inquiries.

The ferris wheel is idyllic but too obvious. Instead, Merry escorts Anger through the Levitation Dome, a cylindrical encasement enabling a person to defy gravity and ascend to the cosmos. Then she challenges him to a race—his feet versus her wheels—through the Enneagram Maze, both of them propelling at high speeds. At the finish line, her cheeks turn into rosettes, and his massive torso contracts as they catch their breaths.

“Cheater,” he accuses, his mouth tilting despite himself.

“Loser,” she quips, inspiring another rare but fleeting grin from Anger.

Merry uses magic to churn berry nectar within the fountain of a vendor’s kiosk. Dropping onto the grass, they pass the drink back and forth. The disparity between her optimism and Anger’s pessimism gets in the way during a debate about fate versus free will. There’s a certain delirium in hearing him object, anticipating his points, half of which are valid and unexpected, just as half of her protests stupefy him. But although the exchange starts out conversational, it escalates into a feud.

Merry crosses her arms. “I disagree.”

Anger is unfazed by her bluster. “I don’t.”

“How can you say that after the epic battle between your crew and The Fate Court? Everyone’s heard about the combat in that human forest, where Love fought for the right to love a mortal. You defended her cause.”

“I defended my crew,” he grates out. “There’s a difference.”

“You’re saying there shouldn’t be a balance between fate and free will, after everything Love went through, after what she and your peers risked.”

“One controversial relationship doesn’t warrant a monumental shift in history or the will of destiny. The goddess in question was misguided because she was in love.”

“ Is in love.”

His features knit. “You were not there. You know nothing about it.”

“No, I was here living in exile like countless other deities who don’t fit into your rulers’ ideas of perfection. That’s the shallow hill you’d like to die on?” But before Anger can open his mouth, Merry shuts him up. “Love and her mate changed destiny not just for themselves; they opened the door for all deities and mortals. Are you denying their triumph based on principle or spite?” Again, before he can formulate a reply, Merry charges forth. “Humans deserve to pave their own paths.”

“Why the fuck would an outcast give a shit about the rights of humans they’ve never governed?”

“Because living among them without being tasked to control mortal emotions allows us to view humans through a different perspective. We see them. We emphasize with them. Why? Because while some of us did commit treacherous acts, many of us did nothing wrong to get banished, and we know what it’s like to be devalued. Exiles understand what it means to be robbed of our choices.”

Anger wavers. Her point hits the mark before the stubborn male recovers. “Regardless—”

“No,” Merry revokes. “Not regardless!”

“Free will is an illusion,” he bites out. “Your birth, your appearance, your kin, your name—they’re assigned to you. From the start, you don’t have a say in those components.”

“Oh, my mistake. So those iron wings of yours were fated too? Or were they created by choice?”

The rage god falls silent. Nonplussed, he struggles for a response, which produces a deeper scowl. “The wings are an exception.”

“I bet they are,” Merry mocks. “By the way, none of this means free will is impossible. You can’t control or choose everything, but that doesn’t mean you can’t control or choose anything . It doesn’t mean choice can’t evolve. It starts with fate, but it expands with free will. It should be a union for humans and deities alike… What?”

He gives her a derisive look. “Now I comprehend the root of your idealism. It’s called naivety.”

“And that—,” she jabs a finger at his pectoral, “—is called pretension.”

“I’m. Not. Being. Pretentious.”

“You’re right. You’re just being an asshole.”

Anger launches to his feet. Merry bolts off the ground, but although the male has towering height on his side, it’s clearly not as much as he’d prefer. Merry matches his stance, getting in his face, going nose to nose with the insufferable rage god. Because she’s tall enough, their gazes are level, their exhalations slamming together.

Merry does not get angry. She never gets angry.

That emotion doesn’t come close to how she feels. She’s livid, outraged, insulted, and on the extraordinary verge of slapping his stubborn face.

As the tips of her corseted breasts skid against his chest, Anger’s nostrils broaden. Ruthlessness lowers his baritone by about ten decibels. “Perhaps I’m being an asshole. That does not change the fact that you’re proving exactly why The Fates excluded you.”

Merry flings the nectar in his face, drops the cup, and wipes her hands. Twisting on her heels, she marches away, ignoring the string of obscenities cutting from his mouth. Infuriating, superior god! This was going so well until he decided to emulate his superiors, who’ve cast aside every deity that doesn’t measure up to their standards, who believe human destiny is a deity’s right to oversee.

Off all the callous, selfish assertions. She had believed Anger capable of more.

His boots strike the lane behind her, his grizzly-bear voice punching through the distance. “Get back here, goddammit.”

“Catch up, goddammit,” Merry replies, swinging her arms in a huff.

The male grumbles and falls in line with her, but wisely he doesn’t seek to resurrect the quarrel. For a solid half hour, they give each other the silent treatment, stewing in their aggravation.

They ascend Stargazer Hill, which marks the city’s center. At the heart of this summit, an oak tree rises to the firmament, beneath which a pair of telescopes tilt upward. It’s the only immortal plane in this amusement park, another invisible layer beyond human discernment.

Merry hadn’t meant to bring Anger here. But then, she hadn’t been concentrating on her direction.

Halting beside her, Anger takes in the setting. The sudden creases in his profile are terrible to behold, reflecting sadness and loneliness.

Merry’s irritations ebbs. She understands this longing.

Still, the residue of their fight abides like a bad aftertaste. In retrospect, she had matched his temper, getting just as riled up, hating how indifferently he regards free will. Merry shall go on hating that, but she shows mercy for the time being.

Anger does the same. His inflection loses its volatile edge while he approaches the telescopes and rests a hand upon one. “I seem to be encountering these everywhere.”

“Not by accident,” Merry says, gaining his side. “The telescope is a symbol here, for humans and deities alike. No matter the dimension, you’ll find them all over this city, including terraces and rooftops.”

“I’ve seen as much.” Anger gestures at the sky. “Which one is yours?”

“That’s another personal question. Are we ready to take that step?”

The quip comes out naturally. Despite himself, Anger’s mouth twitches, and Merry feels her own lips tugging into a grin, which motivates her into action.

She adjusts one of the telescopes. Divesting himself of his archery, Anger modifies the other scope, and when Merry tilts her instrument, he takes the hint and focuses his own cylinder. Together, they peek through the lenses.

Merry directs him toward a shimmering speck tinged in pink. The star that birthed her.

Anger must see it. But then he utters a noise of surprise.

“What?” she asks, still peering.

“It’s just…,” he begins. “If you bear to the right…”

Merry locates a neighboring celestial. It blazes, thrashing like fire in the sky.

That must be Anger’s star. It can’t get any closer to hers, both on the verge of touching.

They don’t speak while focusing on the telescopes, occasionally adapting the lenses. But after a moment’s hesitation, Merry gets antsy and veers the telescope his way, tweaking the instrument to see how close she can get, how deeply she can observe. The world narrows to a keyhole—and lands upon another lens fixed right at her.

Merry jerks upright at the same time Anger does the same. Across the distance, they monitor each other.

A melodic composition floats into the air, projecting through the carnival speakers. The Stars know Merry better than she knows them. It’s a song she has played on repeat before, a track with transcendental lyrics that suit the moment.

A set of graphite eyes study her. Earlier, those irises had smoldered, but now they dim to a rueful shade.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” Anger intones. “I could have taken our disagreement calmly. I shouldn’t have judged and thrown your exile in your face.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. But I got my retaliation,” she attempts to joke, eyeing the stains on his shirt from the drink she’d flung at him.

Anger processes that. And a miracle happens.

His eyes drift over her face. Perplexed. Captivated. Breaking from his stance, the god saunters her way with supernatural grace. It’s unlike his usual power walks, when he’s tearing across the landscape like a bullet. Instead, his movements become concentrated, the effect working like a chemical reaction.

She retreats a step, her back hitting the telescope. Her intakes hitch as his shadow touches hers, his body pausing inches from Merry. Their chests rise and fall centimeters from one another.

As though driven by instinct, Anger extends one hand. His index finger hooks around a lock of hair behind Merry’s ear, then pauses behind the shell, the contact warming her insides like batter. Everything below her hips reacts, a pulse throbbing at the nexus of her thighs.

Anger focuses on his digit hovering against her flesh. The gingerly touch is subtle, and it’s presumably uncommon from him. Maybe this god has only ever known violent, forceful contact, even during sex or platonic interactions with his peers.

True, Dark Gods aren’t sensitive about such things. All the same, Merry’s ribs constrict with sympathy.

At length, Anger drags his eyes back to hers. That molten look operates like a generator inside her, turning every vein into a fluorescent beam, every atom into a bulb, electrifying Merry to the point where her virtue is about to experience an outage.

Something grave compromises his features. “Merry…”

Is this a declaration? Oh, let it be!

The sight of his mouth forming her name is a potent mixture of seductive and surreal. Merry steps nearer, bracing herself, his fingers idling behind her ear.

Anger’s mouth parts. His glazed eyes stray over her shoulder. And they ignite like furnaces.

Not with passion. Instead, those pupils flare with alarm.

Merry catches the sound. A thin, shrill noise splits the air and flies toward them, the intrusion unmistakable.

It’s an arrow.