Page 105 of Torn

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, her throat stings, and her eyes mist.

She sighs dreamily. Then she hiccups, feeling someone’s attention on her, a devoted presence stroking her side.

Anger. He’s paying no heed to the soul mates. No, he’s staring at Merry with a hectic sort of passion, a gentle sort of worship.

The couple inches apart, pulling back to gawk at one another—and they begin to laugh. Uproarious, amazed laughter multiplies through the crypt and dashes out the window, to where the stars glitter, catching the sound.

At last, the pair whirls to face their companions.

The rekindled goddess spots a friend, a smile splitting her face. “Wonder!”

“Love!” A cracked sound breaks from Wonder as they run and collide, hurling their arms around each other, their bodies swinging like a pendulum. Chortles pour out of them, and they squeak over one another, their voices tangling.

What? How? Why?

“I don’t understand,” Love says.

“You will soon,” Wonder promises.

Nostalgic mirth teases the restored goddess’s lips. “Did you write my story yet, like you vowed to?”

With a laugh, Wonder pinches her. “I’ll get to it someday. These are busy times, dearest. As it is, most of your tale has circulated just fine on its own.”

Love ushers her stunned boyfriend and introduces them. “Holy shi…I mean, ‘Hey,’” Andrew says, approaching them with a dazed, ironic smile. “Lemme start over: It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

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

He blushes. “At which point, destiny knocked me on my ass. I don’t suppose you have answers to a million questions?”

“When he says a million, take him literally,” Love quips, slinging her arms around Andrew.

Her gaze travels from their huddle, traversing from the fire pit’s glow, to the vaulted ceiling, to the rocking chair. She scowls at Malice prostrate on the ground, giving him the same affection she’d give a venomous serpent just before castrating it. Somehow, she ascertains who’s to blame for her abduction.

Andrew’s not far behind. He looks as if he wants to jam a fork into the reaper’s innards, yank out the contents, and feed them to a pack of Dobermans.

Malice merely absorbs the scene with the detached veneer of a psychotic.

Moving on, Love’s expression softens with fascination toward Merry, before steering elsewhere.

She freezes, her mouth parting. “Anger.”

Anger draws in a breath, then releases it, lets it go. “Love.”

Merry gulps, steels herself as the pair watches each other warily.

Then an antagonist grin slits through Love’s face as she fists her hips. “Here to make sure I behave?”

“Actually,” he says, “you’re on your own.”

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

Love steps forward and accepts his extended free hand, balling their fingers together and covering it with her other palm. They trade peaceful smiles.

And then they release each other.

Merry watches, grateful because the interlude doesn’t prick or pierce. Instead, she’s exultant.

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

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