Page 11 of Torn

As he yanks open the door, he hears Merry grappling to stall him. “You haven’t told me your name.”

Anger pauses, one booted foot propped over the threshold. As his head pivots over his shoulder, he feels the ring in his lobe jolt. He used to wear only a stud, but he’d since added a hoop to the other ear, to serve as a reminder of who he used to be—and that he’s no longer the same.

He watches her shuffle in that crimped skirt. Those lovely hands fidget beneath the ray of a twining neon sign that says,Love.

Merry doesn’t want him to leave. She wants him to stay.

His chest clenches. When has anyone ever wished that of him?

Ire tightens his muscles all over again. This luminary yet invasive female expects too much, hopes for too much. And he detests that neon sign.

His story is personal. And he’s on nobody’s side in this city. Interacting with another living soul, even battling one, had felt invigorating. However, the contact high has worn off.

That aside, he finds himself compelled.

Notwithstanding the spring season and its flushed weather, condensation from the late hour accumulates on the double doors. For some bizarre reason, he gets impulsive—a first for him—and indulges her whim. Dragging his finger across the fogged glass, he answers her.

Anger

Then he departs to the roof. Merry’s gasp of recognition trails in his wake. So she’s heard about him, because who hasn’t, at this point? The story became widely known and must have reached the exiles as well.

He suspects she’s puzzling together the rest of it. That doesn’t stop him from leaving, tracking across the deck, the breeze whipping through his hair. He moves quicker than necessary, overcome with a violent urge to separate himself from that confounding young woman who has evidently forged an observatory as her home.

He doesn’t want her company. He’s not even sure that he can stand her.

But what bothers him the most is this: His hand still smarts, still reels from her touch. The act of holding hands isn’t what had caused his gut to protest.

It had been when he’d torn himself away.

Anger’s pace increases across the summit, the distance growing between him and her. This vantage point overlooks the Carnival of Stars, bringing the carousel to mind. It’s fitting that he’d met Merry there. Her personality reminds him of a pinwheel, a novelty that spins with light and music.

He shakes his head. Strange female.

He almost chuckles.

But then he tamps down the inclination. He’d lost his weapons because of her. The Fates may have stripped him of the power to regulate fury, but his longbow is a part of him. He has to get it back.

Tonight. Now.

Striking across the roof, he leaps from the observatory and lands atop the next building. And the next. And the next.

Nature plots, conservatories, and miniature gardens crowd parapets and gables. At such pinnacles, central telescopes stand vigil.

He reaches the arena of dappled trees and crosses into the carnival, which is animated with supernaturally themed motifs and stratospheric rides. It’s the mortal world’s attempt to eulogize the stars, the planets, the great unknown. Yet it cannot compare to the reality of the Peaks, the land that he came from.

Anger feels a glower mash his lips. The more he sees, the more ticked off he becomes. One wrench of a plug, and this place would lose its charm. This is not real magic, just the result of a pyrotechnics and a clique of engineers.

Whatever. He’s not interested in exploring.

His right boot takes a step, then halts at the razor’s edge of a voice. “Welcome to the Celestial City, former God of Anger.”

What does he react to more? Is itformerorGodthat stops him?

Even when he’s replaced, his title as a deity will remain—in general, at least. No one relinquishes that unless promoted to become a Guide.

And yet the proclamation stings. He’ll remain a god, but not the wielder of anger.

He turns, having anticipated this possibility, the chance that he might have company. The archer from earlier leans against a lamppost encasing tongues of blue flame, his eyes like furnaces collecting ash, his mouth twisted with diabolical elegance.

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