Page 111 of Torn

A music box of sound cranks overhead. Glossy painted figures careen up and down while the world spins, blurring around them.

For now, nothing else exists but this.

The wind tosses her hair. He reaches out to touch it, loving what that does to her eyes.

Merry rests her profile against the brass bar. “You’re looking positively spellbound,” she says. “It’s a glorious vision, surrounded by the glow of lights. What better place to be awestruck?”

“I can think of one other place,” he says, pressing her hand to his beating chest.

Right here. All you.

“Mmm,” she teases, leaning sideways and coyly sliding those lovely hands— covered in fishnet fingerless gloves—into his hair. “You know, we never finished what we started in this spot. We’d meant to tell each other everything. So what else are you thinking?”

He meets her halfway. “That I’m in love with you,” he murmurs against her mouth.

Visibly, the declaration robs her of oxygen. “That is certainly everything,” she breathes just before his lips slant over hers.

Epilogue

Anger

The stars are out.

Standing atop a building, he stares at a blazing carnival horizon. A retired canopy of watercolors—pinks, purples, and blues—has seeped into the heavens. Now there is only a dome of ink overhead.

The celestials writhe like shards of glass. Up there, far up there, one of them is thrashing. Not because it’s trapped, but because it’s free, tearing itself from the confines of the sky, its burning gaze diving to earth. Not to command, but to share itself with the mortal realm.

Beside his star is a luminescent one. A soul mate shining with possibility. It’s bright, blindingly bright, too bright.

Neither is perfect. That’s why he trusts the vision, admiring it from a respectful distance.

The stars have been watching his journey from the beginning. They’ve been ever observant, wise, secretive. What they’ve concluded of his arc, he can’t say. All he knows is that they haven’t intervened, told him what to do, and that’s why he keeps faith in them. That’s his choice.

All he knows is that he’s happy. He’s whole.

It’s a tranquil evening. An intermission in which mortals have either retired to their homes, vacating the streets early in order to focus their lenses out windows. Or they’ve gathered at public telescopes to view the constellations, musing to themselves about assorted myths and realities, wishes and choices, emotions and actions.

Fates and free wills.

They absorb both in harmony, accept both in harmony. If they can practice such an art, why can’t deities? Someday, immortals might exercise that same capacity.

The breeze fans through his hair, the ends tickling his shoulders. He inhales an undercurrent of vanilla trying to sneak up on him. There’s a subtle grind of wheels against pavement, barely audible.

Anger relishes the answering surge in his blood, spiked with its own intoxicating light. He loves the anticipation of it, a recurring sensation every time she draws near.

Grinning to himself, Anger whips around. Before the revolution is complete, before he even halts, his arrow is nocked toward the sidewalk below.

And so is hers.

She’s poised a half-dozen stories below. Her neon longbow tilts toward him. One eye squints shut, the other sparkles. That iris is the exact shade of her hair, the short tresses tied into a ponytail.

She wears a dress foaming with pastel color, the layered skirt comprised of wide fronds around her waist, which end above the knees, above a pair of sneakers. Earrings that remind him of chandeliers sway from her lobes, flashing at him the same way his stud and hoop are probably flashing at her. Her mauve headphones clamp loosely around her throat.

Merry sends him a kiss, her lips puckering and hiding a gap in her teeth. He narrows his eyes, feeling them grow molten with intent. He wants to swab his tongue between those lips, between that gap.

Anger’s target is savvy enough to perceive the windswept tumult of his desire. Similarly, he notes the change in her breathing, her bodice shifting its rhythm.

They hold their positions, keeping each other in range, aiming true. Then they quit, slanting their heads from their weapons and smiling at one another.

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