Page 112 of Torn

And they’re off.

He loves this part. The race and rush of being with her.

He vaults across the building’s roof. Parallel to him, she blows across the city on her skateboard. They compete, they challenge, they charge. Merry zooms around corners, her board spiraling in the air and dodging his shot, her own arrow flying and slamming into a second arrow from him, pelting it out of the way.

Her wheels smack the concrete and slice across the ground. They keep soaring, matching each other’s speed and elasticity, testing one another’s reflexes. He leaps, pivoting from her next arrow, twisting to evade it while jumping to another parapet, another terrace, another gable.

Atop structures, gardens thrive and telescope silhouettes point at mysteries. At this momentum, Anger’s shirt thrashes around his body like a storm. Merry’s dress billows like a sail. They plow through the historical city, their arrows propelling and missing, then reappearing in their quivers.

The observatory rises ahead of them.

The way home. Their home.

Anger’s limbs scissor the air and touch down, hitting the rooftop. Below, Merry’s skateboard rides a current and uses a sidewalk incline as a springboard, shocking him with her ascent. Reaching these heights is a new trick that she’s learned, but he still can’t quite believe it.

She lands and slides to a halt in front of him, her pink locks whisking around her chin. Her expression gleams at him, a blush puddling her cheeks.

They’re both panting, their lungs pumping.

He knows other ways to make her lungs pump.

“You were holding back,” Anger lectures.

“I was being romantic,” she defends.

He’s aware of that, and he adores that, but it won’t help train her. Still, she’s doing well, so very well. Better than he’d hoped after only a year of practice.

Their rebellious class had collectively beseeched the stars. Eventually, the stars had passed judgment and granted Merry the belated liberty of creating her own bow, forged of violet neon. It lacks the ability to wield an emotion—only Love and Anger, both restored, can do that now. But like their outcast companions, her weapons have the fortitude to immobilize.

At this rate, she’ll make a fine archeress. Not as masterful as a deity bred in the Peaks, but accomplished, nonetheless. Her skateboard skills compensate for the rest, rendering her a difficult target to strike.

Their group is still planning, still working toward a plot. They’d all realized the best tactic is a patient one. There is plenty to figure out. In order to contend with the Fates, they’ll need time, the luxury of which they have in abundance.

The longer they take, the more off guard their adversaries will be. The Fate Court will assume their constellation of outcasts has given up.

In the meantime, Envy and Sorrow bicker, then spy where they can, then take breaks to hump each other in private. They call it Fates with Benefits. The absurd terminology frequently causes Anger to gag.

Wonder researches. And she contends with Malice, who’s shackled in the library vault, under their surveillance. Perhaps he’s bidding his time. Perhaps not.

They all meet and train, together and separately. While none of their weapons can fatally pierce flesh, they work with what they have, supplementing ways in which to use them. They redefine the art of fighting, of targeting, of living. They observe mortals from alternate angles and recruit other immortal exiles.

And some of them love.

Love and Andrew. Anger and Merry.

A gentle movement returns Anger to the present. Tucked between the fronds, in an aurora of starlight, Merry’s dress is a wash of tints layered like a cake. Anger wants to strip that confection from her body.

The next time we touch, it will be moments before I’m inside you.

He makes sure that his expression communicates as much.

She makes sure that her intentions are clear, too.

The next time you’re inside me, you’ll be loved.

Slowly, he lowers the archery to the floor, setting it against a shrub. Likewise, Merry disarms herself and begins to fidget, her fishnet hands riveting him.

Yearning to peel the black netting from her skin, he stalks toward her.

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